The Almost Complete Short Fiction

by Don Wilcox

  “Thousands?” Red Stephens repeated blankly.

  “Thousands,” Jalbeau echoed. “We’ve hopped all over the Pacific Islands. Wembridge is a bear for work. She’s wore me down to a shadow.”

  Red Stephens grinned. Obviously the shadow that was Jalbeau weighed at least two hundred and fifty. Jalbeau, however, gave no hint that his remark was meant for humor. His face remained a wax image.

  The twin motors filled the silence.

  A brown-skinned slant-eyed pilot, having gained an altitude of twenty-five thousand, had set the plane on the gyro-pilot. Now he returned to the controls, no longer wearing the Japanese uniform, but dressed as any Australian civilian.

  The other member of the party, a maid with a French accent, emerged from the rear of the plane with tea things. Red postponed his clean-up in favor of refreshments.

  “If I’m Red Stephens,” he said presently, “would you mind telling me where Red Stephens is going and what he’s supposed to do?”

  Jalbeau might not. have heard. He went on sipping tea, gazing out the window. Far out on the open sea there was a long horizontal line of black smoke. It was a naval battle, and no doubt Jalbeau wished he were close enough to see it; and yet his thoughts, so far as Red Stephens could tell, might have been a thousand miles away.

  “Will I meet anyone,” Red pursued, “who already knows Red Stephens—or is there any such person?”

  “You’ll meet some native islanders,” said Jalbeau. “Red Stephens was an expert at finding his way around. He once had the good luck to lead them out from under a mad volcano. Now they’ll eat out of his hands. They and several other island tribes.”

  “It’s a heluva risk for me to pull anything like that,” said Stephens.

  “You’ve nothing to worry about,” Hester Wembridge smiled. “If it’s any comfort to you we’ll fly down to—to a certain island and give the natives a look at you—that is, after we’ve fixed you up.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Stephens. “There’s a certain military favor to be done,” said Miss Wembridge, leaning across the table to speak in confidence. “It’s a complicated set-up. On the surface it would seem that no one in the world but one Red Stephens can turn the trick.”

  “Then we’d better get the real McCoy,” the young American said. “Unfortunately he’s dead.”

  “Then how—”

  “You’ll take his place. No one will know the difference. No one but Jalbeau and I.”

  “But how can I fill the bill? If the job calls for some special knowledge—”

  “It calls for two things. One, a guide that can pass for Red Stephens. Two, confidence.”

  “Draw him a picture,” Jalbeau cracked, not taking his eyes off the island-dotted ocean.

  “I’ll tell you more later, Red Stephens.” She gave him a confident smile with her eyes, as if to assure him that everything was first of all a matter of trust between friends. “Before we get bade to Australia I’ll tell you all about this particular island—known to us in the military circles as ‘G’—or do you know?”

  “It stands for Greek to me.”

  A bath, a shave, a haircut, and Red Stephens began to feel like the new man he was. Jalbeau treated his numerous cuts and bruises that testified to some recent but forgotten hand-to-hand engagement. Finally he was fitted out with a light-weight outfit suitable for a trek in the jungle.

  As he transferred his pocket things from his old clothes to his new, he found the thick-lensed spectacles that had belonged to Longworth.

  Jalbeau’s eyes missed nothing.

  “You wear glasses?”

  “Part of the time.” It was the easiest thing to say.

  “Red Stephens never had ’em. Let’s see how you look in ’em.”

  Red obediently put them on.

  “Not so good,” Jalbeau said. “Keep ’em out of sight when anyone’s around.”

  For a moment everything was blurry. Then some objects came clear—four faces—all of them Jalbeau.

  Red Stephens gave an amused grunt. He took the spectacles off and put them on again to repeat the comic effect. It was the first funny thing that had happened since he didn’t know when. As if this man-mountain Jalbeau was too immense for just one head! He needed four.

  At that moment Hester Wembridge appeared at the doorway. Then it was that the strangeness of this quadrupled vision burst full upon Red Stephens.

