Black and Blue Magic Read online

  He didn’t even look up until Harry tapped him on the shoulder. “Excuse me, Mister,” Harry said. “I think this suitcase belongs to you.”

  The man jumped, gasped, and the minute he saw the suitcase he grabbed it and sort of hugged it up onto his lap. “Yes, yes,” he said, “my suitcase. It is my suitcase. It really is my suitcase! I felt quite sure I’d never see it again. Quite sure. And here it is back again. I don’t know how to thank you, young man. Indeed I don’t.” The suitcase was so big that he had to stretch to look over the top of it, and he kept patting it as he talked, as if to make sure it was really there.

  “I saw you lose it on the bus,” Harry said. He didn’t mention the part about getting stuck in the door and falling down, because he always preferred not to have it mentioned when he did that sort of thing. “So I grabbed it and jumped off the bus as soon as I could, and then I came back this way looking for you.”

  The little man looked astounded. “You did that?” he said. “You really did? My! My! How very clever of you—and how kind. You really don’t know how I appreciate this. You can’t imagine how important this case is to me, and how necessary it was for me to get it back before . . . Well, I can only tell you that I would have been in very serious trouble if it had been lost or if it had fallen into the wrong hands.” The little man’s shoulders twitched in an uncontrollable shudder and for a moment he seemed lost in thought. Not very pleasant thought either, judging by the pained expression on his face.

  Then suddenly he seemed to pull himself together. “But that’s neither here nor there,” he said, crinkling his face into a smile that made him seem, more than ever, like a weather-beaten cherub. With a jerky little bounce, he hitched himself over on the bench to make room for Harry. “You must sit down and rest a moment. I know only too well how tiring it is for a rather small person to carry this heavy case.”

  Harry was in a hurry to get started for home, but he sat down for a moment to be polite. The stranger was still chattering away. “I am greatly indebted to you. You can’t imagine what the loss of my case would have meant. I’m very much afraid it would have been the last straw—the Final Mistake, you might say.”

  “Final?” Harry asked. The word had such an unpleasant sound.

  “Yes, in a sense. At the very least it would have greatly increased my troubles.”

  “Are you already in trouble, then?” Harry asked.

  “Trouble?” The man gave a deep sigh, and his face, for a second, seemed to take on a depth Harry would have thought impossible a moment before. “Is it not trouble that I am a wanderer upon the face of the earth; that I have no place to call my own; that my back is tired and my feet ache; that I must find a place to stay in a new city every few days . . .”

  It was at that point that Harry interrupted. He hadn’t helped run a boarding house for almost six years for nothing. “Have you a place to stay in San Francisco?” he asked quickly.

  “I stopped at a small hotel last night. But it was not particularly satisfactory. If it looks as if my business will keep me in the city for a while, I may have to look elsewhere.”

  “I know just the place for you,” Harry said quickly, pulling out his wallet. He always carried a few of his mother’s cards for just such occasions. “My mother runs a boarding house on Kerry Street. Nice and quiet and good home-cooking. A lot of traveling salesmen come back to our place every time they’re in town.”

  The man stretched his arm up over the suitcase to take the card. It was a little dirty and beat up, but you could still see that it said:

  MARCO’S BOARDING HOUSE

  318 Kerry Street

  Mrs. Lorna Marco, Proprietress

  Quiet–Comfortable–Good Food

  “You are a salesman, aren’t you?” Harry asked.

  The little man gave one of his big sighs. “Yes indeed,” he said. “I am a salesman.”

  “I thought so,” Harry said. “I can usually spot a traveling salesman right away, because we have so many of them stay with us. I don’t know, though, if I would have guessed about you or not. That is, if we hadn’t talked. But I do know something about what you’re selling, I’ll bet.”

  “You know what I’m selling?” The man clutched the suitcase against his chest. His eyes peering over the top rounded with horror and then flattened with indignation. “You opened it!” he accused. “What right had you to open my case? You must swear that you will not tell . . .”

