“What’s the matter?” Betty asked solicitously. “You look ill, Mortimer.”
“This is terrible,” Mortimer babbled excitedly. “The gangsters . . . they’re going to rob the truck. I told them to. They can’t help themselves.”
“Now, now,” Betty said soothingly, “you’re just overwrought. You’re suffering a reaction from the nervous excitement.”
“But you don’t understand,” Mortimer cried wildly. “The truck . . . I told them to rob it! That’s their business. I told them to do it.”
“You told them nothing of the sort,” Betty scoffed. “Those men were thoroughly cowed when you got through with them. They won’t cause anyone trouble.”
“That’s what you think,” Mortimer yelled. He felt his courage rising again to meet this emergency. He remembered that he had boastingly named the intersection where the truck would be. He’d have to hurry to stop them. Breaking free from Betty’s restraining hand he strode across the office and wheeled dramatically to face the bewildered circle of employees.
“Never fear,” he cried, raising one arm triumphantly above his head, “Mortimer Meek will take care of things.” With a final dramatic wave of his hand he turned and raced down the corridor to the elevator . . .
DASHING out of the lobby of the building he wheeled and streaked down the street like Equipoise after a sack of oats. He was secretly glad that another chance to demonstrate his will power had presented itself.
“Good practice for me,” he panted as he scurried along. Oblivious to his surroundings he pelted down the street turning over in his mind the most dramatic way to rout the gangsters.
He had just decided to order them to march away from the scene single file, when he remembered something. Something that acted as a brake on his driving legs and slowed him down to a walk.
He had just remembered that the robbery was scheduled for the following day.
Feeling slightly foolish he came to a stop, his sides heaving from the unaccustomed exertion. He stood scratching his head for a minute before he decided upon a course of action. Why, it was simple. He’d go to police headquarters, at the City Hall, and explain the situation to them. They’d take care of it for him. No sense in him going to all that trouble of stopping the robbery when they were being paid to do it.
Silently congratulating himself on his keenness he started walking again, hurrying in the direction of the City Hall.
It was not until he turned the block leading to the entrance of the City Hall that Mortimer became aware of the hurrying streams of humanity that were excitedly rushing in the same direction.
Strangely enough, they were all peering up at the sky, shading their eyes with the backs of their hands.
Mortimer looked up and saw nothing, not even a cloud in the sky.
Dropping his gaze, he hurried along through the thickening crowd. Using his elbows and knees, he plowed ahead until finally his way was blocked by a solid, unyielding mass of humanity that stretched from sidewalk to sidewalk, completely closing off the street.
“What’s it all about?” Mortimer muttered bewilderedly.
“Ten cents a look,” a harsh voice twanged behind him. “Ten cents for a look at the madman. Can’t climb any higher. Won’t come down. Take a look while there’s still time. He may jump any minute.”
Mortimer looked around and saw a dark, monkey-like little man standing next to a telescope mounted on a tripod.
A crudely lettered tin sign reading see mars for a nickel dangled from the telescope.
“Ten cents a look,” the little man was intoning. “Take a look before he jumps. While there’s still time. Don’t miss the chance of a lifetime.”
Entranced, Mortimer moved closer, fumbling for a dime.
“What’s it all about?” he asked.
“Man on the flagpole of City Hall,” the pitch man answered laconically. “Probably some nut.”
Excited, Mortimer paid the man a dime and squatted behind the telescope, placing his eye to the barrel. He swung the ’scope up the brown facade of the Hall, past the top ramparts, and then tilted it until it focused on the flagpole.
Sure enough, right at the top of the pole he could see the enlarged figure of a man, clutching desperately to the slender swaying flagstaff.
“Gosh!” said Mortimer.
He tilted the ’scope and then the man’s face was visible—and the breath left Mortimer’s lungs with an incredulous whoooosh.
For the bewildered, dazed, pathetic face that focused in the telescope was that of Jeremiah Judson!
