by Anthology
I grabbed him by the arm, jerked him around and with a hand at his collar and seat, propelled him forcibly toward the door. The watchman scrambled to his feet and jerked open the door as he saw us coming.
With a hearty heave I pitched the twisting, swearing mug into the alley. He hit the cobblestones off balance and sprawled forward onto his face.
“That,” I said to the watchman, “is one of the lower members of the rodent family. If you ever see it scurrying around the premises again, step on it.”
Dapper Dan Lopez crawled to his feet, shouted something quite unprintable in my general direction and then hurried angrily off.
I brushed my hands off, but I still felt as if I needed a good bath with plenty of strong soap to remove the feeling the niftily dressed mobster had left with me.
When I got to the wings and took my usual position alongside Sid Hunt, Ruby was just starting her first song.
I took a quick gander at the audience and saw that they were settling back comfortably to be entertained and thrilled.
If I do say it myself it was a pretty clever revue, as those things go. The theme was supposedly completely futuristic. The stage backdrop was a mammoth black drape against which blazing discs of light were in relief These discs were tagged Jupiter, Saturn, Mars, etc. In the middle was the brightest and biggest blazer, Old Sol, himself. Against this background cellophane space ships floated idly. It was very pretty.
As props we had huge globular contraptions labeled Time Machines. More atmosphere was provided by papier-mâché atomic cannons, disintegrator guns and such. From there on the show was in no way different than any time-honored Broadway musical.
The chorines were very scantily clad in abbreviated outfits we called Space Suits and they moved through their paces with the good old wiggle that nineteen-forty developed. Maybe it was goofy, but the public ate it up, which may or may not prove anything.
By this time Ruby had finished her first number, a torchy thing called Jupiter Taught Me A Thing Or Two, and was getting an enthusiastic hand.
She curtsied prettily, blowing kisses to the bald-headed cheering section in the first row.
Congratulating myself on the way things were starting out, I turned away for an instant to light a cigarette, and that was when it happened.
“Look!” Sid Hunt hissed, grabbing my arm.
There was such a mixture of shock and amazement in his voice that I wheeled to him quickly.
“What is it?” I snapped.
He was staring onto the stage at Ruby and pointing a trembling excited finger in her direction, too flabbergasted to speak.
I had my eyes off the stage possibly for the space of a few seconds, but when I turned them back I almost swallowed my cigarette.
For in that split second a thick globular machine had materialized on the stage beside Ruby.
“What kind of a gag is this?” Sid Hunt was yelling in my ear. “This isn’t supposed to be in the act. Is this some of your doings, Flannigan?”
I was too shocked to answer. You’d think as long as I’ve been in show business that nothing could surprise me. But I felt as if I’d been kicked in the stomach by Man O’ War.
The machine was reddish in color and looked somewhat like the props we had scattered about the stage, labeled Time Machines. On top of the strange machine was a mechanism that reminded me of the late model automobile headlights, wired for sound.
Sid Hunt was jerking my arm again.
“Look!” he shrieked. “There’s a man inside!”
He wheeled on me, shaking his fist under my nose.
“This is your work,” he yelled excitedly. “Trying to slip in some act without telling me about it. If it’s a stinker I’ll have you blacklisted from one coast to the other. You won’t be able to get a job in New York, California, Chi—”
“Never mind the travelogue,” I cut in. “I get the general idea. But I don’t know a bit more about this damn thing than you do.”
I turned back to the stage.
The boss had not been kidding when he said a man was inside the machine. I could see him myself, hazily outlined through the glass shell, twisting knobs and gadgets frantically. He had on something that looked like a little boy’s suit.
My eyes flicked to Ruby. She was standing within a few feet of the machine, her gorgeous eyes widening incredulously. I couldn’t tell from her expression whether she was going to laugh or scream.
The audience had stopped applauding and now there was an irritable murmur of impatience running through it. They evidently thought the materialized machine part of the show, and they were a little tired of waiting for something to happen.
