Collected Fiction (1940-1963)
Page 24
Then he marched to his office.
WHEN it was safe, Gordon Strong laughed, pulled a sheaf of papers from his pocket.
“Right up my alley,” he said smugly. “I’ve already written the copy on Snatzy’s Shorts, and it’s just what he wants. Light, funny copy.”
He tossed the copy on the desk before Phylis and Quintus.
Quintus read it with wistful envy. It was excellent copy. Smooth, clever and sophisticated. It had just the light sparkle and gay snap that was required for Snatzy’s Shorts for Men.
“Clever?” Strong stated rather than asked.
Phylis’ small chin hardened.
“Not too clever,” she said casually. “I think Quintus could do as well. In fact, I’d go so far as to say he could do better.”
An expression of incredulity crossed the bland face of Gordon Strong. It was followed immediately by one of delighted, undiluted amusement.
“I’ll bet he can,” he chortled, “and I’ll bet I’m going to give him the chance. Who am I to hold back genius such as his?”
He handed the copy to Quintus.
“Here, Lad,” he said with mock solemnity, “take these home with you. Study them carefully. Then just knock out something better. I’m sure you’re as confident as your very charming champion.”
Quintus almost strangled.
“I—I can’t,” he blurted. He looked despairingly at Phylis. “I can’t write better than that,” he wailed. “I’m just a dub, Phylis. I’m glad you think I can do it but honest, I really can’t.”
“Will you stop apologizing for yourself?” Phylis cried angrily. “Now take that copy, and if you don’t write something that will make this look like juvenile babblings by comparison I’ll never—I’ll never talk to you again.”
“Phylis!” Quintus cried, in shocked anguish.
Her chin tilted stubbornly.
“I mean just that,” she said.
Gordon Strong was laughing openly now.
“Old Man Snatzy will be here tomorrow to see his new copy,” he said between chuckles, “so have your contribution ready. And just in case he doesn’t go wild about it, you’d better bring mine back with you. He might like to see my copy after he sees yours.” Quintus stared helplessly from Phylis’ firm, unrelenting chin to Strong’s mocking smile and a baffled, hurt feeling of rage grew hot in him, and finally bubbled over.
“A—all right,” he said, searching desperately for something devastating and epigrammatic, “I—I’ll show you!”
HOURS later, Quintus sat hunched over a table in his small walk-up room and wished fervently that he could recall his brash promise. Before him were spread pages of copy and innumerable layout designs, the results of four hours of feverish work. With a weary sigh, Quintus laid down his pencil and sagged despairingly against the back of his chair.
“They’re no good,” he muttered. “No good at all. My best effort looks terrible beside Gordon Strong’s copy.”
It was almost midnight. Quintus could hardly keep his heavy-lidded eyes open. Only the thought of how much hung in the balance kept him at his task. If he didn’t get an inspiration before morning—he shuddered at the thought. His chances at getting a copy writing job would be about on a par with his chances with Phylis—which of course would be nil.
In the midst of these black musings there came a sudden, sharp rap on the door. The next second the door opened and a tall, gaunt creature, dressed in somber black and carrying a tray before him, entered the room.
“Hello, Professor,” Quintus said unenthusiastically. “I’m sorry but I’m pretty busy right now. Won’t have much time to talk.”
The Professor smiled tolerantly and shoved Quintus’ copy to one side to make place for the tray he was carrying.
“I just brought you a little drink,” he said genially, “It will help you think better.”
Quintus glanced dubiously at the greenish liquid in the glass and then back at the Professor. Neither sight reassured him particularly.
The Professor was a landmark at the boarding house. He had been a philosophic and cheerful inmate since the time, years ago, when his baggage and scientific paraphernalia had been seized by the management in lieu of rent. It had been a costly move for the management. For the Professor had refused to part with his precious apparatus and had settled down comfortably in the basement of the boarding house and had remained there ever since. Now he helped a bit with work around the house and puttered with his equipment. He had developed a strong attachment to Quintus and delighted to surprise him with special delicacies which he pilfered shamelessly from the well-stocked cuisine.
He stood before Quintus now, beaming fondly at his expression of dubious bewilderment.
Quintus, loath to hurt the Professor’s feelings, picked up the glass gingerly. “What’s in it?” he asked uneasily.
The Professor’s smile widened. He shook a coy finger under Quintus’ nose.
“Mustn’t ask questions,” he chortled with vast good humor. “I’ll tell you what it is—after you drink it.”
Quintus chose to overlook the obvious flaw in this argument.
“All right,” he sighed resignedly. “Anything for peace in the family.”
HE tilted the glass and drank. The green liquid flowed down his throat with surprising smoothness. He set the glass back on the tray and smacked his lips. The stuff wasn’t bad, he conceded. Had a sort of tangy, solid taste to it.
“Okay,” he said. “I fulfilled my end of the bargain. Now it’s up to you. What was in that stuff?”
The Professor beamed with childish delight.
“Hah,” he cried, “you didn’t recognize it, then did you? I made that from grapefruit juice and—and the formula I found in your room this morning.”
“Formula!” Quintus gasped.
