The Mad Scientist Megapack

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Boris’s twelve-inch body shook from head to foot. He opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and used the silent interval to remove his green goggles.

  “I don’t provoke,” he said. His eyeballs were as yellow as those of the two poised brutes behind him. “It was my intention to propose a discussion, with a view toward ironing out our difficulties. However, this last insult has convinced me that only you need flattening. Understand me now, dear friend and mentor, I do this not for motives of revenge, but wholly from an inner drive for justice that has been too long delayed.” In spite of the controlled, measured cadence of his voice, his tiny fists kept relaxing and clenching, revealing now and then a flash of something silvery clasped in each little palm. “You were so fortunate as to escape execution last time—”

  “But you still don’t know how, do you?” Myshkin smiled.

  “It doesn’t matter—”

  “Believe me, it does matter,” said Myshkin. “You know, I wanted to have this out with you on a man-to-chicken-man basis—you coming without your hired killers, while I would pledge not to use fowl play,” and he spelled it so Boris wouldn’t miss it.

  “Enough of this!” Boris shrieked.

  “It was a poultry trick! I admit it!” Myshkin screamed with joy. At the top of his voice he called, “Gladys! Gladys, come in here at once!”

  Boris whirled and moved aside. The two gunmen brought their weapons up.

  Gladys came dancing into the room, her eyes bright with excitement.

  “Oh!” she squealed. “It’s darling little Boris! Mr. Myshkin, darling, you’re a darling!” Then she looked at the two goons and cried, “But where’s the other one—the dangerous, romantic one?”

  “Jezebel!” Boris shrieked. “Get out of here!”

  “See what I mean?” Myshkin howled.

  “Darling, not that these are bad,” said Gladys, fluttering her lashes.

  But while they were shouting back and forth at each other, the most extraordinary thing was happening. From the instant Gladys had entered the room, the two gunmen seemed almost turned to stone, but when she spoke their legs trembled, their arms moved compulsively, and suddenly they both flung aside their guns and brought their arms up.

  “Circe! Mata Hari!” Boris cried.

  But it was too late.

  Now that I saw it happening again, I understood what had taken place at Myshkin’s house. This time, too, Boris seemed to be locked in struggle with his hirelings. His eyes were bulging and tiny veins showed all over his face. His hands gripped the silver objects in them with all the strength he could muster. It wasn’t enough. In spite of all he could do to prevent them—which Boris was obviously trying to do—the two gunmen brought their out-stretched arms down to their sides, then up again, repeating the motion over and over… until it became evident that what they were doing was flapping their wings.

  Furthermore, all possible doubt that this is what was happening was immediately dispelled as the gangsters stretched their necks, tilted their chins upward, rolled their eyes glassily toward heaven, and crowed.

  It was, frankly, crowing of a superior sort, not only equaling Boris’ earlier effort in passion and artistry, but far outdoing him in volume. The walls shook, the windowpanes rattled, small objects everywhere in the room trembled. If this sight alone had not been enough to do it, the physical impact of sound had everyone rooted to the spot. Even Myshkin was incapable of motion, and this alone explains Boris’ subsequent ability to escape.

  Escape he did—but not before he rushed up between his hirelings, got up on tiptoe, adjusted his little head to the proper angle and contributed a thrilling vibrato. The trio that would have had the customers at the Metropolitan showering flowers from the balcony.

  It was a moment such as comes to few people, but I would have passed up mine. The one thing that made it worth while at all was its effect on Gladys, the recipient of this grotesque serenade. She uttered a single faint gasp of ecstasy and swooned away. Siegman caught her as she fell, with a facility that indicated he was developing skill at it.

  This fraction of a second’s diversion was all Boris and his two henchmen needed. Suddenly they came out of it, wheeled, and rushed from the room. When Myshkin attempted to follow, he crashed into Siegman and Gladys, and the three of them crashed to the floor. Myshkin bounced up, then got down on his hands and knees, searching for the green goggles, that had slid out of his pocket, then finding them he cried, “Yoicks! After them!” He went tearing down the corridor.

