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it."
"Huh? You mean it, Doc? I've been thinking about getting one to keep
under the bar."
"Sure, I mean it," I told him. "I'm afraid of the damn things and I'm
safer without one."
He hefted it appraisingly. "Nice gun. It's worth something."
I said, "So's my life, Smiley. To me, anyway. And you saved it when you
pushed me out of that car and over the edge tonight."
"Forget it, Doc. I couldn't have got out that door myself with you
asleep in it. And getting out of the other side of the car wouldn't have
been such a hot idea. Well, if you really mean it, thanks for the gun."
He put it out of sight under the bar and then poured us each a second
drink. "Make it short," I told him. "I've got a lot of work to do."
He glanced at his clock and it was only ten thirty. He said, "Hell,
Doc, the evenin's only a pup."
I thought, but didn't say, what a pup!
I wonder what I'd have thought if I'd even guessed that the pup hadn't
even been weaned yet.
Pete came in.
"It seems a shame," the Walrus said
"To play them such a trick.
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
Neither Smiley nor I had touched, as yet, the second drink he'd poured
us, so there was time for Pete Corey to get in on the round; Smiley poured a
drink for him.
He said, "Okay, Doc, now what's this gag about Smiley and you going for
a ride? You told me your car was laid up and Smiley doesn't drive one."
"Pete," I said, "Smiley doesn't have to be able to drive a car. He's a
gentleman of genius. He kills or captures killers. That's what we were
doing. Anyway, that's what Smiley was doing. I went along, just for the
ride."
"Doc, you're kidding me."
I said, "If you don't believe me, read tomorrow's Clarion. Ever hear of
Bat Masters?"
Pete shook his head. He reached for his drink.
"You will," I told him. "In tomorrow's Clarion. Ever hear of George?"
"George Who?"
I opened my mouth to say I didn't know, but Smiley beat me to the punch
by saying, "George Kramer."
I stared at Smiley. "How'd you know his last name?"
"Saw it in a fact detective magazine. And his picture, too, and Bat
Masters'. They're members of the Gene Kelley mob."
I stared harder at Smiley. "You recognized them? I mean, before I even
came in here?"
"Sure," Smiley said. "But it wouldn't have been a good idea to phone
the cops while they were here, so I was going to wait till they left, and
then phone the state cops to pick 'em up between here and Chicago. That's
where they were heading. I listened to what they said, and it wasn't much,
but I did get that much out of it. Chicago. They had a date there tomorrow
afternoon."
"You're not kidding, Smiley?" I asked him. "You really had them spotted
before I came in here?"
"I'll show you the magazine, Doc, with their pictures in it. Pictures
of all the Gene Kelley mob."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Smiley shrugged his big shoulders. "You didn't ask. Why didn't you tell
me you had a gun in your pocket? If you coulda slipped it to me in the car,
we'd have polished 'em off sooner. It would have been a cinch; it was so
dark in that back seat after we got out of town, George Kramer wouldn't of
seen you pass it."
He laughed as though he'd said something funny. Maybe he had.
Pete was looking from one to the other of us. He said, "Listen, if this
is a gag, you guys are going a long way for it. What the hell happened?"
Neither of us paid any attention to Pete. I said, "Smiley, where is
that fact detective magazine? Can you get it?"
"Sure, it's upstairs. Why? Don't you believe me?"
"Smiley," I said, "I'd believe you if you told me you were lying. No,
what I had in mind is that that magazine will save me a lot of grief. It'll
have background stuff on the boys we were playing cops and robbers with
tonight. I thought I'd have to phone to Chicago and get it from the cops
there. But if there's a whole article on the Gene Kelley mob in that mag,
I'll have enough without that."
"Get it right away, Doc." Smiley went through the door that led
upstairs.
I took pity on Pete and gave him a quick sketch of our experience with
the gangsters. It was fun to watch his mouth drop open and to think that a
lot of other mouths in Carmel City would do that same thing tomorrow when
the Clarion was distributed.
Smiley came back down with the magazine and I put it in my pocket and
went to the phone again. I still had to have the details about what had
happened to Carl, for the paper. I still wanted it for my own information
too, but that wasn't so important as long as he wasn't seriously hurt.
I tried the hospital first but they gave me the same runaround they'd
given Pete; sorry, but since Mr. Trenholm had been discharged, they could
give out no information. I thanked them. I tried Carl's own phone and got no
answer, so I went back to Pete and Smiley.
Smiley happened to be staring out the window. He said, "Somebody just
went in your office, Doc. Looked like Clyde Andrews."
Pete turned to look, too, but was too late. He said, "Guess that's who
it must've been. Forgot to tell you, Doc; he phoned about twenty minutes ago
while I was waiting for you over at the office. I told him I expected you
any minute."
"You didn't lock the door, did you, Pete?" I asked. He shook his head.
I waited a minute to give the banker time to get up the stairs and into
the office and then I went back to the phone and called the Clarion number.
It rang several times while Clyde, apparently, was making up his mind
whether to answer it or not. Finally he did.
"This is Doc, Clyde," I said. "How's the boy?"
"He's all right, Doc. He's fine. And I want to thank you again for what
you did and ґ I want to talk to you about something. Are you on your way
here?"
"I'm across the street at Smiley's. How about dropping over here if you
want to talk?"
He hesitated. "Can't you come here?" he asked.
I grinned to myself. Clyde Andrews is not only a strict temperance
advocate; he's head of a local chapter (a small one, thank God) of the
Anti-Saloon League. He'd probably never been in a tavern in his life.
I said, "I'm afraid I can't, Clyde." I made my voice very grave. "I'm
afraid if you want to talk to me, it will have to be here at Smiley's."
He got me, all right. He said stiffly, "I'll be there."
I sauntered back to the bar. I said, "Clyde Andrews is coming here,
Smiley. Chalk up a first."
Smiled stared at me. "I don't believe it," he said. He laughed.
"Watch," I told him.
Solemnly I went around behind the bar and got a bottle and two glasses
and took them to a table ґ the one in the far corner farthest from the bar.
I liked the way Pete and Smiley stared at me.
I filled both the glasses and sat down. Pete and Smiley stared some
more. Then they turned and stared the other way as Clyde came in, walking
stiffly. He said, "Good evening, Mr. Corey," to Pete and "Good evening, Mr.
Wheeler" to Smiley, and then came back to where I was sitting.
I said, "Sit down, Clyde," and he sat down.
I looked at him. I said sternly, "Clyde, I don't like ґ in advance ґ
what you're going to ask me."
"But, Doc," he said earnestly, almost pleadingly, "must you print what
happened? Harvey didn't mean toґ"
"That's what I meant," I said. "What makes you think I'd even think of
printing a word about it?"
He looked at me and his face changed. "Doc! You're not going to?"
"Of course not." I leaned forward. "Listen, Clyde, I'll make you a bet
ґ or I would if you were a betting man. I'll bet I know exactly the amount
of money the kid had in his pocket when he was leaving ґ and, no I didn't
look in his pockets. I'll bet he had a savings account ґ he's been working
summers several years now, hasn't he? ґ and he was running away. And he knew
damn well you wouldn't let him draw his own money and that he couldn't draw
it without your knowing it. Whether he had twenty dollars or a thousand,
I'll bet you it was the exact amount of his own account."
He took a deep breath. "You're right. Exactly right. And ґ thanks for
thinking that, before you knew it. I was going to tell you."
"For a fifteen-year-old, Harvey's a good kid, Clyde. Now listen, you'll
admit I did the right thing tonight calling you instead of calling the
sheriff? And in keeping the story out of the paper?"
"Yes."
"You're in a saloon, Clyde. A den of iniquity. You should have said
`Hell, yes.' But I don't suppose it would sound natural if you did, so I
won't insist on it. But, Clyde, how much thinking have you been doing about
why the boy was running away? Has he told you that yet?"
He shook his head slowly. "He's all right now, in bed, asleep. Dr.
Minton gave him a sedative, but told me Harvey had better not do any talking
till tomorrow."
"I'll tell you right now," I said, "that he won't have any very
coherent story about it. Maybe he'll say he was running away to join the
army or to go on the stage or ґ or almost anything. But it won't be the
truth, even if he thinks it is. Clyde, whether he knows it or not, he was
running away. Not toward."
"Away from what?"
"From you," I said.
For a second I thought he was going to get angry and I'm glad he
didn't, because then I might have got angry too and that would have spoiled
the whole thing.
Instead, he slumped a little. He said, "Go on, Doc.
I hated to, then, but I had to strike while the striking was good. I
said, "Listen, Clyde, get up and walk out any time you want to; I'm going to
give it to you straight. You've been a lousy father." At any other time he'd
have walked out on me on that one. I could tell by his face that, even now,
he didn't like it. But at any other time he wouldn't have been sitting at a
back table in Smiley's tavern, either.
I said, "You're a good man, Clyde, but you work at it too hard. You're
rigid, unyielding, righteous. Nobody can love a ramrod. There's nothing
wrong with your being religious, if you want to. Some good men are
religious. But you've got to realize that everybody who doesn't think as you
do isn't necessarily wrong."
I said, "Take alcohol ґ literally, if you wish; there's a glass of
whisky in front of you. But take it figuratively, anyway. It's been a solace
to the human race, one of the things that can make life tolerable, since ґ
damn it, since before the human race was even human. True, there are a few
people who can't handle it ґ but that's no reason to try to legislate it
away from the people who can handle it, and whose enjoyment of life is
increased by its moderate use ґ or even by its occasional immoderate use,
providing it doesn't make them pugnacious or otherwise objectionable.
"But ґ let's skip alcohol. My point is that a man can be a good man
without trying to interfere with his neighbor's life too much. Or with his
son's. Boys are human, Clyde. People in general are human; people are more
human than anybody."