“Sure thing,” the professor nodded his head vigorously. “Found some of that advertising copy of yours on the table and copied the formula right from your figures.”
“Why you couldn’t,” Quintus gasped. “That formula didn’t make any sense. It was just supposed to—to bring out a point in the advertisement. It was supposed to attract the reader’s interest, nothing more.”
“I don’t care,” the Professor said promptly. “It may not have made sense but it made a good drink. I saw the formula and something about the way those symbols and letters fitted in kind of caught my eye. I’ve got a great eye for formulae you know. I said to myself, I said, a formula that pretty must be of some use. So I took it down stairs and mixed it up. Got some potash and calcium and stirred the thing up. Then I put in the grapefruit juice and there you have it. If nothing happens to you, I’ll put it on the market. Might make a good liver extract.”
“If nothing happens to me!” Quintus echoed in horror. “You mean you didn’t try this on any one else before you gave it to me?”
“That’s right,” the Professor said genially, “you’re the first. If you feel anything funny let me know. Can’t put it on the market till it’s just right. Well,” the Professor moved to the door, “good night now. See you tomorrow,” he paused in the doorway to add cheerfully, “that is, if you’re up. Good night.”
“Good night,” Quintus quavered. His head was reeling. His stomach felt very queer. He looked down at the copy into which he had been trying to put spark and zest, and groaned. He got up groggily and moved to his bed. He stretched out wearily. A dozen weird, confused thoughts chased around in his head. Phylis Whitney and Gordon Strong were writing humorous copy together while the Professor and Mr. Puff drank calcium highballs and laughed happily. Then he must have dropped off . . .
THE sun in his eyes awoke him. He peered uncertainly about and then clambered anxiously to his feet. His alarm clock said eight o’clock. That was desperately late for him. He looked down at his rumpled clothes and decided he wouldn’t have time to change them. He shoved his thin hair from his eyes and moved to the door.
Then he remembered the copy he had promised to write.
He paused at the head of the stairs, thinking gloomily of his complete and dismal failure. Suddenly a hoarse feminine voice disrupted his melancholy reverie.
“Quaggle!” the piercing hail emanated from the dining room just under Quintus’ feet. “Are you coming down to breakfast or ain’t you?”
Quintus started. Goodness, he thought wildly, on top of everything else, I’ll have Mrs. Murphy after me.
“Coming,” he shouted.
He started down the steps—and something happened!
He paused in the middle of a step, every muscle, every nerve in his body suddenly contracting into rock-hard rigidity. Before he had a chance to cry out, he was falling. Falling with majestic, ponderous deliberation. Like a giant redwood he toppled, gathering speed with every inch he fell. He could hear the air rushing out from under him. He tried frantically to throw his hands before his face but it was a futile attempt. His arms seemed bound to his side, his whole body felt as if it were in the relentless grip of some mighty contracting force.
Then he struck. He heard a rending, tearing crash as the stairway gave way beneath his body. Through the ragged, splintered wood his rigid body plummeted, smashing everything under it, until it landed with a mighty thumping crash on the dining room floor.
He could hear Mrs. Murphy screaming and crying to the saints for deliverance. There was roaring Babel of voices beating against Quintus’ ears as he struggled dazedly to his feet. But he heard them not. His mind was oblivious to all but the incredible phenomenon it had just recorded. Unbelievingly he stared upward at the jagged rent in the ceiling and stairs.
It was not a hallucination. It had actually happened. He had crashed through the floor just as if he weighed tons. He remembered then the paralysis that had assailed him momentarily and his confusion increased. What had happened to him?
IT was about this time that the voices began to filter in.
“You’ll pay for every cent of it,” Mrs. Murphy shouted for the tenth time. I’ll have no April fool monkeyshines in my house.”
One of Quintus’ fellow boarders, a dark-haired paunchy lawyer, grabbed him by the arm.
“Don’t listen to her,” he cried. “We’ll settle this in court. You might have been killed!” He wheeled on the Mrs. Murphy, face crimson with indignation, “What are you running, may I ask, a death trap? Is it that you don’t like Mr. Quaggle personally that you try to kill him? I will ask you that in court and before you can answer I will get a continuance for my fine client and friend, Mr. Quaggle.”
“Please,” Quintus said tearfully, “I don’t want any trouble. It was my fault. Something funny happened to me. I don’t know just what it was but—”
Mrs. Murphy paid him no heed. Her eyes and attention were focused on the righteous figure of the lawyer.
“So,” she said with terrible calmness. “It’s a death trap I’m runnin’ is it? Well let me tell you Mr. Wolf,” her voice rose to a strident scream, “you’ll think it is before I get through with you.”
Mr. Wolf backed hastily away. Mrs. Murphy followed grimly. Mr. Wolf turned suddenly and sprinted toward the kitchen and Mrs. Murphy, with a Comanche scream, gave chase.
Quintus wheeled and ducked out of the house. His mind was churning at full speed but it wasn’t giving him any answers to the baffling questions it presented. He groaned to himself as he hurried down the street. He was almost late for work now. If he didn’t get to work with Gordon Strong’s copy on Snatzy’s Shorts, he’d be through forever with Puff and Huff. And, he thought miserably, with Phylis too. But even more than these disastrous possibilities, he pondered on the amazing thing that had happened to him on the staircase. It was baffling and incredible but still it had happened. He wiped his damp brow with a trembling hand.
