“This is my superior,” he explained nervously to the musketeers. “We — we mustn’t do anything to anger him.”
“Reminds me of an innkeeper I knew in Gascony,” Athos observed thoughtfully. “I remember very well the day they hung him. Horse thieving, I think.”
Mr. Harker came to an impressive stop before Phillip’s desk.
“Good morning, Mr. Harker,” Phillip said. “I’m sorry I was late.”
Mr. Harker ignored the apology. His outraged gaze raked over the nonchalant musketeers and swung hotly back to Phillip.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded. His voice was cold and angry. “This is a business office, not a minstrel show. Who are these men?”
“—er — friends of mine,” Phillip answered. “I–I just wanted to show them the office. They’re from — out-of town.”
“They look like they’re from an asylum,” Harker said witheringly. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his trousers and his abdomen protruded belligerently. “Get them out of here at once,” he snapped. “I’ll talk to you about this later.”
Athos tapped Mr. Harker on the shoulder.
“Have you ever been in Gascony?” he asked.
“What? No, of course not.”
“Uncommon resemblance,” Athos muttered. He shook his head thoughtfully.
“Resemblance to whom?” Harker demanded. He seemed slightly confused by the sudden twist in the conversation.
“You have an amazing likeness to a horse thief I saw hung there recently,” Athos said. He peered closely, suspiciously at Harker. “Are you sure you’ve never been in Gascony?” he persisted.
Harker’s face reddened in rage. The veins at his temples throbbed visibly.
“A wise guy, eh?” he shouted.
Aramis had quietly drawn his sword while Athos was talking to Harker. There was a puckish, mischievous twinkle in his eyes as he gently laid the flat of the blade against Harker’s protruding stomach. Harker was so convulsed with apoplectic rage that he was unaware of the sword’s pressure against his vest.
“You’ll suffer for this, Poincare,” he shouted. “It might cost you your job. This is no laughing matter.”
As he finished speaking Aramis flicked his sword downward and two buttons from Harker’s vest dropped to the floor.
His vest spread open and a tuft of white shirt emerged.
Harker glared angrily at his exposed shirt and then hastily shoved it back into place.
“You — you young whippersnapper!” he cried. “I’ll have the law on you for this.”
D’Artagnan chuckled and leaned back against Phillip’s desk, while Athos slapped a hand against his thigh and smilingly regarded Harker’s outburst.
“It is only a prank,” D’Artagnan said grinning.
“You aren’t going to beg off that easily,” Harker fumed. “I’ll have the whole lot of you locked up.” He glared contemptuously at their costumes and a sarcastic smile touched his full lips. “It’s about the sort of thing one would expect from wearers of those uniforms. The Frenchmen were too busy with schoolboy pranks to fight the Nazis. They’re fine for wearing uniforms and swords but they leave the fighting to men. Well, I think I’ll make an example of you. This prank won’t seem so funny when you’re behind bars.”
Aramis smiled at D’Artagnan and Athos.
“Methinks I see the shadow of the Bastille in the distance,” he murmured.
D’Artagnan’s face was white with anger.
“Methinks I hear the braying of an ass,” he said, looking at Harker.
Harker wheeled on Phillip.
“If you want your job Poincare you’d better have a plausible explanation ready for this when I talk to you tonight. I’ve been altogether too decent with you. I can see now that I am going to have to take disciplinary measures.”
Phillip had done a little thinking since Harker had started railing at the musketeers. He had thought of himself and his job and the mental humiliation he endured in keeping it. And he felt suddenly sick of himself.
“I have no explanation, Mr. Harker,” he said. “Not for you at least. These men are my friends, and that is sufficient explanation for their actions as far as I’m concerned.”
“That’s dangerous talk, Poincare,” Harker said warningly.
Phillip studied Harker for a moment and he seemed to see him for the first time as he was — a fat, bullying coward with his heel on the neck of those who couldn’t fight back. Phillip smiled. For some reason he felt a wonderful sense of release and elation. He realized, with a touch of wonder, that slavery was not only a thing of chains and fetters and that freedom meant more than mere physical freedom. Mental and spiritual freedom were the important things to any man who was worthy of that title.
His smiling silence brought a flush of blood to Harker’s cheeks.
“Wipe that smile off your face,” he snarled. He advanced threateningly toward Phillip; his meaty fists clenched.
Phillip’s first reaction was to retreat. He took a step backward, not through fear but rather uncertainty. At that instant his eyes met D’Artagnan’s and he saw the musketeer was regarding him sadly, pityingly.
Phillip stopped and squared his shoulders. He knew what he had to do and he realized he should have done it years ago.
Harker took another step forward and Phillip doubled up his fist and drove it squarely into his soft, protruding midriff.
Harker gasped. His face turned a sickly white, then a dull, spotted green. He staggered back and doubled up, his hands clutching at his stomach.
D’Artagnan slapped Phillip on the back. “Well done,” he said.
Harker collapsed into a chair and his flabby face was damp with perspiration. “You’re through, Poincare,” he said in a strangling voice. “You’re fired. Do you hear? Get out!”
“You’re a little late,” Phillip said. “I quit ten seconds ago!”
Outside in the street a few minutes later, Phillip found his new-found confidence waning. After all, a man had to do something to keep body and soul together.
“Well, what now?” D’Artagnan asked.
“That’s just what I was wondering.” Phillip answered, frowning. He glanced at the musketeer’s picturesque uniforms. “The first thing we have to do is to get you some less conspicuous clothes. Then we’ll go back to the apartment and talk this thing over.”
Chapter VI
When they reached Phillip’s apartment a few hours later, the musketeers carried bulky packages containing their uniforms under their arms and they were attired in the more conventional, but less picturesque attire of the twentieth century.
D’Artagnan had chosen a soft tweed and it fitted his lean supple figure with careless ease. Except for his long, curling brown hair he could have passed for a successful advertising executive. Athos wore a classic pin stripe in black, but Aramis, for some reason, had selected a gaudy plaid that fitted his round body without a wrinkle.
Phillip opened the door and stepped into his room. The first thing he noticed was that the radio was on full blast, but the second fact that struck him almost took his breath away.
The room was empty.
Porthos was gone!
“Well,” he said, weakly.
D’Artagnan glanced about the room worriedly. He looked into the closets and bathroom but there was no sign of the huge musketeer whom they had left a few hours before.
“Where could he have gone?” D’Artagnan asked.
“Just a minute,” Phillip said. He picked up the phone and dialed Central station. When the desk sergeant’s voice came over the wire, Phillip cleared his throat nervously.