Virtual Unrealities, The Short Fiction of Alfred Bester (38 page)

“And how much if you handed it to him?”

“No,
sir
, just look at it. Then I was supposed to put it back from whence it come from, and that was the whole deal.”

“Describe the man.”

“He was maybe thirty years old. Dressed good. Talked a little funny, like a foreigner, and laughed a lot, like he had a joke he wanted to tell. He was maybe medium height, maybe taller. His eyes was dark. His hair was dark and thick and wavy; it would of looked good on top of a barbershop.”

There was an urgent rap on the office door. Detective Edna May Oliver burst in, looking distressed.

“Well?” Inspector Robinson snapped.

“His story stands up, Chief,” Detective Oliver reported. “He was seen in Ye Olde Moderne Banana Split last night—”

“No, no, no. It was Ye Olde Moderne Beer Taverne.”

“Same place, Chief. They just renovated for another grand opening tonight.”

“Who put the cherries on top?” Bendix wanted to know. He was ignored.

“This perpetrator was seen talking to the mystery man he described,” Detective
Oliver
continued. “They left together.”

“It
was the
Artsy-Craftsy
Kid
.
”

“Yes
,
Chief.”

“Could anyone identify him?”

“No,
Chief.”

“
Damn! Damn! Damn!”
Inspector Robinson smote the desk in exasperation
. “
I have a hunch that we’ve been tricked.
”

“How,
Chief?
”

“Don’t
you see, Ed? There’s a chance the Kid might have found out about our secret trap.”

“I don’t get it, Chief.”

“Think,
Ed. Think! Maybe
he
was the underworld
informer
who sent us the anonymous tip that the Kid would
strike
last
night.”

“You mean
squeal on
himself?
”

“Exactly.”

“But why,
Chief?”

“To
trick us into arresting the wrong man.
I tell you, he
’
s diabolical.”

“But what did
that
get him, Chief? You already seen through the trick
.
”

“You’re right,
Ed. The
Kid’s plan must
go
deeper than that. But how? How?” Inspector Robinson arose and began pacing, his powerful mind grappling with the tortuous complications of the Artsy-
Craftsy
Kid’s cap
e
r.

“So how about me?” Bendix asked.

“Oh,
you
can
go
,
” Robinson said wearily.
“
You
’
re just a pawn in
a
far bigger
game,
my man
.”

“No, I mean,
can
I
go
through with that deal now? He’s prolly
still
waiting
o
ut
side
the house for a look
.
”

“
What
’
s that
you say?
Waiting?” Robinson
exclaimed. “You
m
e
an he
was
there
when
we arrested you?”

“
He must
of
b
ee
n
.”

“I’ve got
it! I’ve got
it!”
Robinson cried.
“
Now I see it all.”

“
See what,
Chief?”

“Don’t you
get
the picture, Ed? The Kid watched us leave with this dupe
.
Then, after we left,
the Kid
entered
the house.”

“You mean … ?”

“He’s
probably there right now, cracking that
safe
.
”

“Great Scot!”

“
Ed, alert the Flying Squad and the Riot Squad
.”

“
Right, Chief.”

“Ed, I want roadblocks all around the house
.”

“
Check, Chief.
”

“
Ed
,
you and Ed come
with
me
.”

“Where to
,
Chief?”

“
The Webb mansion.”

“
You can’t, Chief. It’s madness
.
”

“
I must. This town isn
’
t big
enough
for both of us. This time it’s the Artsy-Craftsy Kid—or me
.”

It made headlines
:
how the Bunco Squad had seen through the diabolical plan
of
the Artsy-Craftsy Kid and arrived at the fabled Webb mansion
only
moments after he had made off with the Flowered Thundermug; how they had found his unconscious victim, the plucky Audrey Hepburn
,
devoted assistant to the mysterious gambling
overlord
Greta
“
Snake Eyes
”
Garbo; how Audrey, intuitively suspecting that
something was
amiss
,
had taken it upon herself to investigate
;
how the canny
cracksman
had played a sinister cat-and-mouse game with her until the
opportunity
came to fell her with a brutal blow.

Interviewed by the news syndicates, Miss Hepburn said, “It was just a woman
’s
intuition
.
I
suspected
something was amiss and took it up
o
n myself to investigate. The canny cracksman played a sinister cat-and-mouse
game with
me until the opportunity came to fell me with a brutal blow
.”

She received
seventeen
proposals
of
marriage by Wedmaton, three
offers of screen
tests, twenty-five dollars from the Hollywood East
Community
Chest, the Darryl
F.
Zanuck Award for Human Interest and a reprimand from her boss.

“You should also hav
e
said you
vere ravished
,
Audrey,” Miss Garbo told her.
“It
vould have improved the story.”

“I’m sorry
,
Miss Garbo
.
I’ll try to remember n
ex
t time. He did make an indecent
proposal.”

This
was
in Miss Garbo
’s
secret
atelier, where Violet Dugan
(Au
drey Hepburn) was busily engaged in faking a calendar of
the
Corn Exchange
Bank
for
the year
1943
,
while the members of the Little Group
of
Powerful
Art
Dealers consulted
.

