House of Many Worlds

by Sam Merwin Jr

  The view was incredible. San Francisco was a great city in her world and Mack's but it was nothing like this. The tracery of lights along the bridges, the great towers of the skyscrapers, the blaze of suburban cities across the bay—it was breathtaking.

  Elspeth wondered how it could be put Into poetry. Surely the sight had inspired thousands of versifiers in this strange new world—some of whom inevitably must have caught some of its grandeur in words and meter. She would have to approach it from the other way, from the way of infinite, relative smallness.

  Perhaps some early legendary giant—a giant who played among the lofty redwoods like a child among saplings—might return from his wanderings to find this city sprawled upon one of his former playgrounds, might feel dwarfed for the first time in his life. He might—but she decided it was pretty corny.

  Unexpectedly someone in a full-dress party two tables away recognized Juana, and they were suddenly in the swirling center of a swarm of merrymakers. Elspeth found it hard to keep up with the rapid-fire of their talk, with their slang, with their allusions. But Juana seemed to glow and took care of things beautifully.

  After all, as the visiting poetess from abroad, Elspeth was in character as a remote and untalkative creature, while Mack, as a mere secretary, was not supposed to speak. Although one or two of the girls glanced at him speculatively from time to time during the ninety-odd minutes they spent as members of the party. Elspeth felt a pang of jealous resentment and despised herself for feeling it.

  Later, back in the drawing room, Juana kicked off her slippers and massaged her tiny feet thoughtfully. "I speeded things up up there, I think. That brunette is a senator's daughter and a great pal of Christine Roosevelt. I have a hunch you'll be hearing from Christine herself by tomorrow noon."

  She scowled, letting go of her foot and reaching for a cigarette. "I wish I knew for certain who it was that pulled the hasel on the train—even more what his contacts are—and his motives. Unless he's clever as hell it's going to take him a little time to make contact with the Asians. Especially if he is using that Columbian funny-money. He might land in jail for passing queer—but that's too much to hope for."

  Elspeth once again found herself thinking of Everard—as she had in the stateroom the day before. He was clever, he was tough, he had reason to hate Mack and herself. They had not only wrecked his assignment, they had also wrecked the war on which he had proposed to thrive emotionally and materially.

  "I wonder," she said. The others looked at her expectantly and all at once she felt intuitive and foolish. "It's nothing," she said. "Merely a zany fancy. I'm going to turn in."

  THEY rose in midmorning and breakfasted together in the drawing room. The city beyond the windows was shrouded thickly in heavy fog. It was, on the whole, an oppressive and miserable morning. Mack brooded over his briefcase like a human bulldog, and Juana and Elspeth scanned the papers. It did the poet no inner good to read herself described as a "colorlessly incisive and typically British blonde, whose conversation seemed to consist of unrhymed and occasionally profane monosyllables . .."

  "On the nose," said Mack with a chuckle as Juana read it aloud. Elspeth told him to close his large rhinoceros mouth to no avail and fell sulky. Mack got out his big pistol and began to check its workings. He had the chamber in his lap when the telephone rang, making them all start.

  "Miss Marriner's apartment," said Juana smoothly. She listened briefly, then winked and nodded over the instrument at the others. Mack put his weapon together with a sharp series of clicking sounds.

  "Yes, I'm sure Miss Marriner would be highly honored," said the dark redhead. "Of course you know she never travels alone. Mr. Fraser and I are always with her. . . . Fine, I trust that won't be too inconvenient... . Certainly, we shall be ready at four."

  Hanging up, Juana clapped her hands together and did a little jig. "This is it, kids," she told them, grinning. "The President and his ever-lovin' daughter are staying at one of those monstrous places out on the peninsula. We, it seems, are very much wanted. They're sending a car for us at four o'clock. Yippee! I feel at least ten years younger."

  "Careful," said Elspeth. "That would put you under the age of consent."

  Juana made a face at her and off-to-Buffaloed into her own bedroom. "If I'm to visit the President I'm going to see my seams are straight," she called over her shoulder.