  Hester Wembridge was speaking to him—that is, one of her faces was speaking to him.

  It was the first of her four faces, the charming one, that spoke. The three other faces wore the chill of cold steel, and thick lips didn’t move in the slightest. And yet all four were Hester Wembridge.

  CHAPTER III

  The plane landed on a wide sandy beach at the Island of G.

  Night was descending. The natives were huddled around their low-burning fires back in the edges of the jungles. War fears and tribal superstitions were combining to create new unknown terrors in the hearts of these primitives.

  “What they don’t understand, they fear,” was the way Jalbeau put it.

  Obviously anything that came from beyond the coastal waters of their island could well be feared. And yet they were as brave as any warriors who fought without machines. And they would play their part in the great war of the Pacific.

  To Red Stephens’ amazement, three or four spokesmen for these savages were on speaking terms with Hester Wembridge. She was truly a power through these regions. Her travels, her money, and her remarkable intelligence had made her known as an important benefactor everywhere, eve® to these hidden coastal villages.

  Red Stephens stood in stiff silence, as he had been instructed to do. The few English-speaking natives were brought up close enough to see him under the flashlight beam. They broke into violent explosions of surprise. It was Red Stephens.

  “Don’t ask him to talk,” said Hester Wembridge. “He doesn’t often speak these days. This mad war for islands has made him sad and silent.”

  The tribesmen stood back in awe. Why had Red Stephens come? Was there a catastrophe approaching?

  “He has come,” said Hester Wembridge, “to be sure you are ready to follow him when danger does come.”

  “How soon does danger come?” they clamored.

  “Be ready,” the woman answered. “He will come back to you very soon. He will bring a few white officers. Be ready to follow him and fight for him.”

  “We will be ready,” the tribal spokesmen pledged.

  Red Stephens could feel their hero-worshipping eyes follow him all the way back to the plane.

  But one native came chasing after them, and just as they were mounting the steps he bounded up with them. He wanted another look at Red Stephens.

  “Why?” Jalbeau demanded curtly.

  “Because,” the native replied, “I think he was not Red Stephens.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Let me see again. Of all the tribe I will know best whether it is Red Stephens.”

  “Come in,” said Jalbeau.

  The doors locked and the plane took off. The skeptical tribesman had been added to the list of passengers, much against his will.

  But Hester Wembridge saw to it that the tribesman did not get what he wanted. She immediately ordered Red Stephens to close himself in one of the compartments, and there he stayed while the plane roared through the night.

  For a time he could hear a little of the arguing voices. But soon after the plane had gained its elevation the talk quieted.

  It was then that the voice sounded at his shoulder.

  “Well, buddy, have you got her figured out?”

  Red Stephens turned. He saw no one. He opened the door of the narrow vertical clothes closet. Empty. He glanced at the built-in seat beside the window. There was no one behind it.

  “She’s playing a clever game, if you ask me.”

  The voice came out of thin air, right at Stephens’ shoulder. It was low, almost a whisper. Its mellow quality
brought back a picture: those last agonized minutes during the Jap bayonet drill.

  “Longworth!”

  “Ssssh. Not too loud. You’re supposed to be alone.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Right beside you!”

  “I don’t see you.”

  “I’m here. I’ve been right with you since the moment I disappeared.”

  Red Stephens stared. He reached out with his hands. He felt nothing. But he saw his own distressed face reflected from the chromium door frame, and he was half convinced he was going mad.

  “Don’t let me upset you, buddy. If you can’t take it I’ll run along. But the troubles are gathering up for a storm. While there’s time I think we’d better talk it over. This is the first chance I’ve had to speak.”

  “Okay, Longworth,” Stephens gulped. “I’m probably going nutty, but if it’s really you—”

  “It’s me, buddy.” At that moment Longworth materialized before Red Stephens’ eyes. The big Englishman mopped his white forehead and his slightly sunburned neck with a handkerchief. “Whew. It’s good to get back into solid flesh again . . . Don’t look so blank, buddy. Can I help it if that old fakir’s magic turned out to be better than I thought?”

