The Curse of the Blue Figurine (13 page)

Grampa shrugged helplessly. "But what the heck else can I call you? It's your name, isn't it?"

The professor grinned mischievously. "Call me Randy. My middle name is Random. I was named for Roderick Random, a character in a novel by Tobias Smollett. Good night." He turned abruptly and marched back across the street to his house, humming as he went. 
Johnny did not get much sleep that night. He tossed and turned and kept waking up to listen for noises that weren't there. When he arrived in the kitchen for breakfast the next morning, he looked like the walking dead. His eyes were red, and his hair was mussed, and he felt prickly all over. He kept glancing nervously this way and that, as if he expected things to come springing at him out of the corners of the room.

Grampa was sitting at the kitchen table. He was sipping coffee and munching on a piece of toast. He glanced 
quickly at Johnny and then looked down at his plate. Gramma was over at the stove, stirring the oatmeal she always made for Johnny's breakfast.

"Hi," said Johnny sluggishly, and he slumped into his seat.

"Hi, there," said Gramma without turning around. "Nice morning, eh?"

"Uh-huh," said Johnny tonelessly. Bright sunshine was streaming in through the kitchen window, but it might have been raining or blizzarding for all he cared.

Silence. You could hear the electric clock over the stove buzzing.

"Johnny," said Gramma at last, turning and smiling kindly at him, "we want you to go see our doctor, Doc Schermerhorn."

"Yeah," Grampa added. He coughed to hide his nervousness. "We... we think you look kinda under the weather these days, an' so... well, we think you oughta have a checkup. We got you an appointment for this mornin', an' we called up the school an' told the sister you was gonna be home t'day, on account of you felt sick. The appointment is at nine o'clock. After you have your breakfast, we can get in the car an' go."

Johnny looked warily at Grampa, and then at Gramma. How much did they know? Had they found the figurine? Did they know about Mr. Beard? He swallowed hard and tried to look healthy and bright-eyed, which under the circumstances was rather difficult.

"Gee," he said, trying to be jaunty, "I don't see what 
you guys are all worked up about. I mean, I feel great, I really do!"

This was more than Gramma could stand. She turned around with the bowl of steaming oatmeal in her hands, and she glared at Johnny. "John Dixon!" she exclaimed, indignantly. "That is the
worst
 lie I have ever heard in my life! You look like the wreck of the
Hesperus!
I wouldn't be surprised if you was runnin' a fever! So don't sit there with your face hangin' out an' say that you feel all tippy-tip-top an' fine! Lord above!"

Johnny hung his head. Tears came to his eyes, and he bit his lip. Once again he had a strong urge to confess everything, but, as before, his fear held him back. The ring on his finger was like a dynamite bomb strapped to his body. If he told everything, it would go off.

"I
... I'm sorry," he said in a low, sniffly voice. "I guess I don't feel too good today. I... I'd like to go see the doctor."

And so later that morning Johnny went downtown with his grandparents to see Dr. Schermerhorn. Dr. Schermerhorn had an office on the third floor of the First National Bank building on Merrimack Street. Dr. Schermerhorn was a fat, shambly man who chuckled a lot and told very bad jokes. He examined Johnny and announced that there was nothing wrong with him. He suggested that Johnny stay home and rest for a day or two. Gramma and Grampa were not satisfied with this, however. They insisted on talking to the doctor in private, and they told him about the strange things that 
Johnny had been doing lately. Dr. Schermerhorn thought a bit, and he hemmed and hawed a bit, and finally he took a pad and a piece of paper and wrote a name and address on it:

Highgaz Melkonian, M.D. 

Zero Brattle St. 

Cambridge, Mass.

"This guy is a psychiatrist," said Dr. Schermerhorn as he handed the slip of paper to Grampa Dixon. "Now, speaking personally, I don't care very much for head-shrinkers. But it might be worth a try. This guy is as smart as a whip, an' he speaks about sixteen languages. Hypnotizes people too—that's one o' his big techniques. Watch out he don't hypnotize you outa too much money." Dr. Schermerhorn laughed a great deal at his little joke, and he was still chuckling as Gramma and Grampa left his office.

