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The Breath of Bastby P.N. ElrodOriginally published in "Kittens, Cats, and Crime," edited by Ed Gorman, Five Star Books, March 2003 Chicago,
1937
Charles Escott smiled across his uncluttered desk at a
potential client. “May
I inquire as to who referred you to me, Miss Selk?”
Cassandra Selk was what his part-time partner in the Escott
Agency would have called “a knockout in heels.”
Possessed of raven-black hair and expressive eyes so brown as
to be black as well, Escott’s first thought when he ushered her
into his office was that she was an artist’s model.
As it turned out, she was herself an artist, a famous one.
He was chagrinned that he’d never heard of her, but she
didn’t seem to mind; apparently few outside of certain rarified
circles were familiar with her name. Her area of expertise was sculpture; her favorite subject was
cats, and she sold them all over the world.
Miss Selk’s remarkable eyes seemed to shimmer.
“Mrs. Wasserman spoke highly of your efficiency and
attention to detail. And
your sympathy toward animals.”
Mrs. Wasserman’s business was still fresh in Escott’s
mind. He’d agreed to
kidnap her dog from her estranged husband.
Hardly a case to test one’s intellectual talents, but that
sort of mundane job paid the bills.
Besides, Escott liked dogs.
“Yes, the little canine was a most agreeable
travel-companion. Have
you a similar task in mind?”
Miss Selk shook her head.
“I require a dropping-off, not a picking-up.”
“May I have more details?”
He hoped she would take her time; he wanted to extend his
enjoyment of her altogether entrancing face.
“Hm?” She
blinked. “Yes, of
course. I’ve
completed a commission for a local collector.
I need you to deliver it, then return to tell me her reaction
to my work.”
His smile faltered. “Why
not employ a regular delivery service?”
“I want
someone with an eye for detail and a good memory to make a full and
complete report.” “Of the collector’s reaction? I see.” He didn’t, but would never admit it aloud. “Why not go yourself?” Her bewitching smile melted into one of rueful sadness.
“It’s impossible because of my severe allergy to
cats. This collector
has at least a dozen running about her house, and I dare not set
foot to the threshold. It’s
terrible for me because I absolutely adore them.
They’re such beautiful, graceful, noble creatures, don’t
you think?”
“Oh, yes, I’ve always thought so.
You say they are your specialty?
What do you do for models?”
“I rely on photographs; many artists do so.
The difference for me is making a three-dimensional creation
from a two-dimensional image. The
dynamics are fascinating.”
“Is it not frustrating being unable to work from a live
model?”
Her eyes shimmered again, as though she’d heard that
question many times. “Not
really. From
conversations I’ve had with photographers, it’s very difficult
to get a cat to hold still for anything.
On the other hand, I’ve been compared to Beethoven.
I’m unable to be in the same room with my favorite animal
just as he was unable to hear his own music.”
“That is ironic.”
“I’ve had years to consider the irony and concluded that
if I did not have this allergy, then I would have a house full of
cats and not one piece of sculpture.
Without what some would call a defect, I should be leading
quite a bit different life, perhaps not as fulfilling.”
Escott found himself warming nicely to her turn of mind,
which he found as interesting as her looks.
However, this was a business transaction, so
he gently asked a few more questions and said he would be
pleased to take on the errand. Miss Selk—she asked him to please call her Cassandra—signed his
standard contract and they shook hands.
“The sculpture is in my car,”
she said. “It’s
not large, if you…”
He assured her he would be delighted to fetch it.
On this humble Chicago street close to the Stockyards there
was no question about which car was hers.
The 1937 Cadillacs were still barely off the assembly line,
but she had one. That,
combined with Cassandra’s expensive fur coat and silk dress,
belied any doubts Escott harbored about whether she could afford his
standard fee. He
retrieved a small, heavy wooden box and carried it up to his second
floor office, placing it carefully on his desk.
“Would you like to see it?”
she asked, eyes bright with pride.
“Very much.” After
she left he’d planned to open it to answer his own curiosity and
as a precaution. In his
line of business, which required that he undertake odd and
frequently unpleasant errands between parties in disagreement
it was only prudent. So far he’d not been employed to deliver a bomb for some crazed anarchist, but there was a first time for everything.
The box was just over a foot tall, the top not nailed in
place, but fitting like a lid.
