“And this,” De Sica asked keenly, “could be the focal point of our connoisseur’s entire collection?”
“Most definitely. I stake my reputation on it.”
“Bravo! Then our plan is simplicity itself. We much publicize a pretended sale of the Flowered Thundermug to a prominent Hollywood East collector. Perhaps Mr. Clifton Webb is best suited to the role. We much publicize the shipment of the rare treasure to Mr. Webb. We bait a trap in the home of Mr. Webb for our criminal, and—Mah! We have him.”
“Will the Duke and Mr. Webb cooperate?” Muni asked.
“They will. They must.”
“They must? Why?”
“Because we have sold art treasures to both of them, Professor Muni.”
“I don’t follow.”
“My good doctor, sales today are entirely on the residual basis. From five to fifty percent of ownership, control and resale value of all works of art remain in our possession. We own residual rights in all those stolen objects too, which is why they must be recovered. Do you understand now?”
“I do, and I see that I’m in the wrong business.”
“So. Peter has paid you already?”
“Yes.”
“And pledged you to secrecy?”
“I gave my word.”
“Grazie. Then if you will excuse us, we have much work to do.”
As De Sica handed Muni the coil of rope, binoculars, and snub-nosed gun, Miss Garbo said, “No.”
De Sica gave her an inquiring glance. “Is there something else, cara mia?”
“You and Horton go and do your vork somevhere else,” she growled. “Peter may have paid him, but I have not. Ve vant to be alone.” And she beckoned Professor Muni to the bearskin.
In the ornate library of the Clifton Webb mansion on Skouras Drive, Detective Inspector Edward G. Robinson introduced his assistants to the Little Group of Powerful Art Dealers. His staff was lined up before the exquisitely simulated trompe-l’oeil bookshelves, and were rather trompe-l’oeil themselves in their uniforms of household servants.
“Sergeant Eddie Brophy, footman,” Inspector Robinson announced. “Sergeant Eddie Albert, second footman. Sergeant Ed Begley, chef. Sergeant Eddie Mayhoff, second chef. Detectives Edgar Kennedy, chauffeur, and Edna May Oliver, maid.”
Inspector Robinson himself was in the uniform of a butler. “Now, ladies and gents, the trap is baited and set, with the invaluable aid of the Police Costume, Prop and Makeup Department, Deputy Commissioner Eddie Fisher in charge, than which there is none better.”
“We congratulate you,” De Sica said.
“As you very well know,” Robinson continued, “everybody believes that Mr. Clifton Webb has bought the Thundermug from Duke Stratford for two million dollars. They are well aware that it was secretly shipped to Hollywood East under armed guard and that at this very moment the art treasure reposes in a concealed safe in Mr. Webb’s library.” The inspector pointed to a wall, where the combination dial of a safe was artfully set in the navel of a nude by Amedeo Modigliani (2381–2431), and highlighted by a concealed pin spot.
“Vhere is Mr. Vebb now?” Miss Garbo asked.
“Having turned over his palatial mansion to us at your request,” Robinson answered, “he is presently on a pleasure cruise of the Carib with his family and servants. As you very well know, this is a closely guarded secret.”
“And the Thundermug?” Horton asked nervously. “Where is it?”
“Why, sir, in that safe.”
“You mean—you mean you actually brought it over from Stratford? It’s here? Oh, my God! Why? Why?”
“We had to have the art treasure transported, Mr. Horton. How else could we have leaked the closely guarded secret to Associated Press, United Television, Reuters News, and the Satellite Syndicate, thus enabling them to take sneak photographs?”
“B-but … But if it’s actually stolen… . Oh, my God! This is awful.”
“Ladies and gents,” Robinson said. “Me and my associates, the best cops on the Hollywood East force, the Honorable Edmund Kean, Commissioner, will be here, nominally going through the duties of the household staff, actually keeping our eyes peeled, leaving no stone unturned, up to every trick and dodge known in the annals of crime. If anything’s taken, it will not be the Flowered Thundermug; it will be the Artsy-Craftsy Kid.”
“The who?” De Sica asked.
