by Adam Chase
"Kill," said Albert. "Well, you know. To kill. To, er, make dead."
"I don't understand 'dead'."
"You were going to run him through with that javelin of yours. That would have killed him."
Javeliner brightened. "Oh, that's a new one to me. Say, wait a minute, pal. You mean like I deaded— "
"Killed."
"Killed then. Like I killed Ay-rab?"
"Well," said Albert, considering this. "Not quite. You see, well — ah, I have it. If you did to a human being what you did to Ay-rab — if a human being broke into half a dozen pieces, a human being would die. But Ay-rab, being a statue, I guess, well — "
"Then you don't know either? Look, pal. All I wanted to do was scare the hell out of this bird, so he wouldn't spill what he saw here tonight. I'm still gonna do just that."
Albert shook his head. "You already have. If you hurt this man, that'll be the end of it. They'll hunt you down, they'll — "
"Me?" demanded Javeliner. "Or you? Because I'm just a statue. All I got to do is climb back up there on my pedestal, and—"
Just then Ay-rab moaned in the background. Or rather, Ay-rab's head, apparently capable of collecting the sensation of pain from his sundered and scattered parts, moaned. "Put me together again, please. It hurts — "
"There," Albert said triumphantly, "it isn't as easy as climbing back on your pedestal now. Because there's Ay-rab to think of. Ay-rab can't climb back."
"Is that a threat, pal?"
"Why should I threaten you? It's a fact."
"Yeah, we'll think of something with Ay-rab."
"Such as what?"
"We — we'll put him back together."
"How? Do you know how?"
"Well — ah, it ain't so hard."
"That," said Albert, "is what you think. I happen to know something about the repairing of statuary, having nosed around this museum for years. However — "
"Howsoever," said Javeliner unexpectedly, "we still got the watchman to worry about."
Nodding, Albert kneeled near Stanley Hungerford's inert form. He found the flask of bourbon. He smelled the unconscious man's breath. "I'm going to hate myself for this," he said, taking out the flask, uncorking it, and carefully spilling a few incriminating ounces of the contents on Stanley Hungerford's shirt front.
"That'll make it official," Albert said, regret in his voice. "The watchman will have to keep quiet about tonight if he knows what's good for him. But anyhow, he probably will. From what's on his breath, he must have had plenty to drink. It won't be hard for him to convince himself everything that happened tonight was his imagination." "Yeah, but Ay-rab—"
"I'm coming to that. Listen, I want two of you men — er, statues — to take the watchman down to the main floor, to the storage room, and tie him up in there. You can release him afterwards. All right?"
Javeliner nodded, then beckoned with his hand. Gladiator and Gray Flannel came up on the double and, after Albert had given them directions, carted the watchman away. "But listen to me a minute, pal," Javeliner told Albert. "You ain't talked about one thing." "Which is?" "What's in it for you?" "Nothing, except I feel this is all my fault. If I hadn't come in here snooping, Ay-rab would be all right at this very moment. If — "
"You mean that?" asked the incredulous Javeliner.
"Of course I mean it. A man has responsibilities if he—"
"Then put her there, pal," said Javeliner, and proceeded to shake Albert's hand with a grip of granite. The bones crunched. Javeliner let Albert's hand go. It hung limply at his side. Albert massaged it with delicate care.
Presently, Gray Flannel and Gladiator returned, the former clothed in a gray flannel, unpadded shoulder, Madison Avenue, three button suit-jacket on top and, for a reason only the dead Myron Clarepepper would have been able to explain, a fig leaf below. Gray Flannel looked at Albert and shrugged as expressively as a statue could. "I know what you're thinking," he said. "I stand there on the pedestal and they all think that. Hell, man, I can't answer your question. Only Myron Clarepepper could have — "he said the name reverently. "But Mr. Clarepepper is dead. What it says in the publicity releases, though, is that Mr. Clarepepper wanted to show that we're all still savages at heart."
Gray Flannel said this so prettily that Albert did not have the heart to tell him that he, Albert, had written those publicity releases. Then Javeliner said,
"What now, boss?"
"Me?" said Albert.
"Yeah, you. You're running this show, aincha? We got the watchman stashed away now. So, what gives?"
"Ay-rab," Albert said. "We'll have to fix Ay-rab. Send Gray Flannel and Gladiator to the repair room, and — " Albert listed a number of items he would need to repair Ay-rab. "Also," Albert added, "I don't want all of you statues milling about like this. You never know what might happen, and the less of you there are off your pedestals, the less time it would take to return things to normal. Let's see now — we need Gray Flannel and Gladiator. We need you, Javeliner, as a foreman. But the rest of you — "
"But Albert, dah-ling!" protested Helen II.
"The rest of you," Albert said coldly, feeling suddenly, unbelievably masterful, "will have to return to your pedestals at once. At once, Helen, do you hear?"
Grumblingly, the dozen statues which had come down drifted back to their pedestals, mounted, and became immobile. All except Helen II. Arms akimbo, she surveyed Albert shaking her head slowly from side to side. "I," she said, "won't do it."