Cassandra lifted it off, revealing a tangled nest of
excelsior. “I’m afraid it will make a mess,” she said.
“Easily cleaned.” He pulled out handfuls of the stuff until encountering
something very hard. Cold
metal, with dulled points, he thought.
“Just take it out by the head.
It won’t break.”
He did so, brushing away more excelsior.
“My heavens.”
He reverently set the object on his desk.
He was no expert in the field, but possessed an instinct for
genius, and that was what shone before him.
The metal statue was that of a proudly seated feline done in
the Egyptian style. For
all he could tell, it might have come right from some ancient
temple. Hieroglyphs
were incised into the cat’s body and along the base upon which it
rested.
“Is it silver?” he asked, eyeing its regal head. The
points he’d felt had been the ears.
“Yes.” She
seemed pleased with his obvious awe of her work.
“I normally cast in other metals when I use them as my
medium, but this was a special commission, and I’m sure you’re
aware that the client is always right.”
“Indeed.” On
visits to Chicago’s museums Escott often found himself mesmerized
by certain pieces. He
was aware of his own artistic streak, expressed, once upon a time,
by being on the stage in his youth.
In those early years of knocking around with a traveling
repertory company he learned how to create a realistic illusion out
of next to nothing. Those
illusions lasted only for the duration of the performance, though.
Such work gave him a sharp appreciation for individuals whose
talent could make a lasting creation. “This is exquisite. Perhaps
sometime you could let me see more of—”
“Yes, of course.
Tonight, if you’d like—after you make the delivery.”
He looked at her, slightly startled at this display of
repressed eagerness. Certainly
he found her attractive, but was this a reciprocation of a like
feeling on her part or merely a desire to show off to an
appreciative audience? He
was not inexperienced when it came to artists and their egos.
The fact that she wanted a full description of her client’s
reaction indicated that Cassandra possessed a sizable vanity
concerning her work. But
then this cat sculpture was evidence enough that its creator had
earned the right to indulge.
Well, he would find out later tonight. §
§ §
The delivery went smoothly.
A somber butler took Escott into the depths of an enormous
house where he met the client and several of her cats in a lush
drawing room. With a
flourish—for he understood the importance of a proper
presentation—Escott placed the Egyptian-style work on a central
table and duly observed every nuance of reaction.
The woman waxed long in her praise for Cassandra Selk.
“It’s perfect, exactly what I wanted,”
she said. “I’ve
commissioned similar works from others, but only Cassandra truly
understands. The
hieroglyphs are all real, you know.
I wrote them out for her to copy, and she got them right!
Every last one of them.
I think I shall get rid of the others, now.
I shan’t allow lesser works to share the same room with
this piece.”
“Indeed,” he
said. Three of her cats
busily wound themselves in a friendly way around Escott’s legs,
their tails straight up with a small crook at the end.
“Goodness, they do seem to like you.”
He smiled good-naturedly down at his furry worshippers. “I
like them.”
The client turned back to her acquisition, a dreamy look on
her soft features. “Cassandra
has a remarkable perception about this period, though that’s
hardly a surprise, as you know.”
Escott realized she did not understand he was a hired agent,
and had taken him for one of Cassandra’s friends.
Curiosity led him to encourage the misapprehension. “I’m
amazed by it,” he
said agreeably.
“Her past life during that time must have been marvelous.
She retains so much memory of it.
Such a strong soul.”
“Indeed?” This
was an odd turn.
“But then one would have to be for the gods to choose her
for one of their high priestesses.
It’s a great responsibility.
What a pity she wavered in her vows
by falling in love with a priest of Ra and he with her.
Such a punishment to live this life allergic to these dear
ones.” She stroked
the silver cat as though it were one of the live specimens loafing
and prowling about the room.
Escott read a lot, including a certain amount on esoteric
topics, so he wasn’t totally at
sea, but he did not know what sort of response was expected to this
revelation. He settled
for making a sympathetic noise.
“Yes,” she
continued with a sigh. “We
ordinary mortals are allowed our little mistakes and can obtain
forgiveness, but those chosen by the gods are not let off so easily.
I think Cassandra has dealt marvelously with her punishment,
though. Surely by such
an outpouring of work in this life she will have proved to them her
sincere atonement, don’t you think?”
“Oh, absolutely,” he said, with much confidence.
