by Don Wilcox
“Don’t worry, Boss, nobody’ll ever be able to understand him,” said Mac. “What about it, are we gonna take him in on this proposition of pullin’ stakes, or ain’t we?”
“It’s been my intention all along,” said Drake, “to leave him high and dry when we move out.”
“What I want to know is, how soon are we gonna load up and git moved?” Krug asked. “I figure we’re a couple days too late already, if we expected to take Hamilton Craig along for protection—”
Mac nudged him. That matter shouldn’t be brought up. Hadn’t they taken enough browbeating from the boss already for letting their prisoner get away? That was the very bonehead that was going to make this moving job doubly difficult.
Instead of simply backing a truck up to the south side of the building, loading up their goods and driving off, they now had a few alert police to look out for.
In fact, there were evidences that a trap was about to close in around them. With a doubled police patrol on two sides, a new force of night watchmen building the tenanted sections of the building, and busy electricians mounting floodlights over the court, Marcus Drake’s two henchmen were sure that a change of climate was urgently needed.
They had even heard rumors that some work was going to be done on the old well, since there was very likely an accumulation of debris in the bottom of it.
“They’ll have a sad surprise when they find it’s clean as a whistle,” said Marcus Drake. “One bolt makes that metal bottom as solid as concrete.”
“I’ll take care of it right away.” Mac dumped the broken bottle in a wastebasket.
“Not today,” skid Drake. “Don’t get in a hurry. We’ll get out before any big trouble falls due. And we may have another deposit to make.”
“In the well? You got another customer?”
“There’s the trouble-maker or two still at large, by my figuring,” said Drake. “Even if we know how to bluff Hamilton Craig out, there’s still a stray or two that you lazy louts haven’t accounted for. If they get foolish and bob up in our way we’ll give ’em the courtyard exit.”
The men gathered up some empty cardboard cartons and Drake dumped out the contents of a green steel toolbox that would do to pack part of the money in. They made their way up the stairs past the carpenters and plasterers to that part of the building which was still their private domain.
Meantime, Linda Lee continued her lesson in the mysteries of atoms, for the doctor had an amazing lot to tell her, with all sorts of charts and machines to illustrate his principles.
Her ability to turn into a card, he explained, was one of his applications of these processes involving the nature of matter.
“When you become a card the process is somewhat related to freezing. The activities of the electrons which compose your body are made to subside and you are condensed into a form that requires much less space. You return to normal when your atomic makeup is restored to its original spacefilling organization.”
“Gee!” Linda Lee gasped. “Then lots of make-up is what Ah must need if Ah want to be nohmal. Is that the ahdeah?”
She began powdering her nose, though this hardly seemed to be the response that Dr. Silverhead expected. He kept pointing to the big pyramid machine, describing the various actions that were brought about by a combination of light waves and vast electrical energy.
“If this new lens performs as I expect it to,” he said, “no error will occur in the reintegrating of the billions of electronic impulses. The twin mechanisms above each chute will double those billions of impulses and two reintegrations of the original body of atoms will occur.”[1]
Linda Lee was fairly gasping.
“Ah nevah heahd of anything so amazing befo’. Now do Ah know all about it?”
“No one ever knows all about it without going through it,” said the doctor. “Allow me to demonstrate the difference in the lenses—the old one that only disintegrates, and the new one I’m ready to try. Now for a subject—” he paused, and his glittering gaze returned from the top of the ladder to focus upon Linda Lee. “Can you climb a ladder?”
“Me? Does yo’ subject have to be a puhson? Won’t it wuk on a chaiah o’ a lamp o’ a book?”
“Of course. Everything disintegrates and reintegrates in the same way, whether it be alive, like my subject the other night, or dead, like—er—” Dr. Silverhead groped for a suitable example—“well, if I remember correctly, this subject had on his person some sort of garden tool—yes, a pair of pruning shears. And they were disintegrated, too, of course, along with him and his clothes and any valuables he may have carried.”
