Worlds of Edgar Rice Burroughs

by Mike Resnick

  He did not need to read a word to know it was from her—Barbara Harding, the woman he loved, the woman he had left to another man, one befitting her station, not twenty-four hours ago.

  The note announced her by way of its fragrance—sweet lilac, like that first hint of spring. She always smelled that way to Billy, even when they had been marooned on a Pacific island and were on the lam from Yorimoto’s headhunters. Even when they were living in hiding on an island in the middle of a raging river on Yoka, and especially when she had safely returned to her father’s Riverside Drive mansion . . . always and ever, she wore the fragrance of lilacs and spring.

  A pang of something else other than fear—regret, joy, something he could not quite identify—shot through him as he recognized her flowing, smooth handwriting.

  Billy,

  I need you, something horrible has happened.

  Come at once.

  Barbara

  Nearby in the gym, the stout, Cro-Magnon-browed Cassidy watched two lightweights spar in the main ring. The aroma of sweat, not lilacs, hung in the air, and Billy heard the manager yell at one of the boxers, “Keep your left up for Chrissakes! He’ll take your bleedin’ head off.”

  Next to Billy, the messenger boy stood silently, waiting for a response and maybe a tip.

  Carefully, the mucker folded the note and palmed it.

  “Any answer?” the boy asked.

  The mucker shook his head and found a dime for the boy, who left, but not in a rush, mesmerized as he was by being this close to real live fighters.

  Standing there, watching but not seeing the lightweights spar, Billy felt his insides roiling like dark storm clouds as he tried to figure out a way to ignore Barbara’s summons. It had taken every ounce of strength he had to walk out the door yesterday. To return a day later, into that world where he knew he did not belong, that would be harder than any bout Cassidy could wrangle for him. He knew he had no place in the Hardings’ mansion, and he knew Barbara was better off with someone of her own station, like William Mallory . . . but God how he loved her. If he walked back in, could he find the strength to walk out again?

  Billy changed into his suit and tie—not fancy enough for a visit to a millionaire, but they would have to do—and, coming out of the locker room, he almost ran into Professor Cassidy.

  “You gonna be gone long?” the manager asked.

  “Who said I was leaving?”

  “If I couldn’t read that mug of yours like a map, I’d be a poor damn manager indeed. How long, son?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is it the skirt?”

  Billy nodded.

  “We’ll be here when you get back,” Cassidy said and strolled away toward the sparring ring.

  Turning, Billy went out and grabbed a spot on one of the trolley cars. Cassidy’s gym was not far from the Battery, and the ride gave Billy time to think as the trolley clanked and rattled northward.

  She was there, as she always was, in his mind’s eye—her auburn hair pinned up, leaving her high-cheekboned face and large green eyes uncovered. This look allowed people to meet her as she met the world—head on. Barbara was impetuous, strong, brave, and she had saved Billy’s life. Maybe she hadn’t taken a bullet or a blade for him; but she had saved him, nonetheless.

  Teaching Billy that the straight life was not a cowardly road to travel, she had won him over; and along the way she had shown him how to speak and act and carry himself like a gentleman, as well. Billy found himself wanting to be a better man just to please her. Even his mucker’s mind could perceive that this was a transformation little short of miraculous, though for him that transformation had turned out to be far easier than he might ever have imagined.

  A man might act a right sissy for the love of a good woman, and Barbara was a good woman, all right. But Billy knew in his mind, if not his heart, that she was not for him. Wealthy, from a good family, a genteel woman, Barbara Harding deserved better than a hardscrabble slum tough, no matter how much he may have changed.

  Riding that trolley back to the mansion of her father—the wealthy, well-born Anthony Harding—Billy did his best not to read disaster into that tucked-away note. But how could he not?

  “Something horrible has happened.”

  What could that be? What could be so bad that she would summon him so soon after he had thrust her into the arms of another man?