He wondered if this was the client’s own fancy or if
Cassandra also shared it. He
suspected this lady had seen that film—what was it?—The
Mummy, one too many times.
A cat of the Abyssinian breed leapt lightly up on the table,
nosed the sculpture, then jumped on Escott, who was just quick
enough to catch the lithe animal in his arms.
His hostess gaped. “I’m
sorry. That’s Ma’at.
She’s usually very reserved with guests.”
He managed to keep Ma’at from mauling his suit in her
endeavor to burrow inside his coat. She purred like an idling car.
“How flattering. I
hope she doesn’t expect to go home with me.”
“Oh, you won’t budge her from the house, but I’ve never
seen her take to anyone so quickly before.
It’s quite astonishing.”
Escott noted that Ma’at’s claws were dug deep into his
nearly new single-breasted coat.
He refrained from pulling her off since forcing a cat to do
something was always unwise; she would let go when she was ready.
It seemed prudent to continue holding her for the rest of his
brief visit. And
anyway, the purring was pleasant. §
§ §
Miss Cassandra Selk lived in another large house halfway
across Chicago. Escott
knew he had the right place; a dozen terracotta lions guarded the
walkway path, each in a different pose, and two uncannily realistic
life-sized ceramic leopards crouched on either side of the entry.
Cassandra had changed from her furs and silk dress into a
white silk lounging outfit. It
was diaphanous, but cunningly pleated so the many layers concealed
everything, yet at the same time revealed much. Rather too much for a formal interview, he thought.
As the sole owner of his agency Escott could dictate whether
or not fraternization with clients was appropriate on any given
case. This commission
was all but completed, though.
Escott thought he knew what she was doing, and composed
himself to agree with everything.
After all, the client was always right.
Her home reflected her
inner creative drive; cats were everywhere. When he asked, she replied with pride that yes, she had
sculpted all of them.
“There are so many
different artistic styles,” he said.“My understanding is that an artist strives to perfect his or her own expression.”
“I do that, but I also
enjoy exploring the various modes of the past.
Each age looked on cats in their own way, and it helps
me to understand those lost worlds better when I create something
that could have come from a long dead time. Of course, my modern efforts
are signed and dated so I’m in no danger of being accused of
forgery.”
“You display an amazing range.”
Escott compared an elongated
Celtic-style
carving to one with a distinct Chinese ancestry. “I could swear that these were done by two different
artists.”
“It took years of study and experimentation.”
She invited him to sit on her couch, and he accepted her
offer of sherry. “What
I have here are my best efforts, the ones I can’t bear to sell.
As you can see, the Egyptian style is my favorite.
It’s so clean and pure in form, yet can be both staid and
playful, depending on one’s approach….”
Her enthusiasm for her craft made her pale face light up,
creating a hypnotic contrast to her dark hair and eyes.
Eventually they took a tour of her home.
It was better than a museum, for she was able to tell exactly
how she’d made each of her works, pointing out details he might
otherwise have missed. By
the time they’d returned to her parlor she sat next to him in a
most cozy and unaffected manner.
Cassandra plied him with more sherry and finally asked about
her client’s reaction to the statue.
Escott gave her a full report.
He concluded: “She told me that you must phone tomorrow so she may
express her pleasure personally.”
“Of course. I’m relieved I got the hieroglyphics right. Sometimes taking a commission is a thankless task. A client’s vision is often totally different from what’s
in my mind. They are rarely able to describe what they want, and more than once
I’ve had pieces rejected because of the client’s
own confusion—for which I would get the blame. When an acceptance like this happens it’s something to
celebrate.”
Escott congratulated her and privately wondered if she would
mind very much if he kissed her.
They were quite close together on her couch.
Not quite yet, his inner instinct told him.
He expected she would let him know when she was ready.
“Would you like to see my studio?”
she asked.
“Very much.”
Standing up was almost embarrassing, but he managed not to
sway from a wave of dizziness.
Normally two small sherries wouldn’t faze him, but he’d
forgotten to eat again. Perhaps
that was a good thing. He
could ask Cassandra to a late dinner.
It shouldn’t take her long to change from her outfit.
It looked as though an easy tug on one of the ties would have
the whole thing off in a trice.
Happy thought, that.
Cassandra led him down to what would be a basement in any
other house. This one
had been reconstructed to her needs, though.
