by Various
He fled, leaving a memento in the form of his cane, which he flung at Vanderhof with unerring aim. Nose and cane collided.
Ajax and Bingo whistled in chorus: 'Wow!" said the latter. "Didja see that? Mister, you're good! You almost scared me."
Vanderhof, tears of pain in his eyes, turned to the mirror. "Yeah," he said in a shaky voice. "You may not believe it, but I'm scaring myself. Am I crazy, or do I look like both of you?"
"Well," the dwarf said judiciously, "the top part of you looks like me, but the bottom half looks like Ajax. I don't see how you do it. You must be on the big time."
Vanderhof was silent, considering the impossible reflection in the mirror. From the waist up he was Bingo, the dwarf. His lower extremities were those of a giant. The result was harrowing in the extreme. It was like putting a chameleon on Scotch plaid.
With a mighty effort he resumed his normal appearance. There were cries of amazement and appreciation from his companions. Leaving them to their simple pleasures, Vanderhof walked unsteadily back into the main show. He was bound for fresh air—lots of it. And peace.
Chameleons, however, do not lead peaceful lives, contrary to the opinions of some. The unexpected is always happening.
As Vanderhof crossed the big room, he was trying to understand what had happened. He had assumed the outward appearance of two people at the same time—abnormal people at that. Things were getting worse. Ajax and Bingo. Bingo and Ajax. Giant and—
Whup! Vanderhof had entered another room, over the doorway of which was a sign reading, "Magic Mirrors," and paused, facing the only normal mirror in the place. He was looking at the same conglomeration of dwarf and giant that he had viewed before.
Good Lord! Could he change his shape by merely—thinking? The thought was appalling, yet it possessed a curious, perverse fascination for Vanderhof. Standing perfectly motionless, he concentrated on his own normal self.
And there was the reflection of Tim Vanderhof facing him!
That, at least, was a relief. But, feeling slightly safer now, Vanderhof didn't stop. He wanted to make sure. He thought of the side-show barker outside, and visualized him mentally. Derby hat, cigar, checkered suit.
The reflection in the glass showed the barker, though there was neither derby, cigar, nor checkered suit. Apparently only Vanderhof himself could change. His clothing remained unaltered. That was natural enough.
He returned to his normal self.
"You!" said a familiar voice. "I been looking for you! None of your tricks, now! I wanna punch your nose."
"Oh, my goodness!" Vanderhof said, turning. "You again!"
"Yeah!" said the drunk belligerently. "Wanna make something out of it?" He lifted the cane and advanced. Vanderhof, perforce, retreated into the room of Magic Mirrors. He found liimself being backed into a corner, his fascinated gaze riveted on the cane. Its metal tip looked extremely hard. The drunk had recovered it, or else acquired a new one. In any case, it seemed to be a dangerous weapon.
The horsey face bore a malignant expression. "I'm gonna smash you," it said, and thrust itself forward. Vanderhof backed away, feeling the cold surface of a mirror at his back. He was trapped. The room was empty. No use to call for help. The din from the next room, where a band was loudly playing, would drown any but the loudest shrieks.
Abruptly Vanderhof felt irritation. His stomach was still sore from the cane's tip, and his nose, too, was aching. He said, "Go away."
"No," the drunk growled. "I'm gonna smash you."
Sudden, violent rage boiled up in Vanderhof. He thought of Ajax and Bingo. If they were there, they'd help him. But—
Vanderhof thought diligently, visualizing giant and dwarf. From the startled look that came over the drunk, he realized that the metamorphosis had once again taken place.
He stepped forward, warily at first, and the horse-faced man retreated.
At that precise moment Vanderhof caught sight of himself in one of the mirrors that lined the place. The change was not quite the same as before. This time, from the waist down, Vanderhof was Bingo, the dwarf. His upper portion resembled Ajax the giant.
Nor was that the worst. The mirror that reflected the insane image was no normal one. It was a distorting mirror, designed to cause laughter by warping and twisting images. Concave, it reflected Vanderhof not only as a half-giant, half-dwarf, but as a swooping arc—a being bent like a bow, such as had never before existed on Earth.
The drunk shrieked. "No, no!" he babbled. "Not that!"