Linda Lee glanced at her watch. It was time for her to get back to work. She had promised to take Cornelia’s shift.
Dr. Silverhead walked along with her.
“Or was it pruning shears? Why should he have carried pruning shears?”
The point was mildly disturbing to the scientist’s mind, so unaccustomed to bothering with trifles. He led Linda Lee to the door above the basement stairs, and his glittering eyes combed the row of small tools hanging on the wall.
“No, I must be mistaken,” he concluded. “But whatever he had, it has vanished for good, the same as my subject.”
Linda Lee turned to stare blankly at the doctor.
“Gee, do you mean this puhson you all have been talkin’ abaout has sure ’nuf vanished jo’ good?”
“In the interests of scientific advancement, you understand.”
Linda Lee gulped and shook her head slowly. “Aftah all yo’ big wo’ds Ah still hones’ly don’ know what yo’re up to. You-all ain’t violatin’ any laws, ah’ yo’?”
For a moment Dr. Silverhead closed his eyes reflectively. “Sometimes I wonder. But no—my business manager takes care of everything . . . You will soon come back and let me demonstrate the lenses?”
“Ah—Ah guess so,” said Linda Lee. She hurried on her way, her ears ringing with big wonderful words. Electrons. Atoms. Electrical impulses. Disintegration—or was it disamputation? Dr. Silverhead was certainly the most amazing man she ever met.
CHAPTER XXIV
Wedding Invitation
THE WEDDING OF HAMILTON CRAIG WILL TAKE PLACE THIS COMING SATURDAY AT TWELVE O’CLOCK NOON IN THE GARDEN. SIX CRAIGETTES ARE REQUESTED TO ATTEND, DRESSED AS BRIDESMAIDS. THEY WILL ASSEMBLE AT THE ARCADE EAST OF THE OLD WELL.
—H.C.
That was the new sign which the girls found on the reception room bulletin board one morning. Patsy read it through, ran upstairs uttering unladylike words, and came down with a handful of darts. She spent the forenoon throwing at the thing.
The other girls were slightly less demonstrative; they too were angered. After the rumors that had come through the keyhole on the night following the rescue of Hamilton Craig, they were more than ever sensitive about any mention of his romantic tendencies.
“What makes him think I care to be a bridesmaid—one of six?” asked Genevieve disdainfully.
“Have you looked up his ancestry, dear?” Cornelia asked mockingly. The thrust brought a giggle from Linda Lee. The snobbery of Genevieve was becoming vulnerable.
In fact, Genevieve and her ancestors had come in for a bit of ridicule on the previous evening. When she had come in after another evening out with Benjamin Dodge, the girls had listened at the head of the reception room stairs and had overheard her doing some very proud boasting about her forefathers.
Then she had asked Benjamin Dodge pointblank whether he could claim any great-great-grandfathers at Plymouth Rock.
“So that’s your trouble, is it, Genevieve? Your ancestors came over on the Mayflower?” Benjamin Dodge had asked.
“They didn’t,” Genevieve replied, “but they should have. They missed the boat by ten minutes. So you see they were a part of the original band. Their proud spirit is in my blood.”
And that was when Patsy, with her radio at the top of the stairs, had suddenly turned the volume up and the announcer shouted, “What your blood needs is Pe
abody’s Purple Pills.”
It amused Benjamin Dodge so much that Genevieve and everyone else could hear him laughing all the way down the street.
Now, at Cornelia’s mention of ancestors, Genevieve made a cold shoulder gesture and walked off without a word.
Bridesmaids—all six of them?
That wasn’t the way the Craigettes had heard it through the keyhole. That night of Hamilton Craig’s rescue the talk in the office adjoining the reception room had lasted for an intense hour.
Four curious impressions had come to the girls out of what they had overheard.
The first and most dramatic: Hamilton Craig intended to marry very soon in order not to lose an inheritance, and he expected to marry one of his six Craigettes.
