by Don Wilcox
“You’ve proved it yourself,” said Monty, emphatically. “Within ten minutes after you put these neckerchiefs on you both got inspirations—”
“Excuse me,” said Joe.
“Where you goin’ ?” I asked.
“See you later,” said Joe, and he hurried off.
Monty and I took our time about getting back to our studio in the Hall of Arts. I had a very curious feeling about this neckerchief.
Obviously the turban material had been changed from the earlier design. Maybe “refinement” was the word. At any rate, no tiny creatures were climbing out to whisper in my ear or take whacks at me with an ax. I wish I could have saved that scrap of the original turban to make a comparison; but that had been lost the morning I hung from Taggart Tower.
“Why don’t we stop in and have a talk with Constanza?” I suggested, as Monty and I ambled back to the Hall of Arts. “Maybe she’ll tell us what happened.”
“She isn’t easy to talk to,” said Monty. “And you’d never catch her being sociable to a cowboy singer.”
“Why not? Because she’s a grand opera star?”
“Because she’s Constanza,” said Monty. “But we’ll try. And now is a good time. Your pal Joe evidently got a brain-storm to compose some music, so we’ll not break in on him right away.”
We went up to the lobby across from Constanza’s studio and hung around all afternoon waiting for her to appear. She didn’t come.
Meanwhile I wondered what the neckerchief was doing to me. It did seem as though some brand new songs were bubbling up to the surface. One phrase that began to spread out into a plaintive little lovesick melody was: “He went to the night-club in search of a song, At the night-club she gave him the air—”
Monty broke in on my mental melodies. “Let’s go on up and see how Joe and his talents are getting along.”
Joe and his talents, we found, were getting along just fine. He was leading an old swaybacked horse from the fire escape into the studio.
Betty Morris had stopped her elevator to see what was going on, and she looked horrified.
“It’s all right,” Joe called to her. “These old broken-down nags off the milk-wagons ain’t much account. But when a feller gits an inspiration to follow his art—”
A police siren swallowed up his words. So Monty, to save time, went right to the telephone and made a date with the police judge.
CHAPTER XI
Park Avenue Shakedown
After the newly repaired sidewalk in front of Taggart’s Building had been walked on by the first hundred thousand people, it ceased to look new and the city forgot it had fallen through.
However, on the next bright Saturday morning one of the two great bronze knights on horseback in front of the Hall of Arts quietly sank into the earth.
I saw the picture in the eleven o’clock extra. Apparently a twenty-five foot square of concrete simply got tired and gave way.
How come there wasn’t any earth under the base of this sixteen-ton statue? Well, the newspapers carried about six columns of opinions. It seemed that the city engineers and other experts weren’t entirely in agreement. Some said that seepage had eaten away some layers of limestone.
There was one heck of a stir over this little event. The Hall of Arts had been proud of these two great knights in armor. Now one of these bronze boys was a sorry sight looking like a rider coming up through a tunnel from China. His horse had one forefoot hooked over the edge of the sidewalk; otherwise you couldn’t see anything of the horse but his ears.
The knight had one eyebrow on a twist; his visor was wrapped around his jaw, and his right elbow was in his left ear. One of the newspapers captioned its photograph “Knight on a Bender.”
While the various investigators inspected the city’s Park Avenue utility tunnels for clues to this trouble, the Hall of Arts did the noble thing. Acting through its executive committee, it agreed to put on a benefit concert to restore the horse and rider to an upright position.
This was a pretty decent gesture, I thought.
When Monty came to Joe and me and asked if we’d donate our talents to this concert, we jumped at the chance. It would mean that our names would be listed right along beside the big artists.
“Is Constanza going to be on the program?” I asked.
Monty shrugged. “No one has been able to talk with her since the night she wore the turban. I’ve tried dozens of times to get an appointment with her. Sooner or later I’m going to make her tell me about that night. I’d like to explode all your funny talk about these little creatures.”
Joe and I looked at each other but we didn’t say any more. Whenever the subject of those tiny human-like creatures came up, it would strike me like the memory of a distant dream.
You know how it is when you take in certain unbelievable shows like a hypnotic demonstration or a mind-reading expert. At the time you see it for yourself and you can’t deny it. But it’s so darned bizarre that later you begin to ask yourself questions. Did you really see it or was it just an optical illusion?
If it hadn’t been for Betty Morris and Mae Wing, Joe and I might have talked ourselves out of this weird thing we couldn’t understand.
But every time Joe and Betty went out to lunch together, she gave him a line about Taggart. She must have thought Taggart was about the smartest man that ever lived, and the most dangerous. She no longer wondered what he was up to with all his bold schemes. She was too scared to ask questions, and generally too scared to disobey orders.
Every time I went to see Mae Wing I came away convinced that she actually knew what she was talking about and that there was an immense hidden laboratory somewhere under the Taggart buildings, and that I must somehow help her escape so she could prove these things.
But I started to tell about restoring this mounted knight statue.
Joe and I had gone through with our first job for Monty Montzingo, and the fan letters and telephone calls that we got would have made Constanza burn up with envy.