He didn't say anything, and that was a hopeful sign. Maybe a tenth of
it was sinking in.
I said, "Tomorrow, when you can talk with the kid, Clyde, what are you
going to say?"
"I ґ I don't know, Doc."
I said, "Don't say anything. Above all, don't ask him any question. Not
a damn question. And let him keep that money, in cash, so he can run away
any time he decides to. Then maybe he won't. If you change your attitude
toward him.
"But, damn it, Clyde, you can't change your attitude toward him, and
unbend, without unbending in general toward the human race. The kid's a
human being, too. And you could be, if you wanted to. Maybe you think it
will cost you your immortal soul to be one ґ I don't think so, myself, and I
think there are a great many truly religious people who don't think so
either ґ but if you persist in not being one, then you're going to lose your
son."
I decided that that was it. There wasn't anything more that I could say
that couldn't weaken my case. I decided I'd better shut up. I did shut up.
It seemed like a long, long time before he said anything. He was
staring at the wall over my head. When he answered what I'd said, he still
didn't say anything. He did better, a lot better.
He picked up the whisky in front of him. I got mine picked up in time
to down it as he took a sip of his. He made a face.
"Tastes horrible," he said. "Doc, do you really like this stuff?"
"No," I told him. "I hate the taste of it. You're right, Clyde, it is
horrible."
He looked at the glass in his hand and shuddered a little. I said,
"Don't drink it. That sip you took proved your point. And don't try to toss
it off; you'll probably choke."
He said, "I suppose you have to learn to like it. Doc, I've drunk a
little wine a few times, not recently, but I didn't dislike it too much.
Does Mr. Wheeler have any wine?"
"The name is Smiley," I said, "and he does." I stood up. I clapped him
on the back, and it was the first time in my life I'd ever done so. I said,
"Come on, Clyde, let's see what the boys in the back room will have."
I took him over to the bar, to Pete and Smiley. I told Smiley, "We want
a round, and it's on Clyde. Wine for him, and I'll take a short beer this
time; I've got to rewrite a paper tonight."
I frowned at Smiley because of the utterly amazed look on his face, and
he got the hint and straightened it out. He said, "Sure, Mr. Andrews. What
kind of wine?"
"Do you have sherry, Mr. Wheeler?"
I said, "Clyde, meet Smiley. Smiley, Clyde."
Smiley laughed, and Clyde smiled. The smile was a bit stiff, and would
take practice, but I knew and knew damned well that Harvey Andrews wasn't
going to run away from home again.
He was going, henceforth, to have a father who was human. Oh, I don't
mean that I expected Clyde suddenly to turn into Smiley's best customer.
Maybe he'd never come back to Smiley's again. But by ordering one drink ґ
even of wine ґ across a bar, he'd crossed a Rubicon. He wasn't perfect
anymore.
I was beginning to feel my own drinks again and I didn't really want
the one Clyde bought for me, but it was an Occasion, so I took it. But I was
getting in a hurry to get back across the street to the Clarion and get to
work on all the stories I had to write, so I downed it fairly quickly and
Pete and I left. Clyde left when we did, because he wanted to get back to
his son; I didn't blame him for that.
At the Clarion, Pete checked the pot on the Linotype and found it hat
enough ґ while I pulled up the typewriter stand beside my desk and started
abusing the ancient Underwood. I figured that, with the dope in the fact
detective magazine Smiley had given me for background, I could run it to
three or four columns, so I had a lot of work ahead of me. The escaped
looney and Carl could wait ґ now that the former was captured and now that I
knew Carl was safe ґ until I got the main story done.
I told Pete, while he was waiting for the first take, to hand set a
banner head, "TAVERNKEEPER CAPTURES WANTED KILLERS," to see if it would fit.
Oh, sure, I was going to put myself in the story, too, but I was going to
make Smiley the hero of it, for one simple reason: he had been.
Pete had the head set up ґ and it fitted ґ by the time I had a take for
him to start setting on the machine.
In the middle of the second take I realized that I didn't know for sure
that Bat Masters was still alive, although I'd put it that way in the lead.
I might as well find out for sure that he really was, and what condition he
was in.
I knew better than to call the hospital for anything more detailed than
whether he was dead or not, so I picked up the phone and called the state
police office at Watertown. Willie Peeble answered.
He said, "Sure, Doc, he's alive. He's even been conscious and talked
some. Thinks he's dying, so he really opened up."
"Is he dying?"
"Sure, but not the way he thinks. It'll cost the state some kilowatts.
And he can't beat the rap; they've got the whole gang cold, once they catch
them. There were six people ґ two of 'em women ґ killed in that bank job
they pulled at Colby."
"Was George in on that?"
"Sure. He was the one that shot the women. One was a teller and the
other one was a customer who was too scared to move when they told her to
lie flat."
That made me feel a little better about what had happened to George.
Not that it had worried me too much.
I said, "Then I can put in the story that Bat Masters confesses?"
"I dunno about that, Doc. Captain Evans is at the hospital talking to
him now, and we had one report here that Masters is talking, but not the
details. I don't think the cap would even bother asking him about that
stuff."
"What would he ask him, then?"
"The rest of the mob, where they are. There are two others besides Gene
Kelley, and it'd be a real break if the cap can get out of Masters something
that would help us find the others. Especially Kelley. The two we got
tonight are peanuts compared to Kelley."
I said, "Thanks a lot, Willie. Listen, if anything more breaks on the
story, will you give me a ring? I'll be here at the Clarion for a while
yet."
"Sure," he said. "So long."
I hung up and went back to the story. It went sweetly. I was on the
fourth take when the phone rang and it was Captain Evans of the state
police, calling from the hospital where they'd taken Masters. He'd just
phoned Watertown and knew about my call there.
He said, "Mr. Stoeger? You going to be there another fifteen or twenty
minutes?"
I was probably going to be working another several hours, I told him.
"Fine," he said, "I'll drive right around."
That was duck soup; I'd have my story about his questioning Masters
right from the horse's mouth. So I didn't bother asking him any questions
over the phone.
And I found myself, when I'd finished that take, up to the point in the
story where the questioning of Masters should come, so I decided I might as
well wait until I'd talked to Evans, since he was going to be here so soon.
Meanwhile I might as well start checking on the other two stories
again. I called Carl Trenholm, still got no answer. I called the county
asylum. Dr. Buchan, the superintendent, wasn't there, the girl at the
switchboard told me; she asked if I wanted to talk to his assistant and I
said yes.
She put him on and before I'd finished explaining who I was and what I
wanted, he'd interrupted me. "He's on his way over to see you now, Mr.
Stoeger. You're at the Clarion office?"
"Yes," I said, "I'm here now. And you say Dr. Buchan's on his way?
That's fine."
My stories were coming to me, I thought happily, as I put the phone
back. Both Captain Evans and Dr. Buchan. Now if only Carl would drop in too
and explain what had happened to him.
He did. Not that exact second, but only about two minutes later. I'd
wandered over to the stone and was looking gloatingly at the horrible front
page with no news on it and thinking how lovely it was going to look a
couple of hours from now and listening with pleasure to the click of the
mats down the channels of the Linotype, when the door opened and Carl walked
in.
His clothes were a little dusty and disheveled; he had a big patch of
adhesive tape on his forehead and his eyes looked a little bleary. He had a
sheepish grin.
He said, "Hi, Doc. How's everything?"
"Wonderful," I told him. "What happened to you, Carl?"
"That's what I dropped in to tell you, Doc. Thought you might get a
garbled version of it and be worried about me."
"I couldn't even get a garbled version. No version at all; the hospital
wouldn't give. What happened?"
"Got drunk. Went for a walk out the pike to sober up and got so woozy I
had to lie down a minute, so I headed for the grassy strip the other side of
the ditch alongside the road and ґ well, my foot slipped as I was stepping
across the ditch and the ground, with a chunk of rock in its hand, reached
up and slapped me in the face."
"Who found you, Carl?" I asked him.
He chuckled. "I don't even know. I woke up ґ or came to ґ in the
sheriff's car on the way to the hospital. Tried to talk him out of taking me
there, but he insisted. They checked me for a concussion and let me go."
"How do you feel now?"
"Do you really want to know?"
"Well," I said, "maybe not. Want a drink?"
He shuddered. I didn't insist. Instead, I asked him where he'd been
since he'd left the hospital.
"Drinking black coffee at the Greasy Spoon. Think I'm able to make it
home by now. In fact, I'm on my way. But I knew you'd have heard about it
and thought you might as well have the ґ uh ґ facts straight in case ґ uhґ"
"Don't be an ass, Carl," I told him. "You don't rate a stick of type,
even if you wanted it. And, by the way, Smiley gave me the inside dope on
Bonney's divorce, so I cut down the story to essentials and cut out the
charges against Bonney."
"That's swell of you, Doc."
"Why didn't you tell me the truth about it yourself?" I asked him.
"Afraid of interfering with the freedom of the press? Or of taking advantage
of a friendship?"
"Well ґ somewhere in between, I guess. Anyway, thanks. Well, maybe I'll
see you tomorrow. If I live that long."
He left and I wandered back to my desk. The Linotype was caught up to
the typewriter by now, and I hoped Evans would show up soon ґ or Dr. Buchan
from the asylum ґ so I could get ahead with at least one of the stories and
not keep Pete working any later than necessary. For myself, I didn't give a
damn. I was too keyed up to have been able to sleep anyway.
Well, there was one thing we could be doing to save time later. We went
over to the stone and started pulling all the filler items out of the back
pages so we could move back the least important stories on page one to make
room for the two big stories we still had coming. We'd need at least two
full page one columns ґ and more if we could manage it ґ for the capture of
the bank robbers and the escape of the maniac.
We were just getting the pages unlocked, though, when Dr. Buchan came
in. An elderly lady ґ she looked vaguely familiar to me but I couldn't place
her ґ was with him.
She smiled at me and said, "Do you remember me, Mr. Stoeger?" And the
smile did it; I did remember her. She'd lived next door to me when I was a
kid, forty-some years ago, and she'd given me cookies. And I remembered now
that, while I was away at college, I'd heard that she had gone mildly, not
dangerously, insane and had been taken to the asylum. That must have been ґ
Good Lord ґ thirty-some years ago. She must be well over seventy by now. And
her name wasґ
"Certainly, Mrs. Griswald," I told her. "I even remember the cookies
and candy you used to give me."
And I smiled back at her. She looked so happy that one couldn't help
smiling back at her. She said, "I'm so glad you remember, Mr. Stoeger. want
you to do me a big favor ґ and I'm so glad you remember those days, because
maybe you'll do it for me. Dr. Buchan ґ he's so wonderful ґ offered to bring
me here so I could ask you. I ґ I really wasn't running away this evening. I
was just confused. The door was open and I forgot. I was thinking that it
was forty years ago and I wondered what I was doing there and why I wasn't
home with Otto, and so I just started home, that's all. And by the time I
remembered that Otto was dead for so long and that I wasґ" The smile was
tremulous now, and there were tears in her eyes. "Well, by that time I was
lost and couldn't find my way back, until they found me. I even tried to
find my way back, once I remembered and knew where I was supposed to be."
I glanced over her head at tall Dr. Buchan, and he nodded to me. But I
still didn't know what it was all about. I didn't see, so I said, "I see,
Mrs. Griswald."
Her smile was back. She nodded brightly. "Then you won't put it in the
paper? About my wandering away, I mean? Because I didn't really mean to do
it. And Clara, my daughter, lives in Springfield now, but she still
subscribes to your paper for news from home, and if she reads in the Clarion
that I ґ escaped ґ she'll think I'm not happy there and it'll worry her. And
I am happy, Mr. Stoeger ґ Dr. Buchan is wonderful to me ґ and I don't want
to make Clara unhappy or have her worry about me, and ґ you won't write it
up, will you?"
I patted her shoulder gently. I said, "Of course not, Mrs. Griswald."
And then suddenly she was against my chest, crying, and I was
embarrassed as hell. Until Dr. Buchan pulled her gently away and started her
toward the door. He stepped back a second and said to me so quietly that she
couldn't hear, "It's straight, Stoeger. I mean, it probably would worry her
daughter a lot and she really wasn't escaping ґ she just wandered off. And
her daughter really does read your paper."
"Don't worry," I said. "I won't mention it."
Past him, I could see the door open and Captain Evans of the state
police was coming in. He left the door open and Mrs. Griswald was wandering
through it.
Dr. Buchan shook hands quickly. He said, "Thanks a lot, then. And on my
behalf as well as Mrs. Griswald's. It doesn't do an institution like ours
any good to have publicity on escapes, of course. Not that I'd have asked
you, myself, to suppress the story on that account. But since our patient
had a really good, and legitimate, reason to ask you not toґ"
He happened to turn and see that his patient was already herding down
the stairs. He hurried after her before she could again become confused and
wander into limbo.
Another story gone, I thought, as I shook hands with Evans. Those
cookies had been expensive ґ if worth it. I thought, suddenly, of all the
stories I'd had to kill tonight. The bank burglary ґ for good and obvious
reasons. Carl's accident ґ because it had been trivial after all, and
writing it up would have hurt his reputation as a lawyer. The accident in
the Roman candle department, because it might have lost Mrs. Carr's husband
a needed job. Ralph Bonney's divorce ґ well, not killed, exactly, but played
down from a long, important story to a short news item. Mrs. Griswald's
escape from the asylum -because she'd given me cookies once and because it
would have worried her daughter. Even the auction sale at the Baptist Church
ґ for the most obvious reason of all, that it had been called off.
But what the hell did any of that matter as long as I had one really
big story left, the biggest of them all? And there wasn't any conceivable
reason why I couldn't print that one.
Captain Evans took the seat I pulled up for him by my desk and I sank
back into the swivel chair and got a pencil ready for what he was going to
tell me.
"Thanks a hell of a lot for coming here, Cap. Now what's the score
about what you got out of Masters?"
He pushed his hat back on his head and frowned. He said, "I'm sorry,
Doc. I'm going to have to ask you ґ on orders from the top ґ not to run the
story at all."
He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he soughtґ
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood a while in thought.
I don't know what my face looked like. I know I dropped the pencil and
that I had to clear my throat when what I started to say wouldn't come out
the first time.
The second time, it came out, if a bit querulously. "Cap, you're
kidding me. You can't really mean it. The one big thing that's ever happened
here ґ Is this a gag?"
He shook his head. "Nope, Doc. It's the McCoy. It comes right from the
chief himself. I can't make you hold back the story, naturally. But I want
to tell you the facts and I hope you'll decide to." I breathed a little more
freely when he said he couldn't make me hold it back. It wouldn't hurt me to
listen politely.
"Go ahead," I told him. "It had better be good."
He leaned forward. "It's this way, Doc. This Gene Kelley mob is nasty
stuff. Real killers. I guess you found that out tonight about two of them.
And, by the way, you did a damn good job."
"Smiley Wheeler did. I just went along for the ride."
It was a weak joke, but he laughed at it. Probably just to please me.
He said, "If we can keep it quiet for about forty more hours ґ till Saturday
afternoon ґ we can break up the gang completely. Including the big shot
himself, Gene Kelley."
"Why Saturday afternoon?"
"Masters and Kramer had a date for Saturday afternoon with Kelley and
the rest of the mob. At a hotel in Gary, Indiana. They've been separated
since their last job, and they'd arranged that date to get together for the
next one, see? When Kelley and the others show up for that date, well, we've
got 'em.
"That is, unless the news gets out that Masters and Kramer are already
in the bag. Then Kelley and company won't show up."
"Why can't we twist one little thing in the story," I suggested. "Just
say Masters and Kramer were both dead?"
He shook his head. "The other boys wouldn't take any chances. Nope, if
they know our two boys were either caught or killed, they'll stay away from
Gary in droves."
I sighed. I knew it wouldn't work, but I said hopefully, "Maybe none of
the gang members reads the Carmel City Clarion."
"You know better than that, Doc. Other papers all over the country
would pick it up. The Saturday morning papers would have it, even if the
Friday evening editions didn't get it." He had a sudden thought and looked
startled. "Say, Doc, who represents the news services here? Have they got
the story yet?"
"I represent them," I said sadly. "But I hadn't wired either of them on
this yet. I was going to wait till my own paper was out. They'd have fired
me, sure, and it would have cost me a few bucks a year, but for once I was
going to have a big story break in my own paper before I threw it to the
wolves."
He said, "I'm sorry, Doc. I guess this is a big thing for you. But now,
at least, you won't lose out with the news services. You can say you held
the story at the request of the police ґ until, say, midafternoon Saturday.
Then send it in to them and get credit for it."
"Cash, you mean. I want the credit of breaking it in the Clarion, damn
it."
"But will you hold it up, Doc? Listen, those boys are killers. You'll
be saving lives if you let us get them. Do you know anything about Gene
Kelley?"
I nodded; I'd been reading about him in the magazine Smiley had lent
me. He wasn't a very nice man. Evans was right in saying it would cost human
lives to print that story if the story kept Kelley out of the trap he'd
otherwise walk into.
I looked up and Pete was standing there listening. I tried to judge
from his face what he thought about it, but he was keeping it carefully
blank.
I scowled at him and said; "Shut off that God damn Linotype. I can't
hear myself think."
He went and shut it off.
Evans looked relieved. He said, "Thanks, Doc." For no reason at all ґ
the evening was moderately cool ґ he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his
forehead. "What a break it was that Masters hated the rest of the mob enough
to turn them in for us when he figured he was done himself. And that you're
willing to hold the story till we get 'em. Well, you can use it next week."
There wasn't any use telling him that I could also print a chapter or
two of Caesar's Gallic Wars next week; it was ancient history too.
So I didn't say anything and after a few more seconds he got up and
left.
It seemed awfully quiet without the Linotype running. Pete came over.
He said, "Well, Doc, we still got that nine-inch hole in the front page that
you said you'd find some way of filling in the morning. Maybe while we're
here anywayґ"
I ran my fingers through what is left of my hair. "Run it as is, Pete,"
I told him, "except with a black border around it."
"Look, Doc, I can pull forward that story on the Ladies' Aid election
and if I reset it narrow measure to fit a box, it'll maybe run long enough."
I couldn't think of anything better. I said, "Sure, Pete," but when he
started toward the Linotype to turn it back on, I said, "But not tonight,
Pete. In the morning. It's half past eleven. Get home to the wife and
kiddies."
"But I'd just as soonґ"
"Get the hell out of here," I said, "before I bust out blubbering. I
don't want anybody to see me do it."
He grinned to show he knew I didn't really mean it and said, "Sure,
Doc. I'll get down a little early, then. Seven- thirty. You going to stick
around a while now?"
"A few minutes," I said. " `Night, Pete. Thanks for coming down, and
everything."