Suddenly from the disc on the top of the machine a brilliantly bright flash of orange light streamed, bathing Ruby in its glare. Only the edges of the beam were visible. The rest was like black light.
For an instant she stood stock still, her beautiful body outlined in the dazzling beam. Then she screamed loudly, the way a woman will do seeing a mouse. Not in pain or shock, but merely a cry of outraged surprise.
“Curtain!” yelled Sid Hunt.
Men sprang to obey him. In three seconds the heavy drapes had touched the floor hiding the scene from the audience.
The stage became a confused nightmare as prop men, chorines and stage hands rushed out of the wings to gape at the strange machine. Sid Hunt dashed to the center of the stage shouting directions.
“Get this thing off the stage,” he yelled, to the stagehands. Wheeling to the chorines, he waved his arms wildly, like a farmer shooing chicks.
“Line up,” he shouted. “Get ready for the first act finale. The curtain’s going back up in thirty seconds.”
The machine which had caused the consternation was shoved off the stage into the wings, and a reasonable facsimile of order was restored.
I was right behind Sid Hunt as he bustled up to where the stagehands had shoved the globular machine. He circled it helplessly, a study in baffled rage.
“If this is a gag,” he declared wrathfully, “someone is going to have his sense of humor kicked right in the pants.”
Ruby was peering into the interior of the machine like a curious kitten.
“Oh,” she exclaimed, “there’s a man inside!”
“Go to the head of the class,” I said. “We thought it was a tame elephant.”
She laughed gaily.
“Whatever made you think that?” she asked.
“I give up,” I said wearily. “I must be getting old.”
Suddenly all of the chatter ceased as a lid on top of the contraption swung open. A second later a small man popped into sight. He had pleasant though rather grotesque features and small blue eyes that blinked uncertainly.
“Hello,” he said shyly. “What year is this?”
“What year is this?” Sid Hunt exploded, almost dancing in his rage. “I’ll show you what it means to pull corny practical jokes on me.” He wheeled to two burly stage hands, “Drag him down here.”
The face of the occupant of the strange contraption clouded apprehensively.
“Maybe,” he said apologetically, “I’ve made a mistake.”
He started to retreat back into the depths of the machine, but he was too late. For the husky stagehands had grabbed his arms when he started to move, and with a businesslike efficiency hauled him over the side of the machine onto the floor.
He would have fallen had it not been for their support. Between the two heavy-set stagehands he looked woefully small and pathetic. His head came barely to their shoulders, and the absurd, boy scout costume he was wearing, gave him the appearance of a boy caught stealing jam.
But his features were pleasant if not distinguished, and his eyes beamed with a trusting innocence. His attitude was that of a person very puzzled and uncertain, but still unafraid.
Sid Hunt planted himself before him, hands on his hips.
“So,” he shouted, “try and ruin my show with a cheap joke, will you? Who put you up to this?�
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The little man from the machine looked carefully behind him to make sure that the explosive question was addressed to him. Assured that it was, he turned back to Sid Hunt, smiling shyly.
“My wife did,” he said.
I wondered how much more of this Sid’s blood pressure could stand. His face was flushed, and the cigar in his mouth was being ground to pieces between his teeth.
“Who is your wife?” Sid asked in a strangling voice, that rose suddenly to a shriek. “And who are you?” he hollered. “Where are you from?”
The little man looked concerned. “I’m 33,” he said, “but—”
“I don’t care how old you are,” Sid Hunt screamed frantically. “Are you going to answer my questions, or would you rather talk to the police?”
The little man smiled, but without much enthusiasm.
“I wasn’t referring to my age,” he said anxiously. “33 is my number, my designation.”
I thought I saw a little light. I tapped the little man on the shoulder, smiling reassuringly.
“Don’t worry,” I said soothingly. “Everything’s going to be all right, Number 33.”
I shot a warning glance at Sid Hunt, then tapped my head meaningly.
“It’s all right,” I said gently. “Now just tell where you escap—I mean, where you came from, and we’ll take care of everything else.”
The little man smiled relievedly. “That’s very good of you,” he said, “because—”
I cut him off.
“And where are you from?” I prompted gently.
“Oh,” he said, “I’m from the Future.”
I had been prepared for a zany answer, but nothing like this.
“The Future,” I gasped.
“It’s a gag,” Sid Hunt stormed. “A cheap rib on my Follies of the Future. I’ll bet Swanson over at the Capitol is behind this. He’s boiling because I’m cornering all the business on the Stem.” The little man listened politely to this harangue, but without a flicker of comprehension in his eyes. Then he turned back to me.
“Since you seem to be most intelligent person here,” he smiled. “Perhaps I’d better confine my explanations to you.”
Being called intelligent by a fugitive from a strait-jacket is far from my idea of a graceful compliment, but I was too dizzy myself to protest.
“You see,” the little nut was saying, “I am from the year, 4230. I was sent back to this era by my wife to do some research for her.”
I was fascinated by the little fellow’s air of absolute sincerity.
“How interesting,” I managed to say. “I encountered some slight difficulty in arriving here,” the screwball went on. “I overshot my mark the first try and landed right in the middle of a battle. One of the soldiers told me it was the American Civil War, so I flashed my wife and she brought me back to this Time.”
Sid Hunt’s control shattered to bits. “Throw him out!” he screamed, beside himself. “Throw him out! If he ever sets foot in my theater again . . . Men from the future, civil wars, time machines, it’s all Swanson’s doings!”
I felt inclined to agree with him, but there was something pathetic in the face the little fellow turned to me.
“Please,” he said desperately, “you believe—”
That was as far as he got. The stage hands grabbed him by the arms and hustled him away. I heard a door open, followed by a shrill yelp, then the sound of the door banging shut. Our little chum had departed—swiftly and forcibly.
Sid Hunt was still fuming.
“Civil War,” he muttered viciously. “Who’re they trying to kid?”
There was no tactful answer for that one, so I kept quiet. We turned and were heading back for the wings, when I suddenly stopped and grabbed Sid by the arm.
“Hey!” I yelled. “Where’s the machine?”
“What machine?” he demanded irritably.
I was staring about dazedly, my eyes popping incredulously.
“The machine the little guy arrived in,” I said weakly.
Sid Hunt glared around the emptiness backstage, and then an uneasy look crept into his eyes.
“It’s gone,” he said blankly.
I grabbed one of the hurrying stagehands.
“Mike,” I said, “did you see the machine that dropped onto the stage a few minutes ago?”
“Yeah. I helped shove it off into the wings.”
“Well, where is it now?”
He peered about, scratching his head.
“You got me. Last time I saw it, it was settin’ right here. That was when Miss Ruby was crawling into it, I believe.”
“Ruby!” I shouted. “You say Ruby climbed into that thing?”
He looked at me reproachfully.
“You know how she is, Mr. Flannigan,” he said defensively. “Like a little kid when there’s something new around here. She’s always poking into things to see what makes the wheels go ’round. She probably just wanted to look into that contraption. Nothing wrong in that, is there?” he finished truculently.
“I hope not,” I said worriedly. For I was worried. Something was as screwy as hell. The way the machine had materialized in the first place was odd, and its disappearance now with Ruby probably in it could hardly be considered a normal, prosaic occurrence.
“It’s some kind of a gag,” Sid Hunt said, but his voice lacked conviction. “Where do you suppose she is?”
“I can’t even guess,” I snapped.
“Ooooh,” he moaned. “She’s due on in a few more minutes. I can’t stand this any longer. Get me a bottle of aspirin and an ice pack.”
“I’ve got something else to get first,” I said grimly.
“What?”
“Number 33;” I snapped. “He’s just goofy enough to know the answers to a lot of questions that are bothering me.”
I left Sid Hunt standing there and dashed out through the stage entrance, but a glance told me I was too late. The alley leading to the street was deserted, and when I reached the street itself, I saw nothing but the anonymous stream of humanity that is constantly surging through Manhattan’s gulleys.
The old saw about the needle and the haystack applied perfectly. How could I find one individual in this scurrying rush of people? Even though that individual was dressed in a silly costume, and was screwy enough to stand out anywhere, the task was a hopelessly impossible one.
I tried asking a few of the pedestrians if they had seen anyone of his description, but after receiving monosyllabic grunts instead of answers, I decided that New Yorkers aren’t people after all and cut it out.
There was nothing left but the hit-and-run, free-lance method. He couldn’t have gone far and there were only a certain number of places he could go, so I set out to try them all.
For an hour I cruised in and out of restaurants, dives, shoe shops, taverns, working steadily uptown.
I guess it was just blind luck that I finally discovered him. As I was leaving a gay night spot known as Danny’s Dive, I suddenly spotted his reflection in the bar mirror. He was at a table in the rear of the joint, surrounded by three carmine-lipped blondes.
And I have never seen such an expression of happiness on any human countenance. The little fellow in the bunny suit was apparently in his element. On each knee he was balancing a blonde, and with one hand he was holding a tall glass, and with the other a leg of chicken. One of the girls had perched a silly hat on his head, giving him the look of a court jester at an orgy. He looked quite ridiculous—but quite happy.
I threaded my way across the postage stamp dance floor, pulled up a chair to his table and sat down.
One of the curvesome blondes on his knee parted her red lips in a sirrupy smile.
“Hiya, Big Boy,” she cooed.
The little fellow shoved a strand of hair from his eyes and beamed brightly at me.
“Ish wonderful,” he said happily. “Real food and drink instead of vitablets. Just can’t get over it. And girls, weak little girls who think I’m wonder
ful. Glorious, marvelous. Can’t get over it.”
I saw that he was more than just a bit woozy. The table was loaded with toothsome delicacies and a half-dozen bottles of champagne were in the process of being emptied.
He shoved a dish of chopped lobster and terrapin toward me, and then splashed a water glass full of champagne and pointed to it.
“Drink up, drink up,” he cried. “It’s real, you hear, real.”
“Before you get too drunk,” I said, “I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes. The machine in which you arrived disappeared after you left the theatre. On top of that one of the stars of the show is missing, and one of the workmen saw her climbing into the machine before it disappeared.”
Number 33 shook his head sadly. “Too bad,” he muttered. “Too, too bad.”
“What’s too bad?” I demanded.
But instead of answering me the little fellow began to laugh uncontrollably. For perhaps a minute he was helpless in the grip of merriment, his eyes streaming with tears. Finally he wiped his eyes and, with an obvious effort, stopped laughing.
“It’s so funny,” he chuckled, “I just can’t help myself. When my wife—” He got not farther than that, when he burst out laughing again, pounding his hand on his thigh in his hilarity.
I was more than a little irked. “When your wife what?” I asked impatiently.
“When my wife finds another man in the time machine,” he gasped, “she’ll be fit to be tied.”
“It’s not a man,” I said, “it’s a girl.” The little fellow wheeled on me, almost upsetting the trim wench on his knee.
“A girl?” he cried incredulously. For an instant he seemed thunderstruck, then, to my great annoyance, he was off on another laughing jag.
“So much the better,” he chortled. “My wife will be absolutely wild.”
I was getting tired of this drunken double talk.
“Listen,” I snapped, “if you know where the machine and girl have gone, you’d better start singing before I forget the fact that I’m sixty pounds heavier than you.”
He turned and regarded me solemnly. “They’re gone,” he said. “Gone for good.”
“Where?” I barked.