by Don Wilcox
One answer was that strip of turban kicking around in my hip pocket. I reckon everyone is born with curiosity. I was born a twelve-pound baby, Mom used to tell me, and ten-twelfths of me was curiosity.
Even after I weighed fifteen times that much and was beginning to get my growth, the proportions hadn’t changed much. I remember riding three hundred miles to get a look at the two- headed pig born on the Curley-Q ranch. And another time I took a Sunday off to gallop over to the county seat where folks were coming from miles around ta walk into old man Kenilworth’s barn and see a horse with his tail where his head ought to be.
But that turned out to be an awful fake. It was nothing but an ordinary horse standing there with its tail in the manger. And old man Kenilworth was charging you a dollar on the way in and laughing at you on the way out. We decided to hang Kenilworth for that.
We would have gone through with it, I reckon, if it hadn’t been for Joe. Joe said we should steal his horse and let it go at that. So we did, and from that time on I’ve had great respect for Joe. It isn’t often you run across a fellow ingenious enough to turn horse-stealing into a virtue.
Funny, what thoughts will chase through your mind when you’re clicking off what may be your last hours of life.
As if the ropes weren’t uncomfortable enough, that strip of turban was cutting up again. One or two of those creatures had come along. Why had that girl wished this on me?
What was that? Footsteps returning? Yes, and Heptad’s gravel voice.
“Make it snappy, boys. They’ll be up here in a minute. They mustn’t find this prisoner.”
“Or us, either,” said one of the thugs.
The four of them came thudding up the last stairs and onto the roof. Three of them made straight for me. They were in an awful sweat to get me out of sight.
“Look here, cowboy,” said Heptad. “There’s a pair of meddlesome building inspectors coming up to look around, and we don’t want any noise out of you. You understand, don’t you?”
I understood. This break-through of steps on the sidewalk level had already echoed to the city engineers and they were sending a night crew out to take a quick look. Whatever Taggart might be up to, staging the fake cave-in, he’d better get his guard up or he’d cave in too.
For a moment I thought this all meant that I was small potatoes and they wouldn’t bother to fry me.
“Just undo my hands and unhitch my waist. I’ll go peaceable—”
Glop! It was a mistake to open your mouth around these lads. They clamped a gag on me, and before I had time to offer any more ideas about making an exit, they took care of me.
This wasn’t so pleasant. By George, it looked for a minute like they were going to end my life without ceremony.
You see, one of them signalled from the twenty-second floor that these inspectors were already on their way up. There wouldn’t be time to get me down off the roof.
But they didn’t dare run off and leave me or a scandal would break. (You could tell from their talk that this sunrise party was a regular feature of their regular gangster tactics.)
So what did they do but hang me over the roof where I’d be out of sight?
Out of sight and out of circulation and practically out of my mind.
Now a twenty-two-story building isn’t tall as skyscrapers go. But there’s something weird about finding yourself hanging against the high vertical wall just above that twenty-second story.
“He’ll be all right there. He can’t talk and he can’t bounce around much,” said Heptad breathlessly. “I’ll lay this old mat over the rope where it shows. Now. The way this ledge sets out they ain’t apt to see him even if they look over.”
“Come on, Heptad,” one of them yelled. “The elevator’s almost up.”
I heard them bounce down the stairs. Then there was a hasty shutting of doors, and I knew they were on the freight elevator going down.
The inspectors came up and looked around, and from their talk I knew they were quite mystified over the sidewalk cave-in.
They couldn’t find anything wrong with the building, evidently. And if they looked over my edge of the overhanging roof, they didn’t see me. They went away just as the eastern sky was turning, and I had the sunrise all to myself.
Now we have some doggoned fine sunrises out on the prairies, but never in my twenty-six years of life on the range was I ever so much impressed as now.
This sun wasn’t any pinker than the prairie sun. It didn’t come up any faster. It didn’t promise any hotter day than I’d seen before. It was just as silent as any sunrise—no trumpets, no blasts of thunder, not even a good cowboy song or cook-shack yodel to greet it.
It was more impressive because of the pains that went with seeing it. When you’re hanging by a single rope around your middle, your hands are tied behind you and your mouth is pasted shut—well, you just can’t find the words or gestures to express yourself. And that’s the way I was.
The only thing I could do about that glorious dawn was to kick about it; I could do that if I didn’t mind wearing down the half-inch rope that held me.
I breathed and gulped, mainly.
What little thinking I did was inventive. I imagined some choice tortures for that gang, saving the best ones for Heptad and the big shot, Taggart.
And then I asked myself again—why did I let myself in for this mess?
Curiosity. Curiosity over a turban. Curiosity over those tadpoles that weren’t tadpoles, that seemed to live within the turban goods with the ability to melt themselves into the design at will. Curiosity over a girl that held up my pal like a bandit, and resisted a kiss from this tough, dress- suited gorilla like a proud lady, and talked to me for a moment like she wanted to confide her fears, and then took the bus home and left me in trouble.
What did those fellows have on Joe and me, anyhow?
Did we know what they were up to, making those magic turbans? No.
Did we have any intentions of horning in on their business? No.
