“And?” Mr. Muddle managed to bleat hopelessly.
“He fired us!” the counterpart chuckled. “So I bopped him one on the button for his impertinence!” He was almost doubled up with laughter, now. “You won’t have to worry any more, old man. You’re free. I struck off the shackles!”
Mr. Muddle moaned softly . . .
MUDDLE sat morosely on the edge of the bed. It was a big bed in a rather bleak hotel room to which the Uninhibited Mr. Muddle had taken him some three hours previously. After learning that his job, too, was now added to his misery, Muddle had wished to return home. But then he’d remembered that Nellie wouldn’t be there. So his counterpart had made a decision for him.
“You’ll stay at a hotel tonight, old boy,” the Uninhibited Mr. Muddle had declared firmly. “And don’t worry about Nellie. If she’s at her mother’s, I can bring her back in a jiff. By morning, she’ll be all ready to forgive and forget. You’ll be back in the fold, then. All square.”
“But tonight,” Muddle had protested.
“Tonight,” his counterpart broke in, “I’ll take her out and show her a good time. She’ll never know the difference. She’s my wife, too, in a way.”
The logic of the Uninhibited Mr. Muddle had been hard for the real Mr. Muddle to follow. Hard to follow, and even more difficult to bear. The thought of someone else—even though that someone else were a part of him—taking his wife out, his little Nell, was as needling to Muddle as it was shocking. But what could he do? Like the rest of his troubles, there was nothing to do—but grit his teeth, bury his head in his hands, and bear it.
So Muddle sat with his head in his hands, bearing it. The only consolation he was able to feel, lay in the fact that the dapper, rakish, Uninhibited Mr. Muddle would undoubtedly be able to lure Nell back home, be able to convince her that she’d made a mistake.
But even that consolation was a dubious one. For the other Muddle might never let the real Mr. Muddle get back to his wife. Mr. Muddle’s head was swimming, it was growing much too confused.
Debts, staggering, monstrous debts—the loss of his job—the possibility that he might be soon arrested for assault on Mr. Barrel, not to mention arrest by the loan sharks for falsifying his ability to pay them—plus the loss of Nell. It was more than Muddle’s agonized mind could stand. His eyes grew heavy, his brain reeled. He had to think, had to think, had to think. He stretched out for a moment.
MUDDLE awoke with a start, still dressed as he was when he stretched out. The light in the bleak little hotel room was still burning. But it was morning. The sun streaming in through the window told him as much. Told him, too, that it was not early morning. From the strength of the sun—plus a swift glance at his watch—Muddle made the sharp deducement that it was almost eleven o’clock.
Eleven o’clock in the morning. Good Lord—he’d be late for work! Muddle sprang from the bed in an hysteria of haste—and then stopped. He had suddenly remembered everything, including the fact that he no longer had a job. This was the first time in fourteen years that Mr. Muddle hadn’t risen early for work on a week day.
Muddle felt sick again. No job, no work, no money—plus the possibility of arrest at any moment. Muddle had a mind’s eye picture of himself being forever pursued by the Arm of the Law. He saw himself chased, like some hunted thing, to the far ends of the earth. Cornered there—i.e. the far ends of the earth—he would be confronted by Police who would say, “We arrest you in the name of the Law, for punching Mr. Barrel in the nose and gypping the loan sharks!”
In the breast of Merton Muddle there was born a new mood. It was the child of despair, and of recklessness. He couldn’t stand this any longer. Something had to be done. He must bite the bullet, stiffen the lip, preferably the upper one, and go forth to square himself. Mr. Muddle knew he could never stand the existence of a hunted thing.
He must go, first of all, to the offices of Lock, Stock & Barrel. Then and there he must beg the pardon of Mr. Barrel—do anything to keep that pontifical gentleman from sending him up the river for such a dastardly assault. It was a hard pill to swallow. But Muddle was in a corner. And even cornered mice gain stout hearts. Muddle stepped to the door of the hotel room. For a moment he paused.
“Courage, Muddle,” he told himself. And with an upper lip that trembled only slightly, he stepped out the door.
