The Second Reginald Bretnor Megapack

by Reginald Bretnor

  And at that point, her glance took in the wastebasket. “Vot iss? A letter vith Shviss shtamps? Vun of your naked vomen writes to you?”

  Lamely, he mumbled that it was just an ad.

  She looked at him scornfully. With her umbrella handle, she hooked the basket to her. She lifted out the envelope. She stared at it. “Der Rumpler Bank!” she exclaimed in awe. Then she retrieved the letter, smoothed it out, and read it, first to herself and then aloud.

  Smiling cruelly, she looked up at him. “So it iss chust an ad? Vell, this time, chenius, you oudtshmart yourself. It iss a help-vanted ad, and now you haff der chob! To der telephone, dummkopf. Ve phone Herr Doktor Rumpler right avay.”

  “But Mama!” Papa Schimmelhorn protested plaintively. “Already I haff a goot chob vith Heinrich, und ve haff enough money, und I haff infentions I am vorking on, und—”

  “Shudt up!” she ordered, fire in her eye. “Maybe you haff enough money, but ve do nodt. All day, die Ladies’ Auxiliary talks about how ve raise enough to build der new shteeple for der church. First Pastor Hundhammer makes a speech, und tells how efery oder church except maybe der synagogue has a fine shteeple, und makes us all ashamed. So you vill vork for der famous Rumpler Bank, und do maybe something useful inshtead of time machines, und ve can build a shteeple taller than die Presbyterianists’ oder die Methodisms’. It iss settled.” She aimed the sharp end of the umbrella menacingly. “To der telephone, oder in der shortribs I giff der bumbershoot! Ve call collect. I listen on der oder line so no monkeyshines.”

  Papa Schimmelhorn, blackmailed on the one hand by the scandal of little Clothilde, and also fully aware of the reality of the umbrella threat, squirmed, heaved an enormous sigh, and made his way to the hall telephone, while his wife, glaring at him and followed dutifully by Gustav-Adolf, went off to pick up the other in her sewing room. A momentary impulse to try and trick her by pretending that it was too late in Zürich was instantly checkmated by her warning that Dr. Rumpler’s letter had gifen also his home phone, und nodt chust der office.

  Papa Schimmelhorn called the overseas operator. He put in his call collect, listening to his wife’s approving murmurs. The phone in Zürich rang and rang, finally awakening Dr. Rumpler from a sound sleep next to his petite amie. When the operator mentioned Papa Schimmelhorn, he came fully awake abruptly, shushed his girlfriend, and accepted the call as cordially as he would one from any prosperous oil sheik in the once Trucial States. He was delighted that Herr Schimmelhorn had called. No, certainly not, it never was too late; he had simply been discussing high finance with a friend.

  Obediently, Papa Schimmelhorn informed him that he was accepting his most generous offer, and would do his utmost to please his new employer. And what, he asked, might be the nature of his assignment?

  Dr. Rumpler informed him that the urgent need for secrecy precluded any discussion of it until he actually reported in for duty, but he could promise him faithfully again that, where working conditions and assistants were concerned, he could have anything he might require. “Absolutely anything!” he chuckled.

  At that point, Mama Schimmelhorn coughed. It was a rather shrill, rasping cough, somehow full of menace, and her husband hastened to explain. It was just Mama, who had heard so much about the famous Rumpler Bank and the Herr Doktor, and who would like to meet him if only over the telephone.

  Dr. Rumpler had, of course, been briefed on Mama Schimmelhorn, and he was taken aback only for an instant. He congratulated her on having so eminent a genius for a husband, ignored her muttered “Ach, dot old goat!” and made much of the high quality of the technical assistance and research facilities he was providing at such vast expense. He sighed. It was a shame, he said, that the pressure of work would leave no time at all for relaxation, but he would see to it that Papa Schimmelhorn got lots of rest and was properly nourished.

  Mama Schimmelhorn was mollified. She asked how long Papa might be away, and was informed that this was unpredictable, but that judging by his past performances it should certainly not be more than a few weeks. And when did the Herr Doktor plan to take delivery?

  “My personal jet will pick him up the day after tomorrow, as early in the morning as possible. Is that agreeable to you, Frau Schimmelhorn?”

  She told him that it was perfectly agreeable, that that was the exact date of her own planned departure for Minna Schwegelheimer’s wedding, and—seeing a chance, not only to save a dollar, but to continue the supervision of her husband for a while—suggested that maybe she could ride along.