The ceiling was twelve feet high and decoratively painted.
This time the Egyptian influence was undiluted.
Birds, flowers, rushes, palm trees, and papyrus plants
brought the smooth plaster walls to startling life.
“This is no studio,”
he said, entranced. “It
is art itself.”
“I knew you would feel it, too,”
she said. “Let
me show you where I work.”
But as she led him in he saw no sculpting tools, no kiln, no
boxes of supplies, no piles of raw clay kept damp under protective
cloth, no works in progress, not even a sketch book.
This broad room was more like an extravagant film set.
Rows of torches marched along its walls.
Though their light was obviously electrical, the
anachronistic bulbs were carefully concealed by yellow and red
tinted glass shaped to look like flames.
Some mechanism for the current made them flicker, giving the
effect of fire.
At the far end of the chamber stood two tall guardian cats of
painted terracotta, larger yet still-elegant versions of the silver
one he’d delivered. Between
them, standing on its end was a—oh, God, that couldn’t be
right—a mummy case? It
was open, and within lay a man-shaped form wrapped with dusty gray
bandages.
“You look a little overwhelmed,”
said Cassandra. “Here…sit down a moment.”
She eased him onto a low, wide bench covered with
hieroglyphics, many of them picked out in gold leaf.
“I-I might mar the finish.”
“It’s all right,” she assured him. “There,
that’s much better.”
He had to admit that his dizziness was turning into a great
nuisance. Unless he could get it under control this evening would have an ignominious
finish. What would she think of him, getting drunk on just two—
No, impossible. Even on an empty stomach.
His inner alarm bells rang loud and long, yet he felt
strangely distanced from them, strangely slowed.
There was a terrific
emergency he had to see to,
but it seemed miles away. Someone
else would deal with it, he was sure. Smiling down at him beatifically, Cassandra persuaded him to stretch full length upon that low bench. She really was quite breathtaking in the flickering light. For a moment he thought she would kiss him, but she moved out of his rapidly blurring view.
He called after her, futilely.
She didn’t come back.
God, he was so tired.
The
drink, Hamlet, the drink…
Queen Gertrude’s words as she succumbed to poison drifted
through his mind. That
had always been a hard scene to pull off well.
The audience was focused on the excitement of the duel, and
then Gertrude had to shift their attention and sympathy over to her.
Not easy, but with the right actress…
Escott shook his head violently.
It made him more dizzy, but woke him up a bit.
Right. He had to get out of here.
Find some fresh air. He’d
send Miss Selk a bill, and that would be the end of it.
But when he tried to sit up, he found his arms to be snugly
bound to…to…he wasn’t sure
what, but it wasn’t allowing him much movement.
Oh, dear. This
was bad.
His surge of
panic helped clear his muzzy head enough to stay awake.
He had a presentiment that
sleeping in this place would prove fatal.
Where was Cassandra? Escott shoved his immediate terror down deep and concentrated on getting loose from the bench or altar or whatever it was. He didn’t want to think of it as an altar, for that implied a sacrifice of some sort.
Bloody
hell…
He struggled to slip free, and when that didn’t work, he
tried to make slack instead. That
tightened his bonds, but allowed him movement.
By some hard and painful twisting, he was able to get a hand
inside his waistcoat pocket where he always kept a pen knife.
No longer used to cut quill pens, it served to open his mail,
and hopefully the blade would be sharp enough to sever
these…bandages?
His guts swooped at the sight of so many layers of narrow,
wheat-colored linen wrapping his wrists.
He looked like a recovering suicide.
Careful not to drop the knife, he got the blade open using
his thumbnail and began awkwardly sawing away.
He couldn’t see what he was cutting or feel much.
His hand was numb. Had
to work fast, before he lost all feeling, before Cassandra—
He froze at the soft sound of a door opening.
Should he pretend to be unconscious?
No, better to try talking to her.
She glided close, bare feet whispering against the floor.
They darted in and out from the long hem of her gown like shy
doves. She wore the same pleated
silk garment, but had added wrist cuffs covered with glittering
stones, a jeweled belt, and a wide pectoral collar rested on her
shoulders. She’d
arranged her black hair so that it hung straight, held back from her
face by a gold forehead band. He
wasn’t sure how historically
accurate it might be, but she did look impressive.
Please, God, don’t let her notice the knife.
