The COMPLEAT Collected SFF Works 1911-1987

by C. L. Moore

  "But where are you? What's this about a baby?"

  "Tell you later. Rush right down."

  Moneybags opened the door. I hung up and slammed a right hook on his jaw. The lug thought I was playing or something.

  "Isn't he clever? Pretending to use the phone like that. I think this calls for a drink, Miss."

  "Well, all right." She picked me up, and I let her, not knowing what else to do. So I sat in her lap while Moneybags fed her drinks, and every time the old boy tried to make a date, I yelled. After a while he took a dislike to me. Do you wonder?

  -

  Chapter III

  Infant Sleight-of-Hand

  YES, I think Moneybags was getting ready to strangle me when Billie arrived, at last. She's a trim, pert little trick with long, glossy dark curls and an oval face and everything that goes with it. The minute I saw her come in, I bounced like mad, waved my arms, and yelled.

  Billie looked surprised, but she didn't ask any questions. Moneybags watched her come toward us.

  "Is this your child, Madame?" he asked.

  "Maa-maa!" I bawled, when Billie hesitated. I could see she was wondering what this was all about. My throat got dry. I couldn't swallow till Billie finally nodded and grabbed me. She stared around, searching, I knew, for me, but Sergeant Cassidy was wearing mufti just then—if you can call knitted wraps and stuff mufti.

  I didn't dare say anything, but I hoped Billie would remember what I'd told her on the phone. She did. She took me out and called a taxi.

  "Where to, Miss?"

  "The Garden!" I piped.

  He didn't notice who was talking. Billie did, though, and she stared at me with her eyes getting bigger and bigger.

  "Relax, hon," I said. "Keep a grip on yourself. Something awful's happened."

  "Uh-huh," she said, whispering. "It sure has. I'm crazy. Oo-oh!"

  She got white and shut her eyes. I had a nasty moment when I thought she was fainting. How the devil could a baby administer first aid in a taxi?

  "Billie!" I squeaked. "Blog-wob-blob ... Wake up! It's me! Jerry! Don't pass out on me."

  "B-but—" She started to giggle hysterically, and I knew she was okay. "Oh, my goodness! You're a midget, of course, pretending to be Jerry."

  I tilted back my head and stared up at her face, way up there. My eyes kept slipping out of focus, as usual. I felt mad, sick, hopeless. Shucks, you've been a baby yourself. You know how it feels. With me it was worse.

  "Billie, I want you to listen and try to understand," I said. "I'll lay it flat on the line. It's daffy, but you gotta believe me."

  Billie sighed. She was pale around the ears.

  "Shoot," she said, "I'll try, anyhow."

  So I told her what had happened. All the while I kept wondering how to get out of this mess. If Billie couldn't help—well, I didn't know anybody else who could, except the Doc, and he was a non-combatant just at present. I'd already tried the cops. I knew how the desk sergeant must have felt. If a stupid-looking baby had slung such a spiel at me a few days ago, I'd have laughed it off—if that. But in my spot, what else was there to do?

  It was awful. Jerry Cassidy had always been able to take care of himself. A man who weighs two hundred stripped, and no fat, is apt to get pretty cocky. Besides, I knew a few little tricks—some Jap wrestling angles, and some Apache footwork. A lot of good that did me now. I couldn't even pull the trigger on a light automatic, probably.

  What good is a baby, anyway?

  That got me started thinking of Mrs. Dawson and the Captain. Stinky was a lot of good to them, anyhow. By this time Mrs. Dawson must have come back from her shopping and found me gone. Oh-oh!

  Also I was dead tired, for some reason. My muscles felt like watery egg-yolk. I never felt so sleepy, that I could remember.

  I managed to finish telling Billie what had happened, but then I must have fallen asleep in her lap. When I woke up, we were in a drug-store booth, and she was shaking me.

  "Wake up Jerry! Wake up!"

  "Da da da," I mumbled. "Waaa ... oh. Wh-wha—"

  "You dozed off," Billie told me. "Babies need a lot of sleep."

  "Lay off that baby stuff! I—say, you called me Jerry! So you do believe me, huh?"

  Billie frowned. "Yes. How do you feel now?"

  "Okay. Well, thirsty. I want a drink."

  "What?"

  "Beer," I said.

  "What you'll get is milk."

