Collected Fiction, page 244
The other showed his teeth.
Vanderhof looked at the nearest mirror. The result was shocking, but did not quite satisfy him. He looked at another, and then another, after that turning to confront his enemy.
Not even Samson could have faced the chaotic Vanderhof without screaming then. He looked like a piecemeal zombie assembled by someone with no knowledge of anatomy. One leg was six feet longer than the other. He had five arms. His chest was like a balloon, and his waist measured perhaps three inches around.
His head resembled a fried egg that had broken in the pan. The mouth was, oddly enough, in the forehead, and there was a tasty assortment of eyes scattered around them, all of these glaring furiously. He towered to the ceiling, and the horse-faced man, giving up all thought of hostility, skittered away like a rabbit.
“Go ’way!” he babbled. “Don’t touch me! You’re not human, that’s what you ain’t!”
“You don’t get out of it that easily,” Vanderhof snapped, barring the door with a fifteen-foot arm. “What do you think I am, anyhow?”
“The devil himself,” said the drunk, with flash of sudden insight. ” Awrrrgh! Don’t do that!”
“I’ll do it again,” Vanderhof announced, and a scream of pain from the drunk bore testimony to the fact that he had done it again. “Thus.”
The wild and impassioned shrieks of the horse-faced man bore fruit. Vanderhof heard faint cries from behind him. He turned to see faces peering in through the door.
They went white and drew back. Someone cried, “A freak! He’s gone mad!”
“He’s murdering me!” the drunk announced. “Help!”
Heartened by reinforcements, he made the mistake of prodding Vanderhof from the rear with his cane. At this all semblance of sanity departed from Tim Vanderhof. Completely forgetting everything else, he bent all his energies to the task of reducing the horse-faced man to a state of babbling idiocy.
“Give me that cane!” he grated.
“So you can ram it down my throat?” came the prescient reply. “I won’t.”
At this Vanderhof looked in a mirror, sprouted another arm, grew two feet, and advanced toward his opponent. He got the cane and broke it into six pieces. One in each hand, he commenced to tattoo a rhythm on the drunk.
This wasn’t quite satisfactory, so he gave it up, and concentrated on scaring the wretched man to death. Never was any revenge more horrifying or complete. Vanderhof felt a random sense of warning; it might be wiser, safer, to leave now, before more trouble arrived. But—what the hell!
He grinned, and the horse-faced man bellowed in anguish. “He’s going to eat me!” he cried. “Don’t let him eat me!”
“There they are,” someone observed. “In there, Sergeant. It’s a freak. Quite mad.”
“It’s a freak, all right,” said a gruff voice. “But I’m thinking that I’m the looney one. Will you look at the horrid thing!”
“I’ve been looking at it for ten minutes,” said the other voice. “Ever since I turned in the alarm. You’ve got your squad with you. Arrest him before he kills that man.”
Vanderhof turned. The doorway held a burly, grizzled oldster in police uniform, and behind him a group of plainclothes men, their profession easily established by a glance at their feet. There were guns.
HE WAS sent staggering. The horsefaced man had made a break for freedom. Vanderhof, boiling with rage, plunged in pursuit. There was chaos on the threshold; then Vanderhof was past, and racing after his victim.
A bullet whistled past his ear.
Oh-oh! This altered matters. Vanderhof, hidden momentarily behind the bandstand, paused, looking around. He saw no one—the horse-faced man had vanished—but heard voices.
“He went behind there—get him—guns ready, men!”
Vanderhof thought hard. He visualized the drunk. And, instantly, he assumed the appearance of the drunk.
He ran out from behind the bandstand, almost colliding with the sergeant and a plainclothes man with him.
“Key—”
“He went that way!” Vanderhof cried. “After him! Don’t let him get away!” Without waiting for an answer, he ran for the exit. There was startled silence, and then the sergeant and his crew raced in pursuit.
Vanderhof leaped out into the open air, flattened himself against the wall of the building, and concentrated on the face of the plainclothes man who had accompanied the sergeant. And, of course, the inevitable happened.
The sergeant appeared. He cast a swift glance at Vanderhof.
“Where is he, Clancy?” he bellowed. “Which way did he go?”
“There!” said the pseudo-Clancy, and pointed. He was borne away in a mob of detectives who gushed out of the exit. All of them were busily searching for a freak with six arms and an impossible head—a freak who no longer existed!
Ten minutes later Vanderhof, in his normal guise, was on the train bound back for Manhattan. It had been easy to drift away from the detectives, who naturally suspected nothing. And, after that, Vanderhof wanted only to get away from Coney Island. His nerves were in bad shape. He needed a rest.
So, illogically enough, he went back to New York.
He was still angry about the horse-faced man. He would have dearly loved to have taken another poke at the guy. But the police had interrupted. Vanderhof’s resentment wandered, and finally focused on a man with bristling blue-black hair and a vicious gleam in his eyