by Don Wilcox
“There ain’t many big shots that’ll go so far as to turn in news stories on their murders in advance.”
“That’s where Cream Puff has got it over all of them. They’ve never seen him—none of them—reporters or coppers or even the run-of-the-mill gangsters. He’s too smooth for them. But they’re all scared silly at the mention of him, and when he shoots a story in to the papers announcing that Bill Jones was murdered at ten o’clock and ten thousand was stolen—smash!—it happens, just like that! Never a slipup, my boy!”
“I hope not,” Pokey muttered, pacing uneasily.
“And now, my boy,” said the overstuffed man, laying down his pipe and pouring a drink, “when do you think the Cream Puff will do his next job?”
“April tenth, seven in the evening.”
“Exactly seven?”
“Exactly. The time lock on Kiptoller’s biggest vault takes a half hour’s breather every ten days, regular as a clock. Old Kiptoller himself is the only one that will be there. Ebbtide’ll be out of town.”
“Where?” asked the overstuffed man. “Off on a junk bender,” said the dumb office boy. “Off for three or four weeks. China, Siberia, and points west. I think he’s probably heard of the waste lands of Siberia or maybe the Chinese junks, and figures to see if they’ve got any salvage value. Anyway he was in such a dither to get off that I got his signature on a couple of blank letters.”
“What are we waiting for?” said the overstuffed man, putting down his glass. “Take a letter.”
Pokey sat at the typewriter and clattered the keys. Letter number one instructed J. P. Kiptoller, jeweler and manager of Ebbtide Jones’ stock of precious gems, that Ebbtide Jones was sending an item back from Egypt to be placed in storage with the gems. It was a priceless mummy. It would arrive in time for the April tenth opening of the safe. The trusted porter of the building would wheel it in to Kiptoller’s door, and would remove the shipping box afterward. “Handle with greatest care. You have always carried out my instructions to the letter. It is doubly important that you do so in handling this valued collector’s item—Ebbtide Jones.”
The second letter was to the trusted porter of the building, instructing him carefully. The valued box would arrive at the freight door at six-thirty on the evening of April tenth. It must be conveyed at once to the door of Mr. Kiptoller’s shop on the main floor. Within an hour the shipping box would be waiting outside Mr. Kiptoller’s door and should be conveyed to the platform outside of the freight door at once, owing to the possibility of unpleasant odors.
“Do you follow?” asked the overstuffed man, when Pokey had finished.
“I see murder number eighteen coming up,” Pokey muttered, starting to get up from the typewriter.
“Take a news story,” said the overstuffed man.
Pokey’s fingers returned to the keys.
“Date the story April tenth, seven-twenty P.M. When the time comes, phone it in on the dot over your wire tapper telephone. Give ’em the news while it’s fresh, but not one minute before. Now, take a news story:
“Cream Puff Scores Again. Prominent Jeweler Murdered, Safe Robbed of millions in Precious Gems.
“J. P. Kiptoller is dead and the famed Zandonian gems which he kept for Ebbtide Jones are gone. It’s all in the day’s work for that genius of criminals, the Cream Puff. The body of Kiptoller, well-known jeweler and importer of precious gems, was found floating in a wooden box in the fountain at Chestnut Square. On the victim’s chest lay a fresh cream puff, the signature adopted by the brazen murderer.
“The body was identified at once by police and by countless persons who flocked to the fountain. Other police officers forced an entrance at the Kiptoller Jewelry Shop to find the large vault open and emptied of unestimated millions of dollars’ worth of gems. The gems were the famous Zandonian collection owned by Ebbtide Jones, the Junk King, known to have been deposited for safe-keeping in Kiptoller’s vault.
“Preliminary investigations, according to information mysteriously supplied by an unidentified source purporting to be the Cream Puff himself, will prove that Kiptoller was murdered with a poison needle. A questioning of the porter at Kiptoller’s building will reveal that Ebbtide Jones, traveling in the Orient, was thought to be sending Kiptoller a mummy for safe-keeping. But the letters from Ebbtide Jones, it will eventually be discovered, were only a part of the Cream Puff’s set-up for another perfect murder and robbery.