  Mack headed for his room, hesitated, then went on in, lugging the heavy briefcase. Elspeth remained where she was, setting her thoughts in order. She was going to have to play her part without a single slip from here on in. All at once she was a little frightened—not of Everard or Asian spies—this was plain stage terror.

  Four o'clock took a long time coming but the phone rang almost on the dot with the announcement that a car had arrived to pick up Miss Marriner and staff. Mack enlisted the aid of the elevator man to help lug their three suitcases and the briefcase to the lift.

  Just as the elevator doors opened on the lobby one of the passengers, a middle-aged woman of pasty complexion, gave a groan and began to topple in a faint. Involuntarily Mack moved to help her from the elevator. At which the other passenger, a heavy-set man with a black beard showing through his skin, moved forward and without a word yanked the briefcase from Mack's startled grasp.

  There was a confused tussle, in the course of which the "fainting" woman hit the liftman over the head with what seemed to be a loaded unbrella, Mack slugged the heavy-set marauder and the briefcase was shrewdly bashed open.

  Seconds later both heavy-set man and middle-aged woman were lost amid the crowds in the lobby, while a curious swarm was blanketing the view of their flight. Standing on tiptoe, Elspeth tried to see where they went, caught a glimpse of them darting through a fog-backed outer door—and of an elegant familiar figure covering their retreat.

  "Everard!" she exclaimed as Mack cursed.

  "The dirty so-and-so's got my fuel sample," he exploded. "What do we do now?"

  XIII

  BACK upstairs—quickly," snapped Juana. "The presidential car is going to have to wait." She brushed off disturbed hotel employees with polite but brusque efficiency, somehow got them, disturbed and disheveled, back to the suite.

  "The damned goons really did it," muttered Mack, his tie half out of sight under his collar as he shook his head over the ruin of his precious briefcase.

  "I saw Everard," said Elspeth, sitting breathless and erect on the arm of the sofa. "He was covering our friends' retreat. I caught a glimpse of him shepherding them out the street door."

  "Blast!" said Mack, his lips thinning. "I had an idea that so-and-so meant trouble from the beginning. But if I'd known how much—" He shook his head again. "These damned plans are worse than useless without the fuel. And without the sample it may take them years to get it. Everard's cooked our goose."

  "For heaven's sake, stop using tired cliches!" snapped Elspeth, whose nerves were on their beam ends.

  "Shhhhh!" said Juana, scowling. She had gone directly to the telephone on entering the room, had dialed a number after getting an outside line—one of the specialties of the suite. She said, "Juana Brooks—forty-seven—this world—red emergency." She then gave a terse but well organized account of what had happened—including a complete description of their two elevator attackers. She listened briefly, then looked across at Elspeth.

  "Everard," she said. "Can you describe him?"

  "Sure." Mack broke in before the poet could gather her thoughts. "Five-eleven—about one-sixty—light brown hair—light blue eyes—fair skin—hairline mustache on upper lip."

  "Also a bit of a swish," said Elspeth, surprised at Mack's accurate memory but determined not to show it. "Accent very British indeed—or at least it was while he was with us."

  "That should do it," said Juana, who had been repeating their words verbatim into the phone. "Have you orders?" She listened, murmured, "I understand," hung up and faced them, her hand still off the phone.

  "This is a rabbit punch and no
fooling," she told them quickly. "Here's the pitch—you two carry on. Go along in the presidential car as we planned. Elly, go after the President—but slowly and carefully. Arrangements are already being made to put us in an outlying cottage on the estate.

  "When you've talked enough poetry with Christine, tell her you're fascinated by General Curtis. Try to arrange to meet him sometime tomorrow where Mack and I can talk to him. Get him to come to the cottage for a drink with Christine. He's a hot rocket man. Also close to President Roosevelt. Tell Christine you're mad to do a big poem about rockets and the magic of spaceflight. Got it?"

  "I think so," said Elly, running her tongue over her lower lip. She felt like someone walking through a nightmare.