“Your crooked connoisseur, sir. That’s our nickname for him on the Bunco Squad. And now, if you will be good enough to slip out under cover of darkness, using a little-known door in the back garden, me and my associates will begin our simulated domestic duties. We have a hot tip from the underworld that the Artsy-Craftsy Kid will strike—tonight.”
The Little Group of Powerful Art Dealers departed under cover of darkness; the Bunco Squad began the evening household routine to reassure any suspicious observer that life was proceeding normally in the Webb pleasance. Inspector Robinson was to be seen, gravely pacing back and forth before the living room windows, carrying a silver salver on which was glued a wineglass, its interior ingeniously painted red to simulate claret.
Sergeants Brophy and Albert, the footmen, alternately opened the front door for each other with much elaborate formality as they took turns going out to mail letters. Detective Kennedy painted the garage. Detective Edna May Oliver hung the bedding out the upstairs windows to air. And at frequent intervals Sergeant Begley (chef) chased Sergeant Mayhoff (second chef) through the house with a meat cleaver.
At 2300 hours, Inspector Robinson put the salver down and yawned prodigiously. The cue was picked up by his staff, and the entire mansion echoed with yawns. In the living room, Inspector Robinson undressed, put on a nightgown and nightcap, lit a candle and extinguished the lights. He put out the library lights, leaving only the pin spot focused on the safe dial. Then he trudged upstairs. In other parts of the house his staff also changed to nightgowns, and then joined him. The Webb home was dark and silent.
An hour passed; a clock chimed twenty-four. A loud clank sounded from the direction of Skouras Drive.
“The front gate,” Ed whispered.
“Someone’s coming in,” Ed said.
“It’s the Artsy-Craftsy Kid,” Ed added.
“Keep your voices down!”
“Right, Chief.”
There was a crunch-crunch-crunch of gravel.
“Coming up the front drive,” Ed muttered.
“Oh, he’s a deep one,” Ed said.
The gravel noises changed to mushy sounds.
“Crossing the flower border,” Ed said.
“You got to hand it to him,” Ed said.
There was a dull thud, a stumble and an imprecation.
“Stepped into a flowerpot,” Ed said.
There came a series of thuddy noises at irregular intervals.
“Can’t get it off,” Ed said.
A crack and a clatter.
“Got it off now,” Ed said.
“Oh, he’s slick all right,” Ed said.
There came exploratory taps on glass.
“At the library window,” Ed said.
“Did you unlock it?”
“I thought Ed was going to do that, Chief.”
“Did you, Ed?”
“No, Chief. I thought Ed was supposed to.”
“He’ll never get in. Ed, see if you can unlock it without him seeing—”
A crash of glass.
“Never mind, he’s got it open. You can always trust a pro.”
The window creaked up; there were scrapes and grunts as the midnight intruder climbed through. When he finally stood upright in the library, his silhouette against the beam of the pin spot was apelike. He looked around uncertainly for some time, and at last began searching aimlessly through drawers and cupboards.
“He’ll never find it,” Ed whispered. “I told you we should of put a sign under the dial, Chief.”
“No, trust an old pro. See? What’d I tell you? He’s spotted it. All set no
w?”
“Don’t you want to wait for him to crack it, Chief?”
“Why?”
“Catch him red-handed.”
“For God’s sake, that safe’s burglar proof. Come on now. Ready? Go!”
The library was flooded with light. The thief started back from the concealed safe in consternation, to find himself surrounded by seven grim detectives, all leveling guns at his head. The fact that they were wearing night-shirts did not make them look any less resolute. For their part, the detectives saw a broad-shouldered, bull-necked burglar with a lantern jaw. The fact that he had not altogether shaken off the contents of the flowerpot, and wore a Parma violet (Viola pallida plena) on his right shoe, did not make him look any less vicious.
“And now, Kid, if you please,” Inspector Robinson said with the exaggerated courtesy that made his admirers call him the Beau Brummel of the Bunco Squad.
They bore the malefactor off to headquarters in triumph.
