“I want to report a missing person,” he explained. “He’s a — er — stranger in the city and I’m afraid he might be lost. He’s a big fellow and he’s wearing a rather strange costume.”
“Go on!” the sergeant’s voice was suddenly interested. “What kind of a costume?”
“An early French outfit,” Phillip said. “Cloak and sword, high boots and baldric. You won’t be able to miss him.”
“I say we won’t,” the sergeant’s voice sounded grim. “He’s behind bars this minute, where he belongs.”
“What!” gasped Phillip. “What’s the charge?”
“Disorderly conduct, disturbing the peace, intoxication, resisting arrest — shall I go on?”
“No,” Phillip said weakly. “I get the general idea.”
“If you say you know him,” the sergeant said, “You’d better get down here right away.”
“I’ll be right down,” Phillip said. He hung up the phone slowly. He was stunned.
“What is the trouble?” demanded D’Artagnan.
“Porthos has managed to get himself in trouble with the police,” Phillip explained worriedly.
“Ah! The gendarmes!” Athos cried. “Comrades, we will need our swords for this task. We must rescue Porthos.”
“No,” Phillip said. “Swords won’t help. I’ll get him out. You wait here. I’ll be back in half an hour.”
“I had better come, too,” D’Artagnan said. “Maybe I can be of help.”
“All right,” Phillip said. “Come along.” He turned to Athos and Aramis. “Don’t leave here until we return.”
With D’Artagnan at his heels he hurried down the steps.
At the Central Police station they found the desk-sergeant grim-faced and unpleasant.
“So you’re the friends of that big nut, are you?” the sergeant snapped, glaring from D’Artagnan to Phillip. “He put six of our men on the sick list for the next two weeks when they tried to bring him in. It took two riot squads to calm him down. What the hell is the matter with him anyway?”
Phillip mopped his brow and glanced fleetingly at D’Artagnan.
“I’m not quite sure, sergeant,” he said. “Can we see him and talk to him for a moment?”
“O.K. He’s quieted down now.”
“Where did you pick him up?” Phillip asked.
“At the main studio of the Federated Broadcasting Company.”
“Federated Broad—” Phillips’ voice trailed off weakly. “What was he doing there?”
“Trying to tear the place down,” the sergeant answered, laconically. “I tell you he’s nuttier than a fruit cake.”
Phillip swallowed and glanced nervously at D’Artagnan. What had gotten into the huge Porthos he couldn’t even imagine, but there didn’t seem to be any point to asking more questions of the sergeant.
A turnkey led them to the lockup. Porthos was standing at the door of a cell, his huge hands gripping the bars and there was a bewildered, confused expression on his broad, homely face. One of his eyes was a gorgeous purple and his lower lip was split. His baldric and cloak were ripped in a number of places. The sword that hung at his waist was gone.
“You got about ten minutes,” the turnkey said, leaving.
D’Artagnan stepped close to the barred door.
“Don’t worry, Comrade,” he whispered. “We’ll get you out of here if we have to tear the building down.” Porthos looked at D’Artagnan and Phillip with sad, mournful eyes, but he said nothing.
Phillip asked the question he had been dreading.
“What happened, Porthos?”
Porthos shrugged his massive shoulders and his eyes were downcast. “I am not quite sure,” he answered, rubbing one hand over his forehead. He looked up suddenly and his eyes were flashing. “But I only did what any gentleman of honor would have done under the circumstances. And for that the gendarmes come in swarms and swarms and drag me off here in a screeching tumbril. Mon Dieu, I have never seen so many gendarmes.”
“But what did you do?” Phillip persisted.
“It was not my fault,” Porthos said stiffly. “I have learned that I acted hastily, that I acted, perhaps, foolishly, but how was I to know?”
“How were you to know what?” Phillip asked.
“That it was all make-believe,” Porthos said moodily.
“Start at the beginning,” Phillip said. He wished frantically that Porthos would tell his story and tell it quickly, so that he could start figuring on how to get him out of jail, if that were at all possible.
“When you left I turned on the little box that makes music,” Porthos said.
“You mean after we left the apartment this morning you turned on the radio?” Phillip asked. He was bewildered by Porthos’ irrelevant digression. He had demonstrated the radio to the musketeers the previous evening, but...
“I turned on the little box that makes the music,” Porthos repeated, glowering.
“Yes, go on,” Phillip said helplessly. He realized that Porthos was grimly determined to tell his story in his own way.
“But I do not hear the music,” Porthos said. “Instead I hear voices. I listen carefully. One voice is that of a woman and the other is that of a man. They are arguing. The woman has jewels and the man wants her to give them to him. He is a scoundrel. I could tell it from his voice.” Porthos’ eyes were stormy as his mind flashed back to the villainy of that voice from the ether. “I shouted at her not to give him the jewels,” he continued, “but she could not hear me. Anyway, she did not need my advice. She knew the man for the scoundrel he was and ordered him away. But he would not leave. They were alone. She was helpless.” Porthos’ voice trembled with rage. “He took them from her by force and left her bound and helpless in a closet. And the river waters were rising,” Porthos cried darkly, his voice breaking with the heat of his emotion.
“What river?” Phillip asked.
“I don’t know,” Porthos shrugged. “They didn’t say. But the water was rising on the bamboo foundations of the little hut and this poor girl was helpless. The scoundrel had taken leave with the jewels.”
D’Artagnan had followed Porthos’ narrative with tense interest.
“What happened then, Comrade?” he demanded.
“Another voice came from the little box,” Porthos said, frowning.
“And what did this new voice say?”
“I didn’t understand. It was all about soap,” Porthos said.
“Soap?”
“Yes,” Porthos nodded. “This new voice talked interminably about a soap he called sleezy-suds, that’s all I could make out.”
“But the girl!” D’Artagnan cried. “She will be dead by this time.”
Phillip put a hand to his forehead wearily. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He suspected that he might do both.
“Go on with your story, Porthos,” he said quietly.
“While this man talks about soap,” Porthos continued, “I buckle on my sword. My blood is stirred. I cannot stand idle while villainy goes unpunished and damsels need the protection of my blade.”
“Well spoken!” D’Artagnan cried. “Go on,” said Phillip.
“The voice suddenly stops talking about soap.” Porthos said excitedly. “The voice exclaims, ‘who will save Mary Malloy?’ I draw my sword,” Porthos cried, gripping the bars in his excitement. “I say, ‘I will. Where can I find this villain?’”
“Yes?” D’Artagnan breathed.
“The voice,” Porthos said, “answers me. It says, ‘This adventure took place in the central studios of the Federated Broadcasting Co., the corners of Lake and Michigan.’”
“I think I know the rest,” Phillip said. “You went down to the Federated studios to rescue Mary Malloy, didn’t you?”