  Dr. Rumpler hesitated, but only for an instant. Her goodwill would undoubtedly be worth the detour to Switzerland. Papa Schimmelhorn groaned, but agreed. With everything arranged, they terminated the call with many expressions of mutual esteem.

  “Vell!” exclaimed Mama Schimmelhorn triumphantly, as she came back into the living room. “For vunce, I go avay withoudt vorrying about naked vomen! With a great Shviss banker like der Fine Herr Doktor iss no time for foolishness—everything iss business.” She chuckled good-humoredly, and sat down; and Gustav-Adolf, with a throaty “Mro-ow!” leaped back into her lap.

  She petted him. “You are a goot cat, Gustav-Adolf,” she informed him, “vorking hard all day and at night efen, catching mices, nodt like some people ve know—” She sat up suddenly. “Donnerwetter! Almost I forget! For you I haff a present, a nice present from Mrs. Laubenschneider.” She rummaged in her black, beaded reticule. “She iss vot you call Pennsylvania Deutsch, und knows all aboudt hexes und shpells, und now she has made mein Gustav-Adolf a Fine collar for die fleas.”

  “A collar?” scoffed Papa Schimmelhorn. “For Gustav-Adolf? Nefer! He vould nefer vear.”

  “Nonsense!” She brought the collar out. It appeared to be woven out of several colors of silk thread, horsehair, and very fine silver wire; and at least a dozen hex signs were very cleverly woven into it. “See, Gustav-Adolf, all die lidtle signs Mrs. Laubenschneider puts in? They shcare avay die shpooks und defils, und nodt chust fleas.”

  She held it temptingly in front of Gustav-Adolf. He investigated it, at first suspiciously, then with greater interest. Then suddenly, with a great “Mrr-r-ow!” he pushed his huge chops through, and sat there purring loudly while she made the final finicky adjustments.

  “See how proud?” she simpered. “He knows it iss a medal for vorking hard und catching all die mices.”

  * * * *

  Regretfully but wisely, Papa Schimmelhorn shelved his plans for the seduction of Miss Blatnik, and decided to save his cuckoo watch for some more favorable occasion. He spent the following day preparing for his journey and listening to Mama Schimmelhorn’s practiced homilies on Dirty Old Men who persisted in chasing invariably naked women vhen they ought to be thinking of going to Heafen vhen they died. She varied this theme only twice, first to reprove him for shtealing the JUNIOR ELECTRONIC EXPERIMENTERS’ KIT, AGES 9-12, which was to have been her birthday present to a young relative named Willy Fledermaus, and then to argue that he vas foolish efen to think of taking Gustav-Adolf with him. Gustav-Adolf, she declared, should stay at home, catch mices, and be fed by Mrs. Clausewitz. However, Mrs. Clausewitz herself scotched that idea effectively by phoning, accusing Papa Schimmelhorn of sending cuckoos to sabotage her TV programs, and then, when Mama Schimmelhorn seemed unable to understand, screaming hysterically that she had put him up to it.

  So Papa Schimmelhorn tucked three fresh catnip mice into his luggage and stowed Gustav-Adolf’s flea-und-hex collar in his jacket pocket, while his wife put a catbox and a large sack of kitty-litter into a huge net shopping bag, explaining that these were for Gustav-Adolf on the airplane; and early next morning a trim de Havilland jet picked the three of them up at the airport and, despite Gustav-Adolf’s swearing and muttering, took off immediately, Papa Schimmelhorn traveling with the British passport once arranged for him by Pêng-Plantagenet.

 
Presently, Gustav-Adolf settled down on one of the plane’s luxuriously cushioned chairs and devoted himself to tearing one of the catnip mice apart, rolling on it, and uttering cries of feline ecstasy. Mama Schimmelhorn rummaged in a small valise, took out something purple she was knitting, and let the clicking needles punctuate her interminable moral disquisitions.

  As for her husband, he managed to conceal his disappointment to find, not two or three pretty pussycat stewardesses, but only a plump, pink, and very swishy steward. For a time, he consoled himself by staring at the clouds and recalling happier journeys, like his flight to Hong Kong, when he had been so ably entertained by the lovely and ingenious Misses Kittikool and MacTavish. Once in a while, he sighed. Then, absentmindedly, he tried to amuse himself by trying out his cuckoo watch—until he realized that his wife had stopped her knitting.

