“I hope you’re not late,” the bartender said.
Larry glanced at the clock. He had sobered sufficiently to read the hands. It was 9:30!
“Hope is a wonderful thing,” he muttered. He patted the bartender on the shoulder. “We, who are about to go hungry, salute you.”
With that he staggered out of the bar and lurched across the alley to the stage door of the Palace. He felt fine, except for his realization that black doom was awaiting him; and also his knees had an odd tendency to work in reverse.
Fortunately there was no one on guard at the stage door and he was able to slip backstage without being noticed. He saw a small knot of people gathered at the wings watching whatever was happening on the stage and he heard the roars of applause from the theatre audience.
Someone was getting a hand, he thought bitterly.
In the crowd of stage hands and performers gathered at the wings he recognized the stocky belligerent figure of Matt McGinty.
He swallowed guiltily. He had no desire to meet McGinty now. After missing his act, McGinty would be in a mood to strangle him with his bare hands.
With commendable stealth, considering the load he was carrying, Larry tip-toed past the group at the wings without being noticed. He crept through the maze of backdrops and ropes until he reached a slit in the curtain, from where he could watch the act on the stage without being observed.
When he peeked through the narrow opening in the back curtain the sight that met his eyes gave him a distinct start. For in the center of the stage was his puppet booth and, at the angle he was looking, he could see his three puppets going through their paces.
The antics in which they were indulging was not in any way similar to the act he had perfected; but the audience was obviously delighted.
Larry felt as if he had been slugged at the base of the skull with a lead pipe. He had returned to the theatre expecting to have fire and brimstone heaped on his head by McGinty for missing his act. And here was the act going merrily on, apparently not minding his absence one bit.
But who was manipulating the puppets!
The curtain at the back of the booth was drawn and whoever was inside was not visible to Larry. But, whoever he was, Larry knew he was a master.
There was a life-like humor and deftness in the performance of the puppets that exceeded any effect Larry had ever been able to create.
The act was reaching its climax. Already, Larry knew, it had been on several minutes too long, but far from minding, the audience was eating it up.
When the curtain finally came down and the stage hands emerged from the wings and speedily shoved the puppet’s booth off the stage, the packed house was shaking to the applause of the audience.
Larry listened to the ovation enviously. He had never gotten a reception like that. He was lucky if the audience took pity on his efforts and applauded through kindness.
But he did not feel too bitter. For he realized that someone had saved him from a nasty mess. If whoever had stepped into the breach to operate the puppet act hadn’t been on hand, it would have been terrible. McGinty at this moment would be throwing him out the rear door of the theatre with explicit and profane instructions not to come back.
The stage hands had shoved the puppet booth in to the wings and Larry realized that the least he could do was to thank whoever had saved his neck.
With that thought in mind he emerged from his place of concealment. As he stepped into the view of the crowd in the wings McGinty saw him and strode toward him.
Larry felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
McGinty stopped in front of him, hands on his hips.
“It breaks my heart to tell you this,” he said, “but that was a darn good act.” He smiled suddenly and slapped Larry on the back. “What are you looking so scared about? I’m telling you, you laid ’em in the aisles. Listen! They’re still clapping. Keep up that kind of work, son, and you’ll be out of the bread-and-butter circuits darn soon.”
Larry sputtered helplessly. He tried to speak but there were no words to express the weird thoughts that were running crazily through his head.
“What’s the matter with you?” McGinty demanded. “You’d think there something wrong about knocking that audience cold like you did.”
Without answering, Larry moved dazedly to the puppet booth which was standing in the wings. He drew aside the rear curtain and peered into the small aperture from which the puppeteer manipulated the puppets.
It was empty!
He stepped around to the front of the booth and stared intently at the three puppets who were hanging inertly from the strings which motivated them.
The three figures were carved from wood and cleverly jointed together at knees, elbows and neck. Their small, merry faces were tinted with life-like shades and there were bright glints in their shining eyes, which were made of buttons.
Larry called them Pat and Mike and Tim.
In the act, Pat and Mike were hellions, in and out of trouble all the time, while Tim was dutiful and innocent.
But in spite of the fact that Larry sometimes thought of them as having personality and individuality, they were actually three wooden figures, about eight inches high, cleverly fashioned to react to his manipulations.
And that was all.
Larry took off his hat slowly and ran a hand through his hair. He felt the effects of the liquor deserting him and he didn’t like that. He felt that he was going to need something to sustain him.
For there was a great big question in his mind.
Who had manipulated these puppets?
That was the question and, needless to say, there was no answer to it.
McGinty was looking at him closely.
“What’s the matter with you?” he demanded. “You act as if you’d been on a binge.”
“McGinty,” Larry said slowly, “X didn’t handle this act. Do you know who did?”
“Huh?” McGinty’s voice was incredulous. He leaned forward and sniffed suspiciously. “As I thought. You’ve been swilling a lot of cheap booze from the smell of you. It’s lucky this is your last show tonight. Go home and sleep it off and don’t let me catch you drinking on the job again.”
“But I know what I’m talking about,” Larry said. He felt a peculiar flutter of panic. “I didn’t handle this show. I couldn’t have. I wasn’t here.”
“Who’re you trying to kid?” McGinty demanded. “You’re out of your head. Sleep it off, I’m telling you.” Larry shook his head weakly and stared at the puppets.
“Maybe they know,” he muttered. “I don’t.”
He turned on his heel and strode toward his dressing room, weaving only slightly from the load he was still carrying.
Chapter II
Larry did a lot of thinking when he got to his dressing room. With an ice pack on his dully aching head he sat at his dressing table staring moodily at his image as reflected in the long, cracked mirror.
And the more he thought about the weird events that had taken place, the more befuddled he became. Maybe he, himself, had manipulated the puppets. Possibly he had been so drunk that he just didn’t remember.
He shook his head irritably. That wouldn’t wash. He hadn’t been that drunk. And he had a distinct recollection of having watched the act from back-stage.
He couldn’t have been in the puppet booth manipulating the marionettes and, at the same time, back-stage watching the show, could he?
No, he told himself decisively, that would have been impossible. So there he was. Stuck.
Stuck, that, was, for any reasonable explanation of how the act had managed to go on while he was sitting in a bar a half block away.