Stalking the Unicorn: A Fable of Tonight (31 page)

The elephants kept pulling, and Mallory stepped into a store to wait until his path was clear again.

He found himself in a gallery which displayed some 200 very large paintings, most of them landscapes and city scenes. The quality of the work was unexceptional, and he wondered how the proprietor managed to sell enough of them to cover the overhead of a Fifth Avenue location.

"Welcome to the Reverie Travel Agency,” said a friendly voice, and Mallory turned to find a well-dressed middle-aged woman approaching him. “How may I help you?"

"Travel agency?” he said, surprised. “It looks like an art gallery to me."

"A popular misconception,” she agreed. “Actually, I wouldn't care to have any of these paintings hanging in
my
house. They're really not very good."

"Then why display them?” asked Mallory.

"How else would you know where you were going?” she replied.

"I don't quite follow you."

"These are our travel posters,” she said.

"You should have chosen a better artist,” said Mallory.

"Oh, there are better artists around, to be sure,” she answered. “But there is only one Adonis Zeus."

"He's the painter?"

She nodded. “A Greek gentleman. I don't know very much about him—he doesn't like to talk about himself, although he did mention once that he didn't come from Athens. I got the distinct impression that his people were mountaineers.” She paused. “Anyway, he tried to sell his paintings all over Manhattan, but every art gallery in the city turned him down. Then, about four years ago, he approached us, and we've been very happy with him."

"I can't imagine why,” said Mallory honestly.

"Then let me show you,” she said, walking over to a painting of a wooded landscape. “What do you think of this?"

Mallory studied the painting. “Nothing special,” he said at last.

She smiled. “Then watch."

She reached into the painting and pulled her hand out a moment later holding a small dried leaf.

"Do that again,” said Mallory, staring incredulously at the leaf.

"Gladly."

She reached in once more, and pulled out a small woodland flower.

"That's amazing!” exclaimed Mallory. “And anyone can just reach into one of these paintings?"

She looked amused. “You still don't understand. Anyone can take a vacation in one of these paintings."

"Really?"

She nodded, and led him past a number of paintings. “What's your fondest desire, Mr.... ah?"

"Mallory."

"What's your fondest desire, Mr. Mallory—Mallorca, the Greek Isles, Jamaica?” She pointed to each painting in turn. “A trip up the Amazon? A pastoral woodland? You no longer have to worry about passports and airline connections. You simply rent the painting for the length of your proposed trip, and make easy regular payments."

"And you can go anywhere?"

"Anywhere that Adonis Zeus has painted."

"Even if the place he painted never existed?” asked Mallory curiously.

She smiled. “Come with me into our Fantasy Showroom, Mr. Mallory."

He followed her through a narrow doorway.

"Not everyone is as imaginative as yourself,” she said, “so we tend to display only the more popular vacation spots out front. This room is for our more adventurous clients."

She led him to a painting of a nearly naked man killing a lion with a knife. “Tarzan's Africa,” she explained. She pointed to another. “Alice's Wonderland.” She walked a few feet away and pointed to a painting of a cluttered Victorian room, filled with books, chemicals, and an odd assortment of trophies.

"221-B Baker Street,” she announced. “A romantic chamber of the heart, a nostalgic country of the mind, where it is always 1895."

She led him past another row of paintings. “Would you like to be lost in a harem? Have you a desire to re-animate dead tissue in your laboratory? Shoot it out with Rooster Cogburn? Raft down the Mississippi with Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer? Serve on the
Pequod
as it hunts for the White Whale? All of these trips we can arrange, and more."

"How does it work?” asked Mallory.

"Well, you can open an account if you plan to use us a minimum of three times a year. Otherwise, we'll require some form of identification for our records, and you can either pay us the full rental fee or make a deposit and subscribe to one of our payment plans."

"I meant, how does the painting work?"

"All you have to do is choose your vacation and tell us how long you plan to be away, and we'll wrap the painting and turn it over to you.” She smiled. “Then you simply take the painting home, hang it on a wall, and step into it."

"How do I get out?"

"The very same way. If you plan to extend your vacation, do step out long enough to give us a call, though; we levy quite a large daily fine for overdue paintings."

