And he had hung it on the towel rack beside the shower. That’s where it was right this minute. He felt like apologizing to all the people he had suspected.
“Oh, I say,” he said cheerfully, “this is really wonderful.”
“I’m glad you’re amused,” the professor snarled.
“I didn’t mean about his,” Reggie said. “I meant about the other.”
“What other?”
“Oh, that’s right, you don’t know, do you?” Reggie said. He realized that none of these people knew of the thinking cap. He had told no one about it.
“I wish you would stop babbling,” the professor said.
“Righto,” Reggie said.
Another thought had popped into his head. If he could get his thinking cap back into action it might help him clear up this mess he was in. As things looked, the broad gates of Alcatraz were yawning at him; but with a little help from the thinking cap that might be avoided.
Up to that point his reasoning was sound and everything was simplicity Itself. But how to get the thinking cap? That would involve leaving the room and, judging from the grim expressions on the faces of Major Lionhead and Dr. Adams, such an action would not be easy.
He glanced nervously at Dr. Adams and noticed the way the light gleamed on the good doctor’s shining pate. And he remembered the doctor’s sensitivity on this subject.
“Hey, baldy,” he said to the doctor. “Got a match?”
He wasn’t sure what he had in mind, but if he could distract the doctor’s attention . . .
Dr. Adams glared at him in silence and then turned his back. “I find your comments vulgar,” he said.
REGGIE knew he would never have a better chance. Major Lionhead was staring stonily ahead and the doctor’s back was turned. With a swift, slippery motion Reggie dodged around the doctor and legged it for the arched doorway that led to the second floor stairs. For a second the speed of his maneuver caught everyone in the room off guard, and he reached the bottom of the steps before he heard the outraged bellow of Major Lionhead and the high angry shout of Jeremy Taylor.
“Come back here!” the professor screamed.
Reggie took a split-second for a glance over his shoulder. All the men in the room were charging toward the door with business-like expressions on their faces. Jonathan was in the lead, and over his shoulder Reggie caught a glimpse of Gloria’s white, frightened face.
That was all the time he allowed himself for reconnaissance.
With a prayer to the gods of the chase he streaked up the stairs, taking them three at a time. Reaching the corridor he got into high gear and sprinted past a startled maid, down the long dark hall to his room. He slammed and locked the door behind him and dove for the bathroom.
His heart was pounding like a riveting machine. He felt like a fox, and not a particularly smart fox, at that. As he snapped on the light he heard a heavy pounding against the door of the room. He swung his eyes desperately around the room. He was sure he had left the thinking cap in here, but supposing he had been wrong? The very thought brought a rash of uncomfortable perspiration to his forehead.
He moved his trembling hands swiftly over the wash-bowl and found nothing. The sound of the assault on the outside door was growing; a splintering crash indicated that his pursuers meant business.
Panting like a trapped hare Reggie swung around with his back to the wash-bowl and prayed for inspiration. And then he remembered the hook beside the shower. That was where he had left it.
He lunged for the hook and almost fainted with sheer relief when he felt the soft, velvety texture of the thinking cap under his fingers.
As he slipped it on, the bedroom door crashed inward and Jonathan stumbled into the room, followed closely by the stocky figure of Major Lionhead.
“Halt!” the major thundered. “We’ve got you cornered.”
“Like a rat,” Jonathan added with obvious relish.
Jeremy Taylor entered the room. “Take him downstairs,” he ordered. “I don’t think we need any more evidence. This attempted break of his is conclusive proof that he’s guilty.” Reggie surveyed them all with lordly condescension. With his thinking cap firmly in place, he felt a surge of confidence and power that enabled him to rise above the incriminating evidence that was arrayed against him.
“By all means,” he said, “let us go downstairs. This farce has been carried just about far enough.”
CHAPTER VI
IN THE library Reggie was seated in a chair and the five men present surrounded him in a circle. There was no chance of escape this time. In the corner, Alice cried softly.