“The mummy case, it will be apparent, contained no mummy when it was delivered to Kiptoller’s door. It contained the Cream Puff, very much alive. Later it contained Mr. Kiptoller, very much dead.
“But what happened to the Cream Puff? Did he calmly fill a suitcase with jewels and blandly walk down the street? Did he take a seat beside you on the street car and chat with you about the weather?
“Well-a-well, it looks as if the police are in for many a sleepless night. But they might as well go home and sleep it off, for they have never yet had a glimpse of this slippery eel. He leaves no dues. He even bakes his own cream puffs.”
The typewriter rattled to a final stop. Pokey folded the paper and buried it deep in his pocket.
“I’d better trot back to the office or I’ll be missed,” he said.
“I’d better grab a plane for Miami,” the overstuffed man mumbled, “and get In on the last of the social season. Be back by the tenth.”
CHAPTER III
The Atom Constrictor
“It’s as simple as driving a car,” Kendrick declared. He mounted the steps to the driver’s seat. Ebbtide and Trixie followed. Kendrick touched the starter, shifted the gear lever, pressed the accelerator. The big machine rolled along gently. People stared from the streets as if they were wondering what kind of new trackless locomotive this was. Or was it simply a freakish fire truck?
“This will do for a demonstration,” said Kendrick, driving up to the curb and stopping near a trash can. “Watch closely.”
Ebbtide and Trixie watched open-mouthed. Kendrick placed his hand on the white golf-ball-knobbed lever, moved it slightly. At the same time a huge steel claw reached out from the open steel mouth that yawned beneath the vehicle’s headlights. The jaws which comprised the front of the machine opened wider, and the steel claw scooped in the trash can.
“How’d you like to have a set of false teeth that would reach out and pull in your food like that?” Kendrick asked.
“Ebb would go on a steady diet of trash cans,” said Trixie, when Ebbtide failed to answer.
“Wait a minute!” Ebbtide exclaimed. “What goes on here? That cat—”
“Follow me and I’ll show you.” Kendrick snapped a switch and the gentle rumble of the inclosed powerhouse fell silent. Then he led the way around the narrow catwalk high over the wheels that looped, balcony-style, around the tail of the big red vehicle. Trixie and Ebbtide followed, clutching the steel railing. They peered through the crystal walls at the several huge crystal barrels packed horizontally within. The rear of the vehicle was a vast honeycomb of cylindrical walls.
“Any one of those horizontal barrels can be removed at the touch of a switch,” said Kendrick. “That’s my proudest achievement in this whole complicated invention. It makes the machine practicable for use, Ebbtide.” The Junk King scratched his head. “In the first place, I never did understand this business about the fourth dimension. In the second place, that cat—”
“This has nothing to do with the fourth dimension,” Kendrick said. “Three dimensions are trouble enough. Look. Why don’t you have your big warehouses in the center of the city?”
“Because there ain’t room enough.”
“Exactly. That third dimension’s always giving you grief; if you stop to figure it out scientifically you’ll find that all this awful congestion in the city can be chalked up to too much third dimension. All right, this little trinket—this atom constrictor—can collapse anything that will go into its mouth, into two dimensions. Ebbtide, we’ve got something!”
&nbs
p; Ebbtide twisted his eyebrows and turned to his wife. “Trixie, we’ve got something.”
“I heard him,” said Trixie. “What I want to know is, what happened to that trash can?”
“There it is,” said Kendrick. He pointed to a round silvery disc visible in one end of a crystal barrel. “It’s been two-dimensionalized. Strictly speaking, it still has a microscopic third dimension, for all of its atoms are still there. But it’s no thicker than a sheet of paper. What we call substance, you realize, is in reality largely space.”
“What happened to the cat that chased the mouse into the trash can just as we drove up?”
“Cat?” said Kendrick. “Where was said cat when last seen?”
“In the trash can.”
Kendrick jerked a thumb toward the silver disc in the barrel. “It got two-dimensionalized too.”
Kendrick led the way back to the driver’s seat. He was anxious to demonstrate that the practical use of this creation extended beyond the flattening of trash cans. Thus far, Ebbtide’s comments hadn’t revealed a satisfactory grasp of the idea.