  Well, I did the only thing that made any sense to me at the time. I helped pick up Siegman and Gladys.

  As I did so, in rushed Roscoe Cramwell with the champagne bucket. He took one look, sized up the situation—oversized it, of course, which was natural not only for his bulk but for his condition—and slung the bucket at my head. “A fine pair of gentlemen!” he roared. “I know she’s obstinate but there are some things about which a girl must be allowed to make up her own mind!”

  Well, he had missed me with the bucket, but it took Siegman and me a good two minutes to get past him and out into the hall.

  Of course, there was no sight of Myshkin or Boris or the gunmen by then—but there was another that froze us in our tracks—Siegman for one reason, me for two. There on the landing, sitting as I had seen him the first time, was Suddsy.

  “They shot me,” he moaned.

  I could see he hadn’t been shot, but poor Suddsy was in a terrible state. His derby lay crushed at his feet, his neatly combed hair was badly ruffled and his ordinarily watery eyes were brimming blank pools. As I said, he might have shocked me because of my experience with him, but he affected Siegman for quite another reason, for Suddsy was neatly sprayed with fine areas of yellow powder.

  “Two shots,” Suddsy moaned. “Right in the gut. Goodbye, brother.”

  “You’re not shot.” I said. “What happened? Did you see Myshkin?”

  “Myshkin,” Suddsy said. “Brother, he’ll get the chair for this. He killed me. I’ll testify to it!”

  “Henry, who is this guy?” Siegman cried.

  “I told you about him,” I said. “He’s the guy with the wagonload of stiffs.”

  “I’ll say, brother.” said Suddsy. “Just put me in the back with them and get another driver.”

  “Suddsy, listen to me,” I said. “It’s very important. Did you see Myshkin?”

  “I saw him, all right,” said Suddsy. “Also, I saw those guys who came up here to visit him, and I know who they are.” He blinked his eyes at me the way as I remembered he had when I’d been discussing money with him. It was his way of looking formidable.

  “Do you know them by name?” said Siegman.

  For a dead man, Suddsy managed to look very sly. “Brother, I mean to say I do,” he said.

  “You’d better talk,” said Siegman. “Silence may involve you in conspiracy!”

  Suddsy managed a weak grimace. “Call the cops,” he said. “Outside of them I ain’t talking to anyone. I know some interesting people downtown that would be very anxious to hear what I got to say. Brother, I’ll put it to you plain—you’re lookin’ at a man who can’t be bought. Not for peanuts. No, sir! I know how big this deal is.”

  “A hundred bucks,” I said.

  Suddsy looked at me incredulously. He picked up his crushed hat, grimly studied its condition, then regarded the yellow spray on his clothes and shook his head. “Somebody has got to pay for this.” he muttered. “Why should anyone go around exploding mustard bombs? What am I, a ham or something?”

  “Five hundred dollars,” I said.

  Suddsy’s expression indicated he was beyond any thoughts of haggling. “You got ten grand?” he asked casually.

  “You’re crazy,” said Siegman. “You’re suffering from shock.”

  “Brother.” said Suddsy, “I ain’t going to be the only
victim of shock before this night’s over. I mean to say that feller Myshkin has finally got me good and mad. Out of my way!”

  He brushed by us, majestically ignoring the elevator, and stalked down the stairs.

  “What do you think it means?” I asked Siegman.

  He looked at me as if I was responsible for what was happening. “It means I was one hundred per cent correct,” he said bitterly. He rang the elevator bell.

  “You’re not going to leave now?” I said.

  “No such thought,” said Siegman. “Especially now that I’m finally convinced there’s no real danger.”

  When the elevator came up the boy immediately and anxiously asked what was going on. “Who’s the fat little guy sitting downstairs in the lobby? He’s got a crushed derby and crushed turnips all over his clothes, you know? He keeps asking me where is it. Where is what? I want to know. He walked down but he must have come from here. Nobody else in this house has that kind of people visiting them.”