  Red Stephens removed his spectacles and slowly relaxed his amazed countenance into a grin. “Hell, am I glad to see you! How do you manage it?”

  “It’s simple when you’ve been through the mill of magic. More of that later, buddy. I’m famished. You don’t happen to have a ham sandwich on you?” Longworth flopped down into the seat limply.

  “When did you eat last?”

  “In the Jap prison in Singapore—except for that banana I picked up in the jungle. Risky business, turning to flash in the presence of suspicious people. But I managed to eat it and vanish before anyone saw me.”

  Red Stephens squinted and thrust his fingers through his sandy hair. “Are you telling me you can’t eat without becoming visible?”

  “Right. But I work up a powerful appetite while I’m invisible. It’s more exercise than you’d think. But it’s handy. I can cover the ground faster than any airplane.”

  “How’d you get in this compartment? Did you follow me through the door?”

  “I seeped in through the keyhole. I’m nothing but thin air when I’m invisible. And helpless—you’ve no idea.”

  “We’d better get you some food, fellow. You look as pale as when the Japs came at you with bayonets.” Red Stephens paused, looking Longworth over with more curiosity than ever. Obviously the bayonets had never touched him. They had only plunged through thin air. “Come on.”

  “You lead the way, buddy. If anyone beside the pilot is still awake I’m not safe around here.”

  “Why not? Isn’t this party on the level?” Red Stephens paused in the open doorway, waiting for the big thoughtful Englishman to answer.

  “Maybe on the level,” Longworth whispered. “I can’t say about that. But it’s war, and Hester Wembridge doesn’t play war with kid gloves. You remember the native that climbed aboard because he knew you weren’t the real Red Stephens?”

  “What about him?”

  “They brought him along to get rid of him. And they did. Soon after they got their elevation they went for him.”

  “Who?”

  “Jalbeau and the Japanese pilot. They hoisted him out. He probably never stopped falling till he hit the bottom of the sea . . . All right, maybe I wouldn’t fall. Maybe I’d turn invisible and sweep right back into the plane like a breath of fresh air. But I don’t fancy getting kicked out. This Hester Wembridge is a clever woman and I don’t wanta miss the show. Lead on, let’s find that ham sandwich.”

  CHAPTER IV

  Two rounds of sandwiches were finished and a third was begun when Hester Wembridge’s footsteps sounded.

  “Red Stephens,” she greeted softly as she appeared at the dining alcove, “I thought I heard you talking with someone.”

  “Yes, we—allow me to introduce—” Red Stephens swallowed hard. Longworth had vanished.

  Miss Wembridge gave a strange look, but her eyes softened and she smiled indulgently.

  “So you talk to yourself. You even set two places to help you carry on a two way conversation.” She patted him gently on the shoulder. “Don’t let it worry you, Stephens. You’ll be all right after you’ve time to rest up. Better get back to bed. Have you had any sleep yet?”

  “I couldn’t sleep,” Stephens said gloomily. “I kept thinking about that native who came aboard.”

  “For goodness sakes’ don’t worry about him.”

  “But he says I’m not Red Stephens. What does that do to your scheme?”

  “I’ll be honest with you, Red.” Hester Wembridge sat across from him and eyed him steadily. “We couldn’t afford to let him live. His talk would have been too dangerous. He claims he saw the real Stephens killed. So—much as we hated to do it—we dropped him off—to his death.”

  The young American gave a sigh of relief. It was something to believe that this woman was telling the truth. No one could have doubted the deep sincerity of her purpose.

  “You see,” she continued, “that native could have queered the whole plan. He’d have spread the rumor that you’re an impostor. We couldn’t afford to let that happen. Murder is a cruel reward for his keenness. It sickened me to do it. But this is war.”

  “Couldn’t you have brought him on to Australia and dropped him into prison?”