“So it presses things flat,” Ebbtide was saying as he and Trixie resumed their places in the driver’s cab. “Now if I was in the pants pressing business . . . If I was running a cider mill—Look out!”
At a touch from Kendrick’s hands the big machine rolled forward, opened its jaws wide, and scooped in a shiny black automobile. There was a slight grind in the hum of machine, like a buzz-saw going through a knothole.
“Great jumpin’ oysters!” Ebbtide yelled. “That was my car!”
“Nobody in it, I hope,” Kendrick grinned.
“There was two thousand dollars in it, cold cash!” Trixie gasped.
“Come back and we’ll take a look at it,” Kendrick snapped off the switch.
Ebbtide and Trixie rushed back along the catwalk, clutching the railing tensely. Kendrick followed. All eyes beheld the new item in the crystal storage plant—another silvery disc in the same barrel. Disc number two looked precisely like disc number one.
“There’s your car,” said Kendrick, grinning broadly.
“Gee!” Trixie gasped.
“Well, nibble my bait!” Ebbtide groaned. “Maybe we’ve got something. But I’m damned if I can figure what’s the good of a two dimension car.”
“Maybe you’ve never run up a storage bill,” Kendrick laughed. “Now comes the exciting part. I’ll show you how simple it is to take these items out of storage.”
By this time a crowd of thirty or more bystanders had gathered on the sidewalk to follow these mysterious goings-on with amazed eyes. Kendrick motioned them back from the rear end of the machine to allow space for the emerging barrel. He drew a lever slowly, the huge crystal barrel containing the two silvery discs eased down on rollers by way of an inclined track.
“The temperature of each barrel is near absolute zero,” Kendrick commented. “The tiniest particles of matter, ordinarily in violent motion, are pretty well behaved at that temperature. The atom constrictor has collapsed every dimension to a certain extent. Obviously these discs of uniform size are more convenient to handle than irregular-shaped plates would be.”
“How can I tell which one of those discs is my car?” Ebbtide grumbled.
“If you decide to use this invention, either for storage or for economical transportation, one of the first things you’ll need to do is establish some system of classifying your items so you’ll know what’s what. Use any system you like. A numerical system would be the simplest; but if you prefer you can write the name of each item on the automatic handles.”
Kendrick pointed to the two handles, one attached to the top of each disc, each equipped with a tab for classification, each equipped with an electric plug.
Ebbtide noted mentally that there was a capacity in each crystal barrel for hundreds, perhaps thousands, of discs. He noted that the discs were five or six times the diameter of a phonograph record and wondered if they had any value as scrap metal.
Or were they metal? One of them, he tried with difficulty to convince himself, was part trash and part cat; the other, part upholstery and part gasoline and oil. No, thought Ebbtide, this couldn’t be. Friend Kendrick must have had a bad dream when he put this powerhouse together. And that car had cost two thousand—
“Watch closely,” said Kendrick. With miniature ice tongs he caught one of the two handles that appeared to project through the cylindrical crystal wall. At the same time his foot pressed a pedal at the base of the barrel. The silvery disc slid out.
He repeated the processes. The second disc emerged. It rolled a few feet, wobbled, clanged like a Chinese gong until it came to rest flat on the pavement.
“Lots of molecules in that baby,” said Kendrick. “Heavy ones, too.” He dragged out some extension cords and plugged in each disc.
The crowd gaped. Trixie weaved uneasily on her feet, caught Ebbtide’s arm for support. Ebbtide suddenly began to perspire. Both the discs were swelling.
“It won’t be long now, folks,” Kendrick commented. “A little electrical heat from this powerhouse—” he nodded toward the atom constrictor—“is like compressed air to a flat tire. Our compressed molecules will soon expand back to normal.”
A crowd of no less than one hundred and fifty people saw it happen. Each disc swelled up like a doughnut, spread out in all directions, began to resume its former shape.
Within a minute the traffic of that street was tied up tighter than a log jam. Two policemen stormed through clogged cars and spectators, roaring “Break it up! Break it up!” By the time they got to the center of the jam, they saw—and fell silent. Their eyes bulged out even with the bills of their caps.