AT the door to the offices of Lock, Stock, & Barrel, Mr. Muddle took a grip on himself. His knees were shaking like jelly, and his spine had congealed to ice. For a horrible moment, Muddle thought of flight. Thought of anything to avoid facing Mr. Barrel. But no. What had to be done, had to be done. Somehow, Muddle opened the door and stepped inside the suite.
The girl at the switchboard which served as a barrier between the offices and those who would be admitted into their precincts, let out a startled gasp as Mr. Muddle stepped inside.
“Mr. Muddle,” she cried. “Stay right where you are, Mr. Muddle.” Her voice was frantic. “Mr. Barrel has been looking for you all morning, telephoning everywhere, has men out looking for you now. Don’t move, Mr. Muddle!”
She was plugging wires in and out with hysterical haste. Her voice, coming to Mr. Muddle as if from a distance, was speaking to Mr. Barrel; Muddle was frozen with horror. He wanted to run, but all he could do was stand. Barrel was after him. Barrel sought revenge. Barrel’s rage must be hideous!
Then, in what seemed to be less than ten seconds later, Bludgeon Barrel, in person, burst out into the reception room and down on Mr. Muddle.
Barrel’s red face was redder than Muddle had ever seen it. Barrel’s tie was askew, his hands flailed the air. Muddle trembled uncontrollably.
“Mr. Muddle,” Barrel thundered. “Merton old boy! Old man, old buddy. This is great. This is wonderful. You’ve come back!”
Muddle felt suddenly like a man who has lived and died in the space of three seconds. What was this? What was Barrel saying? This was a wild dream. Yes, that was it. A wild dream—or a trick.
Barrel was pumping his hand.
“I apologize for the way I treated you, chum,” Barrel was saying. “I’m terribly sorry. You’ve no idea of how sorry I really am. Forgive me, Merton. Forgive me!”
And repeating this endlessly, the perspiring Mr. Barrel led Muddle into the inner offices, past the rows of clerks, past Mr. Muddle’s old desk, and into his own sanctum. Muddle walked like a man in an opium dream. Everything was hazy, groggily muddled. He was trying desperately to adjust himself to it all.
Then Barrel had closed the door on his own office, and seating Muddle in his own special chair before his ornate desk, he said:
“Make yourself at home, boy. This office is yours from now on. I’ll take a little one adjoining it.” He mopped his face. “I’m glad to know that you reconsidered. Could have ruined us, boy. Just for a silly bit of argument we had, you could have ruined us.” Mr. Muddle was frowning. Obviously Barrel was mixed up about something. But Muddle didn’t know what that something was. It was also—quite obviously—something that Barrel thought Mr. Muddle had done. And only Mr. Muddle knew that—insofar as this morning was concerned—he hadn’t done anything.
Unless the Uninhibited Mr. Muddle had been up to something. Unless this was all because of the uninhibited counterpart of himself!
That was it. Undoubtedly, that was it. But what?
Barrel was still talking.
“This desk, Muddle, I think you will find it comfortable. But if you don’t,” and here he beamed fondly, “I just want you to say so, that’s all. Just say so, and we’ll get you another, pronto.” Barrel reached for a vase atop the desk. He held it up. “See,” he said. “Flowers, roses, we’ll see that this vase is filled freshly any day.” Muddle had an idea. He’d find out what was going on, and quickly.
“Where did you find out about it?” he asked Barrel.
“About what?” Barrel forced a wink and a smile.
“You know,” said Mr. Muddle, feeling sorry that he didn’t himself.
; “Why,” Barrel said, “at the stock exchange, of course. I got word from over there, when we investigated to find out what was going haywire!” Muddle had already darted toward the door.
Barrel, face gone suddenly ashen with fear, said:
“Where are you going?”
“To the stock exchange, of course,” Muddle shouted. And then he was dashing through the office . . .
WHEN Mr. Muddle arrived at the Board of Exchange Building, he found a tumult of confusion outside. White-coated runners dashed back and forth from the elevators, and men bustled in and out. Some of them smiled, but most looked as though they had lost their minds.
Muddle wasn’t able to get onto the stock exchange floor. He wasn’t able to do so because he was Muddle, and consequently most unprepossessing to the guards. But he did, at last, find his way into the spectators’ gallery which looked over the entire floor of the exchange.