“The F.B.I. will be here shortly,” Taylor said.
“I shall welcome their arrival,” Reggie said haughtily. “They are men of intelligence and vision. When they hear my story they will instantly understand how ridiculous your accusations are.”
“Just what is your story?” Jonathan asked pointedly.
That stumped Reggie. He didn’t have any story. But he was thinking hard and several interesing facts were tumbling around in his mind.
For one thing, when Dr. Adams had surprised him in Taylor’s room, what had been the doctor’s business in that room? And just before dinner everyone had been in the library except Dr. Adams. He had joined them as they were going in. Shortly after, Taylor had gone up to his room and discovered the loss of his documents.
“Hmmmmn,” Reggie said thoughtfully.
But the faint suspicion that was buzzing in his head lacked the confirmation of facts. If Adams had stolen the plans, why had they turned up in his bedroom? Why hadn’t Adams kept them? Why bother stealing them in the first place if he had no use for them?
Reggie squinted thoughtfully at the doctor. There was nothing in that frank, bearded face to arouse suspicion. The doctor looked incredibly respectable and upright. He looked, Reggie thought, as Jonathan would look in another twenty-five years. That thought made him sit up abruptly. The two were certainly cast in the same mold. And Jonathan was certainly a little stinker now! Give him another twenty-five years to develop and it wasn’t hard to imagine him stealing plans from a man’s bedroom. The connection was too logical and obvious to miss.
“Dr. Adams,” Reggie said firmly. “What was your purpose in entering Mr, Taylor’s room?”
“What?” Adams said blankly. He seemed surprised at the question. His round bald pate flushed a slow red.
“I hope you are not implying—”
“I am simply asking a question,” Reggie said.
Dr. Adams drew himself to his full height.
“You are hardly in any position to be asking questions,” he sneered. “What is needed from you is answers, not questions.”
“What were you doing in my room?” Taylor asked. His lined face was suddenly alert, but his voice was just politely curious.
“Why,” Adams said, laughing slightly, “I simply got mixed-up in the darkness and blundered into the wrong room.” He glanced around at the circle of faces and the smile left his face. “I do not find this questioning amusing, gentlemen. We have our self-convicted culprit and I fail to see what end will be served by humiliating me.”
“You haven’t been searched, have you, Doctor?” Reggie asked.
Adams glared at him. “Are you out of your mind? What have I to conceal? The designs for the fuel pump have been recovered. They were in your room, if you’ve forgotten.”
“No, I haven’t forgotten,” Reggie said. “But one thing interests me.”
“And what is that?”
“How did you know that the designs were for a fuel pump?”
THERE was a strange silence in the room and all eyes were focused on Dr. Adams. He was regarding Reggie with cold, unsmiling eyes.
“Someone must have mentioned it within my hearing,” he said evenly. He shrugged and turned to Jeremy Taylor. “I fail to see the point to this ridiculous inquiry, but if it will make you all happier I shall be glad to submit to a search.”
He held up
his arms and smiled down at Reggie.
“I hope you are not disappointed, my young friend.”
Professor Montmacy was fuming in the background.
“This is a lot of damn foolishness, Taylor,” he snapped. “We’ve got our man.”
Jeremy Taylor was going slowly through the doctor’s pockets. From a side coat pocket he removed a neat, .32 caliber revolver. He glanced at it significantly as he laid it on the library table.
“For shooting mice, no doubt,” Reggie remarked.
“I have a permit for the gun,” the doctor said acidly.
The remainder of the search was completed in silence. Taylor piled a small heap of miscellaneous personal effects and a few papers beside the .32 on the table.
“Nothing very incriminating there,” he smiled.
“Of course not,” Professor Montmacy said disgustedly.
“Reggie is just stalling for time,” Jonathan said.
“What are those papers?” Reggie asked. His mouth felt dry and salty. This was his last stand. If the thinking cap didn’t come through for him it would all be over.
Taylor flipped through the papers casually.