So we signed up to help out on the benefit concert.
Then we got a personal letter from the executive committee that made us roll on the floor and practically crumble away with laughter.
“We wish to commend your generosity,” the letter ran, “in offering your musical services to help restore the statue. May we interpret your offer as a willingness to restore any part of the statue which needs repairs? Please do not take offense at this question, for the executive committee does not intend to play any favorites. However, some of the artists, because of their cultural prejudices against cowboys, are willing to sing for the knight only, not for the horse . . .”
We laughed until we almost had to sweep ourselves up. When Monty wrote back to the executive committee for us he simply said that we’d be proud to sing for the restoration of the horse.
Joe told Betty Morris all about it, and Betty, who heard practically all the gossip on the elevator, told us that the whole issue had been started by Constanza out of spite against cowboy music.
This made us half sore. But Betty gave Joe a mischievous wink.
“Don’t forget,” she said, “your boss Monty has a drag with the committee. I’ll be surprised if he doesn’t bring you out on top.”
Sure enough, Betty’s hunch was good. The big night came and the auditorium in the Hall of Arts was packed.
We came on fourth and gave them a few old favorites around an imitation campfire, and we went over bigger and better than ever. I’ll swear those Taggart neckerchiefs were all to the good.
We stayed backstage to wait for the grand finale. Interesting things were going on back there. Constanza was there and she was trying to bulldoze the executive committee.
Monty whispered to us, “She still wants to sing, but she wants to be coaxed.”
That wasn’t all she wanted. She saw a chance to throw some insults against night-club singing and cowboy music. She was insisting that the chairman, in his financial announcement, should make it pl
ain that some of the artists had assigned their donation to the repair of the knight, not the horse.
“If you’ll do as I say, I’ll sing,” said Constanza, tossing her head haughtily. “Otherwise I’ll let the audience go home disappointed.”
Well, Constanza knew how to play her temperament to best advantage. Just before the end of the program the chairman made an announcement of a special treat not listed on the program. Constanza would sing.
The audience came through with the expected applause.
Constanza came out, took a bow and sang.
I noticed that Monty was having a quiet chat with the little nervous French sculptor who had been hired to mend the statue. That is, Monty’s end of the talk was quiet. The little Frenchman was as jumpy as a young bull terrier.
Constanza sang, in her over-ripe voice, a couple passages from an opera. Then she encored with a little humorous and very original number about a girl that had said no to a boy but had afterward relented by tying plums on a mulberry tree. It made everyone laugh and applaud.
Then Constanza drew herself up with a barrel-chested breath and said that before she sang her final and most difficult number she knew everyone would like to hear a special report from the chairman about how the artists had assigned their donations.
Constanza stood aside and smiled while the chairman walked into the spotlight and did the best he could.
With grave dignity he announced that, in accordance with the fitness of things we cowboys had assigned our evening’s contribution to the restoration of the horse; whereas, artists so-and-so wished it known that they had lent their voices to the repair of the knight.
“To this latter service,” the chairman concluded, “goes the contribution, also, of our incomparable Constanza.” Constanza took a bow.
But just then the agitated little Frenchman rushed out onto the stage. There was a correction to be made.
“Ze knight has all been taken care of!” he shouted. “Ze special donation from Mr. Walter Montzingo has just untwisted ze final eyebrow. But ze horse, she is still in need of one repair. So zis bee-you-tiful song by Signora Constanza, she is just right to feex ze bends to ze rear of ze saddle.”
Constana fainted, and she didn’t come to in time for the finale.
Well, you know how things like that go. A half dozen fellows ganged around Monty Montzingo to help him laugh up his sleeve. That’s what was going on when the final curtain rang down on us. And that’s exactly when this policeman bounded up the stairs calling for Monty.
“Are you Montzingo? Well, have your laugh out, fellow, ’cause what I’ve got to say won’t leave you anything to laugh about.”
Monty sobered and so did the others.
“This must be a soundproof building or you’d have heard it,” said the cop. “You must’ve felt it.”
“What?” said Monty.
“You own the Parkside Building at 20 North Park Avenue, don’t you? Well, it just came down with a crash. The front foundation gave way and the thing fell all over Park Avenue. There’s a couple hundred rescue workers on the job digging out the cars and bodies.”
CHAPTER XII
Talents on a Rampage
Poor Monty! This was one of his finest buildings. The horror of it! No telling how many lives might be lost. Would Monty be responsible?
Joe and I chased after him out into the night. Before we got to the corner of Park and Moon we lost him because the crowd was so thick. The motor traffic was tied up for blocks back of us.
Ahead of us, just north of the intersection at Taggart’s corner, the great heap of wreckage was all over the pavement.
Some fires had started, though the scanty blazes and smoke columns were the least of the catastrophe. The police and firemen and scores of volunteers were digging for any waving arms or kicking feet that stuck up through the debris.
Only the top six or seven floors of the building had fallen—roughly the top third. But shortly after midnight, about an hour after we arrived, there was another rip and roar of stones. The whole facade swung down like a falling mountain.