  “Und so!” Transfixing him with an icy eye, she tapped her umbrella handle threateningly. “So poor Mrs. Clausewitz maybe vasn’t crazy after all? Ach, you chust vait—”

  At that point, the copilot came back to complain that something electronic was interfering with the navigational instruments.

  A long and deadly silence followed. The steward served lunch. Time dragged on. The steward served high tea. Time passed even more reluctantly. Contemptuously, Gustav-Adolf used the catbox, kicking litter all over the rich carpeting.

  The steward served supper, and Mama Schimmelhorn opened up a package of fresh liver she had brought along for Gustav-Adolf. She ate her dinner grimly; Papa Schimmelhorn ate his despondently; Gustav-Adolf gobbled his liver and yelled for more. The steward started cleaning things away.

  Then the voice of the pilot came over the intercom, informing them in French that in ten minutes they would be landing at Lucerne.

  “Luzern!” exclaimed Mama Schimmelhorn. “Dott is because Minna liffs so close. It has been arranched by der goot Herr Doktor, who iss a chentleman, und nodt like you.”

  She bustled about, getting her things together and giving her husband a running lecture about how he must do eferything der Herr Doktor told him to. “Ha!” she added as an afterthought. “If he has goot sense, he locks you in der vault at night!”

  The steward helped them with their safety belts; the plane touched down; the door opened; the gangplank was extruded. Almost at once, an extremely precise little man came aboard, pinch-nosed, spectacled, and as neat as any Swiss banker’s confidential ledger. He introduced himself as Herr Grundtli, bowed to Mama Schimmelhorn who was tremendously impressed, and announced that a limousine was already on the runway to take her directly to the home of Miss Minna Schwegelheimer. Then he insisted on helping her with her bags and boxes.

  Papa Schimmelhorn watched dolefully as she gave him a final frown of warning, kissed Gustav-Adolf good-bye, and disappeared with Herr Grundtli through the door, followed almost immediately afterward by the steward. He watched her get into the sumptuous limousine. He watched until the limousine had vanished. “Und now vot?” he said lugubriously. “Gustav-Adolf, maybe she iss right. Maybe Herr Grundtli vill lock us in der vault at night.” At the prospect, a tear bedewed his bright blue eye, and he was still feeling sorry for himself when Herr Grundtli reappeared, clearing his throat politely.

  Papa Schimmelhorn looked up. He started. His mouth fell open. Herr Grundtli suddenly looked much more human than he had before. Besides, he was not alone.

  Behind him stood two of the prettiest pussycats Papa Schimmelhorn had seen in many a day.

  Proudly, Herr Grundtli introduced them as Emmy Hoogendijk, of Amsterdam, and Niki Aramanlis, originally from Istanbul. Miss Hoogendijk very pleasingly round and pink, Miss Aramanlis much taller, dark, and very lush indeed.

  Instantly, Papa Schimmelhorn’s vital juices began to flow. His bushy eyebrows jumped; his whiskers quivered. His fears vanished into thin air. He bounded to his feet and, making sure his modish denims displayed his muscles to the best advantage, swept them a courtly bow.

  The pretty pussycats stared at him in amazement, and he hastened to put them at their ease. “Ach!” he cried out. “I haff read your minds! You haff expected chust a poor old man, vithoudt vinegar? Ho-ho-ho!” From his jacket pocket he took two chocolate bars, rendered slightly flexible by the warmth of his emotion, and proffered them. “Emmy und Niki, I show you maybe a goot time you do nodt expect!”

  Looking a little dazed, Emmy and Niki took the bars, which he obligingly peeled for them. They nibbled with small, sharp, white teeth. Papa Schimmelhorn put an arm around each of them.

  “Our employer,” Herr Grundtli told him sotto voce, “arranged to have them here. He wants your journey to be as pleasant and, er, relaxing as possible.” Then he left the aircraft again.

  Within five minutes, the pretty pussycats were cuddling up to Papa Schimmelhorn, running their nimble fingers through his beard, sitting on his lap, petting Gustav-Adolf, and generally doing their best to keep Herr Grundtli’s promise, while he amused them by demonstrating the cuckoo watch and letting them feel his bulging muscles. He did not even notice the reappearance of Herr Grundtli, now accompanied by Gottfried Rumpler, who had driven up very discreetly in an unobtrusive Fiat.