I kept sitting at my desk for a minute after he'd left, and I didn't
blubber, but I wanted to all right. It didn't seem possible that so much had
happened and that I couldn't get even a stick of type out of any of it. For
a few minutes I wished that I was a son-of-a-bitch instead of a sucker so I
could go ahead and print it all. Even if it let the Kelley mob get away to
do more killing, lost my housekeeper's husband her job, made a fool out of
Carl Trenholm, worried Mrs. Griswald's daughter and ruined Harvey Andrews'
reputation by telling how he'd been caught robbing his father's bank while
running away from home. And while I was at it, I might as well smear Ralph
Bonney by listing the untrue charges brought against him in the divorce case
and write a humorous little item about the leader of the local antisaloon
faction setting up a round for the boys at Smiley's. And even run the
rummage sale story on the ground that the cancellation had been too late and
let a few dozen citizens make a trip in vain. It would be wonderful to be a
son-of-a-bitch instead of a sucker so I could do all that. Sons-of-bitches
must have more fun than people. And definitely they get out bigger and
better newspapers.
I wandered over and looked at the front page lying there on the stone,
and for something to do I dropped the filler items back in page four. The
ones we'd taken out to let us move back the present junk from page one to
make room for all the big stories we were going to break. I locked up the
page again.
It was quiet as hell.
I wondered why I didn't get out of there and have another drink ґ or a
hell of a lot of drinks ґ at Smiley's. I wondered why I didn't want to get
stinking drunk. But I didn't.
I wandered over to the window and stood staring down at the quiet
street. They hadn't rolled the sidewalks in yet ґ closing time for taverns
is midnight in Carmel City ґ but nobody was walking on them.
A car went by and I recognized it as Ralph Bonney's car, heading
probably, to pick up Miles Harrison and take him over to Neilsville to pick
up the night side pay roll for the fireworks plant, including the Roman
candle department. To which I had brieflyґ
I decided I'd smoke one more cigarette and then go home. I reached into
my pocket and pulled out the cigarette package and something fluttered to
the floor ґ a card.
I picked it up and stared at it. It read.
Yehudi Smith
Suddenly the dead night was alive again. I'd written off Yehudi Smith
when I'd heard that the escaped lunatic had been captured. I'd written him
off so completely that I'd forgotten to write him on again when Dr. Buchan
had brought in Mrs. Griswald to talk to me.
Yehudi Smith wasn't the escaped lunatic.
Suddenly I wanted to jump up into the air and click my heels together,
I wanted to run, I wanted to yell.
Then I remembered how long I'd been gone and I almost ran to the
telephone on my desk. I gave my own number and my heart sank as it rang
once, twice, thrice ґ and then after the fourth ring Smith's voice answered
with a sleepy-sounding hello.
I said, "This is Doc Stoeger, Mr. Smith. I'm starting home now. Want to
apologize for having kept you waiting so long. Some things happened:"
"Good. I mean, good that you're coming now. What time is it?"
"About half past eleven. I'll be there in fifteen minutes. And thanks
for waiting."
I hurried into my coat and grabbed my hat. I almost forgot to turn out
the lights and lock the door.
Smiley's first, but not for a drink; I picked up a bottle to take
along. The one at my house had been getting low when I left; only God knew
what had happened to it since.
Leaving Smiley's with the bottle, I swore again at the fact that my car
was laid up with those flat tires. Not that it's a long walk or that I mind
walking in the slightest where I'm not in a hurry, but again I was in a
hurry. Last time it had been because I thought Carl Trenholm was dead or
seriously injured ґ and to get away from Yehudi Smith. This time it was to
get back to him.
Past the post office, now dark. The bank, this time with the night
light on and no evidence of crime in sight. Past the spot where the Buick
had pulled up and a voice had asked someone named Buster what town this was.
There wasn't a car in sight now, friend or foe. Past everything that I'd
passed so many thousand times, and off the main street into the friendly,
pleasant side streets no longer infested with homicidal maniacs or other
horrors. I didn't look behind me once, all the way home.
I felt so good I felt silly. Best of all I was cold-sobered by
everything that had been happening, and I was ready and in the mood for a
few more drinks and some more screwy conversation.
I still didn't completely believe he'd be there, but he was.
And he looked so familiar sitting there that I wondered why I'd
doubted. I said "Hi," and shied my hat at the hatrack and it hit a peg and
stayed there. That was the first time that had happened in months so I knew
from that that I was lucky tonight. As if I needed that to prove it.
I took the seat across from him, just as we'd been sitting before, and
I poured us each a drink ґ still from the first bottle; apparently he hadn't
drunk much while I'd been gone ґ and started to renew the apologies I'd made
over the phone for having been away so long.
He waved the apologies away with a casual gesture. "It doesn't matter
at all, as long as you got back." He smiled. "I had a nice nap."
We touched glasses and drank. He said, "Let's see; just where were we
when you got that phone call ґ oh, which reminds me; you said it was about
an accident to a friend. May I askґ?"
"He's all right," I told him. "Nothing serious. It was ґ well, other
things kept coming up that kept me away so long."
"Good. Then ґ oh, yes, I remember. When the phone rang we were talking
about the Roman candle department. We'd just drunk to it."
I remembered and nodded. "That's where I've been, ever since I left
here."
"Seriously?"
"Quite," I said. "They fired me half an hour ago, but it was fun while
it lasted. Wait; no, it wasn't. I won't lie to you. At the time it was
happening, it was pretty horrible."
His eyebrows went up a little. "Then you're serious. Something did
happen. You know, Doctorґ"
"Doc," I said.
"You know, Doc, you're different. Changed, somehow."
I refilled our glasses, still from the first bottle, although that
round killed it.
"It's temporary, I think. Yes, Mr. Smith, I hadґ"
"Smitty," he said.
"Yes, Smitty, I had a rather bad experience, while it lasted, and I'm
still in reaction from it, but the reaction won't last. I'm still jittery
from it and I may be even more jittery tomorrow when I realize what a narrow
squeak I had, but I'm still the same guy. Doc Stoeger, fifty-three, genial
failure both as a hero and as an editor."
Silence for a few seconds and then he said, "Doc, I like you. I think
you're a swell guy. I don't know what happened, and I don't suppose you want
to tell me, but I'll bet you one thing."
"Thanks, Smitty," I said. "And it's not that I don't want to tell you
what happened this evening; it's just that I don't want to talk about it at
all, right now. Some other time I'll be glad to tell you, but right now I
want to stop thinking about it ґ and start thinking about Lewis Carroll
again. What's the one thing you want to bet me, though?"
"That you're not a failure as an editor. As a hero, maybe ґ damned few
of us are heroes. But I'll bet you said you were a failure as an editor
because you killed a story ґ for some good reason. And not a selfish one.
Would I win that bet?"
"You would," I said. I didn't tell him he'd have won it five times
over. "But I'm not proud of myself ґ the only thing is that I'd have been
ashamed of myself otherwise. This way, I'm going to be ashamed of my paper.
All newspapermen, Smitty, should be sons-of-bitches."
"Why?" And before I could answer he tossed off the drink I'd just
poured him -tossed it off as before with that fascinating trick of the glass
never really nearing his lips ґ and answered it himself with a more
unanswerable question. "So that newspapers will be more entertaining? ґ at
the expense of human lives they might wreck or even destroy?"
The mood was gone, or the mood was wrong. I shook myself a little. I
said, "Let's get back to Jabberwocks. And ґ My God, every time I get to
talking seriously it sobers me up. I had such a nice edge early in the
evening. Let's have another ґ and to Lewis Carroll again. And then go back
to that gobbledegook you were giving me, the stuff that sounded like
Einstein on a binge."
He grinned: "Wonderful word, gobbledegook. Carroll might have
originated it, except that there was less of it in his time. All right, Doc,
to Carroll."
And again his glass was empty. It was a trick I'd have to learn, no
matter how much time it took or how much whisky it wasted. But, the first
time, in private.
I drank mine and it was the third since I'd come home, fifteen minutes
ago; I was beginning to feel them. Not that I feel three drinks, starting
from scratch, but these didn't start from scratch. I'd had quite a few early
in the evening, before the fresh air of my little ride with Bat and George
had cleared my head, and several at Smiley's thereafter.
They were hitting me now. Not hard, but definitely.
There was a mistiness about the room. We were talking about Carroll and
mathematics again, or Yehudi Smith was talking, anyway, and I was trying to
concentrate on what he was saying. He seemed, for a moment, to blur a little
and to advance and recede as I looked at him. And his voice was a blur, too,
a blur of sines and cosines. I shook my head to clear it a bit and decided
I'd better lay off the bottle for a while.
Then I realized that what he'd just said was a question and I begged
his pardon.
"The clock on your mantel," he repeated, "is it correct?"
I managed to focus my eyes on it. Ten minutes to twelve. I said, "Yes,
it's right. It's still early. You're not thinking of going, surely. I'm a
little woozy at the moment, butґ"
"How long will it take us to get there from here? I have directions how
to reach it, of course, but you could probably estimate the time it will
take us better than I can."
For a second I stared at him blankly, wondering what he was talking
about.
Then I remembered.
We were going to a haunted house to hunt a Jabberwock ґ or something.
"First, the fish must be caught."
That is easy: a baby, I think, could have caught it.
"Next, the fish must be bought."
That is easy: a penny, I think, would have bought it.
Maybe you won't believe that I could have forgotten that, but I had. So
much had happened between the time I'd left my house and the time I returned
that it's a wonder, I suppose, that I still remembered my own name, and
Yehudi's.
Ten minutes before twelve and we were due there, he'd said, at one
o'clock.
"You have a car?" I asked him.
He nodded. "A few doors down. I got out at the wrong place to look for
street numbers, but I was close enough that I didn't bother moving the car."
"Then somewhere between twenty and thirty minutes will get us there," I
told him.
"Fine, Doctor. Then we've got forty minutes yet if we allow half an
hour."
The woozy spell was passing fast, but I refilled his glass this time
without refilling my own. I wanted to sober up a bit ґ not completely,
"Huh? You mean it, Doc? I've been thinking about getting one to keep
under the bar."