Were we cops, or detectives, posing as cowboys? Certainly not.
Was I in love with that girl at first sight? Not in the slightest. If anyone had shown any tendencies of that kind, it was Joe, not me. She was his type, not mine. He was the one that remembered where we’d seen her; I’d forgotten her till she crossed my path the second time. But I’ll admit my fighting spirit was up when I saw Taggart acting so overbearing toward her in the car.
What business was it of Taggart’s to order her around? Why should she be running an elevator for the Hall of Arts and working hand in glove with him at the same time? Was she good or bad?
If she was a gangster along with the rest, I was a damn fool to be hanging up here by a half-inch rope with nothing but a two hundred and fifty foot drop below me.
If she was a good kid, like I thought she was, then it was no more nor less than my cowboy courtesy that hung me up; and whatever happened, it was up to me to take it on the chin.
“Quit tickling, you turban critters,” I yelled now and then as I went through these thoughts. There were two of the little creatures and they were getting much too playful.
If I had been hanging on the north or the east side of the tower, I could have looked down the street. As it was, my view looked to the south. The line of sunlight gradually crept down over the domed towers at either end of the Hall of Arts. One of those corner studios ten floors above Park Avenue was ours—Joe’s and mine. We were supposed to practice there today to get ready for the radio appearance Monty Montzingo promised us.
However, my hands were so numb by this time I was sure I wouldn’t be able to make my guitar really talk for a week.
A week? That was a strange thought. I’ve heard that a man tied to a railroad track will do the same thing. He’ll lie there wondering how he’s going to get his summer suit out of hock for the Fourth of July picnic. And then it’ll come to him with an awful chill that he may have to miss that picnic. But all the while the fool will lie there hoping aga
inst hope that it will be a friendly freight train and it will hiss to a dead stop just as the cowcatcher cuddles up against his ribs.
I admit it—I had been just as optimistic up to this moment.
All at once I chilled to ice. The rope had jerked with a quiet little snap.
I was leaning forward at an angle something like a flagpole bending in the wind. I tried to straighten my back so as not to pull outward on the rope. But the darned rope was stretching. I craned around and saw that one of the strands had broken.
I looked down. How many inches, I wondered, would that rope have to give before I could tap that twenty-second story window with my toe? An utterly insane hope. Two feet of space divided my feet from the window. But—someone should be in that room sooner or later, a scrubwoman or a janitor perhaps.
Listen! Was that rope giving again? Thump, thump, thump. Something was working on it!
The turban creatures.
Turning my head back I could see the two of them. They had stationed themselves near the center of the rope; they were just above the broken strand. Broken? Or cut?
They were guilty. Doggoned if they weren’t. Yes, they were at it this very minute. They were hanging onto the rope with their feet, and swinging sharp little axes with their arms.
“Stop it!” I tried to yell through my gag. “Stop it, or down I go!”
Thump, thump, thump. The shreds of fibre flew like chips from the woodsman’s tree.
Sunrise! The yellow rays were highlighting the armored knights that guarded the two ends of the Hall of Arts.
Thump, thump, thump. A few more strokes and down I would go.
Thump, thump, thump.
Down I went.
CHAPTER VI
Mae Wing Speaking
Not every girl who begins her musical career as a night-club singer has my good fortune. I’ve had breaks, good and bad. When the good ones came, I made the most of them. This year I was called to the Hall of Arts, and my heart turned a series of flip- flops.
“We are inviting you to use one of our choice studios, Miss Wing,” the Committee told me. “This is our way of encouraging popular singers like yourself. Will you accept?”
Would I accept? Well, I should hope to yodel!
Now the Hall of Arts, as everyone in this city knows, is meant to be a center of music and art for the whole community—you and your aunts and uncles and your banker and the motorman on your street car.
Your motorman and your banker may not agree on what’s good and what’s bad in music.
Your aunt may prefer Constanza. Your uncle may prefer me—the chances are he does. And you may have a weakness for Latin American rhythms or cowboy music.
But whoever heard of a Hall of Arts that would encourage night-club crooners or cowboy singers? Right there was the bone of contention.
For several weeks before those two cowboys came to town, Constanza was running around like a rat in a maze, if you’ll pardon the comparison. She was in and out of studios and publicity offices and bankers’ conference rooms. I heard her speak at the luncheon in the Hall of Arts court.
“What is this world coming to?” she asked, singing out the words in her deep contralto. “Has music lost all its self- respect? We who are the artists—”
She paused, and her eyes took in the faces of some of the really fine singers among her audience.
“We who are the artists,” she repeated, “deeply resent the insults—yes,
I said insults—from a few of our leading business men who are threatening to bring cowboys into our midst. Cowboy music!”
She drew a deep breath for a barrelchested shout. “Cowboy music! Of all the hideous noises that the human ear has to endure, the worst is cowboy music!”
Most of her listeners cheered. One of the really fine singers shouted, “Brava!” Two others just sat with their arms folded, and you could tell they weren’t interested in starting any petty quarrel.
As for my part, I cheered. You see,
I’ve always had a pet aversion to cowboy music. It’s just a matter of taste with me. I’ve never cared for pancakes or court broadcasts or dog shows or cowboy music.
