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front door.
    We climbed up the gloomy staircase. At least it was carpeted, and the smell of cooking was reasonably fresh. Somebody was having fish tonight, unless I was mistaken. Fish simmered in lavender furniture-polish.
    We reached the Greenbergs’ apartment and Karen knocked. The polished mahogany door was opened immediately. We were ushered in by a short balding man with a beard and black-rimmed eyeglasses. He wore a beige turtle-neck and jeans that were too short for him, revealing inside-out white socks.
    â€˜Michael, this is Harry Erskine.’
    Michael pumped my hand. His palms were sweaty, but I guess mine were, too. ‘I’m so pleased you could make it, Harry. You don’t mind me calling you Harry? Karen’s told us so much about you.’
    â€˜She hasn’t exaggerated, I hope.’
    â€˜Well … she was very complimentary. If there’s anybody in the United States who can deal with your problem, it’s Harry Erskine, that’s what she said.’
    Karen went ahead, into the living room. Michael held my sleeve for a moment, detaining me.
    â€˜Listen,’ he said, ‘my wife is a mess. She’s practically gone off her head. The doctor’s got her on medication; the shrink makes housecalls every second day. I think she saw a whole lot more than she’s been willing to tell us, but she won’t say what it was. If you can be gentle with her, that’s all.’
    â€˜Okay,’ I nodded, feeling more of a fraud than ever. ‘I’ll be gentle with her.’
    Michael Greenberg said, ‘I don’t know what you did for Karen. She won’t talk about it to anybody. I know it’s something to do with that scar on her neck, but that’s all I know. All I can tell you is that — whatever it was — Karen thinks the world of you. She really does.’
    â€˜Thank you,’ I said. ‘I think a lot of Karen, too.’
    Michael Greenberg said, ‘Please … come this way.’ He led me through to a stuffy middle-class living room, with a few ornaments and knick-knacks that immediately gave away the fact that the occupants were Jewish, such as a silver Star of David on the mantelpiece and an amateurish oil-painting of children working on a kibbutz. The furniture was oversized and the upholstery needed a clean. I knew a man on 53rd Street who would have brought this kind of wool fabric up really well, but I didn’t think that this was an appropriate time to recommend him.
    Under the window an air-conditioner was whirring away at full blast. I went over and stood in front of it for a while, enjoying the chill. Then I took a few steps into the centre of the room, paused, and sniffed, and looked around. I was doing it mainly for theatrical effect, the master psychic enters the possessed property and immediately senses that some malevolence is there. But there
was
something there, some presence, I could feel it immediately. It was so strong that I felt what Mrs John F. Lavender had felt …
icy — fingers — down — back
.
    I pressed my fingertips to my forehead. ‘Hmmm …’ I said, like a wine-connoisseur savouring a vintage. Poltergeist of German origin, 1979; sourish and lacking body, probably not immediately dangerous, but with a certain threatening undertone which could give you a nasty finish.
    â€˜What’s the matter?’ asked Karen. ‘Can you feel something?’
    â€˜Definitely,’ I said, looking around some more. ‘It’s like a smell that you can’t really smell. I mean, like the air’s all thick. Can you feel it?’
    â€˜Well, kind of a
tension
. I’m not sure. Maybe it’s just the humidity.’
    I walked around the living room, picking up various objects, books, vases, ashtrays. I picked up a framed postcard of the Mount of Olives. The glass was cracked in a curious zig-zag pattern.
    â€˜I’ve been wondering about that, too,’