"Ralph Laffoon?"

Ralph and his partner, Peter Haben, turned to the shout of the approaching constable. The constable was in the thick of a gathering crowd of policemen and curious neighbors, all standing in the light drizzle, coats or blankets over their pajamas and robes, the loud commotion drawing them out of bed and out-of-doors and onto the street. Nevermind the late hour or the cold air; curiosity always drags them out.

When I had heard the call come through to Ralph’s office thirty minutes ago, I raced over here to see what was up. Well, more specifically, I vanished from his office and reappeared here in the middle of the street, invisible to all.

The constable drew closer. Even though he now stood inches from Ralph and Peter, he still had to yell. "Are you Ralph Laffoon?"

"No, Constable, I am not," answered Ralph, in a raised voice. "I’m Ralph Laffoon."

"Excuse me?"

"My name, Constable, is pronounced ray-f."

I rolled my eyes as Peter Haben shrugged. "It’s a thing with him," he said to the constable, thumbing at Ralph. "He’s old. Humor him."

The sixty-seven-year-old Ralph turned and glared at Peter, who, in turn, rolled his eyes skyward, pretending to study something.

"Oh." The constable paused, surprised to hear an American accent from Peter’s lips. He shook his head and continued. "Right, then. My name’s Radcliffe. Chief just radioed me not too long ago, telling me to expect you." He turned and led the men through the crowd. "Now, I can’t believe that you two need to be here, or, hell, that there are even people in your line of work, period, but, uh...after all I’ve seen tonight, I think I can believe just about anything anyone tells me from here on out."

"How many are there?" asked Peter.

"Just the one, sir."

Ralph asked, "And where is it?"

"In the attic," answered Radcliffe, pointing.

Peter smiled over Ralph’s shoulder. "Of course. Where else would it be?" I glared at Peter, the fop. We don’t all automatically gravitate towards attics.

Ralph and Peter turned their attention to the flat that Radcliffe pointed out. The noise—music, to be specific—emanated from the attic windows and fell like a waterfall to the street below.

"It’s Led Zeppelin," Peter told Ralph. "Kashmir."

The rhythm tugged at everyone’s ears and the bass shook their bodies. Ralph looked around at the people who’d gathered. Some, little children especially, had their ears covered, the music was so loud.

"This way." Radcliffe gently took Ralph by the arm and led him to the sidewalk in front of the flat. Peter followed close behind.

"These here are the owners of the place, the Carrolls," said Radcliffe. The Carrolls stood huddled close together, dressed in pajamas and slippers. Each had police jackets draped over their shoulders. Mr. Carroll had an arm around his wife’s shoulders. Mrs. Carroll had her hands over her ears. They looked young, newlyweds. Both were staring up at the attic of their home, three stories above their heads.

Radcliffe tapped Mr. Carroll’s shoulder to get the man’s attention. "Mr. Carroll? Mrs. Carroll? This here is Ralph Laffoon—" Ralph smiled to himself, pleased that Radcliffe had pronounced it ray-f "—and he’s come to help."

Ralph shook Mr. Carroll’s hand. "What happened?"

Mr. Carroll shook his head, confused. "I have no idea," he shouted over the music. "One minute, my wife and I are sleeping soundly. The next, this music just starts blaring. I got up, out the bedroom, and, as I walked past the den, I happened to notice that all my stereo equipment, speakers and all, is gone. So, I’m looking around the house, hands over my ears, trying to find out where the bloody hell the music is coming from. I finally notice a light coming from the attic, go up there, open the door, and see him in there, along with my stereo and speakers." Mr. Carroll shook his head again. "I just couldn’t believe my eyes."

Ralph nodded. "How long has it been going on?"

Mrs. Carroll spoke. "About forty-five minutes now."

"Did you speak with him?"

"No, sir. I was too scared," said Mr. Carroll.

"Did he say anything?"

"I don’t know. I don’t think so. He was just dancing all around."

"Has this ever happened before?"

"No," the Carrolls answered, simultaneously.

"No strange noises in the house, things out of place, before today?"

Mr. Carroll squinted at Ralph. "No," he said slowly.

Peter gave the Carrolls a reassuring smile from where he stood behind Ralph. "No need to worry, Mr. Carroll. We can handle it from here."