Gramma and Grampa went home and told the professor about their meeting with Dr. Schermerhorn. He listened with great interest and said that in his opinion Dr. Melkonian might be able to help. He added that he himself would pay for any fees that Dr. Melkonian charged. And he would also take care of getting Johnny an appointment with the doctor as soon as he could possibly manage it.

Johnny stayed home for the day. He did picture puzzles and read and listened to the radio. That evening he 
took some pills that Dr. Schermerhorn had given him, and he slept soundly all night. The next morning he felt much better and was ready to go back to school. But when he got downstairs, he found that he had another doctor's appointment. That morning he was going to go down to Cambridge with the professor. The professor did not tell Johnny that Dr. Melkonian was a psychiatrist. He was afraid that this might scare Johnny off. So he told him that the doctor was a hypnotist. He would help Johnny to relax and sleep soundly at night. Johnny had heard of hypnotists, of course. He had always kind of wanted to be hypnotized, just to see what it was like. So when he got in the car to drive down with the professor, he was a little afraid, but mainly he was eager and curious. In the back of his mind, though, like a dark cloud on the horizon, was the other appointment that he had: at midnight, on the seventeenth of May, in Duston Park. It would be scary, he told himself, but it was something he had to do. At least afterward he would be rid of the ring and the blue figurine. And maybe someday, far in the future, he would sit around and tell his grandchildren about the run-in he had had with a real live ghost.

Later that morning Johnny found himself sitting in a rather luxurious waiting room. There was a red Oriental rug on the floor, and the two big couches had puffy, hissy cushions of chocolate-colored leather. Near the door was a bookcase full of books in green and red morocco leather bindings. The books were about spiritual
ism and the occult, for the most part. While they waited the professor leafed through the books, and now and then he would say things like "Rubbish—utter rubbish!" or "My God, and people actually
believe
stuff like this!" Eventually the door of the inner office opened, and Dr. Melkonian stepped out. He was about as tall as the professor, and he had jet-black, greasy hair that ran in ripples across his head. His beard was also black, and well trimmed, and his lips were rosy red. He wore a light-gray cutaway and dark-gray pinstriped trousers and a double-breasted waistcoat and an ascot with a pearl stickpin. He looked like somebody who was getting ready to go to a wedding.

"Ah!" he said, nodding politely and smiling. "You're here—good! Please come in."

The professor and Johnny followed Dr. Melkonian into his book-lined inner office. They sat down in two easy chairs, and the doctor sat down behind his desk.

"Now then," said the doctor as he picked up his dagger-shaped letter opener and began to play with it, "what seems to be the trouble?"

The professor explained. He said that Johnny was very nervous and had had trouble sleeping. Dr. Schermerhorn had examined him and had found nothing wrong—nothing physical, that is—and so they had come here, hoping that Dr. Melkonian would be able to give help of a somewhat different sort.

Dr. Melkonian smiled suavely and turned to Johnny. He folded his hands on his desk, sat back, and asked 
Johnny a couple of questions. Then he took a pair of collapsible pince-nez glasses out of his desk drawer, opened them up, and peered hard at Johnny through them. Then he got up and walked around to the other side of the desk and stood over Johnny, stroking his beard and sizing Johnny up through the glasses, as if he were going to paint his picture. Finally Dr. Melkonian paced back and forth a bit, and then, halting abruptly, he picked up the beater of a small bronze gong that stood on top of a glazed bookcase. He hit the gong and stood listening as the deep vibrating tones died away. Then he asked the professor to go out into the waiting room and wait.

Time passed. The professor smoked half a pack of Balkan Sobranie cigarettes, and he read quickly through several of the books in the bookcase. Finally the door of the inner office opened, and Dr. Melkonian appeared. He motioned for the professor to come in.

"Please sit down," said the doctor. "Would you care for a cigarette?" He held out a flat gray tin box of Balkan Sobranie cigarettes.

The professor grinned, and he took one. "So you smoke these filthy things too! It's my favorite brand!"

