Bentavagnia could see nothing but the Judge’s eyes — they were waiting for some word — and he felt his heart stop — quite distinctly — and he tried to stammer out a last Hail Mary. “Gently down the stream,” he whispered. No, that was wrong, it was “Hail Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily...”
The Judge dropped him back in his chair disgustedly. The guards raised their unneeded guns.
Life is but a dream.
A few minutes later three men stood on the curb of that desolate street. The tallest was whistling a child’s song. His younger companions, as tough-looking as they were, seemed somewhat shaken. A limousine came for them, and the street was empty again.
Later that afternoon, there were a number of people clustered around the intersection at which Freddy Angel had disappeared, superintended by a young cop, whose squad car was detailed there. Two ambulances were parked next to him, one equipped with a winch and a miniature crane for traffic accidents. The ambulance medics were beginning to show the effects of many beers; after working for an hour in the intense heat one of them had gone to a deli for several cold eight-packs. There was no traffic, but a small noisy crowd had gathered, mostly children.
The focus of all the attention was a manhole, from which the medics were attempting to remove a heavy-set man, the chief obstacles to his removal being the splints on both his legs and one arm. A makeshift harness had been strapped around him, and now the crane could be employed. One of the medics from the second ambulance was telling the policeman that all of this waste of time and effort was due to the incredible incompetence of the guys in the first ambulance.
“Look, I’m still trying to figure out how to make out my report,” the cop said, interrupting him. “You say this guy was carrying several IDs but answers to the name of Federico Angeli, and the reason he wasn’t looking where he was going—”
“Here, the way I see it is this,” the medic said. “These guys who were down there working on the sewers broke for lunch, and you know what that means — for the day. Later somebody must have moved their barricades to the curb to clear the way, probably whoever was running the street-cleaning machine that came through this morning. Whoever it was didn’t notice that the manhole cover wasn’t on securely. Then I guess when the street-cleaning machine did go over, it dragged the cover nearly all the way off — and the whole trouble was, this is one of the old-style flat covers like you don’t see much any more.
“O.K., the stage is set. This guy Angeli is walking along. According to him, he gets the idea somebody is following him and he starts to run. He turns the corner and starts across the street, looking backward all the time to see if he’s being tailed, and drops right into the manhole. On the way down his chin catches that little edge of the cover that’s still hanging over the hole. Whap! The manhole cover levers over his head and plunks neatly into place. Ching! So the guy’s out cold, a couple of teeth missing, legs broken, arm broken — and no way for anybody to know where he went unless they were watching the exact second it happened. Poof! Like a magic trick.”
“Poof,” the cop said, nodding ponderously. “So how long was he unconscious?”
“Dropped around two o’clock, he says. Woke up and started screaming about four.”
The policeman ambled over to the manhole from which Freddy Angel’s face was now emerging. “What was he kvetching about down there?” he asked the medic.
“He says he has an appointment. All the time we’re working on him, besides screaming, he’s saying he’s got this important appointment.” Angel, seeing the cop, nodded his head and spoke, attempting to enunciate clearly despite a sore and swollen jaw. “Important. Lot of money. Business. Had to get there on time. Everything ruined now.”
The cop looked grave and wise from the beer he had cadged from the medics. His voice had a ring to it, as though fraught with meaning. “Buddy,” he said solemnly, “this just wasn’t your day.”
The Hummelmeyer Operation
by James Holding
Even the near-Stygian gloom of the Elite Cocktail Lounge was unable to hide from me the smile of approbation that bloomed on Dixie’s lovely face across the table from me.
In a conspiratorial whisper she said, “I bet you have another of your clever ideas, haven’t you? Is that why you asked me to meet you here, Professor?”
Dixie addresses me as “Professor” because I once attended Dartmouth College for a year and speak, in consequence, with what Dixie is pleased to characterize as the precision of a pedant.
I nodded. “Another idea, yes. And this time I believe we may achieve excellent results, Dixie, if you are willing to undertake a simple masquerade for a few days.”
“A masquerade! How exciting!” Dixie’s clear, brown, childishly candid gaze reflected the enthusiasm of the true con artist at the prospect of action. “What kind of a masquerade, Professor?”
“The impersonation of a mentally disturbed woman.”
“You want me to pretend to be crazy?” Dixie’s enthusiasm cooled perceptibly.
“No, no, child, not crazy,” I soothed her. “Merely afflicted with a very common malady known as kleptomania.”
“Oh, well, that’s different,” Dixie said, relieved. “Kleptomania’s just stealing, isn’t it? I can do that.” She settled back to listen.
I got the telephone call the next afternoon about three. I’d been waiting for it.
“Yes?” I said, adopting a humorless, no-nonsense tone.
“Mr. Miller?” a voice asked me. “Mr. C. B. Miller?” A bass voice, tinged, I thought, with the orotundity of authority.
“Right,” I replied.
“My name’s Damson, Mr. Miller. Chief of Security at Hummelmeyer’s Department Store.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Damson?” Hummelmeyer’s is the biggest department store in the city.
“I have a woman here who claims to be your wife, Mr. Miller. One of my men has apprehended her in the act of shoplifting.”
“What!” I put pain and indignation into my voice. “Not again! Poor Estelle.” I paused and asked hopefully, “You’re sure she’s my wife?”
“She has no identification with her, but she gave me your number to call. She’s right here in my office. Five feet six, shoulder-length reddish blonde hair, woven straw shoulder bag, green pantsuit, nice figure, big sunglasses over baby blue eyes, and cries easy. Does that sound like your wife?”
It sounded like Dixie with her blonde wig, blue contact lenses, and platform shoes on. “That’s Estelle,” I sighed. “What did she steal, Mr. Damson?”
“An Italian silk head scarf. Sneaked it into her purse and left the store with it. My men braced her outside, retrieved the scarf, and brought her to me. The scarf’s a ten-fifty item, Mr. Miller. She’s offered to pay cash for it, of course, but it’s against Hummelmeyer’s policy to allow thieves to pay their way out of trouble. So now she’s into the remorseful tears bit, and begs you to come and rescue her. ‘Rescue’ is her word, not mine.” Damson’s voice was sardonic.
“Listen, Mr. Damson,” I said seriously, “I appreciate your calling me more than I can tell you. Our psychiatrist in Texas discharged Estelle several years ago as cured. But apparently he was wrong.”
Mr. Damson sighed wearily into the telephone. “Is your wife a kleptomaniac, Mr. Miller? Is that what you mean?”
“I’m afraid so. Quite innocent and honest usually. But occasionally she has stolen things. Small items mostly, like that scarf. She knows perfectly well that I can afford to pay for anything that catches her fancy — anything — yet that doesn’t help her when one of these spells hits her. She literally can’t keep herself from stealing. That’s why I don’t permit her to carry credit cards with her, only cash. Unless I’m with her, of course.”