FOR a dizzy second Mortimer’s head reeled and then with sickening force he recalled the exasperated command he had hurled at Judson when the gangsters were in the office. Go climb a flagpole, that’s what he’d told him. And that’s just what Jeremiah had done.
“This is terrible,” Mortimer cried. “I’ve got to tell him to come down before he falls and is killed. I’ve got to get through.”
“No soap, Buddy,” the man next to him said. “The cops have got the crowd roped off. They’ve got a net spread for him. Not a chance in a million to get through.”
But Mortimer had not waited to hear the last. Kicking and scratching, he plunged through the mob, his breath searing his lungs like a blast from a furnace.
“I’ve got to get through,” he yelled. “I know him. I’ve got to get through.” The crowd parted unwillingly with angry mutterings and Mortimer plunged on like a miniature broncho until he collided with a broad, blue-clad back.
“Aisy now,” a heavy voice growled, a foot or so above his head. “We got one nut to watch wit’out bein’ bothered by the likes of you. Get back there now.”
“But I tell you I know him,” Mortimer pleaded hysterically. Furiously, but futilely, he struggled against the hands that held him.
“Get back there,” the policeman roared. “I’m not foolin’ wit’ you.”
He placed both hands on Mortimer’s chest and pushed, suddenly and heavily.
Mortimer staggered backwards, tripped on a loose stone and sprawled to the street, landing in a pool of murky, dirty water.
Tears of humiliation blinded him as he struggled to his feet, water dripping from his clothes. “Who do you think you’re shovin’ around?” he cried angrily.
“Sure and maybe it’s Napoleon Boneyparty,” the policeman sneered sarcastically. “Or maybe just the King of England.”
“It’s Mortimer Meek,” Mortimer cried, “and I’m telling you to clear out of my way.”
The policeman’s huge fists doubled menacingly, but then he began to tremble.
“Go right ahead, sir,” he quaked, backing fearfully away.
Mortimer ducked past him, raced across the street and up the steps of the City Hall.
“Let me by,” he shouted at the officer who was guarding the doors. Instantly the doors were jerked open by the dazedly obedient guard and Mortimer dashed into the interior of the building.
A fat, red-faced little man was standing in the middle of a group, moaning and wringing his hands.
“A week before election it’s gotta happen,” he groaned. “It couldn’t be a week after, oh no. This is terrible publicity. The papers will say he jumped in protest against my taxes. This is terrible.”
Mortimer recognized the Mayor from the pictures in the paper. He made a beeline for him and grabbed him by the arm.
“Listen,” he cried urgently. “I can get that man down if you’ll take me up to the roof of the building.”
The Mayor looked at him sourly. “What makes you think you can,” he asked, “when all the cops in town have failed?”
“Take it or leave it,” Mortimer snapped. “I’m telling you I can get him down.”
The Mayor hesitated for an instant, then he snapped his fingers.
“I’ll give you a chance,” he snapped. “You can’t be any worse than these police have been.”
AN express elevator whisked them to the roof. There Mortimer saw fifty or sixty policemen, sergeants, cap
tains, lieutenants crowded about the base of the flags pole shouting and gesticulating at the figure fifty feet above their heads.
“It’s no use,” one of them cried as the Mayor bustled out of the elevator. “The nut won’t come down. If we climb after him, he’s liable to jump.”
Mortimer stepped out of the elevator after the Mayor. “I’ll get him down,” he said confidently. “Just watch.”
“What are you goin’ to do?” a captain asked suspiciously. “Put salt on his tail?”
“No,” Mortimer said calmly. “I’m just going to tell him to come down.”
“What?” yelled the Mayor. “I thought you had some plan, something in the way of strategy. If this is a gag, you’ll find out it isn’t funny!”
Mortimer favored him with a cold look and then strode to the base of the slender, swaying flagpole. He looked up its shining length to the pitiful, huddled figure that had clamped itself to the top of the pole. He turned to the crowd of officers and officials.
“Please,” he yelled. “Be quiet. I must have silence.”