  “No. He would have talked. And even our high officers must not know. The slightest loss of confidence will lose this battle. But everything is set. I’ve already talked with Colonel Moberly by radio-telephone. He knows I’ve found Red Stephens. At first he wouldn’t believe it, because Red Stephens hasn’t been seen for so long. But I convinced him I’d done the impossible. And what do you think he called me?”

  “Not a liar, I hope.”

  “An angel. Wasn’t that sweet of him?”

  “You’re a very clever angel,” Stephens said, and he was surprised to realize he hadn’t said it cynically. This was a remarkable scheme, there was no doubt about it. If he could put his part of it across—but there was his headache.

  “You don’t have any movies of this fellow Stephens, do you?” he asked. “I ought to know how he walks and talks, and what he’s supposed to know.”

  “You’ve nothing to worry about,” she smiled confidently. “I’ve thought it through. You’ve lost your memory—that’s fine. I’ll explain to the Colonel that you’ve had a slight accident. You’re not quite yourself.”

  “Then how can I be of any use?”

  “Because your jungle instincts are as sharp as ever.”

  “My jungle instincts! You make me sound like a baboon.”

  “Frankly, a baboon could put this deal over,” Hester Wembridge gurgled, “if those savage natives could be made to believe it was their hero leading them. Better get some sleep. I’ll call you at daybreak. Colonel Moberly wants to talk with you by radio-telephone before we set down at Sydney.”

  “What about?”

  “Your reception and a few other surprises.” She lifted her arched eyebrows. “You’re a hero, Red Stephens. There’ll be bands and ticker tape. Prepare for the worst.”

  Stephens unobtrusively slipped a sandwich in his pocket before returning to his compartment.

  “Are you here, fellow?”

  “Right at your ear,” came the whisper out of thin air. “I heard everything. I still say she’s damned, clever.”

  “She’s cooking up a helluva lot of trouble for me. Bands and ticker tape! I’m beginning to wish the Japs had got me.”

  “You’ll get by, just like she said, buddy”

  “A reception and a few other surprises, she says. Now what did she mean by that? What’s her game, anyhow?”

  “Winning over the Japs. She’s one of the big shots, didn’t I tell you?” The big Englishman became visible, sitting comfortably by the dark window. “As far as I can see, she’s r
isked her neck to get you, and she’ll be cunning enough to win her trick. What are you worrying about?”

  “Maybe I ought to trust her, but I don’t,” said Red Stephens.

  “Why not? Oh—you’ve seen her through the spectacles?”

  “That must be what threw me off—that one look. It wasn’t so pleasant. Three of her four faces were about as friendly as cold steel . . . Say—what’s the dope on those bleary specs?”

  Longworth ignored the question. His forehead was wrinkled in thought. “I’ll keep an eye on her. Be back soon, buddy.”

  The big Englishman disappeared.

  A few minutes later he was there again, lounging comfortably by the plane’s window. He began to munch the sandwich.

  “Talk about harmless people,” he said. “She’s writing in her diary and the French maid is pasting newspaper clippings about her in a scrapbook.”

  “What did she write? Or were you too mannerly to read it?”

  Longworth smiled. “Being invisible, I find it agreeable to dispense with my usual manners occasionally. She wrote, ‘Of all things! Colonel Moberly called me an angel!!! Now isn’t he a honey?’ With three exclamation marks after angel, mind you.”

  By daybreak the plane was roaring high over Australia. Before anyone mentioned breakfast Red Stephens was called to the radio-telephone.

  “Come. Don’t keep him waiting,” Hester Wembridge warned. “Colonel Moberly is the most punctual man in the world.”

  The voice came through with a metallic clatter.

  “Red Stephens! So they’ve found you! I didn’t think it could be done.”

  “You’re no more surprised than I am,” Stephens retorted, gritting his teeth to get set for a bitter ordeal.

  “I have everything planned for you, Stephens. Finding you, is going to save many days and many lives. I can’t tell you much now, but when you get here one of your bodyguards will give you your schedule, minute by minute, for the next several crucial hours.”

  “Minute by minute?” Stephens echoed.