He backed out, muttering, got out his wrecking bar, kissed Janet again, stuck his upper half into the duct, and attacked the vanes. They came loose and plunked to the bottom wall of the duct one by one. Then Juniper-Hallett wormed himself completely into the duct and around the bend. "Wormed" is no exaggeration. The duct was a mere thirty by sixty centimeters, and, thin as Juniper-Hallett was, it took all his patience and persistence to get himself around that hellish corner. Too late he remembered that he had a third sandwich in an inside pocket; he probably had jam all over the inside of his clothes by now.
The duct soon enlarged where others joined it, so that Juniper-Hallett could proceed on hands and knees. Faint gleams of light came down the ducts from the registers. The breeze purred softly past his neck. The inside of the ducts was waxy to his touch. He came to another bend, and had to pry loose another set of vanes that blocked his path. He hoped he wasn't making too much noise. But the asbestos muffled even the sound of the wrecking bar.
Then he arrived at deeper blackness in the darkness around him; his right hand met nothing when he put it down. He jerked back in horror; in his hurry he'd almost tumbled down one of the main return stacks. It would have a straight drop of about a hundred meters.
His viscera crawling, he turned on his flashlight. He found he'd have to pry a couple of baffle plates out of the way to get into the stack.
That took a bit of straining, cramped as he was. When it was done, he stuck his head into the stack and flashed the light down against the stack wall below him. There ought to be a ladder of hand holds all the way from top to bottom.
But there were no hand holds below him; nor above him, either. With great difficulty, he got out the plans and read them by the flashlight. His underwear was now clammy with sweat. The plan showed the hand holds. The plan was wrong, or the hand holds had been removed since it was made. He could not think why the latter should be.
He took another look, and there were the hand holds—on the side of the stack opposite him.
The idea of jumping across the two-meter gap over the black hole below him, and catching the hand holds on the fly monkeywise, made his scalp crawl. He sat for a minute, listening to the faint, deep, organlike note of the air rushing down the stack. Then he knew what he must do. He unwound the rope from around his middle, and tossed the hook on its end across the gap until it caught on one of the hand holds. Then he took the rope in both hands and slid off the baffle plates. He fetched up sharply against the other side of the stack.
An hour later, Juniper-Hallett arrived at the return-register, opening into the biology room of the Stromberg laboratories, well below ground. He was shaking from his hundred-meter climb down the stack. Without the plans, it would have taken him all day to find the right duct.
He stifled a grunt of disappointment. The register was high up on one wall, giving him a good view of the room. The duct, serving a room much larger than Janet's, was thrice the size of the one leading to hers, so Juniper-Hallett could move around easily.
But there was no sign of the body of a dormouse anywhere.
His watch told him it was eight-thirty. That was dangerously close to the hour when the scientists went to work. But if there was no dormouse, there would be no reason for invading—
A lock clicked and a man entered the room. He stared at a long, bare table, and bolted out, slamming the door. Soon he was back with several more. They all shouted at once. "Ryan's gone!" "Who was here last—" "I saw him on the table—" "—must have stolen—" "—the Crosleys—" "—the departmental catch hell from—" "Shut up, sir! Let me think!"
The last was from a man Juniper-Hallett recognized as Hosea Beverly-Heil, Stromberg's chief engineer. He was a tall, masterful-looking man. He pressed his fingertips against his temples and squeezed his eyes shut.
After a while he said: "It's either the Crosleys, or the Ayesmies, or the Hawaiians. The Crosleys, on general principles; if we steal something that is to say, it obviously has value for us; wherefore it behooves them to steal it from us. The Ayesmies, because Arnold Ryan was a prominent member of the A.S.M.E. back in the days when it was a legal organization; that is to say, now that they are an illegal, secret group, I mean, clique or . . . uh . . . group, and have been driven almost out of existence by our good dictator's vigilant agents—" Here somebody snickered. Beverly-Heil frowned at him, as though everybody didn't know that the dictator was a mere powerless puppet in the hands of the turbulent aristocracy of the great companies. "—our . . . his vigilant agents, as I was saying, they may wish the help of one of their former leaders in saving them from extinction. The Hawaiians, because they may suspect that Ryan, who, as is well known, is part Hawaiian, may give us their power secret; that is to say—Well, of the three possibilities, I think the second and last are too far-fetched and melodramatic to be worth serious consideration; I mean to say, to merit further pursuit along that line. Therefore, by a simple process of elimination, we have to conclude that the Crosleys are the men—that is to say, the most likely suspects."