  -

  I MADE strangling noises. "Milk! Billie, for Pete's sake! I may look like a sprat, but I'm still Jerry Cassidy."

  "Milk," she said firmly. "I'll get you a nursing bottle."

  But I drew the line at that. Billie compromised by getting me a glass of milk, and I had some trouble managing it, slurping the blasted stuff all over my front. Finally we figured out the best way for me to drink—I used straws.

  It wasn't beer, but it helped. I was plenty thirsty. I sucked away, and Billie told me what had happened.

  "I phoned headquarters, Jerry. I told 'em I was looking for you."

  "Uh? Oh. Bwob—I mean, what happened?"

  "Doctor McKenney's still unconscious. So's his nurse. They're in emergency. It's nothing serious, though. And—" She hesitated.

  "Go on."

  Billie gulped. "They said they had a Sergeant Cassidy there, all right, but he was either drunk or nuts. All he would do was crawl around on the floor, play with his toes, and cry. They—they said it was an open and shut case. He—you—Jerry, must have gone out of his head and slugged the doctor and his nurse."

  "Out of his head is right," I said weakly. "Right into this dopey little noggin." I slammed a fist against my skull.

  "Gee," Billie said. "I wonder if you looked like this when you were a baby. You must have been awfully cute."

  "Lay off that," I howled. "We got work to do."

  "I don't know what we can do, Jerry. When the doctor wakes up, maybe he'll think of something."

  "What about those Nazis?" I asked. "Smith and Number Three and the others?"

  "I don't see what we can do."

  "Look," I said. "They're going to the circus, at the Garden. It's a swell place to meet, in a crowd. Smith's got the Transfer helmets in that satchel, and I bet he'll try to slip it to Number Three."

  Billie nodded. I went on.

  "You take me to the circus, see? We'll wander around. I can spot Smith and the two lugs he had with him. When I do that, you call a cop. Make up some yarn—anything. Get the cop to arrest Smith or—well, the trick is to get that satchel. After that, it's in the bag."

  "Maybe I could grab it."

  "Uh-uh. Those Nazis have guns. I don't want you to take chances. You do what I tell you, and play safe. Blast it!" I said. "I wish I could get my hands on an automatic, or a Mills." I thought that over and chuckled. "They don't hang babies in this state, do they?"

  "Don't talk like that, Jerry!"

  "Well, where are we?"

  "On Eighth."

  "Avenue? Near the Garden? Swell! Let's go."

  "Without tickets?"

  "Oh-oh. Got any dough?"

  Billie nodded. "Yesterday was pay-day. Anyway, I won't have to pay for you."

  "It's a loan," I said firmly. "I'm no gigolo."

  "Not at your age," she agreed. "You'd look funny doing the samba with those muffin-like feet of yours."

  I swallowed that, though I didn't like it. "Let's go," I said with dignity, and Billie picked me up, paid the check and carried me out. She didn't know much about holding babies, I could tell. I sort of dangled. The sidewalk looked to be a mile down.

  Billie had to get a ticket from a scalper, but, anyway, we got in. After that, it wasn't easy to know what to do. The Garden's a big place.

  "Any idea where Smith was to meet Number Three?"

  "Nope," I said helplessly. "We better just wander around. I'm bound to spot the lug sometime—I hope."

  We wandered. Anywhere there were crowds. But I didn't catch a glimpse of the Nazu with the musta
che and the sleepy eyes, or his two sidekicks either. Naturally I didn't even know what Number Three looked like.

  -

  WE WENT in the freak show and looked at fire-eaters and sword-swallowers, midgets, skeletons, and fat ladies. We watched lions, elephants, a couple of hippos, and a giraffe or two. We saw a big crowd at one cage and we went over there. It was a gorilla, almost as big as Gargantua or Tony Galento, squatting behind bars and glass and jamming a food-basin on his head and yanking it off again. The keeper, standing by the door, kept up a long spiel that drew the crowd like flies, but I still couldn't find Smith. Or the Doc's satchel, with the Transfer helmets in it.

  I was beginning to feel sleepy again. I also felt awful. If Smith got away with this gag, it would mean—whew! Spies scattered all through our lines—up at the top, too! They'd be completely undetectable spies!

