“Yeah,” mumbled Larry. “I mean, you’re right. But I don’t see how—” His voice trailed off.
The entrance of the butler with the announcement that dinner was served, ended the conversation on that note of uncertainty.
Except for the excellent food, dinner proved to be something of an ordeal. The colonel, evidently still smarting from Larry’s attempt on his dignity, had drawn into a shell. Dereck managed to monopolize Gloria by means of a steady flow of light conversation that definitely held no place for Larry.
Afterward, the young puppeteer, tired, puzzled and vaguely depressed, slowly mounted the stairs to his room. He undressed wearily and got into bed. But he couldn’t sleep. There were too many disquieting thoughts buzzing about in his head. And chief among these disturbing figments was his concern over what had happened to Mike. He was certainly acting in a peculiar fashion and he could think of no reasonable explanation for the puppet’s conduct. If anything happened tomorrow night during the big show...
He tossed restlessly. Sleep seemed an elusive thing that was farther away than ever. When he heard the great clock in the lower hall mournfully chiming two o’clock, he decided that there was no longer any point in staying in bed.
He got up and slipped into his bathrobe and slippers. He lit a cigarette and sat on the edge of the bed smoking moodily. The cigarette tasted foul. He put it out and lit another.
After a few moments he stood up, deciding that he had better go downstairs and see that everything was all right with his equipment.
He felt better having something definite to do. He put out his cigarette and left his room as quietly as possible. The house was dark and heavy with a tomb-like silence.
Larry found the carved stair banister and guided himself down to the first floor. He picked his way carefully through the library and when he reached the sun-room he turned on one of the floor lamps.
A shadow moved away from the wall. The end of a glowing cigar was visible in the semi-gloom.
“Greetings, chum,” a voice said.
“It’s you again,” Larry said wearily, as Buggy Rafferty moved out into the light, blinking his little eyes against the soft glare.
He was wearing crimson pajamas with a yellow sash and a light tan dressing gown with green felt lapels. His hands were jammed into the pockets of the gown and Larry detected a significant bulge under the right pocket.
“That was a crummy trick you played on me today, chum,” he said in an injured voice, “but I ain’t sore, honest. This way I gets to gab with the help and find out the lay of the land.”
“What are you doing prowling about the house this time of night?” Larry asked stiffly.
“I could ask you the same thing,” Buggy grinned. “But I ain’t the nosey type. I’m just doin’ a little research work, that’s all. Checkin’ the burglar alarms and things like that. Can’t be too careful these days. That Rastus kept me so busy cuttin’ wood and hauling garbage that this is the first chance I got to look the joint over. And from what Fve seen, it’s goin’ to be a lead-pipe cinch.”
“How dandy,” Larry said gloomily.
Until now he had forgotten about Buggy. He had been so worried about the peculiar behavior of his puppet that all other thoughts had been driven from his mind. His spirits sank. For a while he had been kidding himself with the delightful prospects of seeing Gloria the next day and possibly making hay while the sun shone.
But his name would be mud when Buggy copped her diamonds and blew the country. Naturally he would be held responsible for that. If he escaped a nice smacking twenty-year sentence he’d be lucky.
“Well, be good, chum,” Buggy said. “I’m goin’ back to my honest slumber. Don’t stay up too late.”
“Good night,” Larry said dully. The chances of Buggy strangling in the bed clothes were too remote to be cheering. All he could hope for was something developing tomorrow that would enable him to pull Buggy’s claws.
He would like to do it with pliers, he thought bitterly.
When Buggy had left, Larry turned his attention to his puppet booth. And here he was in for another shock.
The strings that led to two o£ the puppets were badly twisted and snarled. But that was not the worst.
The two puppets were gone!
Larry felt his scalp prickling with a strange fear. He turned on the high lights in the room and returned to his booth to make a thorough inspection of the damage.
Only one puppet was in evidence.
Tim, the puppet who took the role of the naive, innocent party in the little skits, was still present, but Pat and Mike, the two hellions, were gone without a trace.
Tim was sitting on the edge of the tiny stage, a prop match and cigarette in his hands. There was a peculiarly doleful expression on the little face.
Larry picked the puppet up and examined it carefully. There didn’t seem to be anything wrong with it for all the manipulating strings were still attached and in good order.
Larry set Tim on his shoulder and manipulated the wooden arms, legs and neck of the tiny puppet to make sure that everything was in good working order.
He was slightly reassured to discover that Tim at least was all right, but he couldn’t put on a show with only one puppet.
He stared bitterly at the deserted stage and the snarled ropes.
“I wonder where the hell they are,” he said angrily.
“They’re gone,” a small voice said in his ear.
“I know that,” Larry said irritably, “but where—”
Words jammed up in his throat and stuck there. An unpleasant shudder traveled down his spine.
Had someone spoken?
Or was he going batty?
“I know where they’ve gone,” the small voice said. “They wanted me to go with them but I didn’t think it was right.”
There was no doubt in his mind now.
He turned his head slowly, carefully, as if he were afraid that his neck might splinter. His eyes met the shining button eyes of Tim, the little puppet.
“Did you say something?” Larry whispered.
“Yes,” Tim answered. His voice was clearly audible. It was small and rough, but not unpleasant. “I said I knew where Pat and Mike have gone. They asked me to come with them but I didn’t think it was the right thing to do.”
“That’s what I thought you said,” Larry said weakly. Perspiration was pouring down his forehead in tiny rivulets. His mind felt as if it were rocking on its foundations.
This was incredible! Yet it seemed to be happening.
“Why didn’t you go with Mike and Pat?” he asked. It was a silly question but Larry hadn’t had much conversational experience with puppets. He was at a loss as to just the right approach.
“I didn’t think it would be right,” Tim repeated. “I am supposed to act in shows. I want to do what is right.”
“I am glad you do,” Larry said. He had the inane feeling he was making a perfect fool of himself. The proper procedure, he felt sure, would be to ignore Tim completely and go to bed. This thing couldn’t be happening. It was all a product of his imagination.
Then he remembered the night at the theatre when the puppets had gone through their act without him; and he remembered the scene earlier that evening when one of the puppets had kicked Colonel Manners in the nose.
These recollections gave him pause. “How long has this been going on,” he asked Tim, in what he hoped was a severe voice. But it sounded like a croak to his ears.
“How long has what been going on?” Tim asked.
“This — this nonsense,” Larry said. “This business of you puppets taking things into your own hands.”