The Ghost: Ghost of a Chance Part 1

For the next few days, I’ll be serializing a short story I wrote for an aborted anthology a couple years back. It stars the pulp character The Ghost, George Chance, a magician detective (who later became The Green Ghost). When he went into crime-solving mode he “put on the ghost”, eerie make-up to make him more intimidating to crooks. The Ghost/Green Ghost didn’t last as long as some other pulp heroes, but he was an interesting character. So travel back to the early 1940s and help the pulp’s hauntingest sleuth solve a murder…

GHOST OF A CHANCE

Angel de la Ruse had the most stunning cherry-wood eyes, even in death. But the way she sightlessly stared up at me as I knelt by her side would haunt me until the day I joined her in the grave.

And a ghost is not easily haunted.

My name is George Chance and I am a magician by leisure, detective by choice. But I'll fill in the details later. Right now all that mattered was the dead woman lying before me and my failure to prevent her untimely demise.

People were gathering around us in the Sapphire Lagoon, forming a circle of horrified faces and widened eyes. One woman let out a shriek that rattled my spine, then promptly fainted, only to be caught by a fellow wearing a Marley Brooks suit. To tell you the truth, I was relieved she'd fainted, because another scream like that and I would have become a lot more unnerved than I was already…

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Twenty-eight hours ago…

I probably should have expected trouble when I heard the rap on the door of my brownstone. Trouble has a way of finding me, especially since retiring from my life as a revue magician to "dabble" in mystery and detection. I run the New York School of Magic in my spare time, having made a fortune in prestidigitation, but when the opportunity arises I lead a double life, one where I aide New York's finest as a figure the underworld fears and reviles, a being called the Ghost.

The knock sounded again, a trifle more insistent, so I extricated myself from the divan and headed to the door.

I was right: trouble perched on my doorstep, the kind of trouble that made men's legs go weak and their minds surrender any semblance of common sense.

"Well, are you going to invite me in, or just leave me standing out here catching my death?" asked the raven-haired beauty poised on my stoop.

I should have left her standing out there, but chivalry got the better of me.

She brushed past me, walking over to the divan and nearly knocking over the vase holding a red rose that sat on a small table with a sweep of her chinchilla coat. No, that wasn't quite accurate. Angel de la Ruse didn't walk, she sashayed. The woman carried herself with a confidence that made men turn handsprings and women glare green-eyed murder. But, if I recalled correctly, that confidence was a veneer she painted on when she needed it.

I left the door open a crack because it suddenly felt a hell of a lot warmer in the room than it had a moment before. When I turned to her she swept back the folds of her fur coat to reveal a form-fitting emerald dress that made my mouth hang open.

"Well, what do you think?" She winked. My legs almost buckled. "Still the same old Angel?"

I tried a smile and struggled to walk straight as I came over to her. "You've filled out…" I am not sure why I said it but couldn’t think of anything else.

She laughed that airy little laugh of hers I remembered from our time together six years ago. She'd briefly worked in my act, but had quickly outgrown it—and me. I'd kept up with her career, even owned her phonograph record.

"It's been a long time, George," she said. I could suddenly see something in her cherry-wood eyes, eyes that used to turn my legs to syrup and my heart to jelly, that belied the self-assured air she affected.

Indeed, trouble had come to my door.

I gave her a small laugh I hoped sounded nonchalant. "I never expected to see you on my doorstep again, Angel."

She smiled a honey smile. "I'm singing at the Sapphire Lagoon tomorrow. I was hoping you'd be able to come. I'll sing 'Ghost of a Chance'…just for old time's sake."

I studied her face, which wasn't easy considering the tightness of her dress and the diamonds that dripped from the necklace caressing her olive throat. Something was wrong. She was here for more than simply inviting an old friend to a torch performance.

"What is it, Angel? What's wrong?"

She chuckled but the sound came without any humor. "You always could read me, George, couldn't you?"

"I thought so, up until the night you left without a word." Was that bitterness in my tone? I believe it might have been.

"Oh, that." She gave a dismissive wave of her hand. I remembered that gesture only too well. I still despised it. Everything had always revolved around Angel and the feelings of others came secondary to whatever she desired at the moment.

"I got over you."

Her laugh was more sincere this time. "Did you really?"

"I'm engaged." Now my tone was a trifle defensive and I didn't like that. Merry White, my fiancé, wouldn't have liked it, either.

"How nice for you." She paused, her cherry-wood gaze sweeping the room, then landing back on me. It was smoldering. It always was when she wanted something. "You're right, George. I did come for another reason. Lately…well, lately things have been happening. I need your help."

"Things?" I was a bit puzzled. Angel wasn't the type to ask for help from anyone. She was too used to extracting it through other means, mostly her womanly charms.

"I think something's after me, George, trying to frighten me to death."

"You'll have to explain, Angel. I'm feeling a little confused this evening."

She smiled and let her long finger nails drift over her diamond necklace to a spot just below between her breasts. "I imagine you are." The smile went away and fear replaced it. Not much about Angel was genuine but that fear was.

"I have been hearing voices, in my dressing room, sometimes in my hotel rooms."

"Voices?" Angel had a great many things lurking beneath her surface; insanity wasn't one of them.

"They tell me to do things, George. To kill myself, mostly, but they say other things, too. Sometimes they simply try to frighten me. I think I am being haunted."

"Sounds like a doctor might better serve you than I," I said, before I could stop myself. I didn't mean it, but Angel always had a way of making me say things I didn't mean. That had not changed in six years.

"I'm not crazy!" An edge formed on her voice capable of slicing a man in two. "I do hear them George. I hear them after every performance. Someone is trying to hurt me, destroy my career. When I arrived here in town I remembered the way you use to expose those fake mediums in your shows sometimes. I thought—"

"That you could simply step back into my life and make me do tricks, the way you did six years ago."

The look that crossed her cherry-wood eyes was not one you'd want to see twice, but it softened an instant later. "It's not like that now, George. I was young, then, I wanted to experience the world."

"Did you?"

"It experienced me..." Sadness crept into her voice and I might have actually believed then she was sincere. It was hard to tell with Angel and the years might have only made her a better actress. "Please say you'll come, George. I really want you to. I need you to hear those voices and stop them."

I did something silly then. I suppose I couldn't help myself, but it was something I used to do when I knew her. I reached up to the side of her raven hair and produced a rose from thin air, then handed it to her. I hoped she hadn't seen me palm it from the vase on the table next to me, since a stem's not the easiest thing to hide.

She smiled and accepted the rose, sniffed it, gazed at me with those eyes again and before I knew it I promised her I would be there.

"Seven o'clock," she said and started to step past me with her rose, but stumbled. I caught her and the feeling of her body in my arms…well, it was right up there with expensive Fleming brandy.

Women think men don't catch on when they pull the tripping trick, knowing that they'll catch them. But men do know. They simply don't care, because playing hero and holding the prize is all that counts.

She kissed me, then, her lips as soft and sweet as velvet wine. I almost lost the rest of my senses but pushed her back and set her on her feet before that could happen.

"Well, don't we all just have a nice case of the cozies…" a perturbed voice came from behind me. I cranked my head to see Merry White standing in the doorway, her expression matching her tone.

I grinned what could only be called sheepishly and from the corner of my eye I caught the look of challenge on Angel's face. Angel stepped by me, then brushed past Merry, who'd taken two steps into the room. Angel raked Merry with a dismissing gaze, then glanced back to me.

"We had something once, George. I'm sure we could again…" With that, she left, but her ghost might as well have stayed in the room.

Merry locked her arms together and started tapping her foot. I had the feeling the rest of the evening was going to be a long one.