Five minutes after the detectives departed with their captive, a gentleman in full evening cloak sauntered up to the front door of the Webb mansion. He rang the doorbell. From within came the music of the first eight bars of Ravel’s Bolero played on full carillon orchestra in waltz tempo. While the gentleman appeared to wait carelessly, his right hand slid through a slit in his cloak and rapidly tried a series of keys in the lock. The gentleman rang the bell again. Midway through the second rendition of the Bolero, he found a key that fitted.
He turned the lock, thrust the door open a few inches with a twist of his toe, and spoke pleasantly, as to an invisible servant inside.
“Good evening. I’m afraid I’m rather late. Is everybody asleep, or am I still expected? Oh, good. Thank you.” The gentleman entered the house, shut the door behind him softly, looked around at the dark, empty foyer, and grinned. “Like taking candy from kids,” he murmured. “I ought to be ashamed of myself.”
He located the library, entered and turned on all the lights. He removed his cloak, lit a cigarette, noticed the bar and then poured himself a drink from one of the more appealing decanters. He tried it and gagged. “Ack! A new horror, and I thought I knew them all. What the hell is it?” He dipped his tongue into the glass. “Scotch, yes; but Scotch and what?” He sampled again. “My God, it’s broccoli juice.”
He glanced around, found the safe, crossed to it and inspected it. “Great heavens!” he exclaimed. “A whole three-number dial—all of twenty-seven possible combinations. Absolutely burglar-proof. I really am impressed.”
He reached for the dial, looked up, met the nude’s melting glance, and smiled apologetically. “I beg your pardon,” he said, and began twisting the dial: 1-1-1, 1-1-2, 1-1-3, 1-2-1, 1-2-2, 1-2-3, and so on, each time trying the handle of the safe, which had been cleverly disguised as the nude’s forefinger. At 3-2-1, the handle came down with a smart click. The safe door opened, eviscerating, as it were, the lovely belly. The cracksman reached in and brought out the Flowered Thundermug. He contemplated it for a full minute.
A low voice spoke. “Remarkable, isn’t it?”
The cracksman looked up quickly. A girl was standing in the library door, examining him casually. She was tall and slender, with chestnut hair and very dark blue eyes. She was wearing a revealing white sheath, and her clear skin gleamed under the lights.
“Good evening, Miss Webb—Mrs.—?”
“Miss.” She flicked the third finger of her left hand at him.
“I’m afraid I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Nor I you.” She strolled into the library. “You do think it’s remarkable, don’t you? I mean, I hope you’re not disappointed.”
“No, I’m not. It’s unique.”
“Who do you suppose designed it?”
“We’ll never know.”
“Do you think he didn’t make many? Is that why it’s so rare?”
“It would be pointless to speculate, Miss Webb. That’s rather like asking how many colors an artist used in a painting, or how many notes a composer used in an opera.”
She flowed onto a lounge. “Cigarette, please? Are you by any chance being condescending?”
“Not at all. Light?”
“Thank you.”
“When we contemplate beauty we should see only the Ding an sich, the thing in itself. Surely you’re aware of that, Miss Webb.”
“I suspect you’re rather detached.”
“Me? Detached? Not at all. When I contemplate you, I also see only the beauty in itself. And while you’re a work of art, you’re hardly a museum piece.”
“So you’re also an expert in flattery.”
“You could make any man an expert, Miss Webb.”
“And now that you’ve broken into my father’s safe, what next?”
“I intend to spend many hours admiring this work of art.”
“Make yourself at home.”
“I couldn’t think of intruding. I’ll take it along with me.”
“So you’re going to steal it.”
“I beg you to forgive me.”
“You’re doing a very cruel thing, you know.”
“I’m ashamed of myself.”
“Do you know what the mug means to my father?”
“Certainly. A two-million-dollar investment.”
“You think he trades in beauty, like brokers on the stock exchange?”
“Of course. All wealthy collectors do. They buy to own to sell at a profit.”
“My father isn’t wealthy.”
“Oh come now, Miss Webb. Two million dollars?”
“He borrowed the money.”
“Nonsense.”