The gallery was jammed, and Muddle almost lost his coat in his struggle to force to the rail. Then he had a clear view of the floor. In an instant, looking at the boards, Muddle saw the reason for the turmoil, saw the reason why Barrel had been so frantic.
The exchange was in an uproar. Every last board reading—with only one or two exceptions—was down to rock bottom. And at the bottom of the rock bottom pile, was the listing of Lock, Stock & Barrel, Investors!
A shot was heard, and a body plummeted past the gallery, dropping in the midst of the traders on the floor. Muddle turned to a white-faced man beside him.
“What’s the cause of all this?” he shouted.
“A bear raid. The biggest in history. A speculator named Muddle has put his representatives on the floor. The entire market’s shot to blazes.”
The white-faced man wheeled.
“Where are you going?” Muddle yelled after him.
“To jump out the window,” the fellow screamed over his shoulder.
Muddle didn’t have any chance to stop him. He turned back to the boards. Now he knew. The Uninhibited Mr. Muddle was somehow playing the exchange. He’d placed representatives on the floor—but with what? How?
Muddle realized, too, that the word had gotten back to Barrel, and that Barrel—when he saw the beating his company was taking—had figured that Muddle was playing a revenge scheme on him, was ruining the corporation of Lock, Stock & Barrel deliberately.
But where was the Uninhibited Mr. Muddle? This, it was instantly apparent to Mr. Muddle, was the big problem. He must find him. The minor visions of the Law hunting him down for the punching of Barrel’s nose, were a mere bagatelle compared to what now faced him—if he couldn’t stop this mad prank of his uninhibited counterpart.
Muddle didn’t have to search. For a hand plucked at his sleeve, then another slapped him on the back, in the next instant. He wheeled to face the rakish, Uninhibited Mr. Muddle.
“HI, chum? Sobered up enough to enjoy the spectacle?” his counterpart chortled.
Muddle was frantic.
“What have you done? Oooooh, what have you done to me now?”
Muddle was suddenly—and for no apparent reason—convulsed in gales of laughter.
“It’s a scream,” he gasped between bellows, “a positive scream.” He was shaking so he could scarcely speak.
“What?” Muddle managed to bleat.
“My joke,” the Uninhibited Mr. M. guffawed. “Look,” he pointed to the floor. “See those fellows out in the middle, wearing white coats, around whom all the other traders are gathered?”
Muddle could only nod.
“Well—” and Muddle’s uninhibited counterpart went into more gales of laughter. “I put them down there, for a joke.”
“A joke?” Muddle felt like fainting.
“Yes,” the Uninhibited Muddle was still convulsed. “I hired them to trade—you know the way they do—with their fingers.”
Muddle saw that the men his uninhibited self had hired were, indeed wiggling their fingers wildly back and forth. He shook his head in horror and bewilderment.
“But—” and here the Uninhibited
Muddle almost split his sides, “They aren’t trading!”
“Aren’t trading?” Muddle felt himself going mad.
“No, they aren’t trading. The other white-coated chumps just think that my representatives are trading. But they aren’t.”
“Then what are they doing?” Muddle’s voice was almost gone.
“They’re talking!” the Uninhibited Mr. Muddle laughed heartily. “That’s what they’re doing—talking!”
He became convulsed again.
“Talking?” Mr. Muddle felt certain that he was going insane now. “How can they be talking with their hands and fingers?”
The Uninhibited Mr. Muddle was doubled up in laughter.
“Because,” he guffawed, “because they’re deaf mutes!”
Mr. Muddle staved off certain insanity he felt was closing in on him, staved it off with one more question.
“But isn’t there someone on the floor,” Muddle screeched, “who would catch on to the sign language?”
His counterpart chortled, slapping his thigh.
“No. They’re Chinese deaf mutes!” Muddle glanced down. The Uninhibited Muddle hadn’t been lying. The men were Chinese, all four of them! And, suddenly, a gong rang over the floor, followed by instantaneous groans of relief. Trading was over!
AND then a white-haired gentleman with a red face was heading directly toward them. Mr. Muddle plucked the Uninhibited Mr. Muddle’s sleeve.