"Sure, I mean it," I told him. "I'm afraid of the damn things and I'm
safer without one."
He hefted it appraisingly. "Nice gun. It's worth something."
I said, "So's my life, Smiley. To me, anyway. And you saved it when you
pushed me out of that car and over the edge tonight."
"Forget it, Doc. I couldn't have got out that door myself with you
asleep in it. And getting out of the other side of the car wouldn't have
been such a hot idea. Well, if you really mean it, thanks for the gun."
He put it out of sight under the bar and then poured us each a second
drink. "Make it short," I told him. "I've got a lot of work to do."
He glanced at his clock and it was only ten thirty. He said, "Hell,
Doc, the evenin's only a pup."
I thought, but didn't say, what a pup!
I wonder what I'd have thought if I'd even guessed that the pup hadn't
even been weaned yet.
Pete came in.
"It seems a shame," the Walrus said
"To play them such a trick.
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
Neither Smiley nor I had touched, as yet, the second drink he'd poured
us, so there was time for Pete Corey to get in on the round; Smiley poured a
drink for him.
He said, "Okay, Doc, now what's this gag about Smiley and you going for
a ride? You told me your car was laid up and Smiley doesn't drive one."
"Pete," I said, "Smiley doesn't have to be able to drive a car. He's a
gentleman of genius. He kills or captures killers. That's what we were
doing. Anyway, that's what Smiley was doing. I went along, just for the
ride."
"Doc, you're kidding me."
I said, "If you don't believe me, read tomorrow's Clarion. Ever hear of
Bat Masters?"
Pete shook his head. He reached for his drink.
"You will," I told him. "In tomorrow's Clarion. Ever hear of George?"
"George Who?"
I opened my mouth to say I didn't know, but Smiley beat me to the punch
by saying, "George Kramer."
I stared at Smiley. "How'd you know his last name?"
"Saw it in a fact detective magazine. And his picture, too, and Bat
Masters'. They're members of the Gene Kelley mob."
I stared harder at Smiley. "You recognized them? I mean, before I even
came in here?"
"Sure," Smiley said. "But it wouldn't have been a good idea to phone
the cops while they were here, so I was going to wait till they left, and
then phone the state cops to pick 'em up between here and Chicago. That's
where they were heading. I listened to what they said, and it wasn't much,
but I did get that much out of it. Chicago. They had a date there tomorrow
afternoon."
"You're not kidding, Smiley?" I asked him. "You really had them spotted
before I came in here?"
"I'll show you the magazine, Doc, with their pictures in it. Pictures
of all the Gene Kelley mob."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Smiley shrugged his big shoulders. "You didn't ask. Why didn't you tell
me you had a gun in your pocket? If you coulda slipped it to me in the car,
we'd have polished 'em off sooner. It would have been a cinch; it was so
dark in that back seat after we got out of town, George Kramer wouldn't of
seen you pass it."
He laughed as though he'd said something funny. Maybe he had.
Pete was looking from one to the other of us. He said, "Listen, if this
is a gag, you guys are going a long way for it. What the hell happened?"
Neither of us paid any attention to Pete. I said, "Smiley, where is
that fact detective magazine? Can you get it?"
"Sure, it's upstairs. Why? Don't you believe me?"
"Smiley," I said, "I'd believe you if you told me you were lying. No,
what I had in mind is that that magazine will save me a lot of grief. It'll
have background stuff on the boys we were playing cops and robbers with
tonight. I thought I'd have to phone to Chicago and get it from the cops
there. But if there's a whole article on the Gene Kelley mob in that mag,
I'll have enough without that."
"Get it right away, Doc." Smiley went through the door that led
upstairs.
I took pity on Pete and gave him a quick sketch of our experience with
the gangsters. It was fun to watch his mouth drop open and to think that a
lot of other mouths in Carmel City would do that same thing tomorrow when
the Clarion was distributed.
Smiley came back down with the magazine and I put it in my pocket and
went to the phone again. I still had to have the details about what had
happened to Carl, for the paper. I still wanted it for my own information
too, but that wasn't so important as long as he wasn't seriously hurt.
I tried the hospital first but they gave me the same runaround they'd
given Pete; sorry, but since Mr. Trenholm had been discharged, they could
give out no information. I thanked them. I tried Carl's own phone and got no
answer, so I went back to Pete and Smiley.
Smiley happened to be staring out the window. He said, "Somebody just
went in your office, Doc. Looked like Clyde Andrews."
Pete turned to look, too, but was too late. He said, "Guess that's who
it must've been. Forgot to tell you, Doc; he phoned about twenty minutes ago
while I was waiting for you over at the office. I told him I expected you
any minute."
"You didn't lock the door, did you, Pete?" I asked. He shook his head.
I waited a minute to give the banker time to get up the stairs and into
the office and then I went back to the phone and called the Clarion number.
It rang several times while Clyde, apparently, was making up his mind
whether to answer it or not. Finally he did.
"This is Doc, Clyde," I said. "How's the boy?"
"He's all right, Doc. He's fine. And I want to thank you again for what
you did and ґ I want to talk to you about something. Are you on your way
here?"
"I'm across the street at Smiley's. How about dropping over here if you
want to talk?"
He hesitated. "Can't you come here?" he asked.
I grinned to myself. Clyde Andrews is not only a strict temperance
advocate; he's head of a local chapter (a small one, thank God) of the
Anti-Saloon League. He'd probably never been in a tavern in his life.
I said, "I'm afraid I can't, Clyde." I made my voice very grave. "I'm
afraid if you want to talk to me, it will have to be here at Smiley's."
He got me, all right. He said stiffly, "I'll be there."
I sauntered back to the bar. I said, "Clyde Andrews is coming here,
Smiley. Chalk up a first."
Smiled stared at me. "I don't believe it," he said. He laughed.
"Watch," I told him.
Solemnly I went around behind the bar and got a bottle and two glasses
and took them to a table ґ the one in the far corner farthest from the bar.
I liked the way Pete and Smiley stared at me.
I filled both the glasses and sat down. Pete and Smiley stared some
more. Then they turned and stared the other way as Clyde came in, walking
stiffly. He said, "Good evening, Mr. Corey," to Pete and "Good evening, Mr.
Wheeler" to Smiley, and then came back to where I was sitting.
I said, "Sit down, Clyde," and he sat down.
I looked at him. I said sternly, "Clyde, I don't like ґ in advance ґ
what you're going to ask me."
"But, Doc," he said earnestly, almost pleadingly, "must you print what
happened? Harvey didn't mean toґ"
"That's what I meant," I said. "What makes you think I'd even think of
printing a word about it?"
He looked at me and his face changed. "Doc! You're not going to?"
"Of course not." I leaned forward. "Listen, Clyde, I'll make you a bet
ґ or I would if you were a betting man. I'll bet I know exactly the amount
of money the kid had in his pocket when he was leaving ґ and, no I didn't
look in his pockets. I'll bet he had a savings account ґ he's been working
summers several years now, hasn't he? ґ and he was running away. And he knew
damn well you wouldn't let him draw his own money and that he couldn't draw
it without your knowing it. Whether he had twenty dollars or a thousand,
I'll bet you it was the exact amount of his own account."
He took a deep breath. "You're right. Exactly right. And ґ thanks for
thinking that, before you knew it. I was going to tell you."
"For a fifteen-year-old, Harvey's a good kid, Clyde. Now listen, you'll
admit I did the right thing tonight calling you instead of calling the
sheriff? And in keeping the story out of the paper?"
"Yes."
"You're in a saloon, Clyde. A den of iniquity. You should have said
`Hell, yes.' But I don't suppose it would sound natural if you did, so I
won't insist on it. But, Clyde, how much thinking have you been doing about
why the boy was running away? Has he told you that yet?"
He shook his head slowly. "He's all right now, in bed, asleep. Dr.
Minton gave him a sedative, but told me Harvey had better not do any talking
till tomorrow."
"I'll tell you right now," I said, "that he won't have any very
coherent story about it. Maybe he'll say he was running away to join the
army or to go on the stage or ґ or almost anything. But it won't be the
truth, even if he thinks it is. Clyde, whether he knows it or not, he was
running away. Not toward."
"Away from what?"
"From you," I said.
For a second I thought he was going to get angry and I'm glad he
didn't, because then I might have got angry too and that would have spoiled
the whole thing.
Instead, he slumped a little. He said, "Go on, Doc.
I hated to, then, but I had to strike while the striking was good. I
said, "Listen, Clyde, get up and walk out any time you want to; I'm going to
give it to you straight. You've been a lousy father." At any other time he'd
have walked out on me on that one. I could tell by his face that, even now,
he didn't like it. But at any other time he wouldn't have been sitting at a
back table in Smiley's tavern, either.
I said, "You're a good man, Clyde, but you work at it too hard. You're
rigid, unyielding, righteous. Nobody can love a ramrod. There's nothing
wrong with your being religious, if you want to. Some good men are
religious. But you've got to realize that everybody who doesn't think as you
do isn't necessarily wrong."
I said, "Take alcohol ґ literally, if you wish; there's a glass of
whisky in front of you. But take it figuratively, anyway. It's been a solace
to the human race, one of the things that can make life tolerable, since ґ
damn it, since before the human race was even human. True, there are a few
people who can't handle it ґ but that's no reason to try to legislate it
away from the people who can handle it, and whose enjoyment of life is
increased by its moderate use ґ or even by its occasional immoderate use,
providing it doesn't make them pugnacious or otherwise objectionable.
"But ґ let's skip alcohol. My point is that a man can be a good man
without trying to interfere with his neighbor's life too much. Or with his
son's. Boys are human, Clyde. People in general are human; people are more
human than anybody."
