“Aunt Annabelle,” Albert said bitterly, “has been giving you her version of the pat on the back.”
“I met her in the hall,” George said thickly, “and I told her I was a genie. She said I wuzn’t. She said I wuz drunk, and a loud mouth and a nonsensical something else. I feel terrible. I yam never going to pretend I yam a genie again.”
“You weren’t pretending,” Albert said frantically, “you were a genie, you are a genie, and now you’ve got to help us, you’ve simply got to! It’s getting late, George. You’ve got to do something.”
George shook his head slowly but decisively. “I wuz a fake, that’s what I wuz. That must have been why I wuz never given my union card.”
Things were whirring about in Albert’s head. “If this goes on much longer,” he thought wildly, “I shall go completely mad.” Here they were, in a neat air-tight mess, and every second brought more police and more witnesses to the scene. The only person who might extricate them was George, And George, the stupid lumbering hod, was not going to cooperate. Albert cursed the psychological quirk that had given George an inferior complex, made him susceptible to Aunt Annabelle’s uncomplimentary tirade.
Albert frowned deeply and buried his head in his hands. The whole thing was maddening. Psychology, psychology, that was the trouble. Psychology—! Maybe the solution was in psychology!
His head jerked up from his hands. George was still slumped in the chair, a picture of dejection.
“George,” he said, “I believe Aunt Annabelle was right. You’re not a genie at all. You’re a fake, through and through.” If Albert was expecting a show of temper he was somewhat disappointed.
George nodded glumly.
“Like I wuz telling you, I yam only a fake.”
“Sure,” Albert said bitterly, “You’re just a common fraud, a cheap magician—”
“I yam not,” George said firmly.
“You certainly are,” Albert was equally emphatic, “you’re just a clever magician.”
“I yam not a magician,” George said stoutly, “I yam a — I yam a...” his voice trailed off sheepishly, and he finished lamely, “not a magician.”
“You are a magician,” Albert said quietly. “I know because, because I am a genie.”
George looked up quickly this time.
“Haw, haw,” he said, “that’s funny. I’ll betcha can’t fly a flying carpet.”
An idea was growing in Albert’s head. He fished in his vest pocket and when his fingers touched a tiny package there, he breathed a silent prayer. It was some flashlight powder that he intended using in shooting some night groups. There was friendly, crackling fire in the grate that would serve his purpose.
“Look,” he shouted suddenly, “see if you can do anything half as difficult.” As he finished speaking he shot out his arm in the direction of the fire, tossing the package of flashlight powder into the fire. It blazed up in a great white flame, with a muffled ominous sound. Smoke, billowing white clouds of it, poured from the chimney. Albert waved his hand again and the fire seemed to settle back to normal.
George was somewhat impressed.
“Purty good,” he said.
“Not hard,” Albert said modestly.
“Not for a genie anyway.”
George sat up in his chair.
“I’ll show yuh I ain’t no ordinary magician,” he said grimly. He looked about the room, looked up at the shining chandelier, gleaming with dozens of electric lights. With a stupidly happy smile he snapped his fingers. Instantly, magically, the bulbs disappeared, were replaced by long, quietly burning candles.
One of the officers came over then. There seemed to be something wrong with his feet. He stumbled twice before he reached George’s side.
“That’s a pretty clever trick,” he said with some difficulty. “Got any more cigarettes, Bud? What kind are they anyway?”
George handed him the pack.
“Hasheesh,” he answered.
Albert swallowed suddenly, but the government agents were already lighting up again. Albert peered at the clock. In a matter of minutes the Inspector would be here and then their goose was cooked. He turned back to George.
“I’ve got one, now, that only a genie can do.” Albert pointed to the curious musicians, the dancing girls, the food bearers, the trays of food and gems. “I’m going to send all that back where it came from,” he announced matter-of-factly. “On top of that I’m going to send back all the green stuff up in the closet to where it came from, at the same time. You’ll admit that that’s quite a job, won’t you?”
George was frowning now with what might be professional envy.
Albert waved his hand around his head and then shouted out his college yell. When the hideous noise ceased echoing, Albert slumped into his chair, and stared at the openly disapproving musicians and dancers.
“Well,” he said, “didn’t make it, did I?” He peered slyly at George. This was the nub of his scheme. “Now you try it, George.”
Just then there came a loud authoritative knocking on the door.
Major Mastiff groaned.
“The police! Everything is over!” George stood up.
“I’ll let ’em in,” he said cheerfully, “I like answering the door.” He turned and headed toward the front door.
Albert felt a wave of bitterness and gall wash over him.
“Magician!” he sang out bitterly. George wheeled, flushing angrily. “I’ll show youse!” His big fingers snapped like a cracking limb. There was a blinding flash and when Albert blinked his eyes and opened them again the room was empty, except for the two befuddled officers, Major Mastiff and himself!
“Eureka!” Albert shrieked, and then, from sheer relief he fainted away...
It seemed ages later when Albert woke and opened his eyes. George’s moon-like face was peering solicitously down at him. “Are the Cossacks gone?” he asked feebly.
“All gone,” George said bewilderedly. Albert sat up, beaming broadly. “Pip! Pip!” he chortled, “tell me everything that happened. I can guess most of it, but I still want to hear it.”
“The officer wuz real mad,” George said solemnly, “when he got here and didn’t find nobody but his two men sleeping in the corner. Hully gee, he called them a lot of names and then he had them carried out to his car. He wuz real sorry you wuz bothered, and he wunted me to tell you that.”
“Where’s Major Mastiff?” Albert asked with some of his old caution.
“In bed,” George answered. “He wuz tired.”
Albert stretched out luxuriously. “George,” he said gratefully, “you saved my life. By getting rid of all that evidence you did me and Major Mastiff a real big favor. If there’s anything I can do for you, just name it.”
“How about a steady job?” George asked breathlessly, “I yam handy in the house and I got good refrunces. How about keeping me on?”
Albert frowned.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, George,” he said thoughtfully, “if you can fix up the little squabble Miss Margot Mastiff and I had some time ago, you’re on. If she’s here in my arms in fifteen minutes the job is yours.”
“Okay, Boss,” George said and lumbered out of the room.
P.S. — He got the job.
Rewbarb’s Remarkable Radio
First published in Fantastic Adventures, December 1941.
Rupert Rewbarb entered the living room of his modest bungalow and listened apprehensively for an instant before closing the door carefully behind him. The house was reassuringly silent, and for that he was humbly grateful.
Silence meant that his wife was not at home. There are certain elements which are fundamentally incompatible and this was dogmatically true in the case of Mrs. Jennifer Rewbarb and anything approximating silence. For in Jennifer Rewbarb’s wake trailed noise, loud, angry, dissatisfied noise, produced by the unhappy combination of an acidulous tongue and a stout pair of lungs.