Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 118, No. 2, March 19, 1938

If it meant anything at all, it was over my head. But a thousand people, mostly women, were eating it up, nodding their heads, murmuring to themselves “How true!” This fellow up on the platform, in the auditorium, was as handsome as a matinee idol, Mangasarius, he called himself. No first name, no initials. Just Mangasarius; like Caesar or Napoleon. Mangasarious, the Great!

In his forties, perhaps, with a little gray at the temples and a full head of curling dark hair. Big, strong, with a suggestion of great vitality about him. Graceful gestures and a voice that was a velvet flow in the great hall. What he said didn’t have to make sense.

He had a good racket, if it was a racket. Free lectures, like this, several mornings a week. Just enough to lure them into special courses of lectures, for small groups, at a hundred bucks a course; and private lessons, at still higher fees. Besides that, he collected anything they wanted to give — money, stocks and bonds, property, jewels.

That’s why I was here. Mrs. Rufus G. Hyde was about to give Mangasarius something, and Rufus objected. He didn’t know what to do about it, so he hired me to watch her and Mangasarius. If she handed him a necklace, a bunch of securities, or a wad of dough, I was to try to get the goods on him, evidence that would show he had unduly influenced her.

A tough job, but Rufus was paying the bills. Rufus had plenty of the root of all evil; he could afford to let his wife shell out to a grifter, if Mangy — as I got to calling him — was a grifter. But Rufus hated to see the jack he had taken away from people dropped into Mangy’s hand. Rufus hated to be out-smarted.

Mangy spread his hands in a wide gesture. “Let us not pray, dear friends,” he said in that dulcet voice. “Rather, let us pause for a meditative moment. Let us look inward. Let us tap that reservoir of power, that well of spirit, that dwells within our hearts.”

There was a moment’s silence. Then he gestured finally and walked briskly off the platform. Immediately, a beautiful girl in a white dress came out. She was Mangy’s niece and co-worker, so he said. She went into a crisp, businesslike number. Mangy’s book was on sale in the lobby; they’d better buy it or they’d never know happiness. It was only four dollars. And for those who wanted to take Mangy’s special course of lectures, the line formed on the left. For private lessons in the Miracle Way, which was what Mangy modestly called his method, they’d have to see her, Dolores, the niece, and pony up. She announced other lectures. She was a bright, clever baggage, but she didn’t have Mangy’s velvet flow. But she sold them.

I was watching Mrs. Rufus G. Hyde. She was a little woman, and she must have been very pretty once. Now you could see that she was desperately trying to hang on to her youth. She had been through the mill — diet, facials, hair dyes, massage and all the rest. She looked worked over. She had a kind of silly look on her face, and there was probably only one idea in her head — to try to stay young and beautiful. She was getting on to fifty, and it was hard to take, because she had the idea that she should always be a beautiful twenty-year-old. She had nerves. She fidgeted. But Mangy was her hope. He could give her everlasting youth, as no one else could. He had even implied that his dope would conquer death.

I chewed my gum and looked at her. Also, at the girl beside her. Her social secretary, a sweet blonde package named Irene. The blonde wasn’t falling for Mangy’s line. She didn’t need it — yet. She had youth and beauty and allure. When Mangy’s dark, beautiful niece, Dolores, went into the sales song and dance, Irene smiled cynically. She knew the ropes.