"And That's How It Was, Officer"
The blonde looked wonderingly at Joy. "Is this guy for real?"
Joy reestablished her hold upon the blonde's anatomy. "Never mind that.
All we want from you is answers. Where did Uncle Peter go? Tell me!"
"Nuts to you!" Cora replied. "He doesn't want you bothering him."
Joy applied pressure. Cora squealed but remained mute. I stepped
forward. "Darling," I said grimly. "This sort of thing is not in your
line. I realize this woman must be made to talk so I will take over. It
will be distasteful to me, but duty is duty."
I got a withering look from my dear wife. "Distasteful? In a pig's eye!
You'd like nothing better than to get your hands on her--by way of duty
of course."
"Joy!"
"Don't Joy me." And with an expert twist, she flipped the struggling
Cora out of the roadster, goose-stepped her across and into the back
seat of the Cadillac.
"You and Bag Ears get in and start driving--slow. I'll have some answers
in a minute or two."
We did as we were told and I eased the car away from the curb. I had to
watch the road, of course, so could not turn to witness what was going
on rearward. In the mirror I saw flashes of up-ended legs and, from time
to time, other and sundry anatomical parts that flew up in range only to
vanish again as the grim struggle went on.
Bag Ears, however, turned to witness the bringing forth of the answers.
His first comment was, "Oh boy!"
Joy was breathing heavily. She said, "Okay, babe. Talk, or I'll put real
pressure on this scissors!"
Bag Ears said, "Man oh man!"
Joy said, "Quit gaping, you moron! I'm back here too."
I gave Bag Ears a stern admonition to keep his eyes front.
"Give," Joy gritted.
"Ouch! No!"
"Give!"
Cora gave forth an agonized wail. Then an indignant gasp. "Cut it out!
You fight dirty! That ain't fair!"
"Give!"
"All right! All right. Pete's meeting Hands
at--ouch--Joe's--ouch--Tavern on Clark Street. Ouch! Cut it out, will
you?"
And it was here that I detected a trace of sadism in my lovely wife.
"All right," she said regretfully. "Sit up. Gee, but you talk easy."
"Just where is this tavern?" I asked. "And what is the purpose of the
meeting?"
Cora's resistance was entirely gone. "In the 2800 block. Pete went there
to get some money from Hands to skip town with."
Joy now spoke with relish. "Lying again. I'll have to--"
"I ain't lying!"
"Don't give us that! Uncle Peter is wealthy. He doesn't need Hands'
money. Come here, baby."
"Wait, Joy," I cut in hastily. "The young lady may be telling the truth.
Uncle Peter is always short of funds. You see, Aunt Gretchen holds the
purse strings in our family and Uncle Peter is always overdrawn on his
allowance."
"Then let's get to that tavern and find out what's going on."
It took ten minutes to reach the tavern; a standard gin mill with a red
neon sign proclaiming its presence. We quitted the car and I entered
first, Joy bringing Cora along with a certain amount of force, and Bag
Ears bringing up the rear.
And I was just in time to prevent another murder.
As I came through the door, I saw Hands and Uncle Peter leaning casually
against the bar. There was no one else in the place. The barkeep was
facing his two customers and there were three glasses set before them.
The barkeep held one in his hand.
Uncle Peter had just finished spiking the barkeep's drink with a clear
fluid from a small vial. Uncle Peter said, "It's something new I
invented. Pure dynamite. You haven't lived until you've tasted my
elixir."
* * * * *
Hands said, "Go ahead. Drink it. I want to make sure I wasn't seeing
things back at that dame's house."
The barkeep said, "Pure dynamite, huh?"
"Your not fooling, chum."
He raised the glass and grinned. "Salud."
I got to the bar just in time to knock the glass out of his hairy paw.
He grunted, "What the hell--oh, a wise guy, huh?" and started over the
bar.
I yelled, "It's murder. They're trying to poison you!"
"Oh, a crackpot!"
He came toward me, shaking off Uncle Peter's restraining hand. I took a
step backward, thankful he was coming in wide open because I had seen
few tougher-looking characters in my lifetime.
I set myself and sent a short knockout punch against his chin. It was a
good punch. Everything was in it. It sounded like a sledge hammer
hitting a barn door.
The barkeep shook his head and came on in. I stepped back and slugged
him again. No result.
Then Joy slipped into the narrow space between us. She was smiling and,
with her upturned waiting lips, she was temptation personified. The
barkeep dropped his hands, paralyzed by her intoxicating nearness.
She said, "Hello, Iron Head. How about you and I taking a little
vacation together somewhere."
He grinned and reached for her. This, it developed, was a mistake,
because Joy reached for him at the same time. She lifted his
two-hundred-odd pounds as though he were a baby and he went flying
across the room like a projectile. He hit a radiator head-on and lay
still.
Again I was stupefied. It seemed I knew nothing at all about this girl
I'd married. She smiled at me and said, "Don't be alarmed, angel.
There's an explanation. You see, my mother gave me money for piano
lessons and I invested most of it in a course of ju-jitsu. I thought an
occasion like this might arise sometime. Do you want to take McCaffery,
or shall I do it? I doubt if he'll come to the station peaceably."
But Hands McCaffery was not to be caught flatfooted. Without his machine
gun he was just an ordinary little man who didn't want to go with us. He
took one look at the prone barkeep, muttered, "Geez!" and headed for the
back door.