Juniper-Hallett, huddled behind the grill of the register, began to understand why Janet had called the Stromberg dinner "Frightful." Undoubtedly, Hosea Beverly-Heil had made a speech.
The chief engineer now turned on a squarely built, blond man with monocle stuck in a red face. "As for your suggestion, Duke-Holmquist, by which I mean your proposal that we call the police, I may say that I consider it about the silliest thing I ever heard, sir; that is, it's utterly absurd. I mean by that, that to do so, would involve the admission that we had stolen, I mean expropriated, the body of Arnold Ryan in the first place."
Horace Juniper-Hallett was leaning against the grill, straining his ears. He was sure that his company hadn't stolen the dormouse. Why should the Old Man send him out to hunt for the body at a time when he must have known of its whereabouts and of plans for its seizure?
And then the grill, which was not locked in place at all but was merely held upright by friction, came loose and fell out and down on its hinges with a loud clang. Juniper-Hallett caught the register frame just in time to keep himself from tumbling into the laboratory.
For a few seconds, Juniper-Hallett looked at the engineers, and the engineers looked at him. His face started to take on a friendly smile, until he noticed that the couple nearest him started moving toward him with grim looks. Men had been beaten to death with duelling sticks when caught in the enemy's—
Juniper-Hallett tumbled backward and raced down the duct on hands and knees. Behind him the technicians broke into angry shouts. The light was dimmed as the head and shoulders of one of them was thrust into the opening.
Juniper-Hallett thought of trying to lose his pursuer in the maze of ducts. But he'd undoubtedly lose himself much sooner; and then they'd post somebody at each of the fourteen hundred registers and wait for him to come out—
The man was gaining on him, from the sound. The laboratory was connected to the main air conditioning system; there were smaller special temperature rooms, with a little circulating system of their own. The duct that Juniper-Hallett was in turned up a little way on, to reach the basement level where it joined the main trunks from the air conditioner. He had come down the one-story drop by his rope. It was still there; he went up it hand over hand. Just as he reached the top, it went taut below him; the other man was coming up, too.
Juniper-Hallett tried to pry the hook out, but it had worked itself firmly into the asbestos, and the weight of his pursuer kept it there.
He took out his flashlight and wrecking bar. A businessman could hit another businessman, or a whitecollar, with a duelling stick. A whitecollar could hit another whitecollar or a businessman with a duelling stick. A whitecollar could use his fists on another whitecollar, but for a businessman to either strike with or be struck by a fist was a violation of the convention. An engineer ranked above a whitecollar and below a businessman; he could not be promoted to a businessman, executive, or entrepreneur, however. He could be struck with—Juniper-H
allett had forgotten. But it was utterly certain that hitting a man with a wrecking bar was a horrible violation of the code. Maybe an entrepreneur could hit a proletarian with such an implement, but even that—
The man's head appeared over the edge of the bend. As Juniper-Hallett turned the flashlight on, the man's monocle gleamed balefully back at him. It was the thick-set fellow addressed as Duke-Holmquist.
Juniper-Hallett hit him over the head with the wrecking bar; gently, not wishing to do him serious damage.
"Ouch!" said Duke-Holmquist. He slipped back a little; then pulled himself up again.
Juniper-Hallett hit him again, a little harder.
"Uh," grunted the man. "Damn it, sir, stop that!" He reached a large red hand out for Juniper-Hallett.
Juniper-Hallett hit him again, quite a bit harder. The monocle popped out of the large red face, and the face itself disappeared, Juniper-Hallett heard him strike the bottom of the duct. He worked his hook loose and pulled the rope up.