Vanderhof realized that he had taken on the attributes of the distorted image. He glanced at the cowering horse-faced man, and felt a warm glow of triumph.
It faded as he was punched in the stomach by the cane.
Vanderhof got mad. He said, with slow emphasis, "Okay. You asked for it. Now you're going to—get it!"
The other showed his teeth.
Vanderhof looked at the nearest mirror. The result was shocking, but did not quite satisfy him. He looked at another, and then another, after that turning to confront his enemy.
Not even Samson could have faced the chaotic Vanderhof without screaming then. He looked like a piecemeal zombie assembled by someone with no knowledge of anatomy. One leg was six feet longer than the other. He had five arms. His chest was like a balloon, and his waist measured perhaps three inches around.
His head resembled a fried egg that had broken in the pan. The mouth was, oddly enough, in the forehead, and there was a tasty assortment of eyes scattered around them, all of these glaring furiously. He towered to the ceiling, and the horse-faced man, giving up all thought of hostility, skittered away like a rabbit.
"Go 'way!" he babbled. "Don't touch me! You're not human, that's what you ain't!"
"You don't get out of it that easily," Vanderhof snapped, barring the door with a fifteen-foot arm. "What do you think I am, anyhow?"
"The devil himself," said the drunk, with a flash of sudden insight. "Awrrrgh! Don't do that!"
"I'll do it again," Vanderhof announced, and a scream of pain from the drunk bore testimony to the fact that he had done it again. "Thus."
The wild and impassioned shrieks of the horse-faced man bore fruit. Vanderhof heard faint cries from behind him. He turned to see faces peering in through the door.
They went white and drew back. Someone cried, "A freak! He's gone mad!"
"He's murdering me!" the drunk announced. "Help!"
Heartened by reinforcements, he made the mistake of prodding Vanderhof from the rear with his cane. At this all semblance of sanity departed from Tim Vanderhof. Completely forgetting everything else, he bent all his energies to the task of reducing the horse-faced man to a state of babbling idiocy.
"Give me that cane!" he grated.
"So you can ram it down my throat?" came the prescient reply. "I won't."
At this Vanderhof looked in a mirror, sprouted another arm, grew two feet, and advanced toward his opponent. He got the cane and broke it into six pieces. One in each hand, he commenced to tattoo a rhythm on the drunk.
This wasn't quite satisfactory, so he gave it up, and concentrated on scaring the wretched man to death. Never was any revenge more horrifying or complete. Vanderhof felt a random sense of warning; it might be wiser, safer, to leave now, before more trouble arrived. But—what the hell!
He grinned, and the horse-faced man bellowed in anguish. "He's going to eat me!" he cried. "Don't let him eat me!"
"There they are," someone observed. "In there, Sergeant. It's a freak. Quite mad."
"It's a freak, all right," said a gruff voice. "But I'm thinking that I'm the looney one. Will you look at the horrid thing!"
"I've been looking at it for ten minutes," said the other voice. "Ever since I turned in the alarm. You've got your squad with you. Arrest him before he kills that man."
Vanderhof turned. The doorway held a burly, grizzled oldster in police uniform, and behind him a group of plainclothes men, their profession easily established by a glance at their feet. There w
ere guns.
He was sent staggering. The horsefaced man had made a break for freedom. Vanderhof, boiling with rage, plunged in pursuit. There was chaos on the threshold; then Vanderhof was past, and racing after his victim.
A bullet whistled past his ear.
Oh-oh! This altered matters. Vanderhof, hidden momentarily behind the bandstand, paused, looking around. He saw no one —the horse-faced man had vanished—but heard voices.
"He went behind there—get him—guns ready, men!"
Vanderhof thought hard. He visualized the drunk. And, instantly, he assumed the appearance of the drunk.
He ran out from behind the bandstand, almost colliding with the sergeant and a plainclothes man with him.
"Hey—"
"He went that way!" Vanderhof cried. "After him! Don't let him get away!"
Without waiting for an answer, he ran for the exit. There was startled silence, and then the sergeant and his crew raced in pursuit.
Vanderhof leaped out into the open air, flattened himself against the wall of the building, and concentrated on the face of the plainclothes man who had accompanied the sergeant. And, of course, the inevitable happened.
The sergeant appeared. He cast a swift glance at Vanderhof.
"Where is he, Clancy?" he bellowed. "Which way did he go?"
"There!" said the pseudo-Clancy, and pointed. He was borne away in a mob of detectives who gushed out of the exit. All of them were busily searching for a freak with six arms and an impossible head—a freak who no longer existed!
Ten minutes later Vanderhof, in his normal guise, was on the train bound back for Manhattan. It had been easy to drift away from the detectives, who naturally suspected nothing. And, after that, Vanderhof wanted only to get away from Coney Island. His nerves were in bad shape. He needed a rest.
So, illogically enough, he went back to New York.
He was still angry about the horse-faced man. He would have dearly loved to have taken another poke at the guy. But the police had interrupted. Vanderhof's resentment wandered, and finally focused on a man with bristling blue-black hair and a vicious gleam in his eyes. The guy looked uncommonly like S. Horton Walker, president of The Svelte Shop.
Walker—nuts to Walker, Vanderhof thought. "Fire me, will he?" the chameleon man brooded. "Just on account of Colonel Quester! Tchah!" The fashion show would be going on soon, he remembered. And, simultaneously with the thought, Vanderhof grinned.
A singularly malicious and unpleasant grin....
"Fire me, will he?" he asked rhetorically, turning into Ajax for a brief moment. "I'll fix him!"
While making his way toward the Fifth Avenue store, he pondered. He was achieving some sort of mastery over his chameleon-like changes. If he visualized a person, he could become that person—though his clothing never altered. And, with an effort of will, he could resume his normal form. Good enough. What now?
The fashion show was in full swing when Vanderhof slipped quietly into The Svelte Shop, unobtrusively making his way behind the scenes. Dowagers and damsels in tons of jewelry were sitting about, feeding on canapes and hors d'ouevres. while all sorts and conditions of men waited uneasily upon their respective daughters, wives, and lady friends. Park Avenue had turned out in force for the initial showing of exclusive gowns by The Svelte Shop. Mannequins were gliding along the runways, and over all presided the figure of S. Horton Walker, resplendent in specially-tailored garments, and looking more than ever like a shaved ape.
"And Model Twelve?" a slightly decayed socialite inquired from above her tiers of chins. "The exclusive Model Twelve, Mr. Walker?"
"Soon," said Walker, rubbing his hands. "Very soon, Mrs. Smythe-Kennicott-Smythe."
Peering through drapes of wine-colored fabric, Vanderhof sucked in his lower lip. Model Twelve was already famous.
It was super-exclusive. Only one gown on this model had been created. And, when it showed, the bidding would be high—almost like an auction, though, of course, most genteel. Mrs. Smythe-Kennicott-Smythe would probably get it. She was the wealthiest woman in New York, and cream on the elite's upper crust, to put it mildly.
"Nuts to you, Mr. Walker," Vanderhof said silently, and fled. He made his way to the dressing-rooms, pausing at sight of Susan Vail; the shop's loveliest model. The girl nodded, smiled, and went on her way.
Vanderhof visualized her. Suddenly he was gone. A perfect duplicate of Susan Vail stood in the passage, looking rather odd in Tim Vandcrhof's garments.
"Now for Model Twelve. It was carefully stored away, but Vanderhof knew where to look. Tenderly, almost reverently, he drew it from its hiding-place, and held up the gown. It was a gorgeous creation—one that would transform any woman.
"Why, Susan," a soft voice said, "what are you doing in those clothes?"
Vanderhof turned hurriedly, to confront a small brown-haired model with wide eyes. "I—"
"And what's the matter with your voice? Got a cold?"
"No," said Vanderhof shrilly. "It—it's just a gag." Seizing Model Twelve, he fled into the nearest dressing-room.
A few minutes later he came out, wearing the gown. Since he looked exactly like Susan Vail, it wasn't at all unbecoming. But his plans weren't finished yet. He wanted to perform an experiment.
He entered a room replete with tall mirrors, reflecting him from various angles. And he concentrated. If he could become two men at once, surely he could transform himself into two or more Susan Vails.
The results were beyond all expectations. From every angle Susan Vails materialized. They appeared like rabbits out of a hat. And all of them wore Model Twelve.