One mass of material slowly grew into the likeness of a car—larger—larger—blacker—shinier! It suddenly stopped. A signal bell rang. Kendrick jerked off the electric handle that was clamped on the front bumper.
The other mass swelled into a full-sized trash can. It’s action stopped at the sound of the signal bell. Kendrick removed the electric handle.
As he did so, a rattle of paper attracted his attention. Out of the can leaped a yellow cat with a mouse in his teeth. The cat raced through the crowd and was gone.
CHAPTER IV
Trixie Makes Alphabet Stew
For several days after Ebbtide had taken off for his round-the-world junk junket, Trixie obediently reported to his office and obediently did nothing.
Each day Trixie grew more restive. Sitting in a big shiny office gazing at the reflection of her pretty little elbows on Ebbtide’s desktop was not Trixie
Green Jones’ idea of being useful or important. She wanted to be useful and important.
She wanted to do something that would delight and surprise her husband, such as sorting his papers or fixing him up with a new system of bookkeeping. Or opening a new branch office at Coney Island, or—or—ah!
The big wonderful idea descended swiftly upon Trixie. A telephone call started the ball rolling. Someone who had witnessed the Kendrick Atom Constrictor demonstration on the street ’phoned in to inquire whether he could have a small airplane delivered by two-dimensional transfer. He wanted to surprise his family, and the novelty of having the plane unfold before his family’s eyes appealed to him. The call was transferred from the regular order department to Ebbtide’s private office—and then and there the big idea struck Trixie with a jolt.
“I think it can be arranged,” Trixie spoke into the ’phone breathlessly, “if you don’t mind waiting a day or two . . . I’ll call you . . .”
That was it! She would create a new department of business for Ebbtide—a two-dimensional transfer and storage department. By the time he got back the new business would already be rolling in. Trixie could hardly sleep nights for thinking of it.
“I saw the Kendrick Atom Constrictor on the street the other day,” another man called in. “My son has a birthday on the ninth. Could you deliver a bicycle in two dimensions?”
The news of that dem
onstration must have spread like wildfire. Each day brought more inquiries. Potential customers wanted all sorts of things stored or delivered, from trunks and diamonds to steel cranes. A baldish bright-eyed old sugar-daddy wanted to store away five sets of furs for future reference.
“Gee!” Trixie gasped every time she put down the telephone. “Stan Kendrick was right! We’ve got something!”
Kendrick had left at the same time as Ebbtide; Kendrick would not be back. But the scientist had laid a manual of instructions in the seat of the driver’s cab after finishing his demonstrations. From that hour the atom constrictor had been parked in the basement freight room and Trixie had carried the key.
In her enthusiasm Trixie even forgot her grudge toward Pokey, the dumb office boy. She ceased to notice how many times a day he went out for cokes.
April the eighth the new Jones Two-Dimensional Storage and Transfer Department began business. On that memorable Thursday the atom constrictor, manned by a faithful employee under the supervising eye of Trixie, made its first commercial pickups.
On Friday, April ninth, the new service made its first deliveries.
On Saturday, April tenth, the new service hovered on the verge of a nervous breakdown. There had been a mix-up. The alphabetical filing system Trixie had so proudly worked out for sorting and storing the uniform silver discs had somehow slipped a cog.
At nine o’clock that Saturday morning the complaints began to roll in. By noon the telephones were screaming and irate customers were storming the offices.
At one o’clock Saturday noon most of the employees closed up shop and went home. Complaint department ’phones were snapped off for the weekend and all calls shot straight to Trixie’s office.
By ten minutes after one Trixie
Green Jones was in such hot water that if it had been a tub bath the soap would have sizzled.
By fifteen after one Pokey emptied the last wastebasket and marched out the front door. His official duties were done for the week. The real business was ready to begin. Pokey had already prepared his tapped-in telephone, using one of the lines of the building that he assumed was never switched over to the head office. It was a minor error. Pokey underestimated the staff annoyance at this sudden deluge of complaint calls. Every ’phone in the building had been switched to Ebbtide’s private office.
