Tracy looked thoughtfully at the whiskey sour before him. He beckoned to the bartender.
"Yes, sir?"
"Was there a cat in here a minute ago?"
"A cat? I didn't see any-no, sir."
A little man sitting near Tracy turned his head. "I saw it. It came over and jumped up on the bar. Sniffed at your drink, but it didn't touch it. Guess cats don't like whiskey." He giggled.
"What sort of cat was it?" Tracy asked.
The little man looked at him oddly. "Ordinary sort of cat. Big fella. White feet, looked like. What of it?"
"Nothing." Tracy turned back to his drink and sniffed it. There was an unmistakable bitter-almonds odor. Prussic acid, the conventional poison.
Tracy left the bar, his face rather white. Three chances. Perhaps he had miscalculated, after all. But ten, in the beginning, had seemed an abundance.
There was no sign of Meg.
He didn't bother to go back to the Journal, though he phoned to get a report on Pan-Argyle. He was not surprised to learn that a new field had suddenly been brought in somewhere in Texas. It looked big, plenty big. He had got in just under the wire.
He phoned his broker, and the news was eminently satisfying. Buying on margin had its advantages. As a result, Tracy was already a rich man.
"It may peter out, though," the broker said. "Shall I hang on?"
"It won't peter out." Tracy's voice was confident. "Keep buying, if there's any stock left floating around."
"There isn't. But you've got almost a controlling share."
"Good." Tracy hung up and considered. He'd have to move fast now.
Three chances.
He cheered himself up by buying a car from an acquaintance who had been pressed for money lately; and presently was tooling the big sedan along Wilshire Boulevard, squinting against the sunset. The next step was to find Meg and maneuver himself into a very dangerous position, where only the familiar's destruction could save him.
Quite suddenly Tracy saw the way.
It would take two chances, but that would still leave one for emergencies. And it would get rid of Meg permanently.
He turned on La Brea and headed for Laurel Canyon. It was necessary to get in touch with the familiar. Under the circumstances, time counted. No more of the irreplaceable pages must be used up now. Not until the final test.
Tracy grinned sardonically. He had had ten chances; the result was money. Well, the aphorism about spilt milk was consoling, after a fashion. He swung into Sunset, and thence to Laurel Canyon Road.
After that he went cautiously. He was hoping that Gwinn's body had not yet been discovered, and that he could get in contact with Meg at the magician's house. It was a slim chance, but he could think of no other.
Luck was with him. The house loomed dark and silent. Letters stuck out of the metal mailbox at the curb. The rising wind caught one and fluttered it away into the twilight.
Instinctively Tracy's eyes sought the cat, but it was nowhere in evidence. He parked the sedan in the roadway behind the house, hidden by dwarf trees and underbrush. Then he went back and climbed the steps, his heart beating faster than normal.
The door was closed but unlocked. He pushed it open and entered.
The room was slightly changed. A pentagram was traced on the floor, and the remnants of several oil lamps were broken shards. Oil had soaked into the carpet, and the smell was strong in Tracy's nostrils. The body of Gwinn sat motionless behind the table.
"Meg!" Tracy said softly.
The cat came out of the shadows, green eyes gleaming.
"Yes?"
"I-I wanted to talk to you."
Meg sat down, waving her tail. "Talk away. But you have used seven pages of the book already, you know."
"Then Barney Donn and the demons counted separately."
"Yes. You have three pages left."
Tracy said, standing motionless in the twilit room, horribly conscious of Gwinn's corpse:
"Will you take a sporting chance?"
"Perhaps. What is it?"
"I'll gamble with you. My life as the stake. If I win, you-call it off. If I lose, I'll destroy the book."
Meg waved her tail. "I'm no fool. If we gamble, and you're in danger, the book will help you."
"Then I won't use it," Tracy said, his voice a little unsteady. "Here's the proposition. We'll guess at a card's suit. Two guesses each. If I lose, I-I'll destroy the book. Only I make one stipulation."
"What?"
"I want twelve hours to set my affairs in order. Twelve hours from now, if I lose, I'll throw the book in the fire at my apartment and wait for you."
Meg looked at the man inscrutably. "And you won't use the book to help you win?"
"Right."
"I agree, the cat said. You'll find cards on that shelf." It waved a white-mittened paw.
Tracy got the cards and shuffled them expertly. He spread them out on the carpet and looked at Meg. "Will you draw? Or shall I?"
"Draw," the familiar murmured. Tracy obeyed, but did not turn the card over. He laid it face down on the oil-soaked carpet.
"I choose-"
His side felt warm. Instinctively he drew out the book. On the front cover two numerals were black against the luminous white disk: