“Glug,” he gasped. His mouth and eyes were full of water. “Glug,” he gasped again and this time he felt something slip. The water soaked leather straps were stretching, giving, as Mortimer worked his jaws.
“Okay,” McNutty’s trigger finger clenched. “Let ’im . . .”
“STOP! Stop!” Mortimer’s voice, muffled and indistinct, reached the gangsters ears paralyzing them. “Stop. Put those guns down.” Mortimer ripped the loosened thongs from his mouth and clambered to his feet. “Throw those guns away,” he yelled, “and get a rope and get me out of here.”
He stared commandingly, scornfully at them and then threw his head back defiantly.
“Make it snappy you hoodlums, before I lose my temper.”
Mortimer Meek was back in the saddle.
Dripping, but masterful, he was hauled out of the well and deposited on the ground. Slug McNutty and his henchmen cowered before, him, their faces stamped with a mask of bewilderment and obedience.
“You stupid, moronic thugs,” Mortimer said icily, “have made your biggest and last mistake in matching wits with Mortimer Meek. Now . . .”
His eyes roved speculatively over the farm house, the still smouldering barn, lighted on the well and stopped there. An expression of malicious amusement passed over his features.
“Now,” he repeated, “you are going to pay for it. Climb down into this well. All of you.”
“But jeez,” Slug McNutty protested weakly, “it’s dirty and cold and—”
“Get down in that well,” Mortimer’s shout cut him off. “And snap it up.” Without another word Slug McNutty stepped to the rim of the well, threw a leg over the stone embankment and plunged into its depths.
Mortimer looked meaningly at the other gangsters.
“You too,” he snapped.
One by one they repeated McNutty’s plunge until, vindicated and triumphant, Mortimer was left alone—master of all he surveyed.
He reveled in the heady, thrilling sensation of complete power until a cry disrupted his pleasant thoughts, jerked him around.
He saw Betty running toward him.
“Oh Mortimer,” she sobbed as she threw herself into his arms. “You’re not dead. You’re not dead.”
“Why not at all, not at all,” Mortimer said blandly. “Whatever gave you the idea that I might be in trouble.”
“But I thought . . .” she started, and then her voice broke suddenly and she looked around in sudden alarm. “Mortimer,” she gasped, “where are the gangsters?”
“All taken care of,” Mortimer said loftily. “Right down to the last detail.”
“But how?” Betty asked incredulously.
Mortimer blew on his knuckles.
“It wasn’t very pretty,” he said, glorying in her admiring glance. “Quite a bit of gore and all that.”
“Oh, my hero,” Betty breathed. “I knew you could do it, but I was worried a little bit anyway. When the gangsters left the house after you, I got out of the room and found a phone. I found a phone and called the city. The police are still acting funny so they’re sending the G-men down. They should be here soon.”
Before she had got the words out of her mouth, the faint, banshee wail of police sirens drifted to them on the breeze.
“There they are now,” Betty said. “Hardly necessary,” Mortimer said loftily. “Just tell them that Mortimer Meek has arrived and has the situation well in hand.”
MORTIMER MEEK was not the sort to be late for his own wedding. As a matter of fact, he arrived at the church some thirty minutes ahead of schedule. Arrived briskly, in the manner of an impatient Napoleon at a coronation.
He pushed his way through the throngs which had already gathered outside the canopied entrance, throngs attracted by the headlined announcements of the Meek nuptials in the morning papers, and made his way to the rectory.
Humming “Pomp and Circumstance” lightly, almost gaily, Mortimer pressed the bell at the Rectory door, and was rewarded by the sight of the minister peering out quizzically from behind its half-opened panel a moment later.
“What—” began the minister, a short, rotund, bald little fellow, looking like a vicar in an English novel.
Mortimer pushed in past him, and swept on into the parlor. The round little minister followed him bewilderedly. “Wha—” began the rotund little parson again.
“I,” announced Mortimer, fixing him with a gaze that seemed to challenge any denial, “am Meek.”
The minister’s brows knit at this announcement, and he seemed to be slightly at a loss for something to say.
“Oh,” he ventured after a moment, “are you?”
“Yes,” said Mortimer.
“That’s nice,” murmured the clergyman. “The Good Book says that the meek shall inherit the earth. However, if there’s something I can do for you . . .?” he left his sentence dangling lamely.
“I,” said Mortimer frigidly, “am decidedly not meek. I am Meek!”
“Oh,” said the parson, edging toward the door fearfully, “is that right?” He gulped apprehensively, for Mortimer was fixing him with “The Dominant Stare” of page 38.
“I am getting married in half-an-hour,” said Mortimer, “and I thought it wise to check up on the ceremonies beforehand.”
The minister paled.
“I’m afraid you can’t get married in half-an-hour, young man. We’ve another marriage scheduled. A Mr—” his eyes opened, and his expression became one of acute apology.
“Ohhhhhh,” he murmured, light breaking forth, “you are Mr. Meek!”
“Yes,” Mortimer replied testily. “I’ve been trying to tell you as much.” He glanced briskly at his watch. “There’s only twenty-five minutes left until the ceremony starts. I want to make sure that you don’t botch up my wedding.”
The minister looked hurt. Hurt and indignant. Clearly, he wasn’t used to having bridegrooms accuse him of incompetence.
“Really . . .” he began.
“Never mind,” Mortimer cut in, “making any apologies. Have you much experience at this sort of thing?” His tone was that of an employer hiring a scullery wench.
“I have married,” the minister replied acidly, “over four hundred couples.”
Mortimer reflected on this. Reflected, then said:
“Did all of them take?”
“Take?”
“Yes,” Mortimer snapped impatiently. “Did all of the weddings turn out well?”
THE minister looked like a chef who has been accused of leaving hairs in the bottom of his soup bowls.
“All my weddings turn out right!”
“Hmmmmm,” said Mortimer. “I suppose I’ll have to take your word for it.” Then: “How about the arrangements for the ceremony? What about the music?”
“Our organist,” the parson said indignantly, “is the best. He has selected the usual appropriate music. The Wedding March for the entrance, and Oh Promise Me, for the exit.”
Mortimer frowned.
“The entrance music is fair enough. But I don’t like the exit stuff.”
“It is customary,” the minister replied testily. “Really Mr. Meek, if you’ll leave this in our hands, I’m sure—”
“Never mind,” Mortimer broke in. “I’ll take care of the music. I’ll see the organist personally.” He stared thoughtfully at the little parson. “See to it,” he concluded, “that your end of the thing goes off without a hitch!” He started toward the door.
The rotund little minister felt red waves of indignation rushing up to his head, but much to his amazement, the best he could say as Mortimer stepped out the door was . . .
“Yes, sir, I’ll see to it, Mr. Meek.” Mortimer had no sooner stepped out of the rectory door than he was surrounded three deep in clamoring humanity. News reporters, press photographers, curious spectators and autograph seekers milled around him. He glowed importantly as he pressed his way through all these.
Truly, this was to be a wedding befitting the importance of Mortimer
Meek, he reflected. Then he remembered that he wished to see the organist.
“Please,” he demanded of the crowd, “let me through!”
The crowd parted, and Mortimer marched on. Up on the steps of the church, he could see the Mayor and other local dignitaries waiting top-hatted and impressive, for the start of the ceremony.
“Please, Mr. Meek,” a chorus of voices begged him, “won’t you give us a few shots?”
Mortimer saw that the chorused request came from a battery of press photographers. He smiled tolerantly, halting.
“How’s this, boys?” Mortimer asked jovially striking a pose.
“Fine, Mr. Meek. Chin just a bit higher, please.”
Mortimer lifted his chin a bit higher, gazing directly into the line of cameras pointing at him. Good boys, the photographers. Knew a good subject when they saw it. He recognized some of them from his experience at the City Hall, others from his triumph after aiding the F.B.I. Then, behind the shining brass plate of a reflector flash, Mortimer saw a face he recognized from quite a different source.
He was about to open his mouth, about to single out that face with an accusing finger, when the first flash bulbs popped. More popped, and Mortimer blinked dazedly. Suddenly there was a blinding flash, an explosive detonation shattering his eardrums, hurling him to the ground with its concussion!
Head swimming, blood trickling slightly from his nose, Mortimer realized dazedly that he was on the ground. Hazily, he saw a face bending over him, the same face he had recognized a moment before among the photographers. The face of Myfisto, the magician!
He saw, too, that Myfisto’s assistant was beside him, that the pair of them were bending over him.
“Good,” Myfisto was muttering rapidly to his assistant. “The concussion’s done the trick. Give me the plate!”
Dazedly, while trying futilly to rise, Mortimer realized that Myfisto’s assistant had handed a copper battery set to the magician. Myfisto was pressing the battery set against Mortimer’s aching skull, and the thing was filling his brain with a strange vibration.
The sensation were those of sudden weariness, a momentary weariness, during which something seemed to drain from him, like water from a punctured bag. Then he felt the assistant’s hands leave his shoulders, heard Myfisto mutter:
“It is good. See the expression in his eyes. My electra-therwillific set has removed his dangerous power!”
PEOPLE were helping Mortimer to his feet, spluttering angry protests. Myfisto and his assistant had vanished into the crowd. Indignantly, Mortimer pushed all hands away from him. He was about to scream out: “Stop those men!” but there were no men to stop.
“Are you all right?” someone was asking anxiously, and Mortimer saw the Mayor.
“Certainly,” Mortimer snapped. “Certainly. This shall not interfere with the ceremony. Let us proceed. Where is my bride?” He was climbing the steps to the church as he spoke.
“She’s already arrived,” someone answered. “We’ll have to get around to the vestry for your entrance.”
Then, hurriedly, Mortimer was led around the side of the church, up to the front side entrance. Nervously adjusting his cravat, the Mayor, acting Best Man, whispered hoarsely to Mortimer. “Now!”
Mortimer and the Mayor stepped into the vast, crowded church, walking pontifically toward the center front where he was to join his bride. The organist was slipping gracefully into a selection when Mortimer remembered. He’d forgotten to tell the fellow what to play.
Mortimer halted, turning toward the choir loft.
“Stop!” he shouted.
The organ ceased abruptly, and a shocked murmur ran through the church as all necks craned to see the dramatic interruption.
“I don’t want that number,” Mortimer announced.
The Mayor was plucking frenzily at his sleeve.
“Don’t make a scene,” he pleaded. “I have over a thousand votes in this church!”
Mortimer ignored him, fixing the tiny figure at the organ in the choir loft with a commanding stare. In a loud clear voice he indicated the number he desired played. There was a feeble protest from the loft, a shocked protest. Mortimer repeated the number. Then the organ commenced again, dutifully.
And to the strains of “Hail The Conquering Hero,” Mortimer Meek strode to the center of the church where his bride was to join him.
THE QUANDARY OF QUINTAS QUAGGLE
First published in the June 1941 issue of Amazing Stories.
Quintus Quaggle’s whole future depended on instant and decisive action. But just at that important moment—he turned to stone!
THE San Francisco office of the Puff and Huff Advertising company was in the midst of something that could only be described as a turmoil.
Account executives unbent to whisper to clerks. Clerks unbent to the extent of answering them. In addition to these precedent shattering occurrences the switchboard operator had stopped chewing her gum, and after that anything could happen.
For the rumor was flying about the firm that Mr. Phineas P. Puff, of the New York office, was arriving in town that very day and his first port of call would naturally be the branch office.
His visits always created a furor because, Mr. Puff being pretty much a standard executive, was fond of shouting incoherently at his employees to cover up the painful fact that he had nothing intelligent to say to them. But on this particular trip, rumor had it, Mr. Puff was going to shake up the staff, fire half the office, promote the other half and deliver a rousing pep talk to the new employees. This latter group, the dark rumor also hinted, would be great in number.
In an obscure corner of the outer offices a small, timid looking individual sat hunched behind a neat desk taking no part in the subdued hysteria that was rampant in the agency. This in itself was not unusual, for Quintus Quaggle, filing clerk un-extraordinary, made it a habit to pay attention to his work and no attention to office gossip and speculation.
But Quaggle’s tranquillity this morning was due to another reason. Quintus Quaggle wanted desperately, almost frantically to be a copy writer and he hoped to convince Mr. Puff of his ability and ingenuity. Therefore Mr. Puff’s visit filled him with hope and confidence, for Quintus had prepared several layouts and sample advertisements to display to the all-powerful Puff.
Quintus knew they were good. They had to be good. His whole future depended on their being good. Thinking of this, Quintus dotted a last “i” carefully, stood up and walked the length of the office, not stopping until he reached a desk where a slim, darkhaired girl in a red dress was working.
He swallowed once, then twice, as he always did in Phylis Whitney’s presence. In Quintus’ opinion, it was the eighth wonder of the known world that this adorable girl would even speak to him. He didn’t question the miracle when she did. He merely accepted it as a Tibetian Llama might accept the inner mysteries of some hallowed monastery.
“Phylis,” he faltered, “I—I’ve been working on some layouts in my spare time and I’m going to show them to Mr. Puff when he gets here. I—I wanted you to know.”
“I’m glad you told me about it,” Phylis said warmly. “It gives me a chance to wish you the best luck in the world. I just have a feeling they’re darned good and I’ll bet Mr. Puff thinks the same thing.”
“‘I don’t know,” Quintus said miserably. “Sometimes they look all right and then sometimes I think they look terrible.”
“Quintus, you musn’t talk like that,” Phylis said in a tone of voice that might have told Quintus something had he sense enough to hear it. “You’ve got to develop more confidence, more enthusiasm in your work.”
“What work?” a voice, masculine and superior, asked behind them.
PHYLIS and Quintus turned.
Leaning noncholantly against an adjoining desk was a sleek young man with a satisfied, superior smile touching his lips.
Quintus felt a strange resentment stirring in his breast. This was Gordon Strong, one of the firm’s copy writers. H
is sarcastic tongue was usually flicking at Quintus’ sensitive hide and his cynical eyes were generally slanting hopefully in the direction of Phylis’ pretty, dark head.
“I repeat,” he said with a ripple of amusement in his voice, “what work?”
“Quintus has written some copy,” Phylis said defensively. “Darned good copy, too. He’s showing it to Mr. Puff when he gets here.”
“Ahh,” Strong said mockingly. “Competition, eh Quaggle? Why didn’t someone tell me there was a genius lurking under that modest exterior? I feel terribly, terribly alarmed. Oh yes, terribly.”
Quintus felt the not-so-subtle dig and shifted uncomfortably. He noticed one rather peculiar fact. Phylis’ hands had balled into small, but capable looking fists, and her lips were pressed together like a pressed rosebud. Given plenty of time, Quintus might have deduced something very encouraging from this, but, unfortunately, time was called at that precise instant by the stormy arrival of Phineas P. Puff.
The outer door banged inward and a loud, blustering voice filled the spacious office with unintelligible sound. Everyone within range of Mr. Puff’s vocal chords immediately dug into their work with highly suspicious alacrity.
Mr. Puff, a short, pompous man with a red face and small eyes strode to the center of the office and glared about.
“Not satisfied,” he suddenly bellowed. “Not satisfied at all. Everything gone to pot. Lots of changes coming around here. Shake things up. Needs it.”
Quintus shrank against the wall and tried to blend like a chameleon against the mahogany woodwork. It would be terrible if Mr. Puff discovered him away from his desk at this hour of the day.
But Mr. Puff apparently had more important things on his mind.
“Want copy,” he said loudly. “New copy, bright copy, funny. Gotta be funny now. Everybody wants to laugh. I don’t know why. I’ve got nothing to laugh about. But I don’t count. Gotta think of the customer.” Mr. Puff paused to breathe. Then: “Get me some funny copy. I don’t care what your job is now. If you can get funny copy you’re a copy writer.” Mr. Puff paused again and glared slowly about at the faces of his assembled workers. “Hello,” he said quietly.
Collected Fiction (1940-1963) Page 23