"What if I wanted to take a permanent vacation?” asked Mallory.

"You mean a retirement rather than an excursion?” she asked.

He nodded. “Exactly."

"There's no problem at all, Mr. Mallory,” she said. “Any of our paintings can be purchased as well as rented.” She paused. “May I ask what type of retirement you had in mind?"

"I'm not sure yet,” he said. “Do you mind if I look around a bit?"

"Not at all,” she said pleasantly. “I'll be in the next room. When you've chosen what you want, simply bring it up to the sales desk."

"Thank you,” said Mallory.

He began walking up and down the rows of paintings, passing representations of the gods carousing on Mount Olympus, Ichabod Crane fleeing from the Headless Horseman, King Arthur leading his Knights of the Round Table into battle, the Gray Lensman firing his blasters at the agents of Boskone, Winnie-the-Pooh and Piglet on a heffalump hunt, Pogo Possum and Albert the Alligator fishing in the Okefenokee Swamp, and Humphrey Bogart, Sydney Greenstreet, Peter Lorre, and Mary Astor examining the Maltese Falcon.

When he came to a painting of Captain Hook engaged in mortal combat with Peter Pan, he stopped and stared at it intently. When he found the item he was searching for aboard Hook's ship, he took the painting off the wall and carried it to the sales desk.

"An excellent choice, Mr. Mallory,” said the saleswoman approvingly. “Second star to the right and straight on until morning."

"How much will it be?” he asked.

"Is this a rental or a purchase?"

"A purchase."

"The price is only two hundred dollars,” she replied. “We're having a sale on children's stories this week. You've made a most fortuitous selection.” She paused. “However, since you plan to retire into it, I'm afraid that payment will have to be made in full."

"I'm from out of town,” he said hesitantly. “I don't know if my identification will be valid here."

"There's no problem,” she assured him. “Identification is really only necessary for rentals, not for outright purchases."

Mallory pulled out his last two hundred-dollar bills and handed them to her.

"I'm sure you'll enjoy joining the Lost Boys, and staying young forever,” she said with a smile. “And, of course, you'll be meeting Princess Tiger Lily, and Tinker Bell, and Wendy and Michael and John."

"I'm looking forward to it,” said Mallory. “Can you wrap it? It's still drizzling out, and I wouldn't want anything to damage it."

"Of course,” she said. She pulled a sheet of brown paper out from under the desk, wrapped it around the painting, and taped it together. When she was done she handed it to him. “Thank you for your patronage, Mr. Mallory—and
do
enjoy your painting."

"I intend to,” he promised her.

He paused by the door and pulled his street map out of his pocket, studied it for a moment, took out a pen, circled a location, and then replaced both the pen and the map in his robe's spacious pocket. He looked out the window and, seeing that the basketball court had finally turned the corner and was on its way to St. Louis, tucked the painting under his arm and went out.

He couldn't see any sign of Mürgenstürm, so he made a production of lighting a cigarette and tying his shoelace until he finally spied the little elf half a block away. Once he was sure that Mürgenstürm had spotted him, he began walking again.

He proceeded north for a few more blocks, then turned west and began winding in and out of narrow side streets, making it difficult but not impossible for Mürgenstürm to keep shadowing him.

Finally, after leading the little elf on an incredibly intricate route for the better part of twenty minutes, he came to the Kringleman Arms, climbed the front stairs, and entered the foyer.

"Hello again,” said Kris, looking up from the center-spread of a girlie magazine. “Did you ever find Flypaper Gillespie?"

Mallory nodded. “He won't be back again."

"How about the unicorn? Did you find it too?"

"Yes."

"You've been a busy boy tonight, haven't you?” said Kris with a grin.

"And I'm not through yet,” replied Mallory. “How's the Kristem coming?"

Kris shrugged. “They haven't run any races since you left, so it's doing pretty much the same."

"It's still got some bugs in it?"

"A few,” said the desk clerk defensively.

"You know,” said Mallory thoughtfully, “what you really need is a sponsor."

"A sponsor?” repeated Kris.

Mallory nodded. “Someone who's willing to put some venture capital into a legitimate field-test of the Kristem."

"I agree,” said Kris. “But where am I going to find someone like that?"