  “Gee Mister,” Harry interrupted. “I didn’t open your case. I was just starting to say I knew it sure was heavy, whatever it was. I was just making a joke.”

  After a moment the man relaxed and sighed with relief. “I see that you are telling the truth. Forgive me. This has been a very trying day and I am not myself.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out the funny old watch. “I must be going now. I have an appointment with a possible customer. But I will remember what you have done for me.”

  From a pocket inside his coat, he brought something out and handed it to Harry. “May I present my card in return,” he said. The card was thick and heavy, with a worn and yellowed look about it. The printing was so fancy and so covered with curlicues that it was hard to tell what it said. It wasn’t until later, that Harry made out all the letters and decided that it said:

  Tarzack Mazzeeck

  Representative-at-Large

  for the

  A. A. Comus Co.

  The little man was glancing nervously at his watch again. “I really must hurry along,” he said. “But we shall meet again soon. I fear I shall never be able to repay sufficiently the favor you have done me.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t anything,” Harry said. “And it was nice meeting you, Mr. . . . Mr. . . .” He looked down trying to make out the printing on the card in his hand.

  “Mazzeeck,” the man said. “Tarzack Mazzeeck. Forever at your service.” He stood up bracing himself against the weight of the heavy suitcase.

  “Well, good-bye, Mr. Mazzeeck. Be seeing you.”

  As Harry started off on the long walk home, he kept thinking about the odd little man. There had been something so unusual about him that it almost seemed now as if he really didn’t exist. Harry felt as if the whole thing could have been another silly dream—except of course, this time it hadn’t. It had really happened and only a few minutes before, too.

  Maybe the whole thing had something to do with the air being “heavy with possibilities,” Harry thought—not seriously, of course, but just sort of fooling around with the idea. For instance, what if there was a possibility that the guy was a billionaire in disguise and the suitcase had been full of his most valuable business papers. Maybe tomorrow Harry would get a letter with a million dollars reward in it.

  It was a great idea, but Harry knew it was a dumb one. For one thing, papers, no matter how valuable, couldn’t have weighed that much. And besides, Harry couldn’t help feeling that, if the little man really were in disguise, he was hiding something more than the fact that he was just a common billionaire.

  Hot Water and Hysterics

  Harry walked and walked and walked—past dinner time and sundown and twilight. It was almost dark when his aching feet carried him through the gate and around to the back door of the boarding house. The front door was a few steps closer, but some of the guests were usually in the living room in the evenings; and in case Mom was mad, he’d just as soon give her a chance to bawl him out in the privacy of the kitchen. He was hoping that she wasn’t too mad and wondering if she’d saved him any dinner, when he opened the back door and got the shock of his life.

  Mom was sitting at the kitchen table with her head in her hands and she was crying. Mom never cried—not that Harry ever knew about, anyway. When she heard Harry, she raised her head and started to brush the tears away with the back of her hands.

  Harry felt awful. “Hey Mom,” he said. “Don’t do that. I’m sorry I’m late. It really wasn’t my fault.”

  Mom sniffed and smiled, but the smile wobbled and so
did her voice. “Oh, it’s not that,” she said. “I knew what happened to you. Mike came over and told me. He said he thought you were out of money and would probably have to walk home. It wasn’t that at all.”

  “Well, what was it then? What happened?”

  “It was the water heater.” Mom took out a handkerchief and blew her nose. “It was the water heater . . . and Miss Thurgood,” she added in a quavery voice that ended up in a sob and then, all of a sudden, turned into a giggle.

  Harry was alarmed. It was beginning to look as if Mom was cracking up, right before his eyes. But just about then, Mom quit giggling and started acting like a normal mother again.

  “I’m sorry to act so silly, Harry,” she said. “But you just can’t imagine what’s been going on here. Right after dinner I was sitting in the front room talking to Mrs. Pusey. Miss Thurgood had just gone upstairs to take her bath. You know how she is about her bath.”

