by Philip Wylie
The professor jeered at himself.
He had entertained a slight suspicion. On the strength of it, he had roused the F.B.I. He had severely worried Wilson. He had, perhaps, sent others out on a false errand.
He should have left the affairs of that night to men who knew their business.
“What did you say?” she whispered.
“I was swearing.”
“That’s what I thought.” She reached for his hand. “Never mind! It was quite a buzz—while it lasted! Look! They’re getting out in the water. The boat’s aground. Let’s stay and see what they caught. Nothing, I bet, but an old hammerhead. Maybe even just a big nurse shark.”
“Wait a minute!” His whisper was sharp.
He had seen something that no fisherman would do: the man with the bent rod had tossed it into the sea. And the people were not encouraging an “angler” any longer.
They were getting out of the launch swiftly, silently, and wading toward the beach. Half a dozen men—and two women. One of the men was very fat.
“They weren’t fishing!” Her voice was low and tense.
He shook his head.
“Then they are … !”
He nodded and pulled her down behind the bush on the cool sand.
The fat man waited until the last person had stepped out of the water. “Rudolph!” he called loudly. The lights of the big sedan turned on.
The people on the beach were not directly in the rays, but they were near enough to be visible, now. The professor bit hard on his lower lip. French Paul—Wilser—and some strangers,. Strangers who had doubtless just arrived, by a very quiet plane, from Cuba. French Paul either knew or had guessed that every agent in South Florida was concentrated on the Keys and in the Everglades. So he had boldly brought the travelers ashore almost on Miami Beach itself, superintending the maneuver personally—as he had on one other occasion the professor knew of.
The eight people started to scramble up on the road.
“Stand right where you are everybody! Hands up!”
The hard voice had not finished when a pistol cracked in the hand of the fat Alsatian. Wilser knelt and began firing. The others scattered, running back along the beach. From the road came the blast of automatic guns. A woman screamed. Bullets burned above the heads of the two people lying behind the bush. Feet pounded on the road. Car lights blazed up and down the beach.
“Stand still! Everybody!”
The shots ceased. The whole beach above was well illuminated. The sand below was shaded by dunes.
Police were rounding up the men and the two women. “This way! Bring ‘em up this way,” a voice commanded.
Weeds whispered close beside the girl and the man. The professor rolled over on his back. He wanted to see—but he did not want to stand up suddenly and be shot at.
Paul was creeping through the brush, in the shadow of the steep slope beside the road. He was out of sight and he would soon be far enough out of range to run. Or to wade into the calm sea and swim. A man like French Paul could probably swim a long distance.
“Drop your gun, Paul,” the professor said sharply.
Paul turned toward the tangle-staring. The professor kicked up at the man’s arm with all his might.
The gun flew. Paul lunged. Marigold yelled.
Police rushed toward them… .
The morning paper displayed a banner headline:
FBI SMASHES MAROON GANG
Prof. Burke, Thought Dead, Credited for Coup
Leaders Jailed
Alien-Smuggling Ring Bared
EXTRA!
There were similar headlines throughout the day in the nation’s press.
The radio networks talked breathlessly about it.
Harmon read the headlines in his office. He had not slept and his eyes revealed the fact. But he did not seem interested in going to bed. It was the day of his life.
At Bog Key, the night before, he and his men had intercepted a second plane—and its crew of two: Chuck and Johnny. G-men, in a dozen cities, had arrested more than a hundred members of the Maroon Gang and people associated with them. Thirty-eight persons had been arrested in Cuba.
When Harmon had rushed anxiously back to Miami, he had found French Paul, as well as the others on board the Spanish Galleon and her launch, in the custody of the police. Professor Burke and Marigold Macey were waiting for him—the professor with a suggestion which led to the predawn capture of The Tip. It was a clean sweep.
Reporters crowded around the desk of the G-man. “How good,” they asked, “is your case?”