  Billy hopped off the trolley car and briskly walked the last few blocks. Even from a distance, in this incredibly swank neighborhood, the Harding manse stood out as a monument to wealth and breeding. A multimillionaire who was no doubt overjoyed that the mucker was finally out of his daughter’s life, Harding would not likely be pleased to see who was about to come calling . . .

  On this beautiful Saturday afternoon, the swells who lived in these posh digs were out taking the air as Billy passed. Some looked down their noses at the mucker, whose clothes, though nicer than anything he had ever owned, were a far cry from the day coats of the gentlemen strolling the avenue next to ladies in fine frocks. A few nasty glances, with the rest ignoring him, only emphasized how out of place Billy was in these airy environs.

  As he strolled the last block, Billy saw something across the street that put a prickle on the back of his neck. Ducking behind the ornate stairway two doors down from the Hardings’, Billy was free to gaze, and having done so was glad he had followed his instincts.

  On the opposite side of the avenue, hidden in the shadows of a stairway himself, a man could be made out, well, not a man—a boy, really, dressed not that different from himself. The boy’s eyes were glued to the Hardings’ front door. Whatever problem had prompted Barbara to send for Billy, he felt certain that the lookout across the street was part of it.

  Billy doubled back to the corner and came around to the mansion’s rear, keeping his eyes peeled for compatriots of the lookout; but he saw no one. Coming up to the servants’ door in the back, reversing the very route he had used to quit the Harding house yesterday, Billy wondered if maybe he should just kick the door in and go in, fists up.

  Picking the lock and going in quietly was not in Billy’s bag of tricks, after all. But considering there was a lookout across the street, and that Barbara had been able to get a note out, he figured the danger inside the house itself was probably minimal, at least for now. He chose to knock—politely.

  Smith, Mr. Harding’s gentleman’s gentleman, opened the door a sliver. A thin, severe man with muttonchops and a seemingly perpetual scowl, Smith stepped aside and let Billy in, saying with a sniff, “Miss Harding and her father are expecting you . . . in the drawing room, sir.”

  Why did those who attended the rich have even more snobbish an attitude than the rich themselves? This a boy of the slums would never understand.

  The back entryway, a mere vestibule, led into the kitchen near the servants’ quarters and the rear stairwell the help used. The shadowy little space held the afterglow aroma of a hearty breakfast. Billy felt, and heard, his stomach growl.

  “Through here,” Smith said, leading the way into the kitchen.

  One maid, a blonde, sat at the table, polishing silver. Another, a brunette, stood over a sink plucking feathers from a chicken. The walls hid behind massive wooden cabinets, their doors made of glass, revealing opulent plates, cups, and silver.

  Smith marched him through the ornate dining room with its fancy chandeliers, oaken table, and chairs with padded brocade-upholstered seats. Huge landscape paintings lined the oak-paneled walls. While a dining room, this seemed a man’s chamber, the colors deep and dark, the wood of the highest quality. Cigar smell hung in the air. This room, this house, belonged to a very successful, important man, and Anthony Harding was certainly that.

  Finally, after a walk that rivaled the jaunt from the trolley stop, Billy found himself at the front entranceway. Here the servant led him across the marble-floored foyer, passing the wide carpeted staircase, finally stopping at the doorway to the parlor.

  At
the edge of that doorway, Smith announced “Mr. Byrne” with all the joy of a judge handing down a verdict.

  As the butler stepped aside, Billy entered the room to find Mr. Harding standing across the room near the fireplace, his face a mask of dismay. Seated in a velvet-covered chair, her eyes red from crying, a hanky clinched in her fist, Barbara looked up as Billy entered the room. She looked pale, and her countenance had not worn such alarm since they were being chased by headhunters.

  Rising, she rushed into Billy’s arms, pressing hard against him, the scent of her filling his nostrils, and, for a second, he thought he might come completely apart, like a china figurine flung on a hardwood floor.