"You'll go back there, if I have to carry you back."
Helen II smiled coyly.
"Look, boss," said Javeliner. "Do they go down to the repair room, or don't they?"
"Of course," said Albert, and Gladiator departed with Gray Flannel. Albert returned his thoughts to Helen II and tried to outstare her. Since her eyes did not need to tear, he could not do it. But he felt a sudden, unexpected sense of power. Javeliner had called him boss. And, it was true. He was boss. Compared to Javeliner and the others, despite their great strength, Albert Sprayregan was a man of the world. Why, Javeliner, Gladiator, Helen II and all the statues knew r no world but the Clarepepper Gallery. Except for the little they had gleaned from the visitors to the Gallery, their knowledge of the world depended almost entirely on what Albert could tell them about it.
That even went for the seductive Helen II. True, she instinctively knew how to use her sex appeal — but this very use had awakened Albert Sprayregan. From that moment on it was as if his attitude toward the whole world had changed. Placing femininity on a pedestal was now, somehow, unnecessary. Similarly Albert, who had viewed the world largely as a spectator, would be content to do that no longer. The thought, vague at first, clarified in him. Now, like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon, he was ready to participate — actively. And, he could start with Helen II, right here, right now.
"Helen!" he said.
His voice was different. He could sense it and Helen II could sense it.
"Yes, sir?" Helen II said timorously.
"Come here, please. Kiss me."
Helen II approached, a marble smile etching her lips. Naturally, that was exactly what she wanted. Kiss Albert Sprayregan, and he'd be putty in her hands. Besides, she wanted to kiss him. Strangely, there was a new aura of strength surrounding Albert, like an invisible nimbus. Without a further invitation, Helen II flung her arms around him. . . .
Albert responded instantly. Watching the duration and the thoroughness of the kiss, Javeliner's mouth dropped open. Helen II went as limp in Albert's arms as a living statue could get. Then limper, when he went on kissing her. . . .
Finally, when it was over, Helen II said dreamily, "I'll go back up there now. I — I'll do whatever you say."
"Then go back to your pedestal and — "
Just at that moment, however, Gray Flannel and Gladiator returned with two cartons full of repair equipment. Since the order had not been completed, Helen II gazed in rapt adoration at Albert and made no move to return to her pedes
tal.
Satisfied with what the two statues had brought, Albert went over to Ay-rab and examined the pieces. The damage was far worse than he had at first suspected. Ay-rab had not merely split into half a dozen large sections: there also were shards and splinters and chips of marble strewn all about. Albert got down on hands and knees and began collecting them. Ay-rab moaned.
"Does anybody know exactly what he looked like?" Albert demanded. "This is important. We've got to put him together accurately, or there'll be an investigation — which I'm sure you wouldn't want."
"Well," said Gladiator, "he was kind of all dressed up."
"You know," chimed in Javeliner, "like an Ay-rab. In a bernice or — "
"Burnoose," said Albert. "But that wasn't all, was it? Didn't our friend also wear a marble khaffiya with leather thongs, and a gallabaya under the burnoose — "
"Yeah," Javeliner admitted glumly. "But who remembers exactly what those things looked like?"
"The publicity pictures!" Albert cried, suddenly remembering the photos which went with one of his press releases. Then he groaned. Ay-rab had been taken so lightly, had been thought so little of, that the pictures did not include one of him.
"Help me, please," Ay-rab moaned in a very small voice.
Albert said, "We need an expert, someone who would know exactly how an Arab would dress in burnoose, khaffiya and gallabaya, someone who wouldn't make any mistakes — and we need him in a hurry."
He sat in a funk, lighting a cigarette and smoking it. He had no answer. He wished all at once that he could discuss the matter with Sandra. Sandra was so resourceful. Sandra — wait a minute, Albert Sprayregan, he told himself. That's a thing of the past. You're every bit as resourceful as she is, now. More so. You—
Sandra. "Sandra!" he cried in sudden delight.
"What's up, boss?" Javeliner wanted to know.
"Sandra," he went on, thinking out loud. "And Lawrence Chenault. I called him Lawrence of Arabia. He's been there. He's an authority. He knows. He knows, if any man does."
"You O.K., boss?" Javeliner demanded.
"I'm fine. I'm great," Albert said. And Chenault was home right now. Entertaining Sandra, Albert remembered. Well, Chenault would soon be entertained himself. . . .
Albert decided it would be safer taking Ay-rab and the repair equipment to Chenault's home than it would be kidnapping the explorer and bringing him here. He smiled and said, "Pick up Ay-rab's pieces and put them in a carton." Helen II gave him a piteous look. If she were a dog, she would have whined. "Oh, all right," Albert told her off-handedly. "You can come along, I suppose."
With the sundered Ay-rab and the repair equipment, Albert and his strange entourage headed for the hallway, the staircase, the great rotunda of the museum — and the streets of the city beyond.
"The world!" Javeliner cried in delight. "The real world at last."