  Harry knew Miss Thurgood’s baths, all right. She always took them early because she liked to use lots of hot water and soak for a long time. Miss Thurgood’s bath was another subject that Harry and Mr. Brighton made up jokes about. Mr. Brighton said he bet she was soaking herself in vinegar, because she was in training to become a pickle.

  “Anyway,” Mom went on, “all of a sudden she called from the bathroom and said there wasn’t any hot water. I called back that I’d check the water heater. You know it hasn’t been too reliable lately. When I got to the kitchen, I found the whole floor flooded. The water was about a half inch deep and getting deeper. It was only warm though, so the fire must have gone out some time before. I waded over to the pantry, and sure enough, the whole bottom was out of the water heater, rusted clear through. I knew the thing couldn’t last much longer, but I had so hoped it would hold out until after our vacation trip. I was so mad about having to spend some of our trip money on a water heater, and so worried about the water getting out into the hall, that I forgot all about Miss Thurgood. I found the little wheels that shut off the water, and I was just getting out the mop and pail, when Miss Thurgood stormed through the door. She had on that long old wool bathrobe she wears, and she had her bath brush in one hand and her bar of soap in the other. She just had time to say, ‘Mrs. Marco! Where is my hot water?’ when she stepped in it and her feet slid out from under her.”

  Mom started to giggle again. “She looked so funny sitting there in the water, with her bath brush still in her hand like a scepter, or something, that I . . . it was awful of me, but I just couldn’t help it . . . I started to laugh.”

  By now Harry was laughing, too. “But that wasn’t all,” Mom said between snorts and splutters. “I said something, too. I said, ‘You’re sitting in it.’ ” At that Harry and Mom both broke down and laughed until they were weak.

  After a while Mom sobered down and wiped her eyes. “It’s really not so funny, though,” she said. “Miss Thurgood has gone. She dripped right up to her room and packed a bag and left. She said she’d been insulted and that she’d send for the rest of her things tomorrow. So after she’d gone and I’d finished mopping up the floor, I sat down here and started thinking about how I’d ruined our chances for a trip, after I’ve been promising you one since you were seven. We might have managed a short trip, even with a new water heater to buy, but with Miss Thurgood’s leaving . . .” Mom shook her head sadly.

  “Look, Mom,” Harry said. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got plenty of things to do this summer. As a matter of fact, a trip might interfere with some of my other plans.” Of course, that was a big fat lie, if there ever was one; but Harry said it so convincingly, that for a moment he almost believed it himself. The realization that the last of his summer plans had fizzled was just beginning to take hold of him when Mr. Brighton came in.

  The kitchen door swung open, and Mr. Brighton’s head appeared. “Well,” he said, “if it isn’t Mr. Harry Marco in conference with his chief assistant.” Mr. Brighton was always kidding Harry about running the boarding house. He made a big joke out of it most of the time, but once Harry had overheard him telling Mom what a great job she’d done raising Harry. Mr. Brighton had said it was unusual and refreshing to meet a kid who shouldered responsibility so cheerfully.

  Mom had said, “I know. Sometimes I worry that it’s too much responsibility. But when I started the boarding house I had so much to learn, and Harry just seemed to learn right along with me.”

  “That’s what I get such a kick out of,” Mr. Brighton said. “Sometimes I think he knows more about running a boarding house than you do.”

  So Harry knew what Mr. Brighton really meant by that sort of kidding. But right now, Mr. Brighton didn’t say any more about Mr. Harry Marco’s boarding house. He seemed to have something else on his mind. He pulled out a chair and sat down. “I was wondering if there’s any coffee available down here,” he said. Harry got a cup and Mom poured some coffee from the percolator that she always kept filled on the kitchen table. “But to tell the truth, I’m also just curious. A little while ago I looked out my door to see if Miss Thurgood had finished marinating in the bathroom, and I was just in time to see her come stomping out of her room all dressed up and carrying a suitcase. Is anything up?” He grinned at Harry. “You been throwing any more medicine bottles lately?”