He could walk almost erect along the main duct. He hiked along, referring to his plan now and then, until he found the stack down which he had come. He stumbled over the vanes he had knocked loose before.
He started to climb. By the time he had ascended ten meters, he had discarded the wrecking bar and the other implement, a thing like a large can opener. By the time he had gone twenty, he had stuffed his papers into his pants pocket and dropped his coat. He would have discarded the flashlight and the rope, except that he might need them yet.
At thirty meters, he was sure he had climbed a hundred, and was playing the flashlight up and down the shaft to make sure he hadn't already passed the takeoff with the bent baffle plate. The ephedrine made his heart pound even more than it would have, anyway.
By and by, he worked out a system of looping his rope into a kind of sling, slipping the hook over one of the hand holds, and resting between climbs. The climbs grew shorter and shorter. He'd never make it. Anyone but a thin, wiry young man in first-rate condition would have collapsed long before.
But he kept on; ten rungs; rest; ten rungs; rest.
The ten rungs became nine, eight, seven—Pretty soon he'd give up and crawl out the first duct he passed. It might land him almost anywhere—but how, could he get into and through it, without his burglary tools?
He'd stop the next time he rested; just hang there in black space, until the Strombergs lowered a rope for him from above.
There was the bent baffle! Feeling ashamed of his own weakness, Juniper-Hallett hurried up to it. How to get across the two meters of empty space? He climbed ten extra rungs, hooked the hook over a hand hold, climbed back down, took the rope in his hands, and kicked out, swinging himself pendulumwise across the stack. He caught the baffle all right and wormed his way into the duct. He found he would have to leave his rope behind. He said to hell with it, and squirmed out through the duct leading to Janet's room.
She was there alone. She squeaked with concern as Juniper-Hallett poured himself out of the register and collapsed on the rug. He had sweated off five of his meager sixty kilos, and looked it. She said, "Oh, darling!" and gathered him up. Dolores, not yet altogether used to Juniper-Hallett, slid under the bed again.
With his little remaining strength, he tottered back to the register and began putting the frame of the grill back in place. A knock sounded. Juniper-Hallett looked up and mumbled: "S'pose I could go back and get my rope—don't know how—and hang out the window—"
"You'll do nothing of the sort!" Janet bowled him over and rolled him under the bed.
The visitor was a strapping young Stromberg guardsman. He explained: "Those fool engineers—begging my lady's pardon—took half an hour getting Duke-Holmquist out of the flues before they thought to tell us. But we'll catch the marauder; isolate the main stacks and clean them and their branches out one at a time—what's that?" He bent over and examined the register. "Somebody's been taking the screws out of this, and he didn't put them all the way back in. The man hasn't come out through your room, has he, my lady?"
"No," said Janet. "But then, I was out until a few minutes ago."
"Hm-m-m." The guardsman removed the register frame an stuck his flashlight inside the duct. "The vanes have all been knocked out of this bend. Somebody's been through here all right. Mind if I search your room, my lady? "
"No. But please don't muss up my things any more than you have to."
The guardsman went through the closets and the bureau drawers. Then he approached the bed. Janet's heart was in her mouth. Being a sensible girl, she knew that her husband, in his present condition, had not the ghost of a chance of throttling or stunning the man before he could give the alarm. And there was nothing in sight to use as a club—
The guardsman bent over and pulled up the bedspread. Something hissed at him; he jumped back, dropping his flashlight. "Wow!" he said. "I'd forgotten about your lioness, my lady. I guess the fellow sneaked out through your room while you were out of it." He touched his forehead and departed. Janet looked under the bed in her turn. "Horace," she said. A snore answered her.
5
Juniper-Hallett awoke after dark. He felt almost human again, and very hungry. The cause of his awakening was the click of the door as Janet returned to her room after dinner.
"Here, sweetheart," she said, producing a couple of hard rolls.
"Wonderful woman!" he replied, sinking his teeth.
She said: "Mother's going to spend the night here again. It's her nightmares."
"Then I'll have to get out somehow. Right away."
"Oh, must you, Horace?"
"Yep. I don't fancy another night with Dolores."
