“What was your last job?”
“The Memory Institute at 30449 Louis B. Mayer Boulevard.”
“What did you do?”
“I put the veins in the brain.”
“Have you got a police record?”
“No, sir.”
“What were you perpetrating in the luxurious residence of Clifton Webb on or about midnight last night?”
“Like I said, I was having a vodka-and-spinach in Ye Olde Moderne Beer Taverne—I put the foam on top when we built it—and this guy come up to me and got to talking. He told me all about this art treasury just imported by a rich guy. He told me he was a collector hisself, but couldn’t afford to buy this treasury, and the rich guy was so jealous of him he wouldn’t even let him see it. He told me he would give a hundred dollars just to get a look at it.”
“You mean steal it.”
“No, sir, look at it. He said if I would just bring it to the window so he could look at it, he would pay me a hundred dollars.”
“And how much if you handed it to him?”
“No, sir, just look at it. Then I was supposed to put it back from whence it come from, and that was the whole deal.”
“Describe the man.”
“He was maybe thirty years old. Dressed good. Talked a little funny, like a foreigner, and laughed a lot, like he had a joke he wanted to tell. He was maybe medium height, maybe taller. His eyes was dark. His hair was dark and thick and wavy; it would of looked good on top of a barbershop.”
There was an urgent rap on the office door. Detective Edna May Oliver burst in, looking distressed.
“Well?” Inspector Robinson snapped.
“His story stands up, Chief,” Detective Oliver reported.
“He was seen in Ye Olde Moderne Banana Split last night—”
“No, no, no. It was Ye Olde Moderne Beer Taverne.”
“Same place, Chief. They just renovated for another grand opening tonight.”
“Who put the cherries on top?” Bendix wanted to know. He was ignored.
“This perpetrator was seen talking to the mystery man he described,” Detective Oliver continued. “They left together.”
“It was the Artsy-Craftsy Kid.”
“Yes, Chief.”
“Could anyone identify him?”
‘No, Chief.”
“Damn! Damn! Damn!” Inspector Robinson smote the desk in exasperation. “I have a hunch that we’ve been tricked.”
“How, Chief?”
“Don’t you see, Ed? There’s a chance the Kid might have found out about our secret trap.”
“I don’t get it, Chief.”
“Think, Ed. Think! Maybe he was the underworld informer who sent us the anonymous tip that the Kid would strike last night.”
“You mean squeal on himself?”
“Exactly.”
“But why, Chief?”
“To trick us into arresting the wrong man. I tell you, he’s diabolical.”
“But what did that get him, Chief? You already seen through the trick.”
“You’re right, Ed. The Kid’s plan must go deeper than that. But how? How?” Inspector Robinson arose and began pacing, his powerful mind grappling with the tortuous complications of the Artsy-Craftsy Kid’s caper.
“So how about me?” Bendix asked.
“Oh, you can go,” Robinson said wearily. “You’re just a pawn in a far bigger game, my man.”
“No, I mean, can I go through with that deal now? He’s prolly still waiting outside the house for a look.”
“What’s that you say? Waiting?” Robinson exclaimed. “You mean he was there when we arrested you?”
“He must’ve been.”
“I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” Robinson cried. “Now I see it all.”
“See what, Chief?”
“Don’t you get the picture, Ed? The Kid watched us leave with this dupe. Then, after we left, the Kid entered the house.”
“You mean . . . ?”
“He’s probably there right now, cracking that safe.”
“Great Scot!”
“Ed, alert the Flying Squad and the Riot Squad.”
“Right, Chief.”
“Ed, I want roadblocks all around the house.”
“Check, Chief.”
“Ed, you and Ed come with me.”
“Where to, Chief?”
“The Webb mansion.”
“You can’t, Chief. It’s madness.”
“I must. This town isn’t big enough for both of us. This time it’s the Artsy-Craftsy Kid—or me.”
It made headlines: how the Bunco Squad had seen through the diabolical plan of the Artsy-Craftsy Kid and arrived at the fabled Webb mansion only moments after he had made off with the Flowered Thundermug; how they had found his unconscious victim, the plucky Audrey Hepburn, devoted assistant to the mysterious gambling overlord Greta “Snake Eyes” Garbo; how Audrey, intuitively suspecting that something was amiss, had taken it upon herself to investigate; how the canny cracksman had played a sinister cat-and-mouse game with her until the opportunity came to fell her with a brutal blow.