  “No,” Mom said. “I’m afraid I’m the guilty party this time, and I’m awfully afraid she’s gone for good.” Mom got up to get Harry a plate of food she’d kept for him in the warming oven, and then she sat back down again and told the whole story over for Mr. Brighton. Mom and Harry got hysterical all over again, and when she finished the three of them just sat there and laughed like a bunch of idiots.

  The Marriage Plan

  It was while the three of them, Harry and Mom and Mr. Brighton, were together there in the kitchen, that Harry started his Plan. It really wasn’t a plan at first, just the ghost of an idea; but that night in his third-floor room, he thought about it some more.

  Sitting cross-legged on the foot of his bed, he could look right out of the window and across the bay. He often sat there when he had something special to think about. Sometimes the fog drifted in from the Golden Gate and rose higher and higher, drowning the city noise and glare in cool gray mist.

  Harry liked it up there on the third floor. It was just a tiny place that was supposed to be a servant’s room; but it was separate and private, and its little gabled window had the best view in the house. If he leaned right out, he could even see part of the downtown skyline right on the other side of Madelaine’s clothesline and T.V. antenna. It had been his own idea to give up his big bedroom on the second floor. That way, they could take an extra boarder and, besides, he liked the third floor best.

  That night, as he enjoyed his own private view, his idea began to form into a real plan. There were a lot of little things from which the Plan grew. First, there had been the other day when it had occurred to him that Mom was pretty young looking, and sort of cute, too. Then tonight, there’d been the way they’d all laughed together around the kitchen table. And part of the Plan was, of course, because of Mr. Brighton and the way he was.

  Mr. Brighton was just about the best boarder that Marco’s had ever had. He was a big tall man with curly grayish hair. He had a great sense of humor and he liked to talk about interesting things, like sports and animals. In fact, Mr. Brighton owned a farm. Well, it wasn’t exactly a farm, but it was a place in the country, up in Marin County. It was a big old farmhouse with a barn and a small pasture. Before his wife died, Mr. Brighton had lived there and commuted into the city every day, and they’d had horses and all sorts of other pets. The farm was rented now, but once when Mr. Brighton had to go there to see about fixing something, he’d taken Harry with him. It really was a neat place.

  The farm was one of the most interesting things about Mr. Brighton, but besides that he had a swell job. He managed a sporting-goods store on Market Street—everything from skis to bowling balls. Harry sometimes dropped in there for a visit when
he was downtown, and Mr. Brighton always took time out to be friendly and show him around.

  In the kitchen, Harry had just happened to think it was too bad that Mr. Brighton and his wife hadn’t had any children, because he would have been a neat father. And that thought led to some others.

  Mom had had some boy friends in the years since Dad died. Even Mr. Konkel had taken her to the movies once or twice, and bought her candy and stuff like that. But Harry could tell that Mom didn’t like any of them very much. Particularly Mr. Konkel.

  He’d never really thought about Mom’s ever marrying anybody—or if it had occurred to him, he hadn’t much liked the idea. But if you gave it some fair and unprejudiced consideration, you had to admit that having a stepfather might not be so bad after all. For one thing, Mom wouldn’t have to work so hard, and for another, Mr. Brighton would be almost sure to want to move back out to his farm if he had a family to help him take care of it.

  The more he thought about it, the more Harry liked the Plan. There were a few problems, though. The main one was that the idea didn’t seem to have occurred to Mom or Mr. Brighton. Having been around grownups so much, Harry thought he knew the symptoms. Like the time Miss Dutton, who lived in the east room for about a year, had married Mr. Jenkins, who stayed at Marco’s once a month, when he was in the city selling stuff to beauty shops. After they got married Mr. Jenkins didn’t come any more, because Miss Dutton made him stop traveling.