digging.
"I'm still here, husband mine. Your bride--remember? Or are you waitingfor that blonde hussy to start stripping?"
"Darling, I'm afraid you're not paying close attention to things ofimportance. Don't you see Uncle Peter there--serving drinks?"
"Of course I see him. What of it? If the old roue feels like dishingout a little alcohol to the boys, what--"
"It's absolutely beyond all conception. Uncle Peter never does anythingwithout a good reason. And _this_--"
My reply was cut short by a cold, brutal voice that knifed through theroom and put a chill on all present. "Hold it, everybody! Stand stilland don't move a finger!"
Not a finger in the room moved. But all eyes turned toward the archeddoorway leading to the entrance hall. In its exact center, there stood aman--a short man of slight stature. He stood spread-legged, wearing acolored kerchief over the lower part of his face. Only his eyes werevisible--icy, black, narrowed. Those eyes seemed to be smiling a grimsmile. Possibly his hidden teeth were bared in a snarl. But no one caredabout that. Everyone was far more interested in the black Thompsonsub-machine gun he held cradled over one arm.
He toyed with the trigger, knifing the room with quick side glances. Hesaid, "Okay. Start sorting yourselves out. You, pretty boy, and thefrail with the beer bottle--out of the line of fire." He motioned withthe gun barrel and I drew Joy toward the wall.
"Now you, Cora--and old puddle-puss. Out of the way. And not a peep outof anybody."
No one was inclined to peep, and now the stage was set in a manner whichseemed to satisfy the masked gunman. The Cement Mixer Zinsky crowd wasclustered, cowering, around the buffet, staring at the machine gun asthough it possessed the hypnotic eyes of a snake.
The situation was entirely plain. The masked man fully intended to breakthe law by committing murder in Aunt Gretchen's living room. The onlymoot point seemed to be whether he intended to slay the whole mob or beselective and cut down only important members. His trigger finger turnedwhite at the knuckle.
Then Uncle Peter stepped forward to hold up a protesting hand. "Youmustn't fire that weapon, my good fellow. Indeed you must not."
His matter-of-fact attitude, rather than his words, was what gave thegunman pause. He had hardly expected the display of completelyimpersonal bravery that Uncle Peter put on. The gunman asked, "Are younuts, fiddlefoot?"
"Far from it. But you must not, under any circumstances, fire that gun.It will upset one of the most important experiments in the history ofscience. That experiment is now in progress."
"Look, brother. I came here to mow down Zinsky and his mob. And I'mmowing. The St. Valentine's deal in Chi'll look like a Sunday schoolbinge after this one."
"Possibly it will not be necessary to use your weapon."
* * * * *
Uncle Peter's words, it seemed, were prophetic. At that exact moment,Cement Mixer Zinsky exploded. Not violently, or with any peril to thosestanding close by. Yet no other term can describe it. There was a softpop--as though a large, poorly inflated balloon had been pricked with apin. Zinsky seemed to go in all directions--fragments of him that is.Yet, as each fragment flew away from the main body, it shriveled up sothat there was no blood, and no bystander suffered the inconvenience ofmessed-up clothing. Just the _pop_ and Zinsky expanded like a human bomband then turned into dust.
As this phenomenon occurred I saw Uncle Peter nod with greatsatisfaction and consult a passage in the book presided over by hisblonde assistant. He made a check mark in the book.
Then a second member of the buffet group went _pop_. The masked manstared in slack-jawed wonder. In fact his jaw went so slack the kerchiefdropped away revealing his entire visage. He lowered his head and lookeddown at the gun in his hands; the gun that had not been fired.
Two more members of Zinsky's party followed him into whatever oblivionwas achieved by going _pop_ and dissolving into dust. Uncle Peterevinced bright interest and made two more check marks in the book.
The balance of the mob moved as one, but in many directions. They paidno attention to their own weapons as they headed for cover. One of theirnumber exploded as he was halfway through the French doors. Uncle Peterchecked him off and Bag Ears said, "Jeeps! tomorrow every juke box intown can play 'Nearer my God to Thee.'" Then he added, "Leave us blowthis joint. Goofy things is happening here. I don't like it."
