Sci Fiction Classics Volume 4 (72 page)

"Can we talk?"

Another grunt.

"Joe," the stout man said pleasantly, "a towel."

The thin young man slipped off the desk, went to a corner basin, and
soaked a white hand towel. He shook it once, sauntered back to the chair,
where, with a suddenness and savagery of a tiger, he lashed it across the
sick man's face.

"For God's sake!" Mr. Foster/Davis/Hook cried.

"That's better," the stout man said. "My name's Herod. Walter Herod,
attorney-at-law." He stepped to the desk where the contents of the doomed
man's pockets were spread, picked up a wallet, and displayed it. "Your
name is Warbeck. Marion Perkin Warbeck. Right?"

The doomed man gazed at his wallet, then at Walter Herod, attorney-at-law,
and finally admitted the truth. "Yes," he said. "My name is Warbeck. But I
never admit the Marion to strangers."

He was again lashed by the wet towel and fell back in the chair, stung and
bewildered.

"That will do, Joe," Herod said. "Not again, please, until I tell you." To
Warbeck he said, "Why this interest in the Buchanans?" He waited for an
answer, then continued pleasantly, "Joe's been tailing you. You've
averaged five Buchanans a night. Thirty, so far. What's your angle?"

"What the hell is this? Russia?" Warbeck demanded indignantly. "You've no
right to kidnap me and grill me like the MVD. If you think you can—"

"Joe," Herod interrupted pleasantly. "Again, please."

Again the towel lashed Warbeck. Tormented, furious, and helpless, he burst
into tears.

Herod fingered the wallet casually. "Your papers say you're a teacher by
profession, principal of a public school. I thought teachers were supposed
to be legit. How did you get mixed up in the inheritance racket?"

"The what racket?" Warbeck asked faintly.

"The inheritance racket," Herod repeated patiently. "The Heirs of Buchanan
caper. What kind of parlay are you using? Personal approach?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Warbeck answered. He sat bolt
upright and pointed to the thin youth. "And don't start that towel
business again."

"I'll start what I please and when I please," Herod said ferociously. "And
I'll finish you when I goddamned well please. You're stepping on my toes,
and I don't buy it. I've got seventy-five thousand a year I'm taking out
of this, and I'm not going to let you chisel."

There was a long pause, significant for everybody in the room except the
doomed man. Finally he spoke. "I'm an educated man," he said slowly.
"Mention Galileo, say, or the lesser Cavalier poets, and I'm right up
there with you. But there are gaps in my education, and this is one of
them. I can't meet the situation. Too many unknowns."

"I told you my name," Herod answered. He pointed to the thin young man.
"That's Joe Davenport."

Warbeck shook his head. "Unknown in the mathematical sense. X quantities.
Solving equations. My education speaking."

Joe looked startled. "Jesus!" he said without moving his lips. "Maybe he
is
legit."

Herod examined Warbeck curiously. "I'm going to spell it out for you," he
said. "The inheritance racket is a long-term con. It operates something
like so: There's a story that James Buchanan—"

"Fifteenth president of the U.S.?"

"In person. There's a story he died intestate leaving an estate for heirs
unknown. That was in 1868. Today at compound interest that estate is worth
millions. Understand?"

Warbeck nodded. "I'm educated," he murmured.

"Anybody named Buchanan is a sucker for this setup. It's a switch on the
Spanish Prisoner routine. I send them a letter. Tell 'em there's a chance
they may be one of the heirs. Do they want me to investigate and protect
their cut in the estate? It only costs a small yearly retainer. Most of
them buy it. From all over the country. And now you—"

"Wait a minute," Warbeck exclaimed. "I can draw a conclusion. You found
out I was checking the Buchanan families. You think I'm trying to operate
the same racket. Cut in … cut in? Yes? Cut in on you?"

"Well," Herod asked angrily, "aren't you?"

"Oh God!" Warbeck cried. "That this should happen to me. Me! Thank you,
God. Thank you. I'll always be grateful." In his happy fervor he turned to
Joe. "Give me the towel, Joe," he said. "Just throw it. I've got to wipe
my face." He caught the flung towel and mopped himself joyously.

"Well," Herod repeated. "Aren't you?"

"No," Warbeck answered, "I'm not cutting in on you. But I'm grateful for
the mistake. Don't think I'm not. You can't imagine how flattering it is
for a schoolteacher to be taken for a thief."