“Let’s get out of here, he said quaveringly. “You’ve turned this place upside down. If they catch us, we’ll go to jail.”
“Not at all, old boy, not at all.” The Uninhibited Mr. Muddle inspected his nails critically. “We’ll see what the old fellow has to say.”
Mr. Muddle was tempted to flee, but by the time he had discovered an exit it was too late. The white-haired old gentleman was upon them.
“Gentlemen,” Mr. Muddle winced at his voice, stern and commanding, “I would like to talk with you a moment.”
“Go right ahead,” the Uninhibited Mr. Muddle said suavely, “Always glad to be of service.”
“First of all,” the old gentleman said, “I should like to congratulate you. Your trading today was the most masterly, most audacious, most amazing exhibition I have ever been privileged to witness.”
“Oh, d’you think so?” The Uninhibited Mr. Muddle’s voice was bland, “Well, thanks. Nothing like a little financial workout to clear the cobwebs from a man’s mind.”
Mr. Muddle swallowed with difficulty.
“And,” the old gentleman went on, “Here’s the proceeds for your—ahem—financial workout, as you call it.”
He extended a check and The Uninhibited Mr. Muddle accepted it casually, glanced at it and then stuffed it carelessly into his pocket.
“Thanks, again,” he said coolly, “and now if you’ll excuse us, my friend and I are rather tired. We’re going to be getting along.”
“I understand,” the old boy said, “but before you leave I should like to say that I have been instructed by the board to offer you a position on our consultation board. The remuneration, I might add, would be very substantial.”
“Well,” the Uninhibited Mr. Muddle looked thoughtful, “perhaps I can let you know definitely tomorrow. It might prove interesting for a while.”
“Thank you, sir. I will tell the board then that they may expect your decision tomorrow.”
The Uninhibited Mr. Muddle waved a hand in a nonchalant farewell.
“That’s okay,” he said. “Let’s be on our way, Muddle, old boy.”
MUDDLE followed him down the marble steps, too stunned to speak. When he finally managed to flag his paralyzed larynx into action he asked:
“How much was that check?”
The Uninhibited Mr. Muddle looked sad. “I wish I could get you to think of something besides money.” He reached his hand in his pocket, pulled out the check, handed it to Mr. Muddle. “Ta
ke it,” he said. “It’ll do for pin money.”
Mr. Muddle looked at the check and then he felt himself falling into a pool of blackness. When he came to, the Uninhibited Mr. Muddle was slapping his face smartly.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” he asked genially.
“That check,” Mr. Muddle gasped. “It’s for four hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
“So what?” his other self inquired.
Mr. Muddle crawled to his feet gripping the check tightly in his fist. He was breathless with excitement and relief.
With this check, with this money, his worries were over. He could meet his checks at the bank, pay off his debts and he didn’t need a job now. Never again would he have to bow meekly to Mr. Barrel or let that gentleman use his neck for a footstool.
It was glorious. A delirious feeling of ecstasy swept over him as he felt his troubles dropping from his shoulders.
And then he remembered Nellie!
She was practically estranged from him. His mood of delight passed from him leaving him despairingly desperate. The Uninhibited Mr. Muddle was probably intending to continue the deception with Nellie.
The Uninhibited Mr. Muddle paused for a glass of water and as Mr. Muddle stopped he felt something crinkle in his pocket. It was the first time he remembered the Pepper’s Pituitary Pills that he had purchased.
“You know,” the Uninhibited Mr. Muddle was saying, “you’re not a bad egg at all. The only trouble was that you never paid any attention to me. You kept me so submerged in your cautious meek little personality that I never had a chance to get out and stretch my legs. That is until now.”
Mr. Muddle pulled the pills out of his pocket and slipped them from their container. A wild, hectic idea was floating around in his brain. The pills had been responsible for the first change maybe . . .
The Uninhibited Mr. Muddle looked away for an instant and Mr. Muddle dropped the twelve pills into the glass he was holding.
When the Uninhibited Mr. Muddle turned back he was smiling.
“Well,” he raised the glass, “here’s Muddle in your eye.” He tilted his head and drained the glass at a gulp.
Collected Fiction (1940-1963) Page 32