Interviewed by the news syndicates, Miss Hepburn said, “It was just a woman’s intuition. I suspected something was amiss and took it upon myself to investigate. The canny cracksman played a sinister cat-and-mouse game with me until the opportunity came to fell me with a brutal blow.”
She received seventeen proposals of marriage by Wedmaton, three offers of screen tests, twenty-five dollar from the Hollywood East Community Chest, the Darryl P. Zanuck Award for Human Interest and a reprimand from her boss.
“You should also have said you vere ravished, Audrey,” Miss Garbo told her. “It vould have improved the story.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Garbo. I’ll try to remember next time. He did make an indecent proposal.”
This was in Miss Garbo’s secret atelier, where Violet Dugan (Audrey Hepburn) was busily engaged in faking a calendar of the Corn Exchange Bank for the year I943, while the members of the Little Group of Powerful Art Dealers consulted.
“Cara mia,” De Sica asked Violet, “can you not give us a fuller description of the scoundrel?”
“I’ve told you everything I can remember, Mr. De Sica. The one detail that seems to help is the fact that he computes odds for one of the biggest bookies in the East.”
“Mah! There are hundreds of that species. It is no help at all. You did not get a clue to his name?”
“No, sir; at least, not the name he uses now.”
“The name he uses now? How do you mean that?”
“I—I meant—the name he uses when he isn’t the Artsy-Craftsy Kid.”
“I see. And his home?”
“He said somewhere in Catalina East.”
“There are a hundred and forty miles of homes in Catalina East,” Horton said irritably.
“I can’t help that, Mr. Horton.”
“Audrey,” Miss Garbo commanded, “put down that calendar and look at me.”
“Yes, Miss Garbo.”
“You have fallen in love vith this man. To you he is a romantic figure, and you do not vant him brought to justice. Is that not so?”
“No, Miss Garbo,” Violet answered vehemently. “If there’s anything in the world I want, it’s to have him arrested.” She fingered her jaw. “In love with him? I hate him!”
“So.” De Sica sighed. “It is a disaster. Plainly, we are obliged to pay his grace two million dollars if the Thundermug is not recovered.”
“In my opinion,” Horton burst out, “the police will never find it. They’re dolts! Almost as big a pack of fools as we were to get mixed up in this thing in the first place.”
“Then it must be a case for a private eye. With our unsavory underworld connections, we should have no difficulty contacting the right man. Are there any suggestions?”
“Nero Volfe,” Miss Garbo said.
“Excellent, cara mia. A gentleman of culture and erudition.”
“Mi
ke Hammer,” Horton said.
“The nomination is noted. What would you say to Perry Mason?”
“That shyster is too honest,” Horton snapped.
“The shyster is scratched. Any further suggestions
“Mrs. North,” Violet said.
“Who, my dear? Oh, yes, Pamela North, the lady detective.
No—no, I think not. This is hardly a case for a woman.”
“Why not, Mr. De Sica?”
“There are prospects of violence that make it unsuited to the tender sex, my dear Audrey.”
“I don’t see that,” Violet said. “We women can take care of ourselves.”
“She is right,” Miss Garbo growled.
“I think not, Greta; and her experience last night proves it.”
“He felled me with a brutal blow when I wasn’t looking,”
Violet protested.
“Perhaps. Shall we vote? I say Nero Wolfe.”
“Why not Mike Hammer?” Horton demanded. “He gets results, and he doesn’t care how.”
“But that carelessness may recover the Thundermug in pieces.”
“My God! I never thought of that. All right, I’ll go along with Wolfe.”
“Mrs. North,” Miss Garbo said.
“You are outvoted, cara mia. So, it is to be Wolfe, then. Bene. I think we had best approach him without Greta, Horton. He is notoriously antipatico to women.
Dear ladies, arrivederci.”
After two of the three Powerful Art Dealers had left, Violet glared at Miss Garbo. “Male chauvinists!” she grumbled.
