"I— No comment! You button up, or I’ll run you in."
"By all means. But you have that Buck-Rogers cannon pointed so that, after the shell passes through the whirlwind, if any, it should end up just about at the city hall. Is this a plot to assassinate Hizzoner?"
Yancel looked around suddenly, then let his gaze travel an imaginary trajectory.
"Hey, you lugs!" he shouted. "Point that thing the other way. You want to knock off the Mayor?"
"That’s better," Pete told the Sergeant. "Now they have it trained on the First National Bank. I can’t wait."
Yancel looked over the situation again. "Point it where it won’t hurt anybody," he ordered. "Do I have to do all your thinking?"
"But, Sergeant—"
"Well?"
"You point it. We’ll fire it."
Pete watched them. "Clarence," he sighed, "you stick around and get a pic of them loading it back into the car. That will be in about five minutes. Pappy and I will be in the Happy Hour Bar- Grill. Get a nice picture, with Yancel’s features."
"Natch," said Clarence.
The next installment of OUR FAIR CITY featured three cuts and was headed "Police Declare War on Whirlwind." Pete took a copy and set out for the parking lot, intending to show it to Pappy.
Pappy wasn’t there. Nor was Kitten. He looked around the neighborhood, poking his nose in lunchrooms and bars. No luck.
He headed back toward the Forum building, telling himself that Pappy might be shopping, or at a movie. He returned to his desk, made a couple of false starts on a column for the morrow, crumpled them up and went to the art department. "Hey! Clarence! Have you been down to the parking lot today?"
"Nah."
"Pappy’s missing."
"So what?"
"Well, come along. We got to find him."
"Why?" But he came, lugging his camera.
The lot was still deserted, no Pappy, no Kitten—not even a stray breeze. Pete turned away. "Come on, Clarence—say, what are you shooting now?"
Clarence had his camera turned up toward the sky. "Not shooting," said Clarence. "Light is no good."
"What was it?"
"Whirlwind."
"Huh? Kitten?"
"Maybe."
"Here, Kitten—come, Kitten." The whirlwind came back near him, spun faster, and picked up a piece of cardboard it had dropped. It whipped it around, then let him have it in the face.
"That’s not funny, Kitten," Pete complained. "Where’s Pappy?"
The whirlwind sidled back toward him. He saw it reach again for the cardboard. "No, you on’t!" he yelped and reached for it, too.
The whirlwind beat him to it. It carried it up some hundred feet and sailed it back. The card caught him edgewise on the bridge of the nose. "Kitten!" Pete yelled. "Quit the horsing around."
It was a printed notice, about six by eight inches. Evidently it had been tacked up; there were small tears at all four corners. It read: "THE RITZ-CLASSIC" and under that, "Room 2013, Single Occupancy $6.00, Double Occupancy $8.00." There followed a printed list of the house rules.
Pete stared at it and frowned. Suddenly he chucked it back at the whirlwind. Kitten immediately tossed it back in his face.
"Come on, Clarence," he said briskly. "We’re going to the Ritz-Classic—room 2013."
"Natch," said Clarence.
The Ritz-Classic was a colossal fleabag, favored by the bookie-and-madame set, three blocks away. Pete avoided the desk by using the basement entrance. The elevator boy looked at Clarence’s camera and said, "No, you don’t, Doc. No divorce cases in this hotel."
"Relax," Pete told him. "That’s not a real camera. We peddle marijuana—that’s the hay mow."
"Whyn’t you say so? You hadn’t ought to carry it in a camera. You make people nervous. What floor?"
"Twenty—one."
The elevator operator took them up non-stop, ignoring other calls. "That’ll be two bucks. Special service."
"What do you pay for the concession?" inquired Pete.
"You gotta nerve to beef—with your racket."
They went back down a floor by stair and looked up room 2013. Pete tried the knob cautiously; the door was locked. He knocked on it—no answer. He pressed an ear to it and thought he could hear movement inside. He stepped back, frowning.
Clarence said, "I just remembered something," and trotted away. He returned quickly, with a red fire ax. "Now?" he asked Pete.
"A lovely thought, Clarence! Not yet." Pete pounded and yelled, "Pappy! Oh, Pappy!"
A large woman in a pink coolie coat opened the door behind them. "How do you expect a party to sleep?" she demanded.
Pete said, "Quiet, madame! We’re on the air." He listened. This time there were sounds of struggling and then, "Pete! Pe—"
"Now!" said Pete. Clarence started swinging.
The lock gave up on the third swing. Pete poured in, with Clarence after him. He collided with someone coming out and sat down abruptly. When he got up he saw Pappy on a bed. The old man was busily trying to get rid of a towel tied around his mouth.
Pete snatched it away. "Get ’em!" yelled Pappy.
"Soon as I get you untied."
"I ain’t tied. They took my pants. Boy, I thought you’d never come!"
"Took Kitten a while to make me understand."
"I got ’em," announced Clarence. "Both of ’em."
"Where?" demanded Pete.
"Here," said Clarence proudly, and patted his camera.
Pete restrained his answer and ran to the door. "They went thata-way," said the large woman, pointing. He took off, skidded around the corner and saw an elevator door just closing.
Pete stopped, bewildered by the crowd just outside the hotel. He was looking uncertainly around when Pappy grabbed him. "There! That car!" The car Pappy pointed out was even then swinging ut from the curb just beyond the rank of cabs in front of the hotel; with a deep growl it picked up
speed, and headed away. Pete yanked open the door of the nearest cab.
"Follow that car!" he yelled. They all piled in.
"Why?" asked the hackie.
Clarence lifted the fire ax. "Now?" he asked.
The driver ducked. "Forget it," he said. "It was just a yak." He started after the car.
The hack driver’s skill helped them in the downtown streets, but the driver of the other car swung right on Third and headed for the river. They streamed across it, fifty yards apart, with traffic snarled behind them, and then were on the no-speed-limit freeway. The cabbie turned his head. "Is the camera truck keeping up?"
"What camera truck?"
"Ain’t this a movie?"
"Good grief, no! That car is filled with kidnappers. Faster!"
"A snatch? I don’t want no part of it." He braked suddenly.
Pete took the ax and prodded the driver. "You catch ’em!"
The hack speeded up again but the driver protested, "Not in this wreck. They got more power than me."
Pappy grabbed Pete’s arm. "There’s Kitten!"
"Where? Oh, never mind that now!"
"Slow down!" yelled Pappy. "Kitten, oh, Kitten— over here!"
The whirlwind swooped down and kept pace with them. Pappy called to it. "Here, baby! Go get that car! Up ahead—get it!"
Kitten seemed confused, uncertain. Pappy repeated it and she took off—like a whirlwind. She dipped and gathered a load of paper and trash as she flew.
They saw her dip and strike the car ahead, throwing paper in the face of the driver. The car wobbled. She struck again. The car veered, climbed the curb, ricocheted against the crash rail, and fetched up against a lamp post.
Five minutes later Pete, having left Kitten, Clarence, and the fire ax to hold the fort over two hoodlums suffering from abrasion, multiple contusions and shock, was feeding a dime into a pay phone at the nearest filling station. He dialed long distance. "Gimme the FBI’s kidnap number," he demanded. "You know—the Washington, D.C., snatch number."