"He may be standing right in front of you,” said the detective.

"You?"

"It's a possibility,” replied Mallory. “But there's a condition."

"There always is,” muttered Kris unhappily.

"You may not mind this one."

"Okay. What is it?"

"I'm just visiting this Manhattan. I want to know if the Kristem works in
my
Manhattan."

"So you want me to field-test it there, is that it?” asked Kris.

"Right."

"No problem,” said the desk clerk happily. “Hell, the seats are more comfortable at your Aqueduct anyway.” Suddenly he stared intently at Mallory. “How much money are we talking about?"

"Lots,” said Mallory.

"You've got yourself a deal! When do you want me to start?"

"Soon,” said the detective. “But first let's go up to Gillespie's room for a moment."

"Okay—but you're not going to find anything up there. I kind of cleaned him out after you left.” He frowned. “I could kill the little bastard!"

"Oh? Why?"

"Most of the jewelry was imitation!"

"Well, no one ever said he was smart—just dishonest.” Mallory saw a flash of green out of the corner of his eye. “Do you remember the way to Gillespie's room?"

"Fifteen, twelve, fourteen, thirteen,” replied Kris. “Easy as pie."

"Fifteen, twelve, fourteen, thirteen,” repeated Mallory. “You're sure about that?"

"I've been up there three times since you left,” Kris assured him.

"All right,” said the detective. “Let's go."

They took the elevator to the fifteenth floor, then climbed down to the twelfth, ascended to the fourteenth, and finally went back down to the thirteenth.

"Here we are,” said Kris, opening the door.

"You really
did
clean him out, didn't you?” remarked Mallory, inspecting the nearly barren room. The magazines, videotapes, and almost all of the booty had been removed. Very little remained except for Gillespie's broken-down furniture, his doll's bed, his cooking utensils, fifty unmatched argyle socks, and a few hundred balls of string.

"I figured that I was just taking his overdue rent out in trade,” replied Kris with a smile.

"And you're doubtless holding it in trust until Nick the Saint asks for it,” said Mallory dryly.

"You got it,” acknowledged Kris.

Mallory began unwrapping the painting.

"What's that?” asked the desk clerk.

"What does it look like?"

"Like some no-talent kid traced a comic book onto a piece of canvas,” said Kris.

Mallory held the painting up to the light. “It does, doesn't it?” he agreed.

"Now, if you
really
want to see some art,” said Kris confidentially, “come back down to the lobby and I'll show you some of the magazines I confiscated from up here."

"Perhaps later,” said Mallory, searching the walls until he found a nail protruding from the plaster. “This looks like the perfect place for it,” he announced, hanging the painting on the nail.

"If you say so,” replied Kris. “I still don't know what you see in it, though."

"It has hidden qualities,” said Mallory. “Maybe it'll grow on you."

"Like a fungus,” said Kris with conviction. He looked at the detective curiously. “Is this all you came up here for—to hang that painting on the wall?"

"And to wait,” replied Mallory.

"For who?"

"For whoever comes in the door next,” said Mallory. He walked over to the coffeepot. “Would you care for some coffee?"

"No, thanks. I live on that stuff all night."

"Well, if you've no objections, I'll have some,” he said, picking up the pot and filling his New York Mets mug. “After all, it's my goddamned cup.” He was just preparing to take a sip when the door opened and Mürgenstürm, a huge revolver in his hands, entered the room.

"All right, John Justin!” he said. “Where is it?"

"Where is what?” asked Mallory innocently.

"You know what I want! Where's the ruby?"

"Ruby?” said Mallory. “I haven't seen any ruby around here.” He turned to Kris. “Have you seen one?"

"I don't know what you're talking about,” said Kris, backing away from the elf.

"It will be daylight in less than an hour!” snapped Mürgenstürm. “If I don't get my hands on it, I'll die!"

"That's hardly my fault,” replied Mallory. “You had ample time to get out of town."

"They would have found me,” said the elf with conviction. “If I have to die, I won't die alone—I promise you that, John Justin!” He took a step forward. “Now, where is it?"

"You'd really kill me, wouldn't you?” said Mallory.

"I have no choice."

Mallory sighed. “All right,” he said. “I'll show you."