Ralph also gave a brief smile before he and Peter turned and headed towards the flat’s front door. Radcliffe hurried after them.

All of a sudden, the music stopped, replaced by a scrambling of static. Everyone paused and looked up at the attic windows. Then, the music came back. A different song this time. Loud as before.

Radcliffe said, "That’s happened about fifteen times since I got here. He keeps changing stations." The three men walked through the already open front door and into the flat.

They were walking through a large living room space when Ralph looked to Peter and said, "Higgins?"

Peter hadn’t heard him. He was busy thinking, his head bobbing slightly to the music.

"Peter?" said Ralph.

The lyrics of the song began, and Peter suddenly stopped and sighed. "Duh, of course. The Moody Blues," he said, rolling his eyes, having recognized Justin Hayward’s lead vocals. "Fly Me High." He was pleased with himself for having identified the song. Then he noticed Ralph’s stare. "What?"

Ralph sighed. "Do you think it’s Higgins?"

"Oh, I don’t doubt it," replied Peter.

They made their way through the flat, led by Radcliffe, with me floating behind. They turned a corner, went up a flight of stairs, and stepped onto the second floor. There were more policemen inside the house. They had all staked out positions, like swat team members, their guns drawn, at the ready.

Ralph spoke. "Gentlemen, please, put your sidearms away. There is no need for that."

Peter gave a slight chuckle. "Besides, what good will they do?"

The policeman looked at each other, then Radcliffe, who nodded. They reluctantly returned their guns to their holsters. The officers in the room were all still wary of the situation, however, and, of the two newcomers who stood before them, telling them to disarm themselves.

Ralph was five-foot-tenish, slight build, short gray hair, slicked down because of the drizzle outside, grey eyes, wearing a black overcoat that brushed the back of his calves over a handsome black suit, white dress shirt, and red necktie. He wore shiny black leather shoes and black leather gloves. He looked very sophisticated and high-class. Yes, he was overdressed, as usual. His voice reminded the officers of any number of narrators for a BBC documentary.

Peter was younger, late twenties, and, as evidenced from the accent, definitely American. Six-foot-twoish, strong, athletic build, short brown hair, also wet from the drizzle, blue eyes. If he hadn’t spoken, his dark green New York Jets letter jacket would have given away his nationality. He wore that over a dark sweater and white undershirt. He had on faded blue jeans and well-worn athletic shoes. The complete opposite end of the spectrum from the elderly gentleman standing beside him.

"The attic is over here," Radcliffe said as he led Ralph and Peter down a narrow corridor. The corridor led them past two closed doors before they reached an even narrower short staircase that led up to the attic. All three men had their hands over their ears. The music was deafening. Radcliffe waved his arm to grab the attention of two more officers who held position on the staircase itself. The officers made their way down to allow Radcliffe, Ralph, and Peter enough room to pass. Peter, in the back of the line, had to duck his head and felt both shoulders brushing the walls as he climbed the steep, narrow stairs. Undertall Brits, he thought. I glared at him once more.

Radcliffe stepped onto the attic landing and moved aside to let Ralph and Peter pass. All three still had their ears covered as they looked to the far side of the attic space.

A man stood beside a high-backed chair that was draped with a white sheet, one of many such-covered items, all with a thick coating of dust. Only a small desk and chair in front of a rose window at the far end of the attic was uncovered and dust-free. A violin and bow lay atop the desk. The man was leaning against the chair, his back to us, facing a stereo unit, which was also free of dust. His left foot tapped to the rhythm.

"Excuse me!" Ralph Laffoon shouted.

Aside from his tapping foot, the man stood like a statue, oblivious to Ralph’s presence. He then leaned forward and spun the dial on the stereo. After a jumble of static, Cheryl Lynn’s Got to be Real blared from the speakers. The man stood upright again, pumped his fists into the air, and began to dance to the music. His feet shuffled across the attic floor, his rear end shaking from side to side in time with the bass.

Shaking his head and smiling, Peter Haben stepped forward. "Hey!" He was able to shout much louder than Ralph, but, still, he was not heard. Peter looked at Ralph. Ralph nodded. Peter turned and walked towards the stereo. As he neared, he walked right through the man. No matter how many times he had done it, Peter loved the feeling of walking through them. It felt like a cool blast of air hitting every part of his body.