“He did.” She spoke with great intensity, and her dark-blue eyes narrowed. “He has no money, not really. He has nothing but credit. You must know how Hollywood financiers manage that. He borrowed the money, and that mug is the security.” She surged up from the lounge. “If it’s stolen it will be a disaster for him—and for me.”
“Miss Webb, I—”
“I beg you, don’t take it. Can I persuade you?”
“Please don’t come any closer.”
“Oh, I’m not armed.”
“You’re endowed with deadly weapons that you’re using ruthlessly.”
“If you love this work of art for its beauty alone, why not share it with us? Or are you the kind of man you hate, the kind that must own?”
“I’m getting the worst of this.”
“Why can’t you leave it here? If you give it up now, you’ll have won a half interest in it forever. You’ll be free to come and go as you please. You’ll have won a half interest in our family—my father, me, all of us… .”
“My God! I’m completely outclassed. All right, keep your confounded—” He broke off.
“What’s the matter?”
He was staring at her left arm. “What’s that on your arm?” he asked slowly.
“Nothing.”
“What is it?” he persisted.
“It’s a scar. I fell when I was a child and—”
“That’s no scar. It’s a vaccination mark.”
She was silent.
“It’s a vaccination mark,” he repeated in awe. “They haven’t vaccinated in four hundred years—not like that, they haven’t.” She stared at him. “How do you know?”
In answer he rolled up his left sleeve and showed her his vaccination mark.
Her eyes widened. “You too?”
He nodded.
“Then we’re both from …”
“From then? Yes.”
They gazed at each other in amazement. Then they began to laugh with incredulous delight. They embraced and thumped each other, very much like tourists from the same home town meeting unexpectedly on top of the Eiffel Tower. At last they separated.
“It’s the most fantastic coincidence in history,” he said.
“Isn’t it?” She shook her head in bewilderment. “I still can’t quite believe it. When were you born?”
“Nineteen fifty. Y
ou?”
“You’re not supposed to ask a lady.”
“Come on! Come on!”
“Nineteen fifty-four.”
“Fifty-four?” He grinned. “You’re five hundred and ten years old.”
“See? Never trust a man.”
“So you’re not the Webb girl. What’s your real name?”
“Dugan. Violet Dugan.”
“What a nice, plain, wholesome sound that has.”
“What’s yours?”
“Sam Bauer.”
“That’s even plainer and nicer. Well!”
“Shake, Violet.”
“Pleased to meet you, Sam.”
“It’s a pleasure.”
“Likewise, I’m sure.”
“I was a computer man at the Denver Project in seventy-five,” Bauer said, sipping his gin and gingersnap, the least horrific combination from the Webb bar.
“Seventy-five?” Violet exclaimed. “That was the year it blew up.”
“Don’t I know it. They’d bought one of the new IBM 1709s, and IBM sent me along as installation engineer to train the Army personnel. I remember the night of the blast—at least I figure it was the blast. All I know is, I was showing them how to program some new algorisms for the computer when—”
“When what?”
“Somebody put out the lights. When I woke up, I was in a hospital in Philadelphia—Santa Monica East, they call it—and I learned that I’d been kicked five centuries into the future. I’d been picked up, naked, half dead, no identification.”
“Did you tell them who you really were?”
“No. Who’d believe me? So they patched me up and discharged me, and I hustled around until I found a job.”
“As a computer engineer?”
“Oh, no; not for what they pay. I calculate odds for one of the biggest bookies in the East. Now, what about you?”
“Practically the same story. I was on assignment at Cape Kennedy, doing illustrations for a magazine piece on the first Mars shoot. I’m an artist by trade—”
“The Mars shoot? That was scheduled for seventy-six, wasn’t it? Don’t tell me they loused it.”
“They must have, but I can’t find out much in the history books.”
“They’re pretty vague about our time. I think that war must have wiped most of it out.”
“Anyway, I was in the control center doing sketches and making color notes during the countdown, when—well, the way you said, somebody put out the lights.”
Virtual Unrealities: The Short Fiction of Alfred Bester Page 28