He thought his fingers were closed over it, but couldn’t
tell.
“Hello,” he
said, as though nothing was amiss.
He was surprised at how calm he sounded. All that stage training…
“Hello,”
she responded, her tone warm and loving.
“Don’t be afraid.”
“Oh, not at all.” Improvisation had never been his strong suit on stage, but
it seemed to work well enough here. Desperation turning to inspiration, that had to be it. "Is everything going well?” She caught her breath, fingers to her red-painted mouth.
“I knew, I just knew you were the one.”
“Of course I must be.
Your insight is uncanny.”
“But I’ve been misled before.
Those who have tried to keep us apart interfered, but I have
at last been guided to the clear path.
Oh, my love, it’s been such a long and terrible wait.”
“It has. But
it’s over now. Please,
raise me up that I might embrace you.”
He hoped this was what she wanted to hear.
Her eyes fairly blazed with exultation.
“Yes, oh, yes! Soon,
my love. Soon we will join. Bast
has forgiven our transgression.
She knows that the world is changed and her chosen ones must
change with it. In this
life we can be together. That
which was once forbidden now has her blessing.”
“How glad I am. My heart sings from it, but I’m not sure I remember
everything…” He’d
begun sawing at the linen bindings again.
If he could keep her talking long enough, distracted long
enough….
Cassandra seemed as fixed on her delusion as she was about
her art. “My poor
love, of course you can’t remember, not until you are made whole
again. In his rage Ra
struck with his sword of gold and sundered your ka in twain.
Only part of you lives on in this body, your other half was
preserved until such time as Bast could persuade Ra to forgive you
as she forgave me.”
Just who or what does she think is in that mummy case?
“I deserved mighty Ra’s wrath, did I not?”
“It’s followed you through many lifetimes.
Bast revealed them to me, but your suffering is about to
end.”
He didn’t care for the sound of that.
“What glad news. How
will you—ah—heal me?”
“You shall see, my dearest of all dear hearts.
You’ll have but the briefest moment of darkness.
In that moment your ka will return to you, and
you’ll wake again whole and well.”
“I’m looking forward to it.
Each word you speak seems to open my memory.
But these bindings are too tight and quite unnecessary.
Please, take them away that I may give my ka a proper
welcome.”
She stroked his brow with cool fingers.
“Soon. Your
hold on this life may overpower your willingness to surrender to the
next. There are vast
forces at work against us. This
time we will prevail. This
time I will get the ceremony right.
There is nothing to fear.”
He held to a brave loving face until she walked from view,
then fought another swift jolt of panic.
He doubled his sawing efforts, but couldn’t feel anything
of his fingers; for all he could tell he could be cutting the wrong
bit of fabric.
Cassandra was somewhere by the mummy case, half-chanting,
half-singing words he couldn’t understand.
Occasionally the name Bast cropped up, and twice he
heard Ra mentioned. Their
latter-day priestess began pacing around the chamber, carrying a
shallow bowl filled with aromatic incense.
Clouds of the stuff filled every corner. He hoped it would obscure her vision, for now he was being
anything but subtle at trying to cut the bandaging.
Then Cassandra appeared next to him.
Her eyes watered freely from
the smoke, but she seemed elated.
“They have heard my prayers.”
“Good,” he
said, resisting the urge to cough.
“I feel my ka approaching across the darkness.”
“Not yet. Just
one more moment…”
She bent and pulled up a thick and heavy cushion.
It was embroidered with more Egyptian motifs.
She raised it high like an offering, and called for Bast and
Ra to bless what she was about to do.
Abrupt comprehension as to
what that would be flooded him. He threw all his strength into tearing his arm free,
but though there was some give, the bindings remained fast.
“Cassandra!”
She looked down.
He spoke quickly, trying to keep up with a burst of an idea
engendered by her watering eyes. “I beg of you a boon.
Something to give me courage
in the darkness, for my fear is great.”
No lie in that.
“What? The
gods won’t be put off.”
“They will for this, they understand.
Please, love, let me kiss you on this side of the
veil.”
She hesitated. “But why? Soon
we will—”
“It’s for you! Once I have passed through the darkness, once my ka
has returned, I will kiss you again, and then you will be certain my
sundering has been healed. You
will know!”
Cassandra lowered the cushion.
“Oh, if I had doubts before they flee from me now.