"Get him," Joy yelled. "Maybe we can make a deal with the cops to fry
Hands in place of Uncle Peter!"
I started after Hands and as I went through the back door I heard Uncle
Peter protesting feebly. "I say now. This is all uncalled-for--"
"Don't let him get away!" Joy called. "He's got the serum!"
That cleared things up somewhat and made me even more resolute.
Evidently we had interrupted Uncle Peter and Hands in the process of
doing away with all the latter's enemies. With that bottle in his
possession, he was a menace to the entire population of the city. A man
of his type would certainly have far more enemies than friends.
Outside in the dark alley, I was guided only by footsteps. The sound of
Hands' retreat told me he was moving up the smelly passageway toward
Division Street. I went after him.
I am no mean sprinter, having won laurels in college for my fleetness in
the two-twenty and the four-forty, and I had no trouble in overtaking
the little assassin. We were fast approaching the alley entrance where I
would have had the aid of street lights and could have swiftly collared
McCaffery whose heavy breathing I could now hear--when disaster struck
in the form of a painful obstacle. It was heavy and it caught me just
below the knees.
I tripped and fell headlong, plowing along a couple of yards of slippery
brick pavement on my face. I got groggily to my feet and shook my head
to clear my brain. From the deposits of old eggs, rejected tomatoes and
other such refuse in my face and ears, I gathered that I had tripped
over a garbage can.
This delayed me for some moments. When I finally staggered out into
Division Street, a strange sight met my eyes. Hands McCaffery had been
apprehended. It seemed that the police had orders to pick him up because
two uniformed patrolmen had him backed against the wall and were
approaching him with caution. They had him covered and were taking no
chances of his pulling a belly gun on them.
But he did not draw a gun. Instead, while I stared wide-eyed, he raised
Uncle Peter's vial to his lips and drank the contents.
I will not bore you with details of his going _pop_. If you have read
this letter carefully, the details are not necessary.
I turned and retraced my steps, realizing Hands McCaffery had been
vicious and defiant to the last. Rather than submit to arrest, he had
taken the wild animal's way out.
I arrived back in Joe's Tavern to find the barkeep had been revived and
bore none of us any ill-will. This no doubt because of Joy's persuasive
abilities. Cora was sulking in a booth and Uncle Peter was patching the
gash on the barkeep's head.
* * * * *
I entered with a heavy heart, realizing, as a good citizen, I must turn
my own uncle over to the police. But there was an interlude before I
would be forced into this unpleasant task. This interlude was furnished
by Bag Ears. After I acquainted the group with the news of how Hands had
taken the easy way out, Bag Ears' face took on a rapt, silent look of
happiness. He was staring at Joy. He said, "Pretty--very pretty!"
Joy said, "Thank you."
Bag Ears said, "Pretty--pretty--pretty."
Joy looked at me. "What's eating _him_?"
There was a bottle on the bar together with some glasses. I stepped over
and poured myself a drink. I certainly needed it. "Bag Ears isn't
referring to you, dear. He's alluding to his bells. He's hearing them
again."
"Oh, my sky-blue panties! Pour me a drink."
I complied. "You see, Bag Ears is somewhat punch-drunk from his years in
the prize ring. I've seen this happen before."
We sipped our brandy and watched Bag Ears move toward the door.
"That's the way it always is. When he hears the bells, he feels a
terrific urge to go forth and search for them. But he always ends up at
Red Nose Tessie's and she takes him home. It's no use trying to stop
him. He'll hang one on you."
As Bag Ears disappeared into the street, there were tears in Joy's eyes.
"He's dreaming of his bells," she murmured. "I think that's beautiful."
She held up her glass. "May he find his bells. Pour me another drink."
I poured two and we drank to that.
"May we all someday find our bells," Joy said with emotion, and I was
delighted to find my wife a girl of such deep sentiment. "Pour me
another."
I did. "Your quotation was wrong, sweetheart," I said. "Don't you mean,
'May we all find our Shangri-La?'"
"Of course. Let's drink to it."
We drank to it and were rudely interrupted by the barkeep who said, "I
hope you got some dough. That stuff ain't water."
I gave him a ten-dollar bill and--with a heavy heart--turned to Uncle
Peter. "Come, Uncle," I said gently. "We might as well get it over
with."
"Get what over with?"
"Our trip to the police station. You must give yourself up of course."
"What for?"
I shook my head sadly. Uncle Peter would never fry. His mind was
obviously out of joint. "For murder."
He looked at Joy. He said, "Oh, my broken test tube! There is no need
of--"
"I know it will be hard for them to convict you without _corpus
delicti_, but you must confess."
"Let's all go over to my laboratory."
"If you wish. You may have one last visit there."
"Excellent--one last visit." He smiled and I wondered if I saw a certain
craftiness behind it.
Cora voiced no objections, seemingly anxious to stay near Uncle Peter.
When we got to his laboratory, he went on through into his living
quarters and took a suit case from the closet.
"What are you going to do?"
"Pack my things."
"Oh, of course. You'll need some things in jail."
"Who said anything about jail? I'm going to Tibet."
"_Tibet!_ Uncle Peter! I won't allow it. You must stay here and face the
music."
"The music is in Tibet, Homer. That's one of the reasons I'm going
there. To a monastery high in Himalayas. There are some wonderful men
there I've always wanted to meet--yogis who have such control over
natural laws that they can walk on water and move straight through solid
walls."
"But, Uncle Peter! If you want to go to Tibet, you should have thought