He didn't say anything, and that was a hopeful sign. Maybe a tenth of
it was sinking in.
I said, "Tomorrow, when you can talk with the kid, Clyde, what are you
going to say?"
"I ґ I don't know, Doc."
I said, "Don't say anything. Above all, don't ask him any question. Not
a damn question. And let him keep that money, in cash, so he can run away
any time he decides to. Then maybe he won't. If you change your attitude
toward him.
"But, damn it, Clyde, you can't change your attitude toward him, and
unbend, without unbending in general toward the human race. The kid's a
human being, too. And you could be, if you wanted to. Maybe you think it
will cost you your immortal soul to be one ґ I don't think so, myself, and I
think there are a great many truly religious people who don't think so
either ґ but if you persist in not being one, then you're going to lose your
son."
I decided that that was it. There wasn't anything more that I could say
that couldn't weaken my case. I decided I'd better shut up. I did shut up.
It seemed like a long, long time before he said anything. He was
staring at the wall over my head. When he answered what I'd said, he still
didn't say anything. He did better, a lot better.
He picked up the whisky in front of him. I got mine picked up in time
to down it as he took a sip of his. He made a face.
"Tastes horrible," he said. "Doc, do you really like this stuff?"
"No," I told him. "I hate the taste of it. You're right, Clyde, it is
horrible."
He looked at the glass in his hand and shuddered a little. I said,
"Don't drink it. That sip you took proved your point. And don't try to toss
it off; you'll probably choke."
He said, "I suppose you have to learn to like it. Doc, I've drunk a
little wine a few times, not recently, but I didn't dislike it too much.
Does Mr. Wheeler have any wine?"
"The name is Smiley," I said, "and he does." I stood up. I clapped him
on the back, and it was the first time in my life I'd ever done so. I said,
"Come on, Clyde, let's see what the boys in the back room will have."
I took him over to the bar, to Pete and Smiley. I told Smiley, "We want
a round, and it's on Clyde. Wine for him, and I'll take a short beer this
time; I've got to rewrite a paper tonight."
I frowned at Smiley because of the utterly amazed look on his face, and
he got the hint and straightened it out. He said, "Sure, Mr. Andrews. What
kind of wine?"
"Do you have sherry, Mr. Wheeler?"
I said, "Clyde, meet Smiley. Smiley, Clyde."
Smiley laughed, and Clyde smiled. The smile was a bit stiff, and would
take practice, but I knew and knew damned well that Harvey Andrews wasn't
going to run away from home again.
He was going, henceforth, to have a father who was human. Oh, I don't
mean that I expected Clyde suddenly to turn into Smiley's best customer.
Maybe he'd never come back to Smiley's again. But by ordering one drink ґ
even of wine ґ across a bar, he'd crossed a Rubicon. He wasn't perfect
anymore.
I was beginning to feel my own drinks again and I didn't really want
the one Clyde bought for me, but it was an Occasion, so I took it. But I was
getting in a hurry to get back across the street to the Clarion and get to
work on all the stories I had to write, so I downed it fairly quickly and
Pete and I left. Clyde left when we did, because he wanted to get back to
his son; I didn't blame him for that.
At the Clarion, Pete checked the pot on the Linotype and found it hat
enough ґ while I pulled up the typewriter stand beside my desk and started
abusing the ancient Underwood. I figured that, with the dope in the fact
detective magazine Smiley had given me for background, I could run it to
three or four columns, so I had a lot of work ahead of me. The escaped
looney and Carl could wait ґ now that the former was captured and now that I
knew Carl was safe ґ until I got the main story done.
I told Pete, while he was waiting for the first take, to hand set a
banner head, "TAVERNKEEPER CAPTURES WANTED KILLERS," to see if it would fit.
Oh, sure, I was going to put myself in the story, too, but I was going to
make Smiley the hero of it, for one simple reason: he had been.
Pete had the head set up ґ and it fitted ґ by the time I had a take for
him to start setting on the machine.
In the middle of the second take I realized that I didn't know for sure
that Bat Masters was still alive, although I'd put it that way in the lead.
I might as well find out for sure that he really was, and what condition he
was in.
I knew better than to call the hospital for anything more detailed than
whether he was dead or not, so I picked up the phone and called the state
police office at Watertown. Willie Peeble answered.
He said, "Sure, Doc, he's alive. He's even been conscious and talked
some. Thinks he's dying, so he really opened up."
"Is he dying?"
"Sure, but not the way he thinks. It'll cost the state some kilowatts.
And he can't beat the rap; they've got the whole gang cold, once they catch
them. There were six people ґ two of 'em women ґ killed in that bank job
they pulled at Colby."
"Was George in on that?"
"Sure. He was the one that shot the women. One was a teller and the
other one was a customer who was too scared to move when they told her to
lie flat."
That made me feel a little better about what had happened to George.
Not that it had worried me too much.
I said, "Then I can put in the story that Bat Masters confesses?"
"I dunno about that, Doc. Captain Evans is at the hospital talking to
him now, and we had one report here that Masters is talking, but not the
details. I don't think the cap would even bother asking him about that
stuff."
"What would he ask him, then?"
"The rest of the mob, where they are. There are two others besides Gene
Kelley, and it'd be a real break if the cap can get out of Masters something
that would help us find the others. Especially Kelley. The two we got
tonight are peanuts compared to Kelley."
I said, "Thanks a lot, Willie. Listen, if anything more breaks on the
story, will you give me a ring? I'll be here at the Clarion for a while
yet."
"Sure," he said. "So long."
I hung up and went back to the story. It went sweetly. I was on the
fourth take when the phone rang and it was Captain Evans of the state
police, calling from the hospital where they'd taken Masters. He'd just
phoned Watertown and knew about my call there.
He said, "Mr. Stoeger? You going to be there another fifteen or twenty
minutes?"
I was probably going to be working another several hours, I told him.
"Fine," he said, "I'll drive right around."
That was duck soup; I'd have my story about his questioning Masters
right from the horse's mouth. So I didn't bother asking him any questions
over the phone.
And I found myself, when I'd finished that take, up to the point in the
story where the questioning of Masters should come, so I decided I might as
well wait until I'd talked to Evans, since he was going to be here so soon.
Meanwhile I might as well start checking on the other two stories
again. I called Carl Trenholm, still got no answer. I called the county
asylum. Dr. Buchan, the superintendent, wasn't there, the girl at the
switchboard told me; she asked if I wanted to talk to his assistant and I
said yes.
She put him on and before I'd finished explaining who I was and what I
wanted, he'd interrupted me. "He's on his way over to see you now, Mr.
Stoeger. You're at the Clarion office?"
"Yes," I said, "I'm here now. And you say Dr. Buchan's on his way?
That's fine."
My stories were coming to me, I thought happily, as I put the phone
back. Both Captain Evans and Dr. Buchan. Now if only Carl would drop in too
and explain what had happened to him.
He did. Not that exact second, but only about two minutes later. I'd
wandered over to the stone and was looking gloatingly at the horrible front
page with no news on it and thinking how lovely it was going to look a
couple of hours from now and listening with pleasure to the click of the
mats down the channels of the Linotype, when the door opened and Carl walked
in.
His clothes were a little dusty and disheveled; he had a big patch of
adhesive tape on his forehead and his eyes looked a little bleary. He had a
sheepish grin.
He said, "Hi, Doc. How's everything?"
"Wonderful," I told him. "What happened to you, Carl?"
"That's what I dropped in to tell you, Doc. Thought you might get a
garbled version of it and be worried about me."
"I couldn't even get a garbled version. No version at all; the hospital
wouldn't give. What happened?"
"Got drunk. Went for a walk out the pike to sober up and got so woozy I
had to lie down a minute, so I headed for the grassy strip the other side of
the ditch alongside the road and ґ well, my foot slipped as I was stepping
across the ditch and the ground, with a chunk of rock in its hand, reached
up and slapped me in the face."
"Who found you, Carl?" I asked him.
He chuckled. "I don't even know. I woke up ґ or came to ґ in the
sheriff's car on the way to the hospital. Tried to talk him out of taking me
there, but he insisted. They checked me for a concussion and let me go."
"How do you feel now?"
"Do you really want to know?"
"Well," I said, "maybe not. Want a drink?"
He shuddered. I didn't insist. Instead, I asked him where he'd been
since he'd left the hospital.
"Drinking black coffee at the Greasy Spoon. Think I'm able to make it
home by now. In fact, I'm on my way. But I knew you'd have heard about it
and thought you might as well have the ґ uh ґ facts straight in case ґ uhґ"
"Don't be an ass, Carl," I told him. "You don't rate a stick of type,
even if you wanted it. And, by the way, Smiley gave me the inside dope on
Bonney's divorce, so I cut down the story to essentials and cut out the
charges against Bonney."
"That's swell of you, Doc."
"Why didn't you tell me the truth about it yourself?" I asked him.
"Afraid of interfering with the freedom of the press? Or of taking advantage
of a friendship?"
"Well ґ somewhere in between, I guess. Anyway, thanks. Well, maybe I'll
see you tomorrow. If I live that long."
He left and I wandered back to my desk. The Linotype was caught up to
the typewriter by now, and I hoped Evans would show up soon ґ or Dr. Buchan
from the asylum ґ so I could get ahead with at least one of the stories and
not keep Pete working any later than necessary. For myself, I didn't give a
damn. I was too keyed up to have been able to sleep anyway.
Well, there was one thing we could be doing to save time later. We went
over to the stone and started pulling all the filler items out of the back
pages so we could move back the least important stories on page one to make
room for the two big stories we still had coming. We'd need at least two
full page one columns ґ and more if we could manage it ґ for the capture of
the bank robbers and the escape of the maniac.