HE was still thinking of this when he started across the street. A large truck was bearing down on him and Quintus quickened his pace to get out of its path. He was in the middle of the street and the truck was within twenty feet of him when it happened again.
A sudden rigidity seized him. Every muscle froze into rock-like hardness. Poised on one foot, arms flailing the air, Quintus concretized into statuesque immobility, presenting a spectacle that might remind one of a moth-eaten Discus Thrower.
He was powerless to move, powerless to scream, powerless to even move the muscles of his face. He heard the shrill screech of the truck’s brakes, heard the whining protest of the tires and then he felt a jar travel through his rigid frame. He fell, slowly, ponderously to the pavement. He felt nothing, no pain, no sensation at all. To his horror he heard the concrete pavement crack and chip as he struck and rolled. Lying on his side he could see the truck—on the sidewalk, its hood rammed through the front of a grocery store.
The driver was climbing from the cab, staring at Quintus’ figure with incredulous horror and shock.
A police whistle blasted through the air and then a large blue-coated, redfaced figure came into Quintus’ range of vision. He glanced at Quintus in amazement and then turned his attention to the driver of the demolished truck.
“What happened?” Quintus heard him ask.
“Chief,” the driver gasped hysterically, “I swear I’m telling the truth. That guy,” he pointed at Quintus, “walked right in front of my truck. Just as calm as you please. Then he stopped right there in front of my truck, like he was asking me to hit him. I try to swing out but I can’t make it. I hit him and then the truck goes out of control. So help me officer that’s the straight of it.”
“Hmmmm,” the copper said thoughtfully, “we’ll see what our friend has to say.” He stepped over to Quintus, stopped, grabbed him by the shoulder. “See here—”
His voice broke off and a wondering expression crossed his face. He straightened up slowly and fixed an accusing eye on the truck driver.
“So you’re tryin’ to fool Tim Doolin are you?” he bellowed. “It walked in front of you did it? Well maybe you can tell me how it is a stone statue walked in front of your truck?”
Quintus listened in stunned disbelief. The officer was calling him a statue. That wasn’t possible. It was—Quintus gave up thinking. A blanket of quiet despair settled over him.
The truck driver had dropped to his knees, was shaking Quintus frantically.
“He walked, I tell you,” he shouted desperately, “walked in front of my truck and then stood there without moving.”
“What’re you givin’ me?” the copper roared. “You can see it’s a solid stone statue can’t you? Some devil’s helper must’ve put some clothes on it and dragged it here for a prank.”
“No, no,” the truck driver screamed hysterically. “He walked I tell you. Maybe he’s turned to stone or somethin’.”
QUINTUS heard the words and they sounded like a death knell. Turned to stone! That’s what had happened. But why had he snapped out of it the first time it had attacked him? For he was now sure that this was the explanation of his drop through the stairs at Mrs. Murphy’s boarding house.
This numbing realization came to Quintus as he lay helpless and rigid in the street while the altercation between the officer and the truck driver raged over him.
It was not a comforting thought. He searched his mind desperately for some explanation and then, with the force of a pile driver, a thought burst into his consciousness.
The Professor’s queer compound of calcium and potash and grapefruit juice that he had drunk the night be
fore must be responsible for this amazing transformation. The hodge podge of chemical formulas that he had written into the sample advertising copy must have contained some mysterious or accidental properties that would account for his metamorphosis. It was a wild, unimaginable conclusion but it was the only one his tired, distraught brain could reach.
A wailing siren put a period to his thoughts. Seconds later a black maria pulled up to a stop and a half dozen policemen climbed out.
“What’s up?” the sergeant snapped.
“This drunken son of satan,” the copper roared, pointing a thick red finger at the truck driver, “ran into this statue that some wag put in the middle of the street. Now he’s tryin’ to tell me that it isn’t a statue at all. He says it walked in front of him, if you please, and waited there for him to run into it.”
The sergeant scratched his head. Then he prodded Quintus with his toe.
“It’s a statue all right,” he said grimly, “a rock statue.” He turned to two of his men, nodded toward the truck driver. “Throw him in the wagon, book him for drivin’ while intoxicated and insultin’ the intelligence of a police officer.”
“But,” the driver protested hysterically, “I tell you he did walk. He walked right in front of my truck and—”
His sentence was rudely interrupted at this point as two husky policemen grabbed him by the arms, dragged him to the patrol wagon, and tossed him inside. A second later the motor roared to life and the black maria rumbled away.
“I’ve had the museum notified,” the sergeant said,” returning from the call box, “and they’re sending a truck over right away.” He glanced down at Quintus and shook his head. “Though why anybody should want to keep something like that is beyond me.”
QUINTUS heard this with growing anger and mortification. While he was smarting under these emotions he heard a truck turn into the street, pull up to him and stop. Lettered on the side of the truck was the information: San Francisco Municipal Museum.