Harmon laughed. “While Burke was going around as ‘Mr. Skeat’ we had time to make it watertight. And listen, fellows. You haven’t even started to give Burke the credit he deserves.” The G-man tapped the newspaper on his desk… .
Mrs. MacFalkland nervously woke her husband. “There’s some rather disquieting news in the paper, dear… .”
He muttered and opened his eyes. “Those Russians!”
“Nothing like that.” In spite of her anxiety, she concealed a sudden grimace. It might have been a smile. Perhaps she enjoyed the prospect of seeing—just once—the complete discomfiture of her too-positive husband. “It turns out that Professor, Burke isn’t dead.”
“Isn’t dead!” He grabbed the paper. Horror filled his eyes… .
Connie heard it on the radio while she was eating breakfast. She drove to the Bombay Royale. Double-O was wearing a red dressing gown with a monogram of two linked zeroes on its pocket. He grinned at her and sent his butler for another coffee cup.
“What happened?” the girl asked feverishly.
“Most of it’s in the papers. This edition came out too early to mention The Tip.”
“They got him?”
“Burke suggested last night to Harmon that I could tell them where The Tip might hide. I did. I went down to headquarters about four o’clock and stayed a while.
Identifying a couple of miscellaneous clucks the G-men didn’t know.”
“The professor and that girl could have been killed!”
Double-O walked to the window. “Yeah.”
“The police—and French Paul’s people—were shooting right over them!”
“Nobody got killed,” Double-O replied dryly. “Only one guy hit. And the State Department must be very glad he isn’t dead. He might tell them what other spies came in.”
“Did you see the girl when you were at headquarters?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Is she… ?”
“Nice? Yeah. Pretty? And then some! Look, chick. Are you in love with the guy?”
Double-O put his worry on the table, like a card it hurt to play.
When she didn’t answer, he shook his head sadly and turned to repeat his question. She was laughing!
“Love Martin Burke?” she said. “Me? I’m fond of him. I think he’s marvelous. But I’m the restless type, Bill. I couldn’t fall for some one like that. It would have to be somebody who loved bright lights all the time, somebody who could” tango like dreaming, somebody who could keep a girl on her toes—not settle down with her.”
Double-O blew a long, relaxed cloud of cigar smoke. “Don’t know what gave me the impression—”
“Of course, you do! I enjoyed necking with him—he seemed so surprised! He can be one of my favorite men friends as long as he likes.”
“The lucky guy who finally does get you,” the gambler said, “is going to need his luck. How else will he figure you out?”
Connie dismissed the problem with a gesture. “I asked about Marigold Macey because I hoped she would be nice—and pretty—and I knew he had some romantic ideas about me. I was kind of—embarrassed by it.”
“She’s the undergraduate’s dream of what a gal ought to be, I’d imagine. If the professor is interested, he’ll have competition… .”
Connie thought about that—anxiously, it seemed.
He dropped into a chair, his long arms and legs sprawling. “It’s going
to seem funny, now—without the Maroon boys pushing on me.”
“That,” she said, “is the main reason I busted in on your morning reveries, Bill.
You owe that guy a lot.”
“I owe the professor plenty! It’s funny! That’s what my family wanted me to be. A professional man. A doctor or a lawyer or a teacher. Only—I learned the wrong things too young, where I started college.” He considered that for a moment. “I owe the guy everything. And I’ve cooked up an idea about that. See what you think.”
As she listened, her eyes grew bright… .
Chapter XXIII
It was late afternoon. The professor had slept almost around the clock—with Bedelia’s aid and protection. Protection from reporters, news photographers, numerous other visitors, telegrams, phone calls—an excited, impatient and to him, unfamiliar, world.
When he appeared, she hurried him through his breakfast and sent him to the grocery store for a “few items” she said she had forgotten. He decided to walk.
The air smelled of pine smoke as he started home; another high had come in from the northwest—and time for it, too, he thought. He came to the vacant lot and what seemed to be the same ballgame was in progress. He stopped to watch for a moment, smiling rather forlornly, as a man might who was trying to imprint on his mind a pleasant spectacle he would soon see no more. One of the youngsters shouted, “It’s the professor!”