  I had my own troubles, also. Suppose Doc died? Suppose he got amnesia? Suppose he couldn't make more of the helmets? I'd have to spend the rest of my life with Captain Dawson as my old man! Unless he murdered me for—for—what was it? Kidnaping? What if he broke me and put me on permanent K.P.? I could see myself, a fat, blobby-looking squirt in diapers, peeling spuds day and night!—or maybe in the guardhouse, loaded down with chains—uh!

  One thing I knew—I couldn't be Sergeant Jerry Cassidy like this. How could I handle a machine gun? As for a rifle, I wouldn't even be able to lift it.

  Maybe they'd send Stinky, in my body, back on active service. Yeah! With a Jap coming at him, bayonet ready, he'd fall over on his back and start playing with his toes. Oh-oh!

  Billie shook me. I was getting sleepy again, and showed it. I managed to prop my eyes open, though it was still hard to focus them.

  "It's okay," I whispered. And yawned.

  "Jerry, you can't take a nap now."

  "I—uh—won't." But I did. I couldn't help it. Babies need lots of sleep, and I felt dead beat.

  However, Billie pinched me. I woke up with a squeal, and noticed a battleship of a dame bearing down on us, a steely glint in her eye. Billie didn't see her coming till it was too late.

  "What are you doing with that child?" the battleship demanded.

  "Nothing," Billie said, looking confused. "I just pinched him. He keeps wanting to go to sleep."

  "Pinched him! Good heavens! What sort of mother are you?"

  "I'm not," Billie snapped, trying to keep me from falling out of her arms. She had me by one foot and one hand and was sort of wrapping me up in myself, like I was an octopus. "I'm not even married."

  The old girl froze. "What are you doing with that baby, then?" she asked, as if it was any of her business.

  Billie was getting confused. "I'm going to marry him," she said wildly. "I'm just waiting for him to grow up. Oh, go away. We're busy."

  "Hmph! This seems very suspicious to me. Have you been drinking, young lady?"

  "No. I've been trying to keep this—this—" She waved me in the battleship's face "—trying to keep it from drinking, if you must know. It—he—keeps yelling for beer."

  "What? You mean you give that infant beer?"

  "I don't have to, usually," Billie gasped, as I nearly flipped out of her grip. "He orders it himself, when he isn't gargling rye. This lug has drunk his way around the world."

  "My gracious! That poor little innocent child! I'm going to take steps to have you punished."

  Just then the poor little innocent child made a few well-chosen remarks.

  "You blathering old buzzard," I howled. "Beat it and stop upsetting Billie, You'll have her dropping me in a minute. If you want to help, drag yourself off and come back with a bottle of beer, I'm thirsty, drat it!"

  "Ook!" said the battleship, turning green under her camouflage paint. She made a few vague gestures, clawed at the air, turned, and toddled off as fast as she could.

  "See what you've done?" Billie said. "The poor woman thinks she's crazy."

  "Serve her right," I growled squeakily. "Hurry up and let's find Smith before I go to sleep again. Try that show over there, where the acrobats are."

  -

  THERE were seats here, and Billie stood at the entrance, while I looked around. Suddenly I let out a muffled yipe.

  "There he is! See, up by that column? The guy with the mustache?"

  "Where? Oh—I see him. What—what'll I do now?"

  Smith wasn't sitting with anybody. He was humped up on his seat, intently watching some gymnasts on a trapeze, and I noticed the black satchel was between his feet.

  "Maybe we'd better hunt up a cop," I whispered. "Don't take any chances, Billie."

  But she didn't seem to hear. Still toting me, she went up the aisle, edged across, and sat down right next to Smith. I felt my stomach go cold. The sleepy-eyed Nazi gave us a quick, sidewise look, and then turned back to staring at the show. He didn't recognize me, I figured. All babies look pretty much alike, fat and droopy.

  There, not three feet away from me, was the satchel, with the Transfer helmets in it—I hoped. They were there unless Smith had already turned them over to Number Three. I guessed he hadn't done so. He'd have given Number Three the satchel, without risking attracting attention by digging out the helmets.

  I looked around for Smith's two pet thugs, but I couldn't find them in the crowd. Billie didn't dare say anything to me, nor would I have dared answer her, with our enemy right beside us. I sat in Billie's lap and wondered what she was planning, and tried to make a plan or two myself. If I could sneak off with the bag.