Meanwhile, Walker was preening himself as he made the announcement for which everyone was waiting.
"And now, ladies and gentlemen, the event of the afternoon. At great expense, we have secured an ultra-exclusive model—a veritable symphony. There is only one like it in the world."
"How do we know that?" asked a skeptical man with sideburns.
Walker turned a hurt stare upon him. "The Svelte Shop stands ready to guarantee my statement. Our integrity has never been questioned. And now—Model Twelve!"
He flung out an arm toward the runway. The curtains shook convulsively. Through them appeared Susan Vail. A soft gasp went up from the women at sight of Model Twelve.
Then another gasp went up. Another Susan Vail had slipped through the curtains and was following in the track of the first. She, too, wore Model Twelve.
"Hey—" said the skeptical man with sideburns.
He stopped. A third Model Twelve was coming.
Then another. And another!
"My God!" the skeptical man gasped. "Quintuplets!"
Walker had turned a delicate shade of mauve. Cries of outraged fury went up from the audience. "Exclusive model," somebody snapped. "Hah!"
Meanwhile the army of Model Twelves was marching steadily through the curtains. The room was filled with them. Walker was clawing at his hair and making gurgling sounds. Mrs. Smythe-Kennicott-Smythe arose, waggled her chins haughtily, and departed.
"One might as well shop in the five-and-ten," she observed.
"It's sabotage! " Walker whispered faintly. "B-boring from within—"
His eyes brightened a trifle. Mrs. Smythe-Kennicott-Smythe had reconsidered. She wasn't leaving, after all. She was returning, her eyes very wide, and behind her was a large, bulky man with a mask on his face.
Other men arrived. Five of them. And they had guns, and were masked.
"This," said the leader, "is a stick-up. Squat, beetle-puss." He pushed Mrs. Smythe-Kennicott-Smythe into a chair. "And keep your trap shut. That goes for all of you." He waved a gleaming automatic. "Cover the exits, boys."
The boys obeyed. The guests sat, frozen with horror. One dowager attempted to swallow her diamonds, but was dissuaded. Walker gasped for air.
"This will ruin me!" he squawked. "My customers—my clients, I mean—"
"Shaddap," remarked the big man. "Or I'll let you have it. Don't anybody mo
ve. Frisk 'em, boys."
One of the boys produced a canvas bag and made the rounds, collecting whatever and money he could unearth. A pearl necklace, the existence of which had heretofore gone unsuspected, was revealed when Mrs. Smythe-Kennicott-Smythe was compelled to stare ceiling-ward.
"Hey!" said one of the boys. "What the hell—what—ulp!"
"Lcok!" he finished. "Jeez, boos—look!"
The big man looked. He, too, stared. Model Twelve was in action.
There were about twenty Susan Vails lined up on the runway. The last of them had stepped forward and—merged—with the one in front of her. This, Vanderhof had found, was the only way of consolidating his various images. He merely had to walk into himself.
The nineteenth Susan Vail merged with the eighteenth. And the eighteenth stepped forward—
Nobody else moved.
There was a stricken silence as the fifteenth Susan Vail became the fourteenth—and so on—the third became the second; there was only one Susan Vail now.
She hurried toward the exit.
But now the stasis broke. One of the thugs barred her path, lifting his gun menacingly.
Susan Vail—or Vanderhof—veered aside, toward an ante-room lined with mirrors. She ducked into it and slid die curtain in place after her.
The leader snapped, "Get her, Phil."
Phil said reluctantly, "There ain't no way for her to get outa there."
"I said—"
"Okay," Phil placated. "Just gimme time. That dame ain't normal."
He moved forward, gun lifted. His hand touched the curtain. Then he turned. "Boss, there ain't nothing in there but a lot of mirrors. What's the use—"
"You heard me!" the boss yelped.
"Okay," said Phil, and yanked the curtain aside.
Apparently there was another way out of the ante-room, for Susan Vail wasn't there any more. Instead, there were fifteen men, and they all looked exactly like Tim Vanderhof. Oddly enough, they all wore Model Twelve.
"Yaah!" said Phil shrilly, staggering back.
Two Tim Vanderhof s sprang upon him. One struck the gun from his hand, while the other planted a hard fist on Phil's jaw. The thug folded up limply.