“Cara mia,”
De Sica asked Violet, “can you not give us a fuller description of the scoundrel?”

“I’ve told you everything I can remember, Mr. De Sica. The one detail that seems to help is the fact that he computes odds for one of the biggest bookies in the East.”

“
Mah!
There are hundreds of that species. It is no help at all. You did not get a clue to his name?”

“No, sir; at least, not the name he uses now.”

“The name he uses now? How do you mean that?”

“I—I meant—the name he uses when he isn’t the Artsy-Craftsy Kid.”

“I see. And his home?”

“He said somewhere in Catalina East.”

“There are a hundred and forty miles of homes in Catalina East,” Horton said irritably.

“I can’t help that, Mr. Horton.”

“Audrey,” Miss Garbo commanded, “put down that calendar and look at me.”

“Yes, Miss Garbo.”

“You have fallen in love vith this man. To you he is a romantic figure, and you do not vant him brought to justice. Is that not so?”

“No, Miss Garbo,” Violet answered vehemently. “If there’s anything in the world I want, it’s to have him arrested.” She fingered her jaw. “In love with him? I hate him!”

“So.” De Sica sighed. “It is a disaster. Plainly, we are obliged to pay his grace two million dollars if the Thundermug is not recovered.”

“In my opinion,” Horton burst out, “the police will never find it. They’re dolts! Almost as big a pack of fools as we were to get mixed up in this thing in the first place.”

“Then it must be a case for a private eye. With our unsavory underworld connections, we should have no difficulty contacting the right man. Are there any suggestions?”

“Nero Volfe,” Miss Garbo said.

“Excellent,
cara mia
. A gentleman of culture and erudition.”

“Mike Hammer,” Horton said.

“The nomination is noted. What would you say to Perry Mason?”

“That shyster is too honest,” Horton snapped.

“The shyster is scratched. Any further suggestions?”

“Mrs. North,” Violet said.

“Who, my dear? Oh, yes, Pamela North, the lady detective. No—no, I think not. This is hardly a case for a woman.”

“Why not, Mr. De Sica?”

“There are prospects of violence that make it unsuited to the tender sex, my dear Audrey.”

“I don’t see that,” Violet said. “We women can take care of ourselves.”

“She is right,” Miss Garbo growled.

“I think not, Greta; and her experience last night proves it.”

“He felled me with a brutal blow when I wasn’t looking,” Violet protested.

“Perhaps. Shall we vote? I say Nero Wolfe.”

“Why not Mike Hammer?” Horton demanded. “He gets results, and he doesn’t care how.”

“But that carelessness may recover the Thundermug in pieces.”

“My God! I never thought of that. All right, I’ll go along with Wolfe.”

“Mrs. North,” Miss Garbo said.

“You are outvoted,
cara mia
. So, it is to be Wolfe, then.
Bene
. I think we had best approach him without Greta, Horton. He is notoriously
antipatico
to women. Dear ladies,
arrivederci
.”

After two of the three Powerful Art Dealers had left, Violet glared at Miss Garbo. “Male chauvinists!” she grumbled. “Are we going to stand for it?”

“Vhat can ve do about it, Audrey?”

“Miss Garbo, I want permission to track that man down myself.”

“You do not mean this?”

“I’m serious.”

“But vhat could you do?”

“There has to be a woman in his life somewhere.”

“Naturally.”

“Cherchez la femme.”

“But that is brilliant!”

“He mentioned a few likely names, so if I find her, I find him. May I have a leave of absence, Miss Garbo?”

“Go, Audrey. Bring him back alive.”

The old lady wearing the Welsh hat, white apron, hexagonal spectacles, and carrying a mass of knitting bristling with needles, stumbled on the reproduction of the Spanish Stairs, which led to the King’s Arms Residenza. The King’s Arms was shaped like an imperial crown, with a fifty-foot replica of the Hope diamond sparkling on top.

“Damn!” Violet Dugan muttered. “I shouldn’t have been so authentic with the shoes. Sandals are hell.”

She entered the Residenza and mounted to the tenth floor, where she rang a hanging bell alongside a door flanked by a lion and a unicorn, which roared and brayed alternately. The door turned misty and then cleared, revealing an Alice in Wonderland with great innocent eyes.

“Lou?” she said eagerly. Then her face fell.

“Good morning. Miss Powell,” Violet said, her eyes peering past the lady and examining the apartment. “I represent Slander Service, Inc. Does gossip give you the go-by? Are you missing out on the juiciest scandals? Our staff of trained mongers guarantees the latest news within five minutes after the event; news defamatory, news derogatory, news libelous, scurrilous, disparaging and vituperative—”

“Flam,” Miss Powell said. The door turned opaque.

The Marquise de Pompadour, in full brocade skirt and lace bodice, her powdered wig standing no less than two feet high, entered the grilled portico of Birdies’ Rest, a private home shaped like a birdcage. A cacophony of bird calls assailed the ears from the gilt dome. Madame Pompadour blew the bird whistle set in the door, which was shaped like a cuckoo clock. The little hatch above the clock face flew open, and a TV eye popped out with a cheerful “Cuckoo!” and inspected her.