We were just getting the pages unlocked, though, when Dr. Buchan came
in. An elderly lady ґ she looked vaguely familiar to me but I couldn't place
her ґ was with him.
She smiled at me and said, "Do you remember me, Mr. Stoeger?" And the
smile did it; I did remember her. She'd lived next door to me when I was a
kid, forty-some years ago, and she'd given me cookies. And I remembered now
that, while I was away at college, I'd heard that she had gone mildly, not
dangerously, insane and had been taken to the asylum. That must have been ґ
Good Lord ґ thirty-some years ago. She must be well over seventy by now. And
her name wasґ
"Certainly, Mrs. Griswald," I told her. "I even remember the cookies
and candy you used to give me."
And I smiled back at her. She looked so happy that one couldn't help
smiling back at her. She said, "I'm so glad you remember, Mr. Stoeger. want
you to do me a big favor ґ and I'm so glad you remember those days, because
maybe you'll do it for me. Dr. Buchan ґ he's so wonderful ґ offered to bring
me here so I could ask you. I ґ I really wasn't running away this evening. I
was just confused. The door was open and I forgot. I was thinking that it
was forty years ago and I wondered what I was doing there and why I wasn't
home with Otto, and so I just started home, that's all. And by the time I
remembered that Otto was dead for so long and that I wasґ" The smile was
tremulous now, and there were tears in her eyes. "Well, by that time I was
lost and couldn't find my way back, until they found me. I even tried to
find my way back, once I remembered and knew where I was supposed to be."
I glanced over her head at tall Dr. Buchan, and he nodded to me. But I
still didn't know what it was all about. I didn't see, so I said, "I see,
Mrs. Griswald."
Her smile was back. She nodded brightly. "Then you won't put it in the
paper? About my wandering away, I mean? Because I didn't really mean to do
it. And Clara, my daughter, lives in Springfield now, but she still
subscribes to your paper for news from home, and if she reads in the Clarion
that I ґ escaped ґ she'll think I'm not happy there and it'll worry her. And
I am happy, Mr. Stoeger ґ Dr. Buchan is wonderful to me ґ and I don't want
to make Clara unhappy or have her worry about me, and ґ you won't write it
up, will you?"
I patted her shoulder gently. I said, "Of course not, Mrs. Griswald."
And then suddenly she was against my chest, crying, and I was
embarrassed as hell. Until Dr. Buchan pulled her gently away and started her
toward the door. He stepped back a second and said to me so quietly that she
couldn't hear, "It's straight, Stoeger. I mean, it probably would worry her
daughter a lot and she really wasn't escaping ґ she just wandered off. And
her daughter really does read your paper."
"Don't worry," I said. "I won't mention it."
Past him, I could see the door open and Captain Evans of the state
police was coming in. He left the door open and Mrs. Griswald was wandering
through it.
Dr. Buchan shook hands quickly. He said, "Thanks a lot, then. And on my
behalf as well as Mrs. Griswald's. It doesn't do an institution like ours
any good to have publicity on escapes, of course. Not that I'd have asked
you, myself, to suppress the story on that account. But since our patient
had a really good, and legitimate, reason to ask you not toґ"
He happened to turn and see that his patient was already herding down
the stairs. He hurried after her before she could again become confused and
wander into limbo.
Another story gone, I thought, as I shook hands with Evans. Those
cookies had been expensive ґ if worth it. I thought, suddenly, of all the
stories I'd had to kill tonight. The bank burglary ґ for good and obvious
reasons. Carl's accident ґ because it had been trivial after all, and
writing it up would have hurt his reputation as a lawyer. The accident in
the Roman candle department, because it might have lost Mrs. Carr's husband
a needed job. Ralph Bonney's divorce ґ well, not killed, exactly, but played
down from a long, important story to a short news item. Mrs. Griswald's
escape from the asylum -because she'd given me cookies once and because it
would have worried her daughter. Even the auction sale at the Baptist Church
ґ for the most obvious reason of all, that it had been called off.
But what the hell did any of that matter as long as I had one really
big story left, the biggest of them all? And there wasn't any conceivable
reason why I couldn't print that one.
Captain Evans took the seat I pulled up for him by my desk and I sank
back into the swivel chair and got a pencil ready for what he was going to
tell me.
"Thanks a hell of a lot for coming here, Cap. Now what's the score
about what you got out of Masters?"
He pushed his hat back on his head and frowned. He said, "I'm sorry,
Doc. I'm going to have to ask you ґ on orders from the top ґ not to run the
story at all."
He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he soughtґ
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood a while in thought.
I don't know what my face looked like. I know I dropped the pencil and
that I had to clear my throat when what I started to say wouldn't come out
the first time.
The second time, it came out, if a bit querulously. "Cap, you're
kidding me. You can't really mean it. The one big thing that's ever happened
here ґ Is this a gag?"
He shook his head. "Nope, Doc. It's the McCoy. It comes right from the
chief himself. I can't make you hold back the story, naturally. But I want
to tell you the facts and I hope you'll decide to." I breathed a little more
freely when he said he couldn't make me hold it back. It wouldn't hurt me to
listen politely.
"Go ahead," I told him. "It had better be good."
He leaned forward. "It's this way, Doc. This Gene Kelley mob is nasty
stuff. Real killers. I guess you found that out tonight about two of them.
And, by the way, you did a damn good job."
"Smiley Wheeler did. I just went along for the ride."
It was a weak joke, but he laughed at it. Probably just to please me.
He said, "If we can keep it quiet for about forty more hours ґ till Saturday
afternoon ґ we can break up the gang completely. Including the big shot
himself, Gene Kelley."
"Why Saturday afternoon?"
"Masters and Kramer had a date for Saturday afternoon with Kelley and
the rest of the mob. At a hotel in Gary, Indiana. They've been separated
since their last job, and they'd arranged that date to get together for the
next one, see? When Kelley and the others show up for that date, well, we've
got 'em.
"That is, unless the news gets out that Masters and Kramer are already
in the bag. Then Kelley and company won't show up."
"Why can't we twist one little thing in the story," I suggested. "Just
say Masters and Kramer were both dead?"
He shook his head. "The other boys wouldn't take any chances. Nope, if
they know our two boys were either caught or killed, they'll stay away from
Gary in droves."
I sighed. I knew it wouldn't work, but I said hopefully, "Maybe none of
the gang members reads the Carmel City Clarion."
"You know better than that, Doc. Other papers all over the country
would pick it up. The Saturday morning papers would have it, even if the
Friday evening editions didn't get it." He had a sudden thought and looked
startled. "Say, Doc, who represents the news services here? Have they got
the story yet?"
"I represent them," I said sadly. "But I hadn't wired either of them on
this yet. I was going to wait till my own paper was out. They'd have fired
me, sure, and it would have cost me a few bucks a year, but for once I was
going to have a big story break in my own paper before I threw it to the
wolves."
He said, "I'm sorry, Doc. I guess this is a big thing for you. But now,
at least, you won't lose out with the news services. You can say you held
the story at the request of the police ґ until, say, midafternoon Saturday.
Then send it in to them and get credit for it."
"Cash, you mean. I want the credit of breaking it in the Clarion, damn
it."
"But will you hold it up, Doc? Listen, those boys are killers. You'll
be saving lives if you let us get them. Do you know anything about Gene
Kelley?"
I nodded; I'd been reading about him in the magazine Smiley had lent
me. He wasn't a very nice man. Evans was right in saying it would cost human
lives to print that story if the story kept Kelley out of the trap he'd
otherwise walk into.
I looked up and Pete was standing there listening. I tried to judge
from his face what he thought about it, but he was keeping it carefully
blank.
I scowled at him and said; "Shut off that God damn Linotype. I can't
hear myself think."
He went and shut it off.
Evans looked relieved. He said, "Thanks, Doc." For no reason at all ґ
the evening was moderately cool ґ he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his
forehead. "What a break it was that Masters hated the rest of the mob enough
to turn them in for us when he figured he was done himself. And that you're
willing to hold the story till we get 'em. Well, you can use it next week."
There wasn't any use telling him that I could also print a chapter or
two of Caesar's Gallic Wars next week; it was ancient history too.
So I didn't say anything and after a few more seconds he got up and
left.
It seemed awfully quiet without the Linotype running. Pete came over.
He said, "Well, Doc, we still got that nine-inch hole in the front page that
you said you'd find some way of filling in the morning. Maybe while we're
here anywayґ"
I ran my fingers through what is left of my hair. "Run it as is, Pete,"
I told him, "except with a black border around it."
"Look, Doc, I can pull forward that story on the Ladies' Aid election
and if I reset it narrow measure to fit a box, it'll maybe run long enough."
I couldn't think of anything better. I said, "Sure, Pete," but when he
started toward the Linotype to turn it back on, I said, "But not tonight,
Pete. In the morning. It's half past eleven. Get home to the wife and
kiddies."
"But I'd just as soonґ"
"Get the hell out of here," I said, "before I bust out blubbering. I
don't want anybody to see me do it."
He grinned to show he knew I didn't really mean it and said, "Sure,
Doc. I'll get down a little early, then. Seven- thirty. You going to stick
around a while now?"
"A few minutes," I said. " `Night, Pete. Thanks for coming down, and
everything."