The doctor seemed pleased. "Ah! You are a man of distinction and culture. Of course I could tell that the moment you walked in. You are a professor—an intellectual. I like intellectuals. By the way, in case you are wondering where young John is, he is asleep on a bed in my examining room. I gave him a dose of sodium pen
tothal to ease him into hypnosis, and he's sleeping off the effects." Dr. Melkonian looked thoughtful and shook his head. "My, my! His case
is
a strange one! I've never handled one quite like it." He paused and looked hard at the professor. "You're a friend of his, aren't you? I mean, you're his special friend, I gather. Isn't that so?" The professor nodded.

"And," the doctor went on, "you know him pretty well. Eh?"

Again the professor nodded.

"Well, then, tell me: Does he lie much?"

The question was so unexpected that the professor laughed. Then he shook his head. "No," he said firmly. "No. He doesn't lie much. Why do you ask?"

"Because his story's a real doozer, that's why. Actually I would agree with your impression of him. He seems like a pretty truthful kid. And he seems to really believe what he told me when I put him under hypnosis." Dr. Melkonian puffed at his cigarette. He stared at the green desk blotter and drew circles on it with his finger. Then he looked up suddenly. "He thinks he's met the ghost of a priest who used to live in your city."

The professor's mouth dropped open. Then he slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. "Oh,
no!
Good gravy, I should have
known!
This is all my fault! I told him that stupid, idiotic tale about Father Baart, and he
believed
it!"

Dr. Melkonian gave the professor an irritated glance. "My dear sir, this is more than believing a story. Johnny 
has been having delusions—hallucinations. He actually thinks he's met with this ghost. And the ghost gave him a magic ring, and there's a blue statue mixed in with the whole mess somehow. What he told me just sort of came tumbing out, and it was all a bit confused. Anyway, he thinks he has to show up in this park next... next Friday, I think it is. If he doesn't, then bad things will happen to him. The ghost will kill him."

The professor looked worried. An odd thought had come into his mind. He examined the burning end of his cigarette and wrinkled up his nose. "You don't think..." he said hesitantly, "you don't think there might possibly
be
a ghost, do you?"

Dr. Melkonian looked at the professor incredulously for an instant. Then he burst into loud, uproarious laughter. "Oh, that's a
good
one!" he exclaimed, still laughing. "A
ghost?
Good night, man, what century are you living in? Ghosts went out when the electric light was invented!
Ha-haaa!
Ghosts! My, how you do run on!"

Dr. Melkonian went on chortling. Meanwhile the professor folded his arms across his chest and glowered crabbily. The psychiatrist's laughter died away when he saw the way the professor was looking at him. He picked up his letter opener and began nervously fiddling with it. It was almost as if he were going to use it to defend himself in case the professor sprang at him.

"Now, listen," said the professor, still glaring fiercely, "I am a cranky old man, and I don't enjoy being made fun of. If you think ghosts are such a great big fat joke, 
then what are all those ghost books doing out in your waiting room? Eh?"

Dr. Melkonian smiled and waved his hand airily. "Oh, they are there to amuse my patients. If you're a psychiatrist, you get a lot of nuts as patients, and nutty people often believe in ghosts. But you don't seem nutty to me. That's why I was surprised at what you said."

"I'm not nutty," said the professor through his teeth. "I'm as sane as you are, and possibly even saner."

"All right, all right, you're sane!" muttered the doctor irritably. "Let's change the subject! I believe you told me over the phone that Johnny lost his mother recently. Is that correct?"

"Yes. And, in a way, he also lost his father when he was hauled back into the Air Force to be a jet pilot. And these two things, to my way of thinking, may have—"

"Yes, yes!" cut in Dr. Melkonian with an impatient gesture. "I was about to say something like that myself. It seems to me likely that Johnny's delusions may be caused by the losses and dislocations that have occurred in his life recently." The doctor coughed self-importantly and picked up a pen. He began to doodle on the green blotter. "Now, what I would recommend," he went on, "is this: First I think we should explain to him, as best we can, that his mind has been playing tricks on him. Then I think you should go with him to that park—what was its name? Dusty Park? Is that right?"