  Then, remembering where he was, Billy glanced over to see that Mr. Harding had discreetly turned to poke at the burnt-out ashes of last night’s fire rather than see the impropriety of their embrace. Though a quite proper man, Harding knew how his daughter felt about the mucker, and as long as this was as far as things went, he would indulge her. She was, however, engaged to another, and that must never be forgotten.

  Pulling away from the woman he loved, Billy saw tears running anew down her cheeks. “Here, here—what’s all this, then?”

  Barbara dabbed at moist eyes. “It’s the other Billy—he’s been kidnapped.”

  Sharing a first name with one William Mallory wasn’t the only way the two were joined. They were also in love with the same woman. Mallory, however, was of her station, Billy decidedly not.

  His hands found her shoulders supportively. “What happened?”

  Looking to her father, who said nothing, Barbara explained. “After you left me yesterday, after you called Billy to come back, and told him that I loved him, wanted to marry him . . .”

  The more she went over these painful recent memories, the more he realized how deeply he had hurt her. He was not much for reading people, especially the wealthy, but Barbara he knew. She loved him, she had said so, and meant it; still, he felt she needed to be with someone who held a position in society—the “other Billy,” William Mallory, fit the bill.

  “. . . he came over. We discussed it. We even set a date.”

  Despite his having been the one who quit her, Billy felt hurt that she had fallen back in with Mallory so quickly. They had set a date already?

  Obviously anxious to move this along, silver-haired Anthony Harding stepped forward. His words were matter-of-fact and clipped, but his eyes punctuated them with fear and concern.

  “After he left here,” Harding said, “Mallory was taken. Abducted.”

  “You saw it?” Billy asked.

  Harding shook his head as he withdrew a piece of paper from his pocket—a note not that different from the one from Barbara.

  Billy accepted the paper from Harding and read: We have Mallory. You will pay us $500,000. If you involve the law, Mallory dies.

  The young lookout across the street became immediately clear to Billy. If just one copper stopped at the Harding house, the lookout’s gang would sure as sin croak “Billy” Mallory.

  “Why you?” Billy asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “Not why not abduct you instead, sir, but . . . why are you the person to whom that note was given?”

  “I would suppose that it’s because we have far more money, even more than Mallory’s own family. Also, I’m sure, given the impending nuptials, that makes us easy, tempting prey.”

  “Sir, who even knew about Barbara and Mallory getting back together? It’s only been one day.”

  Harding harumphed. “I suppose I had something to do with that. As soon as the decision was made, I sent telegrams to all the newspapers in the city. I wanted to make sure the announcement was in the next edition.”

  Billy understood, and in a way did not blame the man. Anything that broke Barbara from a mucker like him had to be cause for celebration for her father.

  “So,” Billy went on, “one of the messenger boys, or somebody at one of the papers, decided to grab Mallory and hold him for ransom.”

  “Yes, or let the information slip to an underworld associate,” Harding said.

  Leaning close again, Barbara said, with a terrible tentativeness, “I was hoping you could do something.”

  Billy’s eyes met hers. “Something like . . . get him back?”

  Hanging her head, Barbara nodded.

  “My instinct is to refuse,” Billy said.

  The girl looked up at him wide-eyed.

  “This isn’t my city, and I don’t know enough guys on that side of the law to find Mallory before whoever has him does away with him. If it was Chicago, I might have a shot, and even then, only maybe.”

  Dabbing at her eyes with the hanky again, Barbara said, “So, then . . . you won’t help us?”

  Billy gave her a small grin, just a little ghost of what had been between them. “You taught me not to always follow my instincts. Anyway, this is different. Whoever took him provided us with a potential stool pigeon. So we may have a chance.”

  “A stool pigeon?” Harding asked, frowning.

  “Someone to spill the beans.”

  “What?”

  “To tell us exactly where Mallory is.”

  Baffled, Harding asked, “And who would that be?”

  Billy said, “The lookout they posted across the street to keep an eye on your house.”

  Harding’s eyes widened, and he took a step toward the lace curtains that covered the window.

  Billy’s voice had a sharp edge. “Don’t do that, sir! Not if you want us to maintain an advantage.”