Lawrence Chenault's roof garden apartment was located on Park in the Seventies. The rent, Sandra told herself for the tenth time, must have been enormous. Apparently, archaeology paid off for Larry Chenault.
So far, it had been an entertaining evening. After his dozen guests had assembled, big, good-looking, worldly Chenault had completely dominated the conversation as drinks were served. Chenault was like that. He would, Sandra sensed, always dominate conversations. And this flattered Sandra because Chenault made her — if one could forget the films of Saudi Arabia and the entire Arabian peninsula — the center of interest. He made it seem as if the whole party had been brought together in her honor, made it seem as if the films would be shown for her private benefit, made it seem by turning the charm of his smile on her whenever he offered one of his frequent conversational bon mots as if his words were spoken for her ears alone.
The films were really something. Naturally, they showed Chenault to best advantage. Chenault striding manfully across the desert in what the English call a pith helmet and the Indians, a topi. Chenault upright in a bouncing, clattering, dust-spewing jeep. Chenault poking in the ruins of an ancient Arabian myrrh and frankincense trading city. Chenault riding on an ungainly camel. Chenault distributing largesse to a group of nomad tribesmen who had been of some obscure help to the expedition.
But there was more. Larry Chenault, Sandra had to admit, really had succeeded in capturing something of the flavor of the desert in his films, something of its bleak mystery, its fascination, its grim ageless story. And Chenault himself, adventurer-explorer archaeologist playboy, was something special. Maybe it figured for Chenault to hog so much of the film footage. Chenault, with his rich manly voice. Chenault, whose running commentary on the films seemed to be for her alone. Chenault, who saw to it that every glass — particularly Sandra's — was not empty for long as they watched the showing.
Finally, it was over. Or, it was over for Chenault's other guests. Somehow, he maneuvered Sandra into a position in which she found herself at his side, standing by the door as the other guests filed out. She smiled mechanically and nodded and made small talk, and once Chenault squeezed her hand. There was a faint buzz in her head and she realized — but it didn't seem to matter — that she had just a bit more to drink than she should have. What she needed was a good cup of strong, dark coffee.
"Well, my dear," Chenault said when the last guest was gone and the apartment door was closed and locked, "it has been quite an evening. Hasn't it?"
"Those films were really wonderful," Sandra said.
"I thought you would appreciate them if anybody would. Nightcap?"
"I really ought to be going home."
"Oh, surely one nightcap wouldn't hurt. It's only twelve-thirty."
"Only, the man says. I'm a working gal."
"Say," Chenault asked, changing the subject. "Did you ever hear a gamelan orchestra?"
"Gamelan? Is that Saudi Arabian?"
"Hardly. They play the gamelan in Bali. I was in Bali in fifty-one, you know, on work for the museum. I made a record of a gamelan concert. Until you get used to it, they say it sounds something like caterwaling. But once you have grown accustomed to the different set of harmonic values — "
"Really, I must be going."
"Oh, come now. Just one record, and a nightcap."
The evening had been interesting and Chenault was persuasive. Sandra knew she'd have felt guilty if she did not at least listen to some of the gamelan music. Besides, she admitted to herself, she was intrigued by the idea of a Balinese music. "Well, make the drink a small one," she said, and walked with Chenault to a sofa, and settled back while he found the record, placed it on the turntable, and went for the drinks.
Wisely, he played the strange gamelan music softly. Louder, it would have been, as he had suggested, like caterwaling. But softly, as he played it, was something else. Softly, one had to strain to hear the exotic sounds, leaning forward and listening intently and —
— And hardly becoming aware of a hand dropping across one's shoulder. . . .
"Really, Larry. I ought to be going."
"Nice, isn't it? The music?"
She noticed that the lights had been lowered, that — except for one small lamp at the far end — the large room was now in the darkness. She said that the music was nice. The arm was heavy, but not oppressively so, on her shoulder. The hand did things.
"Larry!"
"You're very lovely."
"Larry, it's later than I intended to — "
"The most beautiful women of four continents, the loveliest voices, can be ruined, utterly destroyed, their memories effaced, by the mere mention of fleeing time. We are here for but a short interval and we drift swiftly through the allotted time of our lives," Larry said dreamily, as if he had waited with these very words for this very moment. "We oughtn't to call attention to time's swift, bitter-sweet flight."
"You have a funny way of talking, Larry."
"Funny? You like it?"
"If anybody else would try to talk that way, no. But coming from you — "
"Sandra, I am going to kis
s you."
The words were hardly a whisper rippled over the surface of the gamelan music. Sandra suddenly knew how a fish felt, drawn irresistibly to the expert angler's bright lure. She said, "All right, Larry. But not now. You may kiss me — when we say goodnight." He had earned that much, with an enjoyable evening, Sandra told herself. It was part of the mores of the 20th century American dating system.
"Goodnight," Larry whispered.
"But we—"
"You said, then I could kiss you."
Shrugging, and even smiling slightly at his persistence — and flattered for the attention shown her by a man of the world, Sandra turned her cheek, somehow — foolishly — expecting a gentlemanly buss thereon.