  “Will you shut up a minute?” said Siegman.

  “Sure,” said the boy. “Just go down and tell that little guy where it is, whatever it is.”

  “Did you see Mr. Myshkin leave?” asked Siegman.

  “He doesn’t know Myshkin by name,” I said.

  “I don’t have to know anybody by name around here,” said the boy. “I catalogue them by the way they leave this house. You probably mean that eccentric millionaire, don’t you? Well, he walked down, too, only—”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Siegman broke in. “Where did this eccentric millionaire get into it?”

  “The wild guy,” said the boy “He’s been here before. He always dresses sloppy, but this is the first time I ever seen him running around in pajamas.”

  “Where did you get the idea he’s a millionaire?” said Siegman.

  “Let me finish.” said the boy. “Like I say, I was talking to the cab driver.”

  “What cab driver?”

  “The one that was waiting for him all the time he was upstairs,” said the boy. “If you ask me he’s far from his right mind himself. Imagine lettin’ a guy run up a bill over eleven bucks—millionaire or no millionaire. Because without security, what happens?”

  “I’m sure you’ll tell us,” said Siegman.

  “Sure I will,” said the boy. “I’m in the lobby talkin’ to the cabby when this guy—what did you say his name was, Myshkin?—well he comes jumping down the stairs, yelling, ‘After him!’ Out he rushes into the street. The next minute he’s tearin’ down the block, and there’s the cabby standin’ like he was turned to stone. When he finally does take off after this millionaire that’s trying to beat him out of a fare, he’s got to turn his cab around and go the wrong way down a one-way street. I don’t know what happened after that. How do you like it?”

  “I hate to encourage you,” said Siegman, “but haven’t you left out a little something—a little something like two or three people who ran out just before Myshkin?”

  “Them I didn’t see,” said the boy, “and I’m not sorry.”

  “How long had you been in the lobby before Myshkin came down?” said Siegman.

  “A few minutes,” said the boy. “Like I say, I was talking to this cabby—”

  “Bah! Quit talking to the cabby!” said Siegman. “Talk to me! If you were in the lobby a few minutes before Myshkin came down, you couldn’t have missed the ones who came before him. They weren’t that far apart—two minutes at most. Think,” said Siegman, “think hard. Two men and maybe a third, a little one—you might say a very small man—”

  “How small?” said the boy.

  “Never mind,” said Siegman wearily. “Are you sure about that few minutes?”

  “Sure, I’m sure,” said the boy. “’Course, I’m an elevator operator, not a time-keeper.”

  “Well, anyway you must have seen them come in?” said Siegman.

  “Why must I?” said the boy. “Remember me? Elevator operator, not timekeeper, not watchman. Just up and down. I used to think it was monotonous.”

  “Listen, son,” I said, “tell us exactly what you did see from the time Mr. Myshkin arrived.”

  “He arrived,” said the boy. “I took him up. Then I had other calls. None to Miss Hopper’s floor. And no two men, and no three men, small ones or otherwise. Then after awhile this cabby comes in. He tells me his story. He’s gettin’ worried about his eccentric millionaire—wants to know did I take him up, what floor he’s on, who he’s visiting, things like that. So I explain how it is here. Artistic people, queer ones, I tell him, and that’s all right and he feels better. Then he goes out once or twice to get cigarettes, or have a look at the meter, but he keeps coming back and we talk. We’re both in the travel business, you might say; he goes one way, I go another, but it’s the same—we take people where they want to go.”

  “Remind me to tell you where to go,” said Siegman.

  I said, “Just go on, please.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind,” said the boy. “Artistic people—I’m used to it. They once brought a goat upstairs. Said they were going to keep him to make their own cheese. Well, I don’t know if they made cheese or not, but by the time the Board of Health got around, it sure smelled like it.”

  “You were talking to the cab driver,” I said. “What next?”