  "You'd better," said Juana and all of her languorous charm had faded before crisp efficiency. Then, turning to Mack, "Mack, you give me those plans but take the briefcase with you. Here, fill it with these." She picked up some newspapers, handed them to him, took the precious blueprints from him and put them away in her handbag.

  "Both of you talk about the robbery in the elevator as if it were inexplicable. After all, why should anyone want to rob a poet? It will draw attention to you, get you both noticed. Now beat it, both of you, while I try to square this."

  "But how about you?" asked Elspeth, frowning.

  "And the blueprints?" said Mack anxiously.

  "Don't worry—I'll be okay," said the dark redhead with a quiet assurance that brooked no denial. "I'll be along later—after dinner probably. You might see to it that I reach the cottage without difficulty. We're in a jam and we've all got to play our parts or we shan't get out of it."

  They went down together once more, Mack nursing the damaged briefcase as if it were a just-born baby. There was still considerable confusion in the lobby but they got through to the waiting limousine without difficulty. Juana left them on the sidewalk with a faint grin and a finger salute.

  "Golly, what a person!" said Elspeth behind the broad back of a smart chauffeur as they drove smoothly off into traffic.

  "Ummm," said Mack thoughtfully. Elspeth glanced at her partner, saw that he was looking out the window blankly, a slight frown on his face. "She's a lot of woman, too."

  "All right," said Elspeth testily. "I wasn't thinking of that, you lecher."

  Mack gave her a twisted half-smile. "Oddly enough," he said, "neither was I."

  THE fog lifted when they got beyond the rim of the city and they drove the magnificent miles to the peninsula in a warm bath of golden afternoon sunlight. They went through trim small towns and hamlets, past areas of clipped lawn and carefully tended greenery, caught occasional glimpses of great estates.

  "I think I like this world, Mack," said Elspeth suddenly.

  "It's fast—but it's happy," said Mack with unexpected insight. "It would be a rotten shame if it were spoiled."

  "That filthy Everard," said Elspeth. For the first time in her life she was beginning to learn the real meaning of hate. She had known dislikes—yes, violent dislikes—but what she was feeling at the moment was something utterly new to her, something she could sense that she was never going to forget.

  "Hey!" said Mack, looking at her. "Don't bite a hunk out of me! I didn't steal the blueprints."

  "Sorry," she said with a mirthless laugh, forcing her muscles to relax. "I feel a little werewolfish when I think about poor dear Everard. Why didn't we kill him when we had him in the Pipit?"

  "We couldn't—then," said Mack softly. Elspeth was still pondering this cryptic statement when the limousine stopped at a wrought-iron gate in a high brick wall. The gate was opened by an alert-looking pair of young men, one of whom questioned the driver briefly and permitted them to drive through into the landscaped grounds.

  A quarter of a mile further on, past more lawns, oddly trimmed trees and well-groomed hedges, they stopped again beneath a large porte cochere in front of an immense pillared house of white in neoclassic style. Another pair of Secret Service men looked them over and then a youngish butler in ribbed waistcoat, blue tailcoat, breeches and brass buttons entered the front of the limousine.

  They were driven around the house and perhaps a hundred yards beyond it to a small white cottage that nestled in a stand of cedars. Beyond it shimmered a gray-blue lake. Here the butler took their luggage—save for Mack's dummy briefcase—and showed them into the cottage. He was somewhat apologetic.

  "Mr. Gardienne hopes you will not object to being so far from the house," he told them, "but with the President's party here—" He paused to gesture his apology, added, "Whenever you're ready, ma'am, Miss Roosevelt is waiting for you. You can reach the house by crossing the side lawn." He pointed the way and departed.

  "Slumming" said Mack, looking around the low, luxuriously appointed living room with its well equipped fireplace and bar. It was small only by comparison with the monster house across the lawn.

  "If this be slumming, I'm for it," said Elspeth. Not only did three large bedrooms, each with its own bath, open from the central chamber but in a rear wing were dining room and kitchen as well.

  "I don't know why it is but every time I get in a place like this I have a job to do," said Mack. He sat down in an armchair, put his feet up on a hassock. "This time the job is yours, boss-woman. Hop to it."

  "Don't remind me," pleaded Elspeth, who was too nervous at the prospect of what lay ahead to feel up to swapping insults with the photographer. She went into her bathroom, checked dress, hairdo and makeup, then emerged with a sigh. Mack gave her a quick straight drink, which he had prepared, and as she moved slowly across the lawn she almost forgot how much she disliked him.

  CHRISTINE ROOSEVELT proved rather a surprise. Instead of the assured, mentally-corseted young woman her poems had led Elspeth to expect, she found the President's daughter to be a tall sensitive girl, much younger than her pictures in appearance, whose shyness made her almost noncommittal during the opening gambits.

  "It was swell of you to come here to see me, Miss Marriner", she said when she had maneuvered the poetess into what seemed to be her own private drawing room upstairs. Around them the house was aquiver with a sense of movement and importance, of comings and goings and low-pitched conversations, of the presence of many more people than it was accustomed to hold.

  "I've read your poems," Elspeth said bluntly. From her own past shyness she knew that the quick kindly incision was the best method of parting the barrier between them.

  "They stink, don't they?" said Christine almost diffidently, looking away toward a lofty window with ivory damask drapes.

  "They don't stink," said Elspeth quietly and as sincerely as she could. "But they aren't poetry yet."

  "Do you think they ever will be?" said Christine eagerly, her diffidence vanishing in the face of even negative interest.

  "That," said Elspeth, "is entirely up to you. I don't want to sound bromidic, but you've got to cut loose from the world you were planted in and find one of your own."

  "But how can I?" the girl asked almost tragically, brushing a wisp of silver-reddish hair back from her forehead. "I mean, a President's daughter and all—" She made a hopeless gesture.

  "You can find your own world within yourself—in fact, you must if you ever hope to find it anywhere," Elspeth told her and they were off. To the surprise of both of them they were only two years apart in age. They were still at it, hot and heavy, when a tall, somewhat portly man, whose red hair matched his daughter's and whose face showed lines of immense fatigue, entered the room without knocking.

  "Dad," said Christine, rising and giving him a hug. "When did they let you out? I thought those Jugoslavs—"

  "Old Chichi came down with a twinge of gout and they called off the reception," he said with a sudden infectious smile that reminded Elspeth of the famous Roosevelt smile of her own world. "So I hightailed it right out here. I got out of the party but I still want a drink—just you and me, how about it, Chris?"

  "But, Dad," said his daughter, "I have Elly—Miss Marriner he
re with me. Don't be rude."

  ELSPETH said, "I'm on my way." She smiled and moved toward the door. The President of the United States clapped a hand over his forehead and stepped into her path.

  "You'll have to stick it out now if only to cover my embarrassment," said the President, extending a large and friendly hand in greeting. "You're telling Christine how to write poetry ?"

  "She's tremendous, Dad," said the President's daughter. "I'll ring for a drink for all of us." She suited the action to the word. Meanwhile the chief executive studied Elspeth.

  "You look a lot better than your newspictures," he told her with an intonation that robbed the remark of all unflattering entendre. Then a look of quick concern crossed his countenance. "But didn't I hear something about you're being attacked and robbed in town on your way here?"

  "It was nothing," said Elspeth in what she hoped was a tone and manner bound to draw further questions. It worked, and for the next half hour she was busy explaining the incident, shaking her head as the Roosevelts sought some explanation.

  At the end of that time a grave secretary in striped pants entered and spoke low in the President's ear. He sighed, put down his glass and said, "They've caught up with me, kids. I've got to go." He rose, bowed over Elspeth's hand, added, "Is there anything I can do to make your visit more pleasant?"

  Elspeth gathered herself, said, "As a matter of fact I'd like to meet General Curtis if I might."

  "Not you, Elly!" said Christine in mock despair.

  "He's a wolf," said the President with a smile.

  "He's also your rocket expert, I hear," said the poet, taking the bit in her teeth. "I'm dreadfully excited about rockets and the possibility of space, flight. In fact one of my reasons for coming west was a hope of seeing White Sands. I'm hoping to do my next big poem about it."