“Are we going to stand for it?”
“Vhat can ve do about it, Audrey?”
“Miss Garbo, I want permission to track that man down myself.”
“You do not mean this?”
“I’m serious.”
“But vhat could you do?”
“There has to be a woman in his life somewhere.”
“Naturally.”
“Cherchez la femme.”
“But that is brilliant!”
“He mentioned a few likely names, so if I find her, I find him. May I have a leave of absence, Miss Garbo?”
“Go, Audrey. Bring him back alive.”
The old lady wearing the Welsh hat, white apron, hexagonal spectacles, and carrying a mass of knitting bristling with needles, stumbled on the reproduction of the Spanish Stairs, which led to the King’s Arms Residenza. The King’s Arms was shaped like an imperial crown, with a fifty-foot replica of the Hope diamond sparkling on top.
“Damn!” Violet Dugan muttered. “I shouldn’t have been so authentic with the shoes. Sandals are hell.”
She entered the Residenza and mounted to the tenth floor, where she rang a hanging bell alongside a door flanked by a lion and a unicorn, which roared and brayed alternately. The door turned misty and then cleared, revealing an Alice in Wonderland with great innocent eyes.
“Lou?” she said eagerly. Then her face fell.
“Good morning, Miss Powell,” Violet said, her eyes peering past the lady and examining the apartment.
“I represent Slander Service, Inc. Does gossip give you the go-by? Are you missing out on the juiciest scandals? Our staff of trained mongers guarantees the latest news within five minutes after the event; news defamatory, news derogatory, news libelous, scurrilous, disparaging and vituperative—”
“Flam,” Miss Powell said. The door turned opaque.
The Marquise de Pompadour, in full brocade skirt and lace bodice, her powdered wig standing no less than two feet high, entered the grilled portico of Birdies’ Rest, a private home shaped like a birdcage. A cacophony of bird calls assailed the ears from the gilt dome. Madame Pompadour blew the bird whistle set in the door, which was shaped like a cuckoo clock. The little hatch above the clock face flew open, and a TV eye popped out with a cheerful “Cuckoo!” and inspected her.
Violet sank into a deep curtsy. “May I see the lady of the house, please?”
The door opened. Peter Pan stood there, dressed ill Lincoln-green transparencies, which revealed her sex.
“Good afternoon, Miss Withers. This is Avon calling. Ignatz Avon, the Topper Tailor, designs wigs, transformations, chignons, merkins, toupees and hairpieces for fun, fashion and—”
“Fawf,” Miss Withers said. The door slammed. The Marquise de Pompadour fawfed.
The Left Bank artiste in beret and velvet smock carried her palette and easel to the fifteenth floor of La Pyramide. Just under the apex there were six Egyptian columns fronting a massive basalt door. When the artiste tossed baksheesh onto a stone beggar’s plate, the door swung open on pivots, revealing a gloomy tomb in which stood a Cleopatra type dressed like a Cretan serpent goddess, with serpents to match.
“Good morning, Miss Russell. Tiffany’s proudly presents a new coup in organic jewelry, the Tifftoo skin gems. Tattooed in high relief, Tifftoo skin gems incorporate a source of gamma radiation, warranted harmless for thirty days, which outscintillates diamonds of the finest water.”
“Shlock!” Miss Russell said. The door closed on its pivots, accompanied by the closing bars of Aïda, softly moaned by a harmonica choir.
The schoolmann in crisp tailleur, her hair skinned back into a tight bun, her eyes magnified by thick glasses, carried her schoolbooks across the drawbridge of The Manor House. She was lifted by a crenelated elevator to the twelfth floor, where she was forced to leap across a small moat before she could wield the door knocker, which was shaped like a mailed fist. The door rumbled upward, a miniature portcullis, and there stood Goldilocks.
“Louis?” she laughed. Then her face fell.
“Good evening, Miss Mansfield. Read-Eze offers a spectacular new personalized service. Why submit to the monotony of mechanical readers when Read-Eze experts with cultivated voices, capable of coloring each individual word, will, in person, read you comic books, true-confession and movie magazines at five dollars an hour; mysteries, westerns and society columns at—”
The portcullis rumbled down.