  It was an idea. I caught Billie's eye and winked, pointing down. After a minute she put me beside her, on the seat, and when Smith wasn't looking, lowered me to the floor. I ducked in under the seats, where I couldn't be seen, and felt dust choking me. I was thirsty again.

  There wasn't any beer on draught where I was, so I crawled behind Billie's legs and kept going till I was behind a pair of blue serge pants. Between Smith's feet was the black bag, partly under the seat, where he'd pushed it to keep it hidden, I guess. I didn't dare touch the satchel. He'd have felt me trying to slide it away.

  If I could open it, I could sneak out the helmets.

  I tried that. I had an idea that Smith would look down any minute and then step on me. But I had to get those helmets. That was the first and most important angle. After that, even if Smith managed to escape, he'd have to do it without the helmets.

  The snap lock on the bag gave me a lot of trouble. My fingers were filled with mush. They kept bending back. When finally I did click the lock open, it snapped like a pistol shot. I froze, knowing that I'd be stepped on in another second or two.

  But the band had been playing plenty loud, and the sound hadn't been as explosive as I'd thought. Anyway, Smith didn't glance down. After my heart came back where it belonged, I started to open the satchel, inch by inch. Not far, just enough so I could slip my arm in and feel around. When I did that, I touched the smooth fabric of one of the helmets right away.

  I sneaked it out and went after the other one. As I got it, there was a thump, and another pair of pants-legs appeared. Somebody had sat down beside Smith. I saw the new guy's foot reach over and press Smith's shoe, tapping out what looked like a code.

  Number Three!

  -

  Chapter IV

  Heavy on the Muscles

  WHEW! I looked at hose brown-tweed legs and those brown oxfords, with a long scratch across one toe, and started sweating. If Smith discovered what had happened now, it'd be curtains for Cassidy, or Stinky, or whoever I was!

  But nobody made a move. Apparently neither Nazi wanted to take chances, with Billie sitting right beside them. That gave me a breather, anyhow. What next?

  The problem was settled right away. I heard a squalling, familiar voice squawking. "That's the girl!" the voice said. "That's her! I'm sure she's kidnapped the baby." It was the hatchet-faced battlewagon!

  She'd come back with cops. The minute I heard a deep brogue telling Billie to come along quietly, I knew the lid was off. Wow
! If Billie went off, leaving me here with those two lugs, it'd be all up with Jerry Cassidy!

  Billie knew it too. I couldn't see much, but I heard a scuffling, heard the battlewagon cry out in pain, and heard Billie's voice raised in argument. She was talking about Nazi spies.

  "Those men, officer," she insisted. "Right beside me, here. They're enemy agents. They're stealing an important invention."

  "Now, now," said the cop. "Take it easy, lady."

  But Smith made a mistake. He reached down for the bag, and his fumbling fingers discovered that it was open.

  "Donner und—officer! This girl is a thief. She has my helmets stolen."

  Number Three' foot kicked Smith's leg, and the dope shut up, but it was too late. He'd made a fatal break. New York cops are quick on the uptake.

  I heard a shout, a banging noise, and the blue serge pants flipped apart. I looked right into Smith's face as he bent down and peered under the seat. He saw me, crouching there gripping the Transfer helmets. His hand shot out to grab me. I scrambled back just in time.

  "Hold it, mister," the cop said. "Hey! Drop that gun, you!" I guessed he meant Number Three, for Smith was busy trying to crawl overt the back of his seat and get at me. This time the banging noise wasn't feet clumping. A gun had gone off.

  The cop didn't fire in that crowd. He just went for Number Three. The two of them got tangled up with Smith, and that gave me a chance to duck out into the aisle. People were getting up, startled, a whistle was shrilling, and Billie and the battlewagon were rolling down the incline, fighting like wildcats. Somebody who looked familiar was ducking out into the animal show next door. It was the thug with the squint, Smith's sidekick.

  I only got a glimpse. Smith had freed himself from the tangle and was coming at me again. I dived under the seats again. I had a slight advantage in being so small, but I was weak, too, and I had to keep hold of the helmets. Smith had his Webley out.

  I dodged toward the other aisle. Just in time I looked up and saw Smith's other pal coming to meet me, with a nasty grin on his pan. I scooted away like a tadpole. A baby can crawl pretty fast, especially when he doesn't have to bother about broken-field running. Those rows of seats were slowing down my pursuers a little, and that helped.