  “Next comes this little guy,” said the boy. “The one that wants to know where is it. One look at him, and I know where to. I take him up here, point to Miss Hopper’s door, and I go down. Then I’m in the lobby talkin’ with the cabby and nothin’ happens until Mr. Myshkin comes down.”

  “That’s all?” I said. “You absolutely didn’t hear or see anything else?”

  “I did not,” said the boy. “But it’s funny how life is, ain’t it? One minute you’re ridin’ a guy in the back seat that’s so rich he carries a box of gold with him wherever he goes, the next minute you’re chasing him down the street to get the money he owes you.”

  “Yes,” I said and looked at Siegman, “life is funny.”

  Siegman was staring at the boy.

  “Gold,” I said. “He said Myshkin had a box of gold.”

  “A cardboard box,” the boy said. “You’d think anybody that rich would invest in a nice case—say if it was me, an alligator bag, something like that—”

  But Siegman had already turned and was swiftly walking back into the apartment. I thanked the boy a dollar’s worth and followed.

  Roscoe and Gladys were loudly audible in the kitchen. Apparently he had clamped down martial law again. In the living room Harriet sat on the floor, examining the contents of the cardboard box Myshkin had forgotten in his precipitate flight.

  Siegman was standing over her, looking down into the box. “What made you open it?” he asked.

  “Oh,” she said, “I just got curious. Mr. Myshkin kept reaching out for it all the time he was here. I wondered about it.”

  Well, there was plenty left to wonder about it. Inside the box, packed in excelsior and old newspapers were six small statuettes made of solid gold. Of course, there was no immediate certainty they were solid gold, but from what we already knew, and from their weight when Siegman lifted them out and passed them around, there seemed no reason to doubt it. Far more remarkable, however, than their obvious great value was the almost incredible artistic workmanship with which they’d been wrought. They were six perfect little representations of sinister characters; not only features, but every fold and cut of clothes superbly detailed.

  It was not trouble at all to recognize three of those little figures. Two of the men they represented had been in this room not long before; and the other had been Boris’s companion the first time he had attempted to intimidate Myshkin.

  Is it crazy enough for you? But it still didn’t end there. Siegman took the statuettes to the couch then picked up the ne
wspapers which he and Myshkin had so recently scrutinized. He studied the rogues’ gallery, and with no hesitation chose three pictures. The three statuettes that were strangers to us were also represented by newspaper photos.

  “So it’s clear enough,” said Siegman.

  “What’s clear enough?” I said. It was impossible to think. Roscoe and Gladys were raising hell in the corridor, with her screaming that she had to go to Tubular Forceps, and Roscoe alternately roaring and pleading that he was completely unequal to a journey of such distance from his ordinary haunts.

  Siegman turned to Harriet and said, “You want to stay home, isn’t that so? Will you make sure Gladys stays here?”

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “Downtown,” said Siegman. “Myshkin’s in this thing up to his ears. We should have understood that immediately. Maybe then we’d have had some way of understanding Boris, too.”

  “What do you mean by that?” I said.

  “I mean there always had to be a logical explanation. Boris just couldn’t be what he seems to be—what Myshkin sold us.”

  “What are you thinking of?” I said. “You can’t be ridiculous enough to be playing with dwarfs, midgets—”

  “Or visions or apparitions?” said Siegman. “Or self-induced hallucinations or mass hypnotism? I don’t say I know what it is. I do say there must be explanation that can be understood in simple, ordinary, everyday terms, if one knows how to go about it!”

  “Wasn’t it you who detected a cockscomb in Boris’ hair?”

  “What of it?” said Siegman. “People in India who think they’ve seen the rope trick, and who later sign affidavits in groups sometimes numbering hundreds, are known to provide the most precise details of their visual experience. They go into such things as the quality of the fibers that make up the rope itself. If the customary small boy was employed, a spectator may describe minutely a design on some part of his clothes. As a matter of fact, such absorption in detail is a pretty good sign that a far more profound absorption has come over the individual.”

  “You’re being defensive,” I said. “You’re reacting to your bad experience with Boris and hypnotism.”