The game stopped in mid-inning. They ran up to him.
“Is it true,” one boy asked in excitement, “that you captured French Paul without even a gun?”
The awe was such as the professor had never before experienced. “Some day soon,” he said, “if I’m around, I’ll tell you an about it.”
“Just us kids? Promise?”
He smiled at a freckled face. “It’s a promise.”
There were cars in front of Bedelia’s house. One was a grey convertible and a girl sat in it.
“Hello, Martin!”
“Connie! What in the world… ?”
“Bill’s inside—Double-O. And President Tolver.”
“President Tolver! ”
“They’re having a conference. They threw me out. Also”—she smiled—“Bedelia said you’d be coming along—and I wanted to see you a second. Hop in!”
He put the paper sack on the ground, against the trunk of a poinciana tree, and sat beside the girl. Anxiety and amazement confusingly filled his mind. Why had Tolver come to Bedelia’s house? What would Tolver think when he found the gambler there?
And why had the gambler and his niece called, anyway? Probably to offer unwarranted thanks.
“I had lunch with Marigold Macey,” Connie saw.
He started. “I didn’t realize you knew her!”
“I didn’t. But I called her up. Nice girl.”
“Somewhere, in the log jam of his thoughts and emotions, the professor felt a lifting of painful stress. “You aren’t—upset—about… ?”
Connie understood him. “Martin, I’m very fond of you. But what I’m in love with, I guess, is glamour. I know it doesn’t exist—in my mind. I suppose I have to learn it doesn’t, in my feelings—before I can care about just one guy.”
He said, in a low voice, “Oh.”
“Remember the first night I kissed you?”
He would never forget. He nodded.
“Martin, I think you need some advice.”
“I need barrels.”
“The man—not the girl—is supposed to do the kissing. To begin, anyhow. With a gal like Marigold—”
He flushed. “I know. Once—I—I—”
“Once isn’t enough! That’s my barrel of advice. And you better go in. They’re waiting for you.”
President Tolver was a man with reddish hair and light blue eyes. A very large man, but graceful—and gracious. A former science professor with an intuition for diplomacy and a talent for administration. He rose when the professor came out on the porch. Double-O occupied the settee with Bedelia. Between them, they strained its capacity.
“Burke!” the president said. “I tried to phone all morning! But Bedelia fenced you in. I wanted to be first to congratulate you—instead of last.”
The professor swallowed. “I appreciate it, Doctor Tolver.”
“Magnificent feat! Has the eyes of the whole country on the University! I suppose you’re getting—offers—from everywhere—”
“He is,” Bedelia said. “But he doesn’t know it yet. I’ve kept him busy.”
The president went on hurriedly. “—but I’d like to have mine among them, Burke.
Your friend”—he nodded toward Double-O—“has made the University a most generous gift. Insists it be anonymous. It will enable us to establish at once a tip-top department in your subject. Naturally, we’ll offer you the Head. Your salary, as a Department Head, would be doubled.”
The professor looked at the gambler. He swallowed harder. “That—that is—damned fine of you… .”
Double-O’s adze-like eyes moved out toward the variegated foliage—a stagey green in the last, level bars of sunlight. “Mighty little, considering.”
The professor struggled for composure and said to the president. “I’d expected that—my notoriety—would make me undesirable as a faculty member. Quixotic folly!”
“Notoriety! Great heavens! Fame is the word for it! Not Quixotic, man! Homeric!”
“I’m grateful for the offer. And also for the confidence you showed in me, Doctor, when MacFalkland and the others were ‘explaining’ me in the Sunday magazine sections.”
“I never believed that rubbish,” the president said. “I deeply appreciate the fact. But I can’t teach.”
“Can’t teach!”
All three people were astounded.