You are the one!”
With that, she fairly flung herself upon him. In turn, he managed to summon up an illusion of feeling for
her. He hoped she would
mistake it for sincere passion
rather than shuddering terror. It helped that she helped. Her anticipation for his soul’s restoration had apparently
gotten her well into a state of arousal.
He put everything he had
into their kiss, and prayed it would be enough.
Eventually she collapsed breathless onto his chest, holding
him tight. Better and
better.
“Soon,” she
muttered into his coat, which still bore a liberal coating of
Ma’at’s fur. “Very,
very soon.”
After a moment, she dragged away, wiping her wet cheeks. Her eyes streamed tears, yet she smiled through them.
She sneezed, messily, and grabbed his breast pocket
handkerchief. Repairs
took a little time and didn’t
seem to help. Her kohl-outlined eyes were red and puffy.
“How sweet it will be for us both.” Her voice had grown thick with emotion, but her arms were
steady as she picked the cushion up.
She raised it again, then brought it down hard on Escott’s
face.
He struggled, wrenching to one side, trying to draw air, but
his mouth and nose were wholly covered.
There was no escape. If
he could just hold his breath long enough, she might take him for
dead, if he could just…
The terrible smothering weight suddenly lifted.
He gasped, filling his starved lungs while he could.
But no second assault came.
He could hear Cassandra wheezing like an asthma victim.
Escott dislodged the cushion.
It dropped away, but he couldn’t see Cassandra.
She was over by the mummy case, panting, trying to speak to
her gods. He worked the
knife blade…quickly now, while she was …
Then came the awful gagging sounds, followed by a thump and
thrashing.
Oh,
God…no!
He frantically hurried to cut free.
By the time he succeeded, it was long over.
Cassandra lay curled at the foot of the case, her face
rounded like an apple and just as red.
Her lips were distended, her swollen tongue showing between
them, huge and purple. He
hastily turned away and staggered upstairs. §
§ §
A few days later, after he’d had enough to drink, Escott
sat in his living room and told his partner what had happened.
Jack Fleming remained quiet through the whole story, moving
his long lanky form only once to pour Escott another shot of gin.
“Tough spot to be in,”
he said. “I
don’t know how you could have done things different.”
Escott lifted one hand in a hopeless gesture.
The red marks on his wrists were nearly faded.
“I thought she would only suffer a sneezing fit, and that
would buy me enough time to get free.
I had no idea her allergy was so deadly.”
“Is that why you wiped up all your prints and never called
the cops?”
“I phoned the police.
Once I was well away. Couldn’t
just leave her there. But
nothing good would come of my involvement.
They can draw their own conclusions about how she
died—after they’re done digging up her garden.
The paper said three bodies have been found so far, and they
expect more to follow. Dear
God.”
“They couldn’t have nailed you on murder one,”
Fleming speculated. “Involuntary
manslaughter at the most.”
“Self-defense, I should think.”
“Self-defense? After you let that cat climb all over you?”
“The climbing all over me was the cat’s idea, not mine.
I just went along with it.”
Escott fell silent, thankful he made the delivery in
Cassandra’s name, not his own. With any luck he would remain forever anonymous.
Fleming picked up a book next to Escott’s chair.
“Reading up on Egypt?
Haven’t you had enough of it?”
Escott shrugged. “Knowledge
is power. Perhaps if
I’d known more I could have talked the woman out of her twisted
ceremony. She had an
extraordinary talent. Gone
now.”
“Learn anything?”
“Nothing relevant to what I went through.
I think Miss Selk made up most of it to fit her delusion.
However, that cat, the way it took to me…I can’t help but
think the influence of Bast was indeed involved in some way, and
that she used me to stop her erstwhile and misguided priestess.
Either Bast or some other goddess.”
Fleming flipped through the book, stopping on a page.
“You underlined this name, but the picture’s not a cat,
but a woman with a feather. Maat?
Is that how you say it?” Escott grimaced. “Ma’at, the goddess of order and justice. What a dread and terrible lady she must be.”
§
End
§
Copyright 2007 P.N. Elrod The stories posted are not released from copyright, under creative commons or any other licensing procedure. They are not for reproduction elsewhere, with the exception of small excerpts for the purpose of linking or commentary and other purposes covered under fair use. THANK YOU for respecting this! -- P.N. Elrod |