Brrrrrr! Rip! Krackety—rippety—rappety—CRASH-HH!
The boom that followed seemed to echo back and forth through every big building in the city.
So there went the rest of Monty’s big Parkside store building. By this time, luckily, the rescue work from the first crash was done, and I don’t think anyone was caught for more than minor injuries on this final crash. It had been expected. Since the front section of the foundation had apparently dissolved like sugar, the building was doomed.
Right in the middle of all the excitement I happened to see someone I knew. He was a hard-boiled egg with a bullet head and nasty eye. Pug Heptad!
He was standing about twenty feet away from me. The way the crowds were thronging around this far side of the street I was fenced off from him by a hundred or so people. But that was no protection at all from a murderous thug like Heptad.
Had he seen me? He wasn’t exposing his face to the streetlight any more than he could help. But I saw his eyes flick in my direction. He wasn’t lookin’ at me; he was lookin’ at my neckerchief.
Joe and I had got separated. So whatever I was in for, I’d have to handle it alone.
The next question was, were Heptad’s henchmen with him?
It was curious that he should turn away and pretend that he had not seen me. So he wanted to catch me off guard, did he? Well, it was time he learned that I had another talent beside music. All at once some lazy brain waves came through with a rush. Maybe that neckerchief was working. Right now I wanted to fight.
In less time than it takes to tell it, I dodged through the throng and came up to him, face to face.
“Lookin’ for me?” I asked.
“I don’t even know you,” said Heptad.
He started to turn away.
I grabbed him by the shoulder, swung him around and let go with a solid right that knocked his head lopsided.
He gave a surprised yelp and tried to back away. I swung a left that grazed his forehead, then followed through with another right that spun him around. The crowd began to make a ring for us. Pug Heptad didn’t want a ring. All he wanted was escape.
He plunged through the phalanx of bystanders like a fullback through the line. I charged after him.
Darn it, a bow-legged man let him get away.
A minute later a couple of cops tried to break into our section of the crowd, but I didn’t stay to see what they wanted. I smoothed out my neckerchief and edged away quickly in search of Joe.
I finally found him on the outside of a huddle of city commissioners and millionaire property owners. Apparently these dignitaries had come together for an emergency conference.
Joe had been listening in and he gave me the low-down. “It began when Taggart and one of the commissioners came up looking for Monty,” said Joe. “Taggart was roaring like a mad bull. He said this damned street was hoodooed.”
“The question is,” I said, “who dood it?”
“Yeah,” Joe whispered, “I’d have bet ten to one that Taggart was behind the whole thing if he hadn’t been hit right along with the rest. Here he is shouting for action. Maybe we’ve figgered him wrong from the start.”
That week the city sent for fifteen out-of-state engineers to come and inspect Park Avenue’s damages. The buildings of that vicinity were guarded day and night, and every few hours the earth beneath their foundations was tested.
“Everything is solid,” the radio announcers would repeat almost hourly. “There is no need to avoid the buildings along Park Avenue. The engineers have declared them to be perfectly safe.”
But you know how people are. Three mysterious crashes within a block are enough to make most folks superstitious.
The debris was cleared from Park Avenue immediately, for such an important traffic-way had to be kept open. But the motor cars preferred to take the long way around. According to the newspapers there was a ninety percent drop in the tra
ffic during that week-end.
That wasn’t all. Several business offices and clothing stores immediately cancelled their leases and moved to another part of the business district. Not without a lot of trouble, of course. The lawyers must have had a fine thing out of it. According to the papers, there had never been such a real estate emergency in the history of the city.
When the owners of buildings tried to hold their clients on the strength of engineers’ proofs that the building was safe, the tenants dodged behind other clauses that let them out. The contracts, in some cases, had guaranteed a certain average weekly volume of pedestrian traffic along the block. However, the pedestrians weren’t coming through. Their healthy caution, if not superstition, held them back.
Monty’s other buildings lost so many tenants that those remaining rattled around like peanuts in a barrel. For the first time Joe and I began to see this easy-go-lucky young playboy in a mood of downright worry.
“If I could only talk with Bondpopper,” Monty would say. “He was a wise old cuss. Any time I’ve ever been hit by real business troubles in the past, he’s always been the man to help me straighten them out.”
Memorial services were held for Mr. Bondpopper. The papers printed stories of his philanthropies. The city seemed to take for granted that the man was dead.
But there were a couple of clues that argued otherwise. Maybe they didn’t amount to much in the eyes of the lawyers or the police investigators. But they looked big to Mae Wing, and she pointed them out to me.
Number one was a dated document. A facsimile was printed in all the papers and it aroused quite a little curiosity. It was a single typewritten statement:
“My last will and testament will come to light within a few weeks. None of my property is to be disposed of until this legal document appears.”
It was badly typed, and the investigators were terribly disturbed over that. However, the signature was declared to be genuine. It was also witnessed.
The document was of such recent date that many people jumped to the obvious conclusion: Mr. Bondpopper had planned to commit suicide and had arranged everything before erasing himself.