“Seems to be cross-word puzzles,” he said.
“A hobby of mine,” the doctor said. “I enjoy the mental stimulation of working problems. I trust it is not a criminal avocation.”
Reggie knew with a bleak sense of foreboding that the end was near. He stalled desperately.
“How do we know they’re crossword puzzles?”
The doctor smiled and took the two sheets of paper from Taylor and handed them to Reggie.
“What do you think they are, my young friend?” he said.
Reggie took the papers numbly, while his brain raced feverishly, trying to think of something, anything, to prolong the inevitable. He glanced down at the papers and as he did the tiny bell suddenly pealed inside his head.
His muscles tensed instinctively; the bell was tingling with steady insistence. A feeling of power and confidence was coursing through his veins. He studied the criss-crossed lines of the cross-word puzzles with keen interest. And suddenly, from the orderly arrangement of the two papers, he could discern the outlines of a completely different design. The cross-word puzzles were an elaborately simple cryptogram.
“Give me a pencil,” Reggie said.
“What for?” Taylor asked.
“I’ll show you in a minute,” he said. Again he was completely transported from his normal self by the medium of the thinking cap. Another intellect, another personality was directing his thoughts and actions.
“This apparently innocent crossword puzzle is actually a clever code form,” he said quietly. “I can break it in fifteen minutes if you gentlemen have the patience to wait. Concealed in this code, I am quite confident, we will find the essential information of Mr. Taylor’s important fuel pump. Our ambitious Doctor Adams obviously was thoughtful enough to copy the designs of the pump in code before planting the original plans in my room. This diverted suspicion completely from him and assured his making a clean getaway.”
REGGIE paused and looked up at the doctor.
“Extremely clever, doctor,” he said. “It’s a pity that such intelligence should be expended so unavailingly. If you think I am bluffing, I suggest we wait and put the matter up to the F.B.I.”
Doctor Adams’ hands clenched and unclenched spasmodically. He glared balefully at Reggie and his lips twisted in a sneer that completely transformed his solid, respectable features.
“You—” His voice broke into a bellow of rage. With a suddenness that was completely surprising he leaped to the mantel and grabbed a heavy earthen vase and hurled it at Reggie.
Reggie ducked, but not quite in time. The vase struck his shoulder and caromed off to the floor; but its contents of water spilled out when it struck him, thoroughly dousing his head and neck.
Adams wheeled and scooped his gun from the table. With another incredibly swift motion he jerked the papers from Reggie’s hands and backed toward the door.
“I will be leaving you now,” he said harshly. “It won’t be wise or healthy to follow me.”
Reggie staggered to his feet, water dripping down his face.
“Stop!” he cried.
“Try to stop me!” Adams said softly. “Don’t you think this gun is loaded?”
The bell started ringing again in Reggie’s head and he almost chuckled aloud. For suddenly he knew with complete certainty that Adams’ gun was not loaded! The thinking cap, which never made a mistake, was giving him a definite “go” signal. Adams’ gun was empty and that was all Reggie wanted to know.
“Here I come,” he yelled.
He dove across the room toward Adams, and, at the same instant, Adams’ gun coughed twice and spurts of flame belched from the muzzle.
Reggie felt something tug at his sleeve, and a hot wind fanned past his cheek. He realized, then, that he was being shot at. Something had gone radically wrong! The doctor’s gun wasn’t supposed to be loaded!
BUT he couldn’t stop himself now.
His initial rush had carried him halfway across the room. He left his feet in a head-first tackle that brought his driving shoulder squarely into the doctor’s midriff.
They went down to the floor in a tangled heap; and before the doctor could get his gun into action again, Jeremy Taylor had wrested it from his hand and slugged him on the head with it. The doctor sighed and passed out.
Willing hands helped Reggie to his feet. He was still too unnerved at the thought of the doctor’s loaded gun to be able to think coherently.
“Magnificently done,” Taylor said. “I’ve never seen such an exhibition of raw courage in all my life.”