Second and most mystifying: The two voices—H.C.’s and Craig’s—were so nearly identical that the girls, unable to see either man, were not absolutely sure that it was Craig who made this breath-taking statement. It could have been that other tall gentleman who had given his name as H.C. The two of them were talking things over so rapidly and with such a complete understanding that it was almost as if one man were discussing his own private plans aloud. Obviously there was the highest degree of co-operation between these two friends. And their voices were so nearly identical that the girls at the keyhole, unable to see either of them, kept gasping, “Now which one said that?”—“That was Craig . . . No, it was H.C . . . Ssssssh! They’ll hear you.”
Third among these confused impressions: Whichever man it was who intended to do the marrying, he had been in love. And his friend forced him to admit that he had never ceased to be interested in someone, in spite of his habitual attitude that women were poison. The girl of his choice probably wasn’t aware of his long-enduring affection for her. He couldn’t help that. He wasn’t demonstrative, and he had been exceedingly busy “both at the studio and here.” (At this point in the revelations the girls were sure it was Hamilton Craig.)
Then at last it came through like a bolt of lightning that these two men were undecided on one important matter: Which of them was to do the marrying in order to save the inheritance?
It was understood that in any event there would be an equitable division of the money. The man who married would take two-thirds. There was no argument about that.
But each man preferred a smaller share of the fortune rather than the burden of marriage—until the talk came back to the matter of this mysterious former love. Gradually they revived their hopes that this object of their affections—and they didn’t name her—might be persuaded to accept one of them.
“Which one of us do you think she could learn to love?” said one of the voices.
“Shall we flip for it?” asked the other. “It’s a gamble, at best,”
“I’d rather not.”
“Then there is a shade of difference between us—”
“As a result of these weeks of contrasted experiences—the real estate falling to you, the studio to me.”
“Our plan to keep our natures identical was doomed from the start. Every new experience will alter us. We may as well accept that fact.”
The discussion turned down the avenue of psychology, and the quartet of keyhole listeners were lost in the deep forest. Retreating to their rooms, they had so much to talk about that the night’s sleep was ruined. Patsy was certain that the mysterious former love was one of the six Craigettes, and Linda Lee agreed with her. But none of the four would take a bow; in fact, the whole group declared that they wanted nothing to do with either of these women-hating hermits whose affections were outweighed by a pending fortune—hardboiled Patsy sounding off most violently.
Privately the four girls doubtless had their separate opinions, as the other two—Hetty and Grace—also would have had, had they been present.
But the bulletin board notice which confronted them this morning caused a new flare-up of that group spirit of rebellion.
They were all to be bridesmaids? That suited them just fine! They certainly weren’t interested in Hamilton Craig—nor in his mysterious cousin—as a possible husband.
But if they had been buying bridal veils they couldn’t have gone to any greater pains to choose.
“Six Craigettes are requested to attend.” But what if there were only four?
Craig answered that question by posting another bulletin. He offered a liberal reward to anyone who would locate any of the three missing employees—Hetty, Grace and Archie. He penned a postscript at the bottom:
THE WEDDING REQUIRES THE
PRESENCE OF SIX CRAIGETTES
The offer of the reward impressed Cornelia more than the others because it bore a dollar sign. But the fact was, all four of the girls had already offered all the information they could about the missing persons. Since the night H.C. had made his appearance there had been a handful of private detectives at work on the case.
Cornelia, as bankrupt for clues as the others, nevertheless mobilized her Craigette Protective Association. Verrazzano neglected his salesmanship and became overly helpful in his obsequious way. A trio of bond salesmen also answered her call. However, she was unable to get in touch with Whiskey Phil Parker.
“Ah cain’t believe but what he’ll turn up soonah o’ latah,” Linda Lee would say, though every time she repeated it her childlike face would cloud with doubt.
No one guessed what a fog Linda
Lee was walking through. Sometimes she thought she could not bear the weight of all these mysterious happenings. She must confide in someone. In whom?
Certainly not in Craig. He was much too busy. His private detectives? They were much too important, too snappish with their sharp questions:
“When did you last see Hetty and Grace? Speak up! Were they with Archie Burnette? What were they wearing? Which way did they go? You didn’t notice? Why didn’t you?”
No those men were too unfriendly to confide in. Besides, today they were again searching the buildings and grounds and reporting their bad news to Hamilton Craig. (It was rumored among the tenants that some of the eccentric old doctor’s friends were hiding out to avoid eviction—but of course the tenants knew nothing about the disappearance of Archie and the two Craigettes.)
Linda Lee’s need of a confidant brought her back to the white-haired doctor with the sharp little beard who looked so much like a Kentucky colonel and who seemed to enjoy talking with her in big words.
Linda Lee crossed the court and entered the laboratory. She found Dr. Silverhead at work in a large room that had once been an auditorium within the old hospital. He was checking through boxes and crates of scientific equipment. He dropped the work at once, however, as soon as he saw her.
“All broken or damaged,” he said, with a sweep of his arm toward the auditorium. “But unquestionably I can salvage enough of value to outweigh any rent bill. It’s very strange I should be overdue. I must have a talk with Drake. But it is true I have yet to realize anything on my inventions. The fewer persons I’ve benefited—such as Hamilton Craig—have been simply experiments. And now you—”
“Ah came to ask you some questions,” said Linda Lee. “The othah day you told me about a subject—”
“Stop right there,” said the doctor. “You’ll see it all for yourself. Can you climb a ladder? Ah—but you suggested we try a book or a lamp. Very good.”
Following him up the steps Linda Lee found herself on the stage again, gazing up at the huge gleaming pyramid of black tubes. Dr. Silverhead pressed a switch and the sparks snapped. He crawled up to the top of the ladder and threw a book into the slide.
Within a few seconds two books appeared at the base of the pyramid, one coming forth from each of the projecting chutes.
The doctor shed his coat and tossed it in. At once two coats came out, identical to the last frayed thread in the buttonholes.
From another room Marcus M. Drake and his two henchmen looked in and saw the impossible. That freakish mass of machinery did make some sort of sense after all! One of the doc
tor’s experiments was actually working! (Up to this moment Drake had taken all the scientific talk about the duplication of objects to be so much hogwash).
Before Drake’s and Mac’s and Krug’s amazed eyes it was happening!
They saw the doctor drop a pocket-book in at the top; they saw two identical pocket-books slide out through the two lower chutes,
“All right, men, wake up,” Drake snapped at his cohorts. “Do I have to tell you what to do? We’ve no time to lose.”
‘“I don’t getcha, Boss,” said Mac.
“The money boxes, you numbskull. Get them down here. You saw what happened to his pocket-book,”
“You’re gonna trust us, for once?”
“If that machine holds out there’ll be plenty for all of us.” Drake’s growl turned into an evil laugh. “We can start a full grown state of inflation. Come on, I’ll go with you . . .”
Prancing around the old stage among the panels of dilapidated scenery, Dr. Silverhead was so well pleased with himself that he could hardly speak. He pointed jubilantly to the most conspicuous six-inch lens.
“It took only a microscopic change to make all the difference—the vast difference between reintegrating and failing to reintegrate. Would you like me to illustrate?”
“Ah guess so,” said Linda Lee. She thought she had never seen the scientist’s eyes so bright. She watched him as he swiftly changed the lenses. He placed the good one carefully on a stand, inserted another.
“Now you’ll see how badly the old lens works. For several weeks I was uncertain of the source of my trouble. Nothing would reintegrate. I’ll illustrate, if you’ll just climb up the ladder, please.”
Linda Lee felt a little stage fright as she ascended. But soon she was at the top. She combed her hair while awaiting further orders, as if she wanted to be well groomed for whatever experience this demonstration might involve.