He got out of the chair and went to the desk to reclaim his wallet and
other possessions.

"Just a minute," Herod snapped.

The thin young man reached out and grasped Warbeck's wrist with an iron
clasp.

"Oh stop it," the doomed man said impatiently. "This is a silly mistake."

"I'll tell you whether it's a mistake, and I'll tell you if it's silly,"
Herod replied. "Just now you'll do as you're told."

"Will I?" Warbeck wrenched his wrist free and slashed Joe across the eyes
with the towel. He darted around behind the desk, snatched up a
paperweight, and hurled it through the window with a shattering crash.

"Joe!" Herod yelled.

Warbeck knocked the phone off its stand and dialed Operator. He picked up
his cigarette lighter, flicked it, and dropped it into the wastepaper
basket. The voice of the operator buzzed in the phone. Warbeck shouted, "I
want a policeman!" Then he kicked the flaming basket into the center of
the office.

"Joe!" Herod yelled and stamped on the blazing paper.

Warbeck grinned. He picked up the phone. Squawking noises were coming out
of it. He put one hand over the mouthpiece. "Shall we negotiate?" he
inquired.

"You sonofabitch," Joe growled. He took his hands from his eyes and slid
toward Warbeck.

"No!" Herod called. "This crazy fool's hollered copper. He's legit, Joe."
To Warbeck he said in pleading tones, "Fix it. Square it. We'll make it up
to you. Anything you say. Just square the call."

The doomed man lifted the phone to his mouth. He said, "My name is M. P.
Warbeck. I was consulting my attorney at this number and some idiot with a
misplaced sense of humor made this call. Please phone back and check."

He hung up, finished pocketing his private property, and winked at Herod.
The phone rang, Warbeck picked it up, reassured the police, and hung up.
He came around from behind the desk and handed his car keys to Joe.

"Go down to my car," he said. "You know where you parked it. Open the
glove compartment and bring up a brown manila envelope you'll find."

"Go to hell," Joe spat. His eyes were still tearing.

"Do as I say," Warbeck said firmly.

"Just a minute, Warbeck," Herod said. "What's this? A new angle? I said
we'd make it up to you, but—"

"I'm going to explain why I'm interested in the Buchanans," Warbeck
replied. "And I'm going into partnership with you. You've got what I need
to locate one particular Buchanan … you and Joe. My Buchanan's ten
years old. He's worth a hundred times your make-believe fortune."

Herod stared at him.

Warbeck placed the keys in Joe's hand. "Go down and get that envelope,
Joe," he said. "And while you're at it you'd better square that broken
window rap. Rap? Rap."

The doomed man placed the manila envelope neatly on his lap. "A school
principal," he explained, "has to supervise school classes. He reviews
work, estimates progress, irons out student problems, and so on. This must
be done at random. By samplings, I mean. I have nine hundred pupils in my
school. I can't supervise them individually."

Herod nodded. Joe looked blank.

"Looking through some fifth-grade work last month," Warbeck continued, "I
came across this astonishing document." He opened the envelope and took
out a few sheets of ruled composition paper covered with blots and
scrawled writing. "It was written by a Stuart Buchanan of the fifth grade.
His age must be ten or thereabouts. The composition is entitled: "My
Vacation." Read it and you'll understand why Stuart Buchanan must be
found."

He tossed the sheets to Herod who picked them up, took out a pair of
horn-rim spectacles and balanced them on his fat nose. Joe came around to
the back of his chair and peered over his shoulder.

My Vacatoin

by Stuart Buchanan

This sumer I vissited my frends. I have 4 frends and they are verry
nice. First there is Tommy who lives in the contry and he is an
astronnimer. Tommy bill his own tellescop out of glass 6 inches acros
wich he grond himself. He loks at the stars every nihgt and he let me
lok even wen it was raining cats & dogs …

"What the hell?" Herod looked up, annoyed.

"Read on. Read on," Warbeck said.

cats & dogs. We cold see the stars becaze Tommy made a thing for
over the end of the tellescop wich shoots up like a serchlite and makes
a hole in the skie to see rite thru the rain and everythinng to the
stars.

"Finished the astronomer yet?" Warbeck inquired.

"I don't dig it."

"Tommy got bored waiting for clear nights. He invented something that cuts
through clouds and atmosphere … a funnel of vacuum so he can use
his telescope all weather. What it amounts to is a disintegration beam."