Reggie swallowed the huge lump in his throat. His knees felt unequal to the job of holding him up. Alice came to his side and took his arm.
“Reggie, you were wonderful!” Congratulations were pouring in on him from all sides and the professor and Major Lionhead were struggling with each other in trying to pump his one free hand. But Reggie’s thoughts were elsewhere.
He couldn’t figure out what had happened. The thinking cap had failed him treacherously. In what was undoubtedly the most important moment of his life it had given him a bum steer.
And then suddenly it dawned on him. The complete explanation. He put a hand to his damp, still soaking head and smiled. That was it. He drew Alice to him and kissed her soundly. Everything was fine. The thinking cap had just been all wet!
MANCHU TERROR
First published in the July 1946 issue of Mammoth Adventure.
Anyone who could remain calm when faced with Pistol Packin’ Papa’s weapon mast have nerves of steel—and a heart to go with them . . .!
HE WAS quite a character. We called him Pistol Packin’ Papa, which isn’t particularly clever or bright, but newspapermen in China aren’t clever or bright, or they wouldn’t be there in the first place.
He hung around a little cafe called Yang’s that we had made sort of unofficial Headquarters for the press crowd stationed in Shanghai. It was a beat-up, little joint, usually crowded, and always noisy, half of it coming from the crowd, and the other, and less bearable half, coming from a three-piece orchestra, whose members seemed to think that sheer noise would compensate any musical deficiencies.
Pistol Packin’ Papa was a fat, ragged, ancient Chinaman, with tiny eyes, set in shiny folds of flesh, a scrawny mustache and just about the easiest and most profitable racket in Shanghai.
He was a beggar but he had an angle. A damn good angle.
On this night I was sitting at one of Yang’s greasy tables with Ed Bartlett of Continental wire service working my way through a good rum sling, when I looked up and Pistol Packin’ Papa was standing in one of the curtained doorways.
Bartlett was new to Shanghai and this was his first night in Yang’s so I decided to initiate him properly. He was busy with his drink so I beckoned to Papa and indicated Bartlett with a nod of my head.
Papa got what I meant and started toward our table, shuffling slowly through the crowd, a wide innocent smile on his fat round face. When he got to our table he stopped. His hands were lost in the greasy folds of his kimona. He fixed his little porcine eyes on Bartlett and the smile on his face faded, until his features were as solemn as a Buddha.
Bartlett noticed him, and nudged me.
“What’s the pitch?” he asked. He looked nervously at Papa. “This guy looks at me like he knew me before somewhere.”
“Under unpleasant circumstances,” I tossed in. just to help the gag along.
Bartlett is new to the East, and he’s a little guy, so I don’t blame him for being scared. I was too when the old gang pulled the same thing on me three years before. And I’m about twice Bartlett’s size.
Papa paid no attention to me, his eyes were on Bartlett. His right hand came out of his clothes and in it was a gun that looked like a small cannon. He pointed it squarely at Bartlett.
“Stick ’em up!” he said.
Bartlett’s hands shot into the air and his mouth hung open.
“Give me money!” Papa said.
“Sure,” Bartlett said hoarsely. “I’ll give you money. But point that gun somewhere else.”
His eyes rolled wildly toward me. Sweat was popping out on his forehead.
I couldn’t help it. I started to laugh.
Then Papa started to grin again, his big foolish grin. Bartlett looked at the two of us, and then he heard the laughter that was coming from the nearby tables. His hands came slowly down to the table.
“What’s the gag?” he said weakly.
I shoved a few coins to the edge of the table and Papa scooped them up with his free hand and dropped them into his pocket. The gun disappeared.
“He’s just a beggar with a little imagination,” I told Bartlet. “He’s been using that stick-up gag here in Yang’s for years.”
Papa bowed low to us several times, grinning happily, then he shuffled off to pull his gag on someone else.
Collected Fiction (1940-1963) Page 226