“First Lou, then Louis,” Violet muttered. “I wonder.”
The little pagoda was set in an exact reproduction of the landscape on a Willow Pattern plate, including the figures of three coolies posed on the bridge. The movie starlet wearing black sunglasses and a white sweater stretched over her forty-four-inch poitrine, patted their heads as she passed.
“That tickles, doll,” the last one said.
“Oh, excuse met I thought you were dummies.”
“At fifty cents an hour we are, but that’s show business.”
Madame Butterfly came to the archway of the pagoda, hissing and bowing like a geisha, but rather oddly decorated with a black patch over her left eye.
“Good morning, Miss Fonda. Sky’s The Limit is making an introductory offer of a revolutionary concept in bosom uplift. One application of Breast-G, our flesh-tinted antigravity powder, under the bust works miracles. Comes in three tints: blond, titian and brunette; and three uplifts: grapefruit, Persian melon and—”
“I don’t need no balloon ascension,” Miss Fonda said drearily. “Fawf.”
“Sorry to have bothered you.” Violet hesitated. “Forgive me, Miss Fonda, but isn’t that eye patch out of character?”
“It ain’t no prop, dearie; it’s for Real City. That Jourdan’s a bastard.”
“Jourdan,” Violet said to herself, retracing her steps across the bridge. “Louis Jourdan. Could it be?”
The frogman in black rubber, complete with full scuba equipment including face mask, oxygen tank and harpoon, trudged through the jungle path to Strawberry Hill Place, frightening the chimpanzees. In the distance an elephant trumpeted. The frogman banged on a brazen gong suspended from a coconut palm, and African drums answered. A seven-foot Watusi appeared and conducted the visitor to the rear of the house, where a Pocahontas type was dangling her legs in a hundred-foot replica of the Congo.
“Is it Louis Bwana?” she called. Then her face fell.
“Goo
d afternoon, Miss Tarzan,” Violet said. “Up-Chuck, with a fifty-year record of bonded performance, guarantees sterile swimming pleasure whether it’s an Olympic pool or just a plain, old-fashioned swimming hole. With its patented mercury-pump vacuum-cleaning system, Up-Chuck chucks up mud, sand, silt, drunks, dregs, debris—”
The brazen gong sounded, and was again answered by drums.
“Oh! That must be Louis now,” Miss Tarzan cried. “I knew he’d keep his promise.”
Miss Tarzan ran around to the front of the house. Miss Dugan pulled the mask down over her face and plunged into the Congo. On the far side she came to the surface behind a frond of bamboo, alongside a most realistic alligator. She poked its head once to make sure it was stuffed. Then she turned just in time to see Sam Bauer come strolling into the jungle garden, aim in arm with Jane Tarzan.
Concealed in the telephone-shaped booth across the street from Strawberry Hill Place, Violet Dugan and Miss Garbo argued heatedly.
“It vas a mistake to call the police, Audrey.”
“No, Miss Garbo.”
“Inspector Robinson has been in that house ten minutes already. He vill blunder again.”
“That’s what I’m counting on, Miss Garbo.”
“Then I vas right. You do not vant this—this Louis Jourdan to be caught.”
“I do, Miss Garbo. I do! If you’ll just let me explain!”
“He captured your fancy vith his indecent proposal.”
“Please listen, Miss Garbo. The important thing isn’t so much to catch him as it is to recover the stolen loot. Isn’t that right?”
“Excuses! Excuses!”
“If he’s arrested now, he may never tell us where the Thundermug is.”
“So?”
“So we’ve got to make him show us where it is.”
“But how?”
“I’ve taken a leaf from his book. Remember how he duped a decoy into fooling the police?”
“That stupid creature Bendix.”
“Well, Inspector Robinson is our decoy. Oh, look!
Something’s happening.”
Pandemonium was breaking loose in Strawberry Hill Place. The chimpanzees were screaming and flitting from branch to branch. The Watusi appeared, running hard, pursued by Inspector Robinson. The elephant began trumpeting. A giant alligator crawled hastily through the heavy grass. Jane Tarzan appeared, running hard, pursued by Inspector Robinson. The African drums pounded.
Selected Stories of Alfred Bester Page 46