I kept sitting at my desk for a minute after he'd left, and I didn't
blubber, but I wanted to all right. It didn't seem possible that so much had
happened and that I couldn't get even a stick of type out of any of it. For
a few minutes I wished that I was a son-of-a-bitch instead of a sucker so I
could go ahead and print it all. Even if it let the Kelley mob get away to
do more killing, lost my housekeeper's husband her job, made a fool out of
Carl Trenholm, worried Mrs. Griswald's daughter and ruined Harvey Andrews'
reputation by telling how he'd been caught robbing his father's bank while
running away from home. And while I was at it, I might as well smear Ralph
Bonney by listing the untrue charges brought against him in the divorce case
and write a humorous little item about the leader of the local antisaloon
faction setting up a round for the boys at Smiley's. And even run the
rummage sale story on the ground that the cancellation had been too late and
let a few dozen citizens make a trip in vain. It would be wonderful to be a
son-of-a-bitch instead of a sucker so I could do all that. Sons-of-bitches
must have more fun than people. And definitely they get out bigger and
better newspapers.
I wandered over and looked at the front page lying there on the stone,
and for something to do I dropped the filler items back in page four. The
ones we'd taken out to let us move back the present junk from page one to
make room for all the big stories we were going to break. I locked up the
page again.
It was quiet as hell.
I wondered why I didn't get out of there and have another drink ґ or a
hell of a lot of drinks ґ at Smiley's. I wondered why I didn't want to get
stinking drunk. But I didn't.
I wandered over to the window and stood staring down at the quiet
street. They hadn't rolled the sidewalks in yet ґ closing time for taverns
is midnight in Carmel City ґ but nobody was walking on them.
A car went by and I recognized it as Ralph Bonney's car, heading
probably, to pick up Miles Harrison and take him over to Neilsville to pick
up the night side pay roll for the fireworks plant, including the Roman
candle department. To which I had brieflyґ
I decided I'd smoke one more cigarette and then go home. I reached into
my pocket and pulled out the cigarette package and something fluttered to
the floor ґ a card.
I picked it up and stared at it. It read.
Yehudi Smith
Suddenly the dead night was alive again. I'd written off Yehudi Smith
when I'd heard that the escaped lunatic had been captured. I'd written him
off so completely that I'd forgotten to write him on again when Dr. Buchan
had brought in Mrs. Griswald to talk to me.
Yehudi Smith wasn't the escaped lunatic.
Suddenly I wanted to jump up into the air and click my heels together,
I wanted to run, I wanted to yell.
Then I remembered how long I'd been gone and I almost ran to the
telephone on my desk. I gave my own number and my heart sank as it rang
once, twice, thrice ґ and then after the fourth ring Smith's voice answered
with a sleepy-sounding hello.
I said, "This is Doc Stoeger, Mr. Smith. I'm starting home now. Want to
apologize for having kept you waiting so long. Some things happened:"
"Good. I mean, good that you're coming now. What time is it?"
"About half past eleven. I'll be there in fifteen minutes. And thanks
for waiting."
I hurried into my coat and grabbed my hat. I almost forgot to turn out
the lights and lock the door.
Smiley's first, but not for a drink; I picked up a bottle to take
along. The one at my house had been getting low when I left; only God knew
what had happened to it since.
Leaving Smiley's with the bottle, I swore again at the fact that my car
was laid up with those flat tires. Not that it's a long walk or that I mind
walking in the slightest where I'm not in a hurry, but again I was in a
hurry. Last time it had been because I thought Carl Trenholm was dead or
seriously injured ґ and to get away from Yehudi Smith. This time it was to
get back to him.
Past the post office, now dark. The bank, this time with the night
light on and no evidence of crime in sight. Past the spot where the Buick
had pulled up and a voice had asked someone named Buster what town this was.
There wasn't a car in sight now, friend or foe. Past everything that I'd
passed so many thousand times, and off the main street into the friendly,
pleasant side streets no longer infested with homicidal maniacs or other
horrors. I didn't look behind me once, all the way home.
I felt so good I felt silly. Best of all I was cold-sobered by
everything that had been happening, and I was ready and in the mood for a
few more drinks and some more screwy conversation.
I still didn't completely believe he'd be there, but he was.
And he looked so familiar sitting there that I wondered why I'd
doubted. I said "Hi," and shied my hat at the hatrack and it hit a peg and
stayed there. That was the first time that had happened in months so I knew
from that that I was lucky tonight. As if I needed that to prove it.
I took the seat across from him, just as we'd been sitting before, and
I poured us each a drink ґ still from the first bottle; apparently he hadn't
drunk much while I'd been gone ґ and started to renew the apologies I'd made
over the phone for having been away so long.
He waved the apologies away with a casual gesture. "It doesn't matter
at all, as long as you got back." He smiled. "I had a nice nap."
We touched glasses and drank. He said, "Let's see; just where were we
when you got that phone call ґ oh, which reminds me; you said it was about
an accident to a friend. May I askґ?"
"He's all right," I told him. "Nothing serious. It was ґ well, other
things kept coming up that kept me away so long."
"Good. Then ґ oh, yes, I remember. When the phone rang we were talking
about the Roman candle department. We'd just drunk to it."
I remembered and nodded. "That's where I've been, ever since I left
here."
"Seriously?"
"Quite," I said. "They fired me half an hour ago, but it was fun while
it lasted. Wait; no, it wasn't. I won't lie to you. At the time it was
happening, it was pretty horrible."
His eyebrows went up a little. "Then you're serious. Something did
happen. You know, Doctorґ"
"Doc," I said.
"You know, Doc, you're different. Changed, somehow."
I refilled our glasses, still from the first bottle, although that
round killed it.
"It's temporary, I think. Yes, Mr. Smith, I hadґ"
"Smitty," he said.
"Yes, Smitty, I had a rather bad experience, while it lasted, and I'm
still in reaction from it, but the reaction won't last. I'm still jittery
from it and I may be even more jittery tomorrow when I realize what a narrow
squeak I had, but I'm still the same guy. Doc Stoeger, fifty-three, genial
failure both as a hero and as an editor."
Silence for a few seconds and then he said, "Doc, I like you. I think
you're a swell guy. I don't know what happened, and I don't suppose you want
to tell me, but I'll bet you one thing."
"Thanks, Smitty," I said. "And it's not that I don't want to tell you
what happened this evening; it's just that I don't want to talk about it at
all, right now. Some other time I'll be glad to tell you, but right now I
want to stop thinking about it ґ and start thinking about Lewis Carroll
again. What's the one thing you want to bet me, though?"
"That you're not a failure as an editor. As a hero, maybe ґ damned few
of us are heroes. But I'll bet you said you were a failure as an editor
because you killed a story ґ for some good reason. And not a selfish one.
Would I win that bet?"
"You would," I said. I didn't tell him he'd have won it five times
over. "But I'm not proud of myself ґ the only thing is that I'd have been
ashamed of myself otherwise. This way, I'm going to be ashamed of my paper.
All newspapermen, Smitty, should be sons-of-bitches."
"Why?" And before I could answer he tossed off the drink I'd just
poured him -tossed it off as before with that fascinating trick of the glass
never really nearing his lips ґ and answered it himself with a more
unanswerable question. "So that newspapers will be more entertaining? ґ at
the expense of human lives they might wreck or even destroy?"
The mood was gone, or the mood was wrong. I shook myself a little. I
said, "Let's get back to Jabberwocks. And ґ My God, every time I get to
talking seriously it sobers me up. I had such a nice edge early in the
evening. Let's have another ґ and to Lewis Carroll again. And then go back
to that gobbledegook you were giving me, the stuff that sounded like
Einstein on a binge."
He grinned: "Wonderful word, gobbledegook. Carroll might have
originated it, except that there was less of it in his time. All right, Doc,
to Carroll."
And again his glass was empty. It was a trick I'd have to learn, no
matter how much time it took or how much whisky it wasted. But, the first
time, in private.
I drank mine and it was the third since I'd come home, fifteen minutes
ago; I was beginning to feel them. Not that I feel three drinks, starting
from scratch, but these didn't start from scratch. I'd had quite a few early
in the evening, before the fresh air of my little ride with Bat and George
had cleared my head, and several at Smiley's thereafter.
They were hitting me now. Not hard, but definitely.
There was a mistiness about the room. We were talking about Carroll and
mathematics again, or Yehudi Smith was talking, anyway, and I was trying to
concentrate on what he was saying. He seemed, for a moment, to blur a little
and to advance and recede as I looked at him. And his voice was a blur, too,
a blur of sines and cosines. I shook my head to clear it a bit and decided
I'd better lay off the bottle for a while.
Then I realized that what he'd just said was a question and I begged
his pardon.
"The clock on your mantel," he repeated, "is it correct?"
I managed to focus my eyes on it. Ten minutes to twelve. I said, "Yes,
it's right. It's still early. You're not thinking of going, surely. I'm a
little woozy at the moment, butґ"
"How long will it take us to get there from here? I have directions how
to reach it, of course, but you could probably estimate the time it will
take us better than I can."
For a second I stared at him blankly, wondering what he was talking
about.
Then I remembered.
We were going to a haunted house to hunt a Jabberwock ґ or something.
"First, the fish must be caught."
That is easy: a baby, I think, could have caught it.
"Next, the fish must be bought."
That is easy: a penny, I think, would have bought it.
Maybe you won't believe that I could have forgotten that, but I had. So
much had happened between the time I'd left my house and the time I returned
that it's a wonder, I suppose, that I still remembered my own name, and
Yehudi's.
Ten minutes before twelve and we were due there, he'd said, at one
o'clock.
"You have a car?" I asked him.
He nodded. "A few doors down. I got out at the wrong place to look for
street numbers, but I was close enough that I didn't bother moving the car."
"Then somewhere between twenty and thirty minutes will get us there," I
told him.
"Fine, Doctor. Then we've got forty minutes yet if we allow half an
hour."
The woozy spell was passing fast, but I refilled his glass this time
without refilling my own. I wanted to sober up a bit ґ not completely,