He went to a chair and sat down. He stared at the floor—for a moment. “Don’t you understand? I have lost my faith in my own scientific position.” He had to clear his throat. “I was a believer in intellect. In pure reason. My career was postulated on that. I held crime to be, in essence, a symptom of inferiority. It was an axiom of my lectures. But—in the past three weeks—” he sighed unevenly.
“You found it different,” Double-O said mildly.
“I found it different. Ingenious. Imaginative. Resourceful. Highly organized. Skillfully employing the most modern techniques. Anything in the world but stupid!”
“Nevertheless,” President Tolver put in shrewdly, “you succeeded in trapping them. A man with a higher education, but no experience whatever in their environment. Doesn’t that clinch your hypothesis?”
The professor leaned back in his chair. His body seemed lifeless. He shut his eyes.
Only his voice had a spark. “On the contrary. I used very little intelligence. Cunning, yes. But what motivated me? What forced stratagems into my consciousness? Emotion. Pure emotion!”
Bedelia said, “Rats, Martin! Harmon himself thinks you’re headier than any of his own men!”
“Consider the facts, not Harmon’s flattery,” the professor answered. “Why did I think—at the start of this whole business—of mailing the money back to Double-O here? Because I was infuriated at the idea of being robbed! Why did I note the marl on the tires of the sedan and seize a handful of frond ends? Because I was determined to revenge myself on that fat Alsatian, if I could!”
He leaned forward, now, and scowled at them. “Why didn’t I give the evidence to the police, or the F.B.I. ? Vanity! Egotism! Why did I spellbind Chuck with the data Double-O gave me? Because I was afraid to die—and stalling off the moment! Why did I think of the stratagem which got me out of that pesthole in Cuba? Because I was crazed with rage over what I thought was murder of Bedelia. Why—even at the end—did I risk Marigold Macey’s life to find that launch? Because I had grown to detest the Maroon Gang with all my soul! Nothing of the abstract mind about it! Pure instinct produced such ideas as I had! And that is contrary to everything I have taught!”
There was a moment of silence on the p
orch. The last bar of orange sunlight faded and the evening was grey.
“Still,” the president said, “when you’ve thought these things over, won’t you feel that the social psychologist has a function?”
“Function?” Professor Burke hesitated. “Yes. He has the function of showing that the potentiality of what we call ‘crime’ exists in every human being. His function is to prove that crime is intellectual disease—not inferiority. That apathy toward evil is criminal! A college graduate needs to know more than merely to refrain from crime; he needs to be a lifelong crusader against crime! His emotions—his instincts—should be permanently aroused. And that, Doctor Tolver, is as much an inspirational function as a function of teaching. I am afraid such classes would scandalize many faculty members!”
The president, like the gambler, was looking into distances. “Has it occurred to you, Professor, that you’re in an ideal situation to launch precisely such a course? A position that would—truly—inspire?”
“It will,” Bedelia said, “when he reads his telegrams.”
The professor looked incredulously at the president. “You mean, you’d stand for that sort of teaching?”
“We shall welcome it!”
The doorbell rang. Bedelia looked at the watch on her fleur-de-lys pin. “That’s the reporters. I told them to come at five thirty.” She left the porch before the professor could reply. President Tolver announced the new appointment.
MacFalkland, accompanied by another man, called soon after the others had left.
There was no boom in MacFalkland’s voice. His hands trembled. He immediately—and nervously—introduced the stranger. “This is George Drufton, publisher of the Inter-World Press. The Sunday supplement that—appears in so many papers.”
Professor Burke said, “Come in.”
“My firm,” said Mr. Drufton, “owes you amends.”
The professor was feeling in a less somber mood. “I should say so!”
“I’m—hideously sorry—” MacFalkland began.
“So I suffer from overrepression!” The professor said, his eyes gleaming. “As a result, I am a bi-cerebral! What in hell is that, MacFalkland?” His colleague had turned scarlet; the publisher was fidgeting. “I am the schizoid type of renegade! My early childhood inclined me, by the law of controposite-neurotic-reflex’—to take up crime! Gibberish!”