The murmuring talk died away until the only sound on the top of the roof was the wind whistling past the flagpole.
Again Mortimer looked up the pole at Jeremiah Judson and then he cupped his hands over his mouth.
“Jeremiah,” he shouted. “Can you hear me?”
A second later a quivering affirmative floated down to the tense crowd on the roof.
Mortimer paused, stared dramatically around the silent, breathless circle of spectators and then looked back up the pole.
“Okay, then,” he yelled. “Come on down.”
IN the Mayor’s office a congratulatory, back-slapping crowd surged around Mortimer. Flash bulbs popped in his face and reporters with greedy notebooks shot questions at him.
“How’d you get him to come down,” one of them asked, “when all the efforts of the police had failed?”
“I just asked him to,” Mortimer replied nonchalantly and then he added maliciously: “That’s the one thing the police forgot to do.”
“What a story! What a story!” the newshawk chortled happily. “Fire hoses, safety nets, police cordon fail but polite request turns trick. It’s headlines for you, buddy.”
Mortimer felt a light tap on his shoulder and he turned to face an alert looking, well dressed young man who grabbed Mortimer’s hand and pumped it enthusiastically.
“Name’s Blake, Terry Blake,” the young man said. “Represent the Me, John Public, radio show. You’ve heard it. Odd slants on the day’s news. Now I wonder if you’d do us a favor and make an appearance on tomorrow’s show and tell the radio audience about your experience here today?”
“Oh it wasn’t that important,” Mortimer began but the other chopped him off.
“Yes it was. That’s the kind of stuff that John Public eats up. Now will you do it? There’ll be a nice check in it for you.”
“Well,” Mortimer prolonged the delightful conversation, “what time is the show?”
“Two o’clock tomorrow afternoon. Can I expect you?”
“Well,” Mortimer tried to sound as if he were weighing factors, “I think I can make it. As you say the public enjoys that type of thing. Makes it sort of a duty, doesn’t it?”
“Right you are,” the affable young man agreed. “Two o’clock, don’t forget. I’ll be looking for you.”
It was quite a time after he disappeared before Mortimer was able to break away from the enthusiastic crowd and get to the corridor.
And it was then and only then that he remembered the business that had brought him to the City Hall in the first place.
The robbery. The robbery of the delivery truck that was scheduled to take place the following day.
“Gosh,” he muttered to himself. “Be too bad if I forgot that.”
Peering about, he saw a door lettered CHIEF OF POLICE and turned his steps in that direction.
“They can take care of it,” he thought. “I’ll be too busy. I’m going on the air tomorrow.”
“—AND NOW, ladies and gentlemen, it is the privilege of the Quiscuit Biscuit Company to present to you at this time a man whose name has been blazoned across the headlines for the last twenty-four hours.”
Mortimer clutched his speech nervously as the announcer approached the climax of the introduction. He smiled wanly at Betty who stood next to him gripping his arm tightly.
“Are you nervous, dear?” she asked worriedly.
“N. . . not at all,” Mortimer lied. “It’s just that . . . it’s just that it’s a little close in here, that’s all.”
“And now,” the announcer signaled Mortimer with his hand, “you will hear Mortimer Meek tell you in his own words the thrilling story that has captured the imagination of the country overnight. Quiscuit Biscuit takes pleasure in presenting, Me, John Public’s Man of the Minute—Mortimer Meek!” Mortimer walked to the “mike” on knees that shook and wobbled painfully. He swallowed nervously and then he felt a draft on his neck.
He risked a quick peek over his shoulder and saw that Betty had raised one of the windows. A refreshing breeze was wafting through the studio.
He smiled fleetingly at her and then turned back to the “mike” clearing his throat.
“Go on,” the announcer whispered. “You’re on the air.”
Mortimer rallied his courage and set his feet firmly as if he were preparing to take a swing with a golf club.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he read, “my name is Mortimer Meek. I was walking downtown yesterday afternoon when suddenly—”
An eddying gust of wind whistled through the studio and Mortimer paused to push the hair out of his eyes. “When suddenly,” he struggled on again, “I noticed a crowd—” He stopped again as another burst of wind rattled the papers in his hand. He tried desperately to get a firmer grip on the paper and then it happened.