  Stopping in mid-step, Harding nodded that he understood.

  Looking at Barbara, Billy said, “Now, here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll leave by the same back door I came in. Give me two minutes to get in place, then telephone the police.”

  “But they said not to involve the law,” Barbara said, her voice desperate. “They’ll kill Billy.”

  “No,” the mucker said.

  “How can you know that?” the girl asked.

  But it was Harding who answered: “Because when the police arrive, and the lookout takes off, Mr. Byrne here will follow him.”

  Hysteria lurked in her eyes as she said to Billy, “What if you lose him, or the lookout gets there too far ahead of you?”

  Again Billy took her by the shoulders. “Steady, girl. Have I ever let you down before?”

  Numbly, the young woman shook her head.

  “And I won’t start now.”

  Stepping forward, Harding removed a revolver from his coat pocket. “I know you can handle yourself, young man . . . but you had best take this.”

  “I’m better with my fists,” Billy said.

  Harding’s smile seemed genuine. “That might be true . . . but I’ve seen you fight with firearms. Take it.”

  Accepting the pistol and slipping it into a pocket, Billy nodded his thanks.

  Clearing his throat, Mr. Harding said, “I had better go coordinate with Smith to make sure everyone knows his role.”

  With that, Barbara’s father left the room. As soon as they were alone, she melted into Billy’s arms. In spite of his best intentions, he drew her closer.

  “You know I’ll never be able to repay you for this, Billy.”

  Holding her away from him, he grinned down at her. “Well, you could. But we can’t let that happen, can we?”

  That brought a wan smile to her lips. “Before you go, let me ask you one small question . . .”

  He wanted to say no, but this was Barbara, and he knew he could not refuse her.

  “Ask it, then,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

  “When you came yesterday . . . your call to William, getting the, the other Billy and me to get back together . . . how could it be so . . . so easy for you to give me up?”

  His laugh had a roughness. “Easy?” he asked.

  She just stared at him. Waiting.

  “Leaving you for Mallory was the hardest thing I ever done,” Billy said. “And the only thing c
lose to as hard was comin’ back here today.”

  She smiled her own small, ghostly smile.

  “Then you do love me,” she said, not a question.

  He turned away.

  “You love me! So why don’t you want to be with me?”

  Swallowing, he said, “We ain’t from the same world, sweetheart. It’s a lot farther from Grand Avenue to Riverside Drive than either of us ever imagined.”

  She bowed her head. She knew, she had to know, there was truth in his words.

  “Besides, Barbara, there’s things you don’t know about me.”

  “I know everything about you.”

  “No. You don’t. I’m a wanted man.”

  That got her attention. “Wanted for what?”

  He shook his head. “Maybe someday, when it’s behind me, I’ll tell you . . . but for now, trust me. You don’t want to know. But this you should know: I ain’t no good for you.”

  Mr. Harding reappeared in the doorway. “We’re ready,” he said.

  With one last glance at the woman he loved—would he ever see her again?—Billy turned toward Mr. Harding. “I’ll be on my way, sir. Luck to us all.”

  He retraced his steps through the house, Barbara trailing him, but his emotions were too full for him to speak, or even look at her. He went out through the servants’ entrance, her voice echoing as he shut the door. “Be careful, Billy. Be careful!”

  Once outside and away from the Harding mansion, Billy took three quick breaths, let them out, then walked quickly back to the corner of Riverside Drive. Before ducking back behind the brick pillar holding up a wrought-iron fence, Billy caught a glimpse of the lookout still holding down his spot, smoking a cigarette now—he really was just a teenaged kid. A boy headed down the wrong path, just as he had once been . . .

  Waiting, Billy wondered which way the lookout would break. This would be easier if Billy knew the city better. In Chicago, he could follow a gnat across the city and never lose the damn thing. Here, Billy was a lot less confident, but Barbara was depending on him and that made all the difference. His belly had the same glowing heat a good shot of whisky used to give him in the old days.