I, personally, thought it was rude. Peter had plenty of room to have walked around the poor man. He obviously just wanted the rush. Jerk.

The man’s eyes shot open as he felt Peter Haben pass through him. He saw Peter reaching forward to turn off the stereo. With a click, the music died and Peter, Ralph, and Radcliffe relaxed and took their hands away from their ears.

"Peter! What kept you?" said the man, who extended his hand. His accent was British. "How are you?"

Peter shook, a cool, airy grasp. "Fine, Mr. Higgins. And yourself?"

"Oh, the usual," Higgins replied solemnly. "Contemplating life, death, blah, blah, blah." He turned and saw Ralph. "Mr. Laffoon, sir!" he boomed. "How delightful to see you again. Been three years since you came out to see me. You usually send Peter to talk." Higgins strode over to Ralph and shook his hand.

"Up to your usual stunts, I see," said Ralph, releasing Higgins’ hand, nodding towards the stereo equipment.

"Oh, this is nothing," said Higgins. "I’m sure Peter told you about that little episode back in December in Chelsea." He laughed. "Now that, my friends, was entertaining."

"I’m sure it was," said Ralph. "But, you realize, there are better, less disruptive ways of getting our attention. Simply stopping by our office, for example."

Higgins smiled and said, "It’s so much more fun this way."

"Well, for you," Peter said.

"Besides," said Higgins, "you two know my appreciation of music. I feel that appreciation should be shared with all those around me."

"No matter what the volume," Ralph chimed, with a raised brow.

Higgins chuckled.

Radcliffe swallowed hard, gave a slight, nervous smile, and stood silent. His eyes, however, were bulged-out in amazement. He couldn’t believe Laffoon and Haben were actually having a normal conversation with these this man, this...ghost.

He was a short, pudgy ghost, elegantly dressed in a tuxedo. He glowed a soft, pale white, as all ghosts do in a state of permeability. Since Ralph and Peter had dealt with this particular ghost on several, several occasions, I already knew his past. He slit his own wrists one hundred and five years ago. He was, in my opinion, a very strange, sorry little man, both in life and death.

"How can we help you today, George?" asked Ralph.

"Well, Mr. Laffoon, I’m in a little bit of a bind. After a thoroughly exhaustive search—ninety-seven years, three months, one week, five days, eighteen hours—" Higgins stopped as he saw Ralph’s eyes go wide with a look that said get-on-with-it. "I found my violin."

"You did?" said Peter, amazed.

Higgins nodded. "Indeed. The folks who live here bought it at auction three days ago. I know it’s the same one. The G and H are still carved on the violin’s neck." G and H. George Higgins. His initials.

"After all these years," Higgins continued, in an almost reverent whisper, "it returns home to London, returns home to me." He motioned them to follow him to the far end of the attic. "I’ve tracked it halfway around the world for all this time, always a step behind. I can’t tell you how many times I lost sight of it. And here it is." He made a dramatic, sweeping motion at the violin on the desk.

Ralph bent down and took hold of the violin. The golden-red varnish was dull and marred, but even he, hardly an expert, could tell the instrument was a work of art. He turned the violin in his hands and saw the GH, carved in a graceful script, on the back of the instrument’s neck. Ralph stole a glance at Higgins, who stared, mesmerized, at the violin.

"I have a feeling I know why you’ve called upon us tonight, George," said Ralph. He paused as he studied Higgins.

Higgins smiled. "If you wouldn’t mind."

Ralph nodded, satisfied.

Radcliffe raised his eyebrows.

Peter stood with his arms crossed. He caught a slight movement out of the corner of his eye. Peter turned his head to see Ralph looking into his eyes, smiling coyly.

Peter shook his head. "No," he stated. "No, Laffoon. You’re not—no! You know I hate that."

Ralph Laffoon’s smile and stare were locked.

I even found myself smiling.

Peter Haben sighed. He brought his hands to his forehead and rubbed his temples. "Mmmmmshit," he grumbled, through clenched teeth.

*please note - the copyright for the above material is held by Philip Colander. It may not be reproduced without the author's permission.