The puma, hearing her name, came over to Juniper-Hallett and rubbed her head against his knee.
"She likes you," said Janet.
"That may be. But she gives me hay fever, and she has too much claws and teeth for my idea of a pet. How'll I get out, old girl?"
Janet got a raincoat, a hat, and a pair of shoes out of a closet. "If you put these on—"
"What? Good Service, no! If it ever got out that I'd been doing a female impersonation, I'd never live it down. The mere idea gives me the horrors."
"But that's the only thing I can think of—"
"Me run around in a girl's clothes? Yeeow!" He closed his eyes and shuddered. "If they caught me in what I'm wearing, the worst they could do would be to beat me to death. But that—br-r-r-r! No, a thousand times, no!"
Half an hour later he had his pants legs rolled up under the raincoat, and was putting on the hat. His expression was that of a man about to have a boil lanced by a drunken friend with a rusty jackknife.
He stood up. Dolores rubbed against his legs; then suddenly reared up, embraced him with her muscular forelegs, and threw him. She sat down on him and licked his chin. She had a tongue like sandpaper of the coarsest grade.
"Hey!" said Juniper-Hallett.
"She wants you to stay and play with her," said Janet. "She loves to wrestle."
"But I don't," said Juniper-Hallett.
Dolores was persuaded to let Juniper-Hallett up, and was sent out for a walk with Janet's maid while Juniper-Hallett hid.
When Horace Juniper-Hallett got home late that night, he took off the hat and the shoes and flung them on the floor with a violence all out of proportion to the crime, if any, of these inoffensive garments.
Juniper-Hallett's next obvious step was to report to Lord Archwin of Crosley that he had arrived at the Stromberg laboratories just as the Strombergs learned that somebody else had made off with the precious dormouse.
He didn't relish the prospect. Lord Archwin might have regretted already sending an untrained young sprig out to gumshoe and be glad of an excuse to call the deal off and put a professional Sherlock on the job. So Juniper-Hallett was relieved next morning when he learned at the Crosley building that Archwin Taylor-Thing was down at the Exposition, which was closing that day.
Juniper-Hallett was starting out of the receptionist's vest
ibule when he noticed a man sitting with a briefcase—not a businessman's fancy leather one, but a plain rubberoid bag—in his lap. The man had a large quantity of curly black hair, tinted spectacles, and beard. Juniper-Hallett did not know any men with beards, but still this one did not look unfamiliar to him.
"Waiting to see the Old Man, sir?" he asked pleasantly.
"Da. Yes."
"He won't be back until late this afternoon, sir."
"Saw? That is too bad. But I shall wait for him anyway."
"I'm going down to see him now. Can I take a message?"
"Da. Tell him that Professor Ivan Ivanovitch Chelyushkin waits to see him. He has wery important inwention to shaw him."
"How long have you worn those whiskers?" asked Juniper-Hallett.
"Years and years. Gaw, young man, and geev your master my message!" The professor rose and pointed imperiously to the door.
"I think," said Juniper-Hallett in a low voice, "that you're the lousiest actor I ever saw, Justin old slug."
The eyes behind the tinted glasses took on an alarmed, hunted look. "You damn dirty Crosley," whispered the bearded man fiercely. "If you say a word, I'll break your neck before they can—"
Juniper-Hallett laughed at him. "Now, now, I don't want Your Loyalty beaten to a jelly. That's what they'd do; beat you to a jelly." He repeated the word "jelly" with relish. "I'm not technically a Crosley any more, you know."
"That's right, so you aren't. And I'm nobody's Loyalty. But—"
"Let us gaw outside, my frand, where we can talk wizzout wulgar interruptions," said Juniper-Hallett.
Justin Lane-Walsh explained, crestfallen: "After I got out of the hospital, they degraded and expelled me, just as they said they would. But our Old Man told me not to go off the deep end, because he might have some confidential work for me.
"So last night I get a call from him, and he tells me somebody's got our dormouse, the one we expropriated from the Crypt. You know all about that, don't you? So the Old Man says, you find where the dormouse has gone, and we'll see about giving you your rank back."
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