Several persons looked up at me. I cheered before I thought. You see, I wasn’t a part of Signora Constanza’s audience. I was watching from my studio window which looks down on the court from the second story.
“If there’s anything more outrageous than profaning this hall with cowboy singers,” Constanza continued, raising her heavy arm in a dramatic gesture, “it’s bringing these dreadful night-club singers into our midst. What do they know about music? Show me one that has ever studied in Europe!”
I almost fell out of the window. No words had ever struck me like those. A slap in the face would have been less brutal.
I’m not saying that Constanza knew I was listening from my studio. But what she said was sure to get around to me and all my friends, and she knew it.
“Night-club singers! Modern music! Cowboys! And we call this the Hall of Arts!” That was her speech, and she marched haughtily to her seat. The luncheon crowd gave her a good round of applause, but you could tell that several persons were disturbed. This looked like the opening of a war right here within the walls of this institution.
And here I was, a perfect target.
Again several persons cast glances in my direction, and a few were sneering as if to say, “Why doesn’t she applaud now?”
It was awful, and I should have fled from their sight. But I was just stubborn enough to stand my ground and fight. My bright black eyes can be defiant when there’s something to fight for.
But I was grateful for the kind look from one of those really famous singers who looked up at me and shook her head slowly. She seemed to be saying, “You’re all right, Mae Wing. Don’t you mind anything Constanza says. You know her. She’s overplayed her popularity. She thinks she can run over everybody.”
The next time I saw Constanza was at the concert, and that was when the fur began to fly.
Fur flew, and turbans flew, and right away the chaps and spurs and neckerchiefs were in on the fray. For Monty Montzingo had made good his threat and brought two good-looking cowboy singers to town.
The war was on.
Maybe those two cowboys didn’t know it, but they were right in the front line.
However, there was another war on, under the surface, much deeper and more serious than any clash between brands of music. It was something that I didn’t know much about. Hardly anyone knew about it—but the whole city was in its grip.
I went to the concert with Mr. Bondpopper, and while I sat there suffering through Constanza’s opening number, my eyes caught on a line of the printed program:
“Costumes by Taggart”
At the end of the number Mr. Bondpopper whispered to me, “What did you think of that creation by Taggart? Did you notice the turban?”
“On Constanza it was terrible,” I said. “But it was a dazzling thing. I wouldn’t mind having one myself.”
“It would look divine on you,” Mr. Bondpopper said seriously. Then he gave a funny chuckle. “You’ll think I’m just giving you a line.”
“Aren’t you?”
Mr. Bondpopper gave a comical laugh, raised one eyebrow at me and adjusted his necktie. He was a funny old codger, all of seventy, more than three times my age. Everyone who knew him loved him because he was so jolly. Very generous, too. Not many men of such wealth would be as democratic and friendly as Mr. Bondpopper.
“Do you know Betty Morris, the elevator girl?” I whispered. “How would you like to see that turban on her?”
“I’ve already thought of that,” said Mr. Bondpopper.
Another number was on, so I couldn’t ask him the meaning of his mysterious comment about Betty. It puzzled me, and I was still wondering about it when Constanza appeared, a few minutes later, for a second song. This time she wasn’t wearing the turban.
“I wonder why she left it off,” said Mr. Bondpopper. And you coul
d hear whispering all over the house.
“Don’t tell me she’s starting a strip act,” I said.
“I wouldn’t know what you’re talking about,” said Mr. Bondpopper, drawing himself up with an air of respectability, but giving me the faintest twinkle from the corner of his eye.
I was smart enough to catch a warning out of that sly response. There’s no doubt about it, Mr. Bondpopper was respected by everybody around this Hall of Arts. Even the most snobbish artists—and I’m thinking of Constanza—would never find anything to criticize in him. But what she thought of me wouldn’t be very complimentary.
That’s because I had blossomed out of the night-clubs and theatres. To me, that was something to be proud of; and here at the Hall of Arts I had more determination than ever to work hard and be worthy of this musical scholarship. But Constanza and her kind thrived on taking slaps at folks like me. A singer who hadn’t had an expensive education, preferably in Europe, was nothing.
Constanza’s second number was too painful. The most ardent lovers of operatic classics stirred restlessly. Someone in Mr. Bondpopper’s party suggested that we all treat ourselves to an intermission before her third number.
And so it happened that we were in the lobby when Constanza gave forth with a hideous shriek in the middle of a song. The spine-chilling echo carried to us.
“I’ve heard that number a thousand times,” said Mr. Bondpopper, very gravely, “but that note was definitely new.”
The four of us crowded into the rear of the auditorium. The song was going strong again, but Constanza’s orange- dyed hair was in sad disarray and there was no sign of any turban. Right away we learned from the whisperings around us what had happened.
The turban had somehow driven her to distraction, and she’d suddenly yelled out, snatched it off her head, and flung it over the footlights.
“That tall, slim cowboy down in the third row caught it,” said one of our informers.
Right after that number who should come bolting up the aisle but Monty Montzingo and the two handsome cowboys he’d imported from the sticks.