His sweaty fingers slipped on the smooth paper and the next instant his speech was flying across the room, twisting and twirling like a leaf in a gale.
Mortimer started after it but the announcer jerked him back.
“You’re on the air,” he hissed. “Keep talking.”
Mortimer stared in terror at the “mike.”
“Hello,” he gulped inanely. “I didn’t do anything much . . . that is . . . I mean, I didn’t think it was much but I suppose you people want to hear about it anyway. The radio executive was telling me how foolish you people are about things like that.” Mortimer paused and looked desperately about the studio. The announcer and two control men were still chasing after his speech.
“What I mean,” he floundered on, “is that it wasn’t much of a job for me. As a matter of fact the biggest job I had was to convince the police to let me through so I could get the man down. You know the police in this town are not as bright as they might be.” Mortimer remembered the policeman who had shoved him into the puddle and warmed to his subject.
“We’d get along a lot better if all the dumb, incompetent policemen listening to this program would go and take a two week vacation for themselves. What this city needs—”
A STRONG hand grabbed Mortimer’s shoulder, jerked him away from the “mike.” Then the announcer was saying breathlessly:
“Due to circumstances beyond our control we will be unable to give you the rest of this broadcast. A transcribed organ solo will follow.”
The announcer switched off the “mike” and wheeled to Mortimer.
“You can’t say things like that,” he cried wildly. “It’s slander. The Federal Commission may jerk our license for this.”
“But it’s true,” Mortimer insisted weakly. “The police are incompetent.”
“Oooh,” the announcer groaned. “That doesn’t make any difference. This is terrible.”
Mortimer felt Betty tugging at his sleeve.
“We’d better be going dear,” she said. “That’s the thanks you get for trying to help your old city. They just don’t appreciate it.”
Mo
rtimer felt slightly better. “I guess you’re right,” he said in a voice dripping with self-pity. “I’m just a martyr, that’s all. Just a martyr.”
Outside in the hallway leading to the elevators Mortimer almost bumped into a large, red faced policeman who was hurrying by.
“Sorry, fella,” the cop yelled over his shoulder, “I’m just starting on my vacation and I’m in a little hurry.” Slightly puzzled, Mortimer followed him to the elevator and crowded in behind him.
At the first stop three more policemen pushed into the car.
“I’m heading for the lakes,” he heard one of them say. “I’m really going to enjoy myself this vacation.”
The others laughed heartily and slapped him on the back.
“So are we,” one of them chuckled. “I can’t wait till I get the old fish pole in my hands.”
Mortimer cowered in the back of the elevator, a strange, wild premonition chilling his spine. Maybe it was a coincidence—maybe . . .
The elevator stopped and Mortimer dashed out of the cage and raced through the lobby to the street.
And then—his premonition became a horrible reality as he stared at the chaos and confusion that greeted his eyes.
Policemen were walking arm in arm, laughing merrily at the snarled traffic, at the bewildered, panic-stricken pedestrians.
A mounted policeman galloped through the street, waving his cap over his head.
“Hiyo, Silver,” he bellowed. “Awaaay. Awaaaay for a vacation. Gang Awaaaay!”
Dimly, through the fog of terror that swept over him, Mortimer realized that Betty was screaming in his ear.
“Mortimer,” her voice was edged with panic. “What’s happened? All these policemen are deserting their posts. They’ve gone crazy. What does it mean?”
“They’re going on vacations,” Mortimer whispered hoarsely. “They’re going on vacations because I told them to.”
“Oh nonsense,” Betty exclaimed. “If you’re thinking about what you said on the radio—why that’s absurd. And besides,” she concluded triumphantly, “you distinctly said that only the incompetent policemen should take a vacation.”
Collected Fiction (1940-1963) Page 21