  Herr Grundtli coughed, and instantly the pussycats were on their feet and, smiling respectfully, hastening back to the aftercabin.

  “Don’t worry,” he declared, seeing Papa Schimmelhorn’s disappointment. “They’ll be right back as soon as Herr Doktor Rumpler here”—he bowed to his employer—“has briefed you on the task ahead of you.”

  Papa Schimmelhorn stood up. He looked at the stalwart Rumpler figure. Beaming with pleasure, he declared that never had he realized how wrong he was, believing that all bankers were as dry as sticks, thinking only of plus and minus and who owed what to whom! He could see that the Herr Doktor was, like himself, full of vinegar—that he understood what kept a man young despite his years. He gestured at the aftercabin and winked.

  Dr. Rumpler returned the wink. “Herr Schimmelhorn,” he chuckled, “there’s more to Swiss banking than meets the eye.”

  Herr Grundtli seated them, and joined Emmy and Niki, leaving them alone.

  After expressing his delight at having so great a genius to solve their problem for them, and swearing him once more to complete secrecy, Dr. Rumpler lowered his voice conspiratorially, and told him what his task would be. “We want you to find out how to turn lead into gold,” he declared. “That is all.”

  Papa Schimmelhorn laughed aloud. Maybe, he said, it would not be too difficult. Maybe not even as hard as time travel or antigravity. Already, in his head, his subconscious was beginning to churn promisingly. And it would be such a good joke, would it not? All the lead pipes, and fishing sinkers, and all the bullets in the guns! Affectionately, he slapped Gottfried Rumpler on the knee, and the Herr Doktor chuckled with him, rather artificially.

  “Fräulein von Hohenheim, my associate in this enterprise,” he said, “owns a lovely island just off the coast of Crete, where she has already installed alchemical laboratories under the direction of Meister Gaspar Gansfleisch, the greatest living authority on the subject. He will work closely with you, and assist you. If you need anything, you will only have to ask. Of course, because I and my associate are very much in the public eye, I will not be in direct touch with you, but if she can do so unobtrusively, she will fly down to look things over every two weeks or so.”

  Papa Schimmelhorn enquired a little worriedly whether Miss Hoogendijk and Miss Aramanlis were coming too, and Dr. Rumpler promised him that they were.

  Smiling warmly, he arose. “Now I must go,” he said.

  Papa Schimmelhorn leaped up. He embraced him in his mighty arms. “Ach, you don’dt need to vorry!” he boomed out in English. “Mr. Banker, you will have your gold!”

  “You will stay in Lucerne tonight,” Dr. Rumpler told him. “Tomorrow you will fly to Athens and to Crete, wh
ere you will be met and taken to the island. I am sure you will succeed!”

  They parted on the very best of terms, and presently another limousine drove quietly up—and that night, at the Lucerne Hilton, Papa Schimmelhorn slept cozily between his pretty pussycats, comfortably exhausted by his efforts and dreaming as he drifted off that he could hear both of them (as well as Gustav-Adolf, now curled up at his feet) purring happily.

  III.

  Meister Gansfleisch

  The magnitude and difficulty of the problem facing him troubled Papa Schimmelhorn not at all. He gave no thought to the thousands of brilliant and determined minds who, over the centuries, had tackled it without success. Turned over to his subconscious, it left him completely free to devote all his attention to his hobby. He scarcely noticed when, next morning, the plane took off; when they changed to a smaller aircraft at Athens, his sole concern was to make sure that Miss Emmy and Miss Niki weren’t left behind; and finally, when they landed at a minor Cretan airport, he didn’t even bother to enquire where it was.

  A tall, craggy, middle-aged Greek was waiting for them. He greeted Herr Grundtli, twirled a fierce moustache, and flashed menacing black eyes at both pretty pussycats, who giggled. The customs officers, deferring to him, passed them without delay, not even troubling to open the huge Schimmelhorn carpetbag or to ask whether Gustav-Adolf had had his rabies shots.

  A worn taxicab was waiting for them in the Mediterranean sunlight; and, as the Greek opened its door, Herr Grundtli bade them farewell, saying that business compelled him to return to Switzerland. “However,” he said, “you are in good hands. Herr Mavronides is Fräulein von Hohenheim’s majordomo. He will see to it that you have everything you want.”

  “Herr who?” exclaimed Papa Schimmelhorn.