Michael smiled at the guard.
“You know how he is. He’s not saying much at all these days.”
The guard looked bewildered for a while, but then an uncertain smile broke over his frown.
“Yes, that’s right. He doesn’t say much these days.”
“He is practically silent,” Michael said.
The guard laughed hugely without knowing why.
Marie said quietly, “We must hurry.”
“Yes,” Michael said, “we mustn’t keep Himmler waiting.”
He pointed to a black military car parked at the curb a half block from the building.
“Is that the marshal’s car?”
Still smiling, the guard nodded. “Thank you,” Michael said. Holding Marie’s arm, he descended the short flight of steps to the sidewalk and walked toward the marshal’s parked car.
“Steady,” he whispered gently to the girl. “Don’t walk too fast.”
The girl’s hand tightened in his as she forced herself to match his casual stride. When they reached the car Michael opened the door and helped Marie into the front seat.”
“I’ll drive,” he said. He glanced up at the light-tinged horizon thoughtfully. “We are still in time,” he whispered. “The plane will wait another hour.”
He stepped around to the other side of the car and opened the door. But as he was about to slide under the wheel he happened to glance at the sidewalk and he saw several fresh drops of blood gleaming in the early morning light.
The trail of drops led from an alleyway that flanked the Central Intelligence building to the middle of the sidewalk. And there the trail stopped.
Frowning, he stared at the drops of gleaming blood.
Suddenly he tensed and a strange chill shot through his body.
Another drop had fallen to the sidewalk — closer than the last!
And a voice whispered, “Michael!”
Michael strained his eyes and he saw the faint suggestion of a human shadow standing on the sidewalk. And as he watched another ruby-red drop of blood spattered at his feet.
“Paul!” he gasped. “How—”
“I am not dead. Von Bock’s bullet went through my shoulder. Did you get him?”
“Yes. But, Paul, you’re hurt.”
“Not too badly. I shall live for awhile yet. I have one more job to do.” The voice was a weak, ghostly whisper, but there was an undercurrent of determination in those tones that was as definite as Death itself.
“Go!” Paul said. “Already you have delayed too long.”
Michael felt a soft hand on his shoulder for an instant, then it was gone.
“Until we meet again,” Paul’s whisper came faintly to him.
“Paul!” Michael said desperately. “Where are you going?”
The reply came back, soft as a sibilant breeze, but its implications were as definite as a roaring storm. “Berchtesgaden!”
Michael heard the faint word and his lean face softened. An ironic smile curved his lips and he raised his hand in a gesture that was at once a salute and a farewell.
“Until we meet again, Paul Cheval,” he said.
There was no answer.
Michael slid under the wheel and the powerful car roared away from the curve...
Far above the tragic, hate-ruined continent of Europe, screened by banks of drifting clouds, a black unmarked plane streaked northward toward the Isle of Britain.
Michael Faber looked down at the land far below him and his arm tightened about Marie Kahn’s shoulder.
Tink Takes a Hand
First published in Fantastic Adventures, October 1941.
The argument started on the corner of Forty-second and Broadway on a very hot morning in late August. Like many intense arguments it was precipitated by a chance remark.
Tinkle and Nastee were sprawled on top of the broad shoulders of the redfaced Irish cop who directed traffic at the intersection. They were sunning themselves lazily, paying little attention to the surging crowds and noisy trucks and cars.
Of course the Irish cop didn’t know that his shoulders were serving as a resting place for Tink and Nastee. In fact he didn’t even see them.
For Tink and Nastee were Leprechauns, not quite the size of the Irish copper’s index finger and quite invisible to human eyes. Forty-second Street was a favorite spot for them. They liked the noise and the bustle and the never-ending crowds of people. Practically every morning they climbed onto the top of a refuse can or the copper’s shoulders and basked contentedly in the warm sun and the exciting street noises.
On this particular morning, the morning the argument started, Nastee turned on his side grumpily and said, “I feel miserable. I feel terrible. Usually I can stand the sight of all these cheerful looking people going to work, but today it has got me down. I feel acutely, horribly unhappy.”
Tinkle — Tink for short — chuckled. His laughter was a merry gusty bubble of gayety that tickled the Irish copper’s ear.
“What’s wrong with cheerful people?” he asked. “I like ’em. They make me feel fine, too. That’s why I do what I can to make people happier. If you’d try that occasionally you’d feel the same way I do.”
“Bah!” Nastee snorted. “I feel like a king when I’m making people unhappy. That’s the only fun I get out of life these days.”
“That’s why you have such little fun,” Tink replied. “It’s a hard job making people unhappy, because they’ve got too much sense to make themselves unhappy over unimportant things. I’ll bet you couldn’t get anyone in trouble if you tried.”
“What?” Nastee cried eagerly. “You think I can’t mess people up and make them unhappy any more?”
“Well,” Tink hedged uneasily. “I didn’t mean exactly that. But I will say it’s easier to make people happy than it is to make them unhappy.”
“I think you’re crazy,” Nastee said sourly. “If I want to cause trouble it’s the simplest thing in the world. And nobody can stop me either.”
“Causing trouble may be simple,” Tink said, “when you don’t have any opposition. But did you ever stop to think of what would happen if someone decided to spike your guns? Stopped your mischief before it did any harm?” Nastee peered at Tink through his narrow little eyes.
“It wouldn’t make any difference,” he said flatly.
“I think it would,” Tink said, just as flatly.
“Hummph,” Nastee grunted.
“I say I think it would,” Tink persisted. “In fact I’m willing to bet that if I had anything to say about the matter you wouldn’t get to first base with your trouble making.”
Nastee indulged in one of his rare, mirthless laughs.
“You’re pretty cocky this morning, aren’t you?” he said derisively. “If you’re challenging me, you’re on. We’ll pick out one of these people going by here and make a real contest out of it. Just to show you how little worried I am, I’ll let you have the first chance at whoever we pick.”
“How long do we keep it up?” Tink asked gleefully.
“As long as you want,” Nastee said sourly.
“Make it midnight tonight,” Tink decided. “We’ll both do what we can until then. At the stroke of twelve we both quit and decide who wins. All right?”
“Okay,” Nastee agreed. “Now let’s pick the victim.”
For several minutes they eyed the swollen parade of people surging past the intersection, unable to make up their minds. Finally, however, Tink jumped to his feet and pointed to a tall, dark-haired young man standing indecisively on the curb.
“He looks interesting,” he chirped. “Is he okay with you?”
Nastee surveyed the young man with a jaundiced eye. Finally he grunted and nodded his head.