"The hell you say."

"The hell I don't. Read on. Read on."

Then I went to AnnMary and staied one hole week. It was fun. Becaze
AnnMary has a spinak chainger for spinak and beats and strinbeens—

"What the hell is a 'spinak chainger'?"

"Spinach. Spinach changer. Spelling isn't one of Stuart's specialties.
'Beats' are beets. 'Strinbeens' are string beans."

beats and strinbeens. Wen her mother made us eet them AnnMary presed the
buton and they staid the same outside onnly inside they became cake.
Chery and strowbery. I asted AnnMary how & she sed it was by Enhv.

"This, I don't get."

"Simple. Anne-Marie doesn't like vegetables. So she's just as smart as
Tommy, the astronomer. She invented a matter-transmuter. She transmutes
spinak into cake. Chery or strowbery. Cake she eats with pleasure. So does
Stuart."

"You're crazy."

"Not me. The kids. They're geniuses. Geniuses? What am I saying? They make
a genius look imbecile. There's no label for these children."

"I don't believe it. This Stuart Buchanan's got a tall imagination. That's
all."

"You think so? Then what about Enhv? That's how Anne-Marie transmutes
matter. It took time, but I figured Enhv out. It's Planck's quantum
equation, E=nhv. But read on. Read on. The best is yet to come. Wait till
you get to lazy Ethel."

My frend Gorge bilds modell airplanes very good and small. Gorg's hands
are clumzy but he makes small men out of moddelling clay and he tels
them and they bild for him.

"What's this?"

"George, the plane maker?"

"Yes."

"Simple. He makes miniature androids … robots … and they
build the planes for him. Clever boy, George, but read about his sister,
lazy Ethel."

His sister Ethel is the lazyist girl I ever saw. She is big & fat
and she hates to walk. So wen her mother sends her too the store Ethel
thinks to the store and thinks home with all the pakejes and has to hang
around Gorg's room hiding untill it wil look like she walked both ways.
Gorge and I make fun of her becaze she is fat and lazy but she gets into
the movees for free and saw Hoppalong Casidy sixteen times.

The End

Herod stared at Warbeck.

"Great little girl, Ethel," Warbeck said. "She's too lazy to walk, so she
teleports. Then she has a devil of a time covering up. She has to hide
with her pakejes while George and Stuart make fun of her."

"Teleports?"

"That's right. She moves from place to place by thinking her way there."

"There ain't no such thing!" Joe said indignantly.

"There wasn't until lazy Ethel came along."

"I don't believe this," Herod said. "I don't believe any of it."

"You think it's just Stuart's imagination?"

"What else?"

"What about Planck's equation? E=nhv?"

"The kid invented that, too. Coincidence."

"Does that sound likely?"

"Then he read it somewhere."

"A ten-year-old boy? Nonsense."

"I tell you, I don't believe it," Herod shouted. "Let me talk to the kid
for five minutes and I'll prove it."

"That's exactly what I want to do … only the boy's disappeared."

"How do you mean?"

"Lock, stock, and barrel. That's why I've been checking every Buchanan
family in the city. The day I read this composition and sent down to the
fifth grade for Stuart Buchanan to have a talk, he disappeared. He hasn't
been seen since."

"What about his family?"

"The family disappeared too." Warbeck leaned forward intensely. "Get this.
Every record of the boy and the family disappeared. Everything. A few
people remember them vaguely, but that's all. They're gone."

"Jesus!" Joe said. "They scrammed, huh?"

"The very word. Scrammed. Thank you, Joe." Warbeck cocked an eye at Herod.
"What a situation. Here's a child who makes friends with child geniuses.
And the emphasis is on the child. They're making fantastic discoveries for
childish purposes. Ethel teleports because she's too lazy to run errands.
George makes robots to build model planes. Anne-Marie transmutes elements
because she hates spinach. God knows what Stuart's other friends are
doing. Maybe there's a Matthew who's invented a time machine so he can
catch up on his homework."

Herod waved his hands feebly. "Why geniuses all of a sudden? What's
happened?"

"I don't know. Atomic fallout? Fluorides in drinking water? Antibiotics?
Vitamins? We're doing so much juggling with body chemistry these days that
who knows what's happening? I want to find out but I can't. Stuart
Buchanan blabbed like a child. When I started investigating, he got scared
and disappeared."