“It seems,” he said in a small, chastened voice, “that a mistake has been made.”
Reggie’s heart pounded with hope.
“It certainly has,” he said. “This entire affair should be reported to someone. That’s what happens when you put inexperienced men on the job. You wind up with a bungled mess.”
“I don’t know how it happened,” Mr. Demise said miserably. “All I can say is I’m sorry.”
“Fine thing,” Reggie said stuffily. “Mess up your job like this and then say you’re sorry. I’d advise, Demise, that you lay off the liquor when you’re supposed to be working.”
“I will in the future,” Mr. Demise said humbly.
“See that you do,” Reggie said sternly. “Now I’d say you’d better get to work on that first assignment.”
“Yes, I will,” Mr. Demise said. With drooping shoulders he moved slowly to the door. With his hand on the knob he turned again to Reggie.
“I hate to be a pest,” he said, “but I’m afraid I don’t know how to go about this job. Maybe you could help me. Where can I find this fellow?”
Reggie chuckled and began to mix himself a drink.
“I’d advise you to try Berchtesgaden,” he said. “Just ask anyone you meet. They’ll tell you where you can find Adolf Hitler.”
“Thank you,” Mr. Demise said gratefully. “I won’t slip up on this one.”
“See that you don’t,” Reggie said.
The Willful Puppets
First published in Fantastic Adventures, February 1943.
Chapter I
Larry Temple was feeling rather low when he stepped out into the alley that flanked the Palace theatre. He had just completed his act and the response of the audience could hardly have been termed enthusiastic.
Larry leaned against the brick wall of the theatre and moodily lighted a cigarette.
“To hell with ’em,” he muttered bitterly. “They just don’t appreciate any act that hasn’t got a strip-tease in it.” Larry Temple was a puppeteer and, as such, he was considered, in the judgment of those in show business, about one notch below a ventriloquist and about on a par with acrobats.
He was thoroughly sick of manipulating puppets for a living, but he had to eat and there was nothing else he could do to earn his cakes and coffee.
As he flipped his half-smoked cigarette away he noticed a small tavern across the street, advertising liquors and beer via a cheerily blinking neon sign.
Larry was not a drinking man, but his present dissatisfaction weighed against his normal abstinence. He crossed the street and entered the small, dimly lighted bar.
The bartender mopped the bar in front of him with a damp rag and looked inquiringly at him.
“Rye,” he said. “Make it double.”
He lit another cigarette and pushed his gray fedora back on his forehead. He was a clean-cut young man with pleasant brown eyes and a small mustache.
The bartender set the drink on the bar.
“Thanks,” Larry said. He tossed a bill on the bar and then picked up the glass of whisky. For a second he inspected the ruddy brown contents of the glass with misgivings; then he lifted the glass to his lips and drained it with one gulp.
The effect was like that of a small bomb exploding gently in his stomach. A warm languorous wave spread from his midriff and flowed down his legs and up to his arms and throat. He blinked and a hiccough shook him slightly.
The sensation was not at all unpleasant. He ordered another drink and loosened his collar. It suddenly seemed a bit too tight.
He glanced at the clock over the bar. It said 8:45. He made a mental note of the time, for his next show was at 9:30. But he had plenty of time.
The second drink was smoother than the first and it was then that Larry made a discovery, which drinkers the world over have been making since time immemorial. Namely, that each succeeding drink tastes better than its predecessor.
This discovery was like a revelation to Larry.
He ordered another drink to prove his thesis and he was nodding with thoughtful pleasure when he had finished the third drink. He was absolutely right. The third drink tasted immeasurably smoother and better than the second, which hadn’t been any slouch.
A little while later, he glanced at the clock. He blinked and peered at it intently. He experienced a faint sensation of annoyance. The damn clock wasn’t behaving. Its hands were revolving slowly and steadily and the numerals on the dial were moving about in small circles.
“No way for a clock to act,” he muttered. He put his elbows on the bar and slumped forward. He felt better that way, he discovered.
The bartender leaned toward him.
“What’d you say, buddy?”
“I asked for a drink,” Larry said, with considerable dignity. “And, If you aren’t busy, you might tell me what time it is.”
“Sure thing.”
The bartender glanced over his shoulder. “It’s 9:05.” He poured another drink for Larry.
“Thank you,” Larry said solemnly. He suddenly realized what a sterling chap this bartender was. He blinked owlishly.
“You are a scholar and a gentleman,” he said, punching the surface of the bar for emphasis.
“The same to you,” the bartender said. He watched Larry drain the glass of whisky with slightly apprehensive eyes. “You’d better take it a little easy,” he advised. “That stuff you’re drinking ain’t milk.”
Larry digested this information in silence. Somehow it seemed important that he wasn’t drinking milk, but he couldn’t quite figure out why.
He looked at the clock again but it was still acting foolishly.
The bartender said, “It’s 9:10. Have you got a date or something?”
Larry nodded, beaming. He liked this chap more each minute. He liked the way he figured things out and drove right to the heart of an issue.
“What time is your date?” the bartender asked.
Larry was reaching the secretive stage. He put a finger over his lips and peered up and down the deserted bar.
“Mustn’t tell,” he hissed in a thick conspiratorial whisper. “McGinty wouldn’t want me to tell.”
“Who’s McGinty?”
“McGinty is the stage manager,” Larry confided.
“Are you an actor?” the bartender asked.
Larry felt a warm, satisfied glow stealing over him and it was not altogether the effect of the liquor.
“Yes,” he said, “you might say I am an actor. That is, after a fashion.”
“Gee,” the bartender said, and the admiration in his voice was sufficiently pronounced to seep through the alcoholic fog that was enveloping Larry. “That’s sure interesting,” he went on wistfully. “You know I always had a hankering to go on the stage. Making love to pretty girls all day is my idea of nice work, if you can get it.”
Larry began to feel unhappy again.
“If you can get it,” he said. A tear fell into his empty glass.
“What’s the matter?” the bartender asked solicitously.
“I need another drink,” Larry said mournfully.
“Okay,” the bartender said, reaching for the bottle, “but are you sure you’ve got time? It’s 9:25 right now.”
Larry straightened with a jerk.
Nine-twenty-five!
His act was supposed to go on at 9:15!
This realization had a slightly sobering effect on him. Missing an act was one of the unpardonable crimes of show business. Performers who missed their acts inevitably wound up missing their meals. That was as definite as an algebraic equation.
He rose unsteadily to his feet.
“I must be going,” he announced, in about the tone of voice Napoleon must have used when his boat set out for St. Helena.