I was perspiring. I mopped my forehead. "A most amazing occurrence," Iobserved.
Joy was digging the fingers on one hand into my arm. I had been watchingHands McCaffery back crestfallen out of the living room and toward thefront door, terrific slaughter having been accomplished without thefiring of a shot. I turned my eyes now to follow the direction in whichJoy pointed with her other hand and saw the blonde assistant haulingUncle Peter through one of the French windows. He did not seem to beenthusiastic about leaving. In fact he appeared to argue quitestrenuously against it, but her will prevailed and they disappeared outonto the lawn.
Now, with all the danger past, people began fainting in wholesale lots.Aunt Gretchen was resting comfortably with her head braced against thebrass rail of the portable bar. Those who didn't faint contributedvariously intonated screams to the general unrest. And over all thisbrooded the dank clouds of acrid dust that had so lately been CementMixer Zinsky and certain members of his mob. Indeed, the scene took on astartling semblance to one of Dore's etchings in an old edition ofDante's Inferno.
"I repeat," Bag Ears bleated plaintively. "Leave us blow this joint. Itain't healthy here."
"He's right," Joy said. "A lot of explanation is wanting. There are somepeople we've got to catch up with. Let's go."
With that, she drew Bag Ears and me toward the French doors throughwhich had recently passed some of the fastest moving objects in this orany other world. We made the flag-stone terrace above the drive whereBag Ears cordially grasped my hand and said,
"Well, it was a nice party, folks, and if I ever get spliced I'll suregive you a invite and I sure had a swell time and remember me to youraunt when she wakes up and--"
He was backing down the steps when Joy cut in with, "Bag Ears. Don't beso rude. You're in no hurry."
Bag Ears slowed down and allowed us to catch up with him. He gave us asickly smile. "That's where you're wrong, babe."
"Bag Ears," Joy went on. "I heard you whisper to Homer that you know whothat blonde is."
"What blonde? Me? I don't know nothing about no blonde no-how."
"Don't hedge. I mean the girl who was assisting Uncle Peter behind thebar. Who is she, really?"
"Oh--her. Everybody knows her. She's Hands McCaffery's moll. He likes'em blonde and--"
Bag Ears was on the move again, striding in the direction of the gate.We hurried to catch up. "That babe's poison," he told us. "Any skirtthat'd flock with Hands McCaffery is poison. I'll tell you kids what I'ddo. If she drives south--I'd drive north. Goodbye now."
Just at that moment a big blue sports roadster pushed a bright chromiumnose around the corner of the house. I took a firm grip on Bag Ears'collar, grabbed Joy by the arm, and the three of us leaped behind abush. The car rolled past us. We saw the blonde behind the wheel andUncle Peter seated beside her, evidently still protesting the hastyexodus.
* * * * *
But the girl looked very sharp and businesslike; the way a girl wouldlook who knew where she was going and why. The car picked up speed andswung north.
"I wonder," Joy murmured, "how Uncle Peter happened to select HandsMcCaffery's girl friend as his assistant."
"She was a burlycue queen last time I heard of her," Bag Ears said."Still is, I guess."
"That could explain it," I told Joy. "You see, Uncle Peter has--ah,facets to his personality. A tendency to admire women. Ah--"
"Women--period; isn't that what you mean?"
"Well, it would be perfectly logical for Uncle Peter to select anassistant from the stage of a burlesque theater."
"Enough of this," Joy
snapped. "We're wasting time. Go get--oh, nevermind! Wait here."
Joy was off in the direction of the garage and in no time at all she wasback in my Cadillac convertible. As she sailed by I managed to hook afinger around the door handle and get a foot inside.
This was no mean feat, as I was also occupied in hauling Bag Ears alongby the collar. I managed to deposit him in the seat beside Joy andsqueeze in beside him.
"A burlycue queen, eh?" Joy was muttering. "Well, she's not so much! Ifshe couldn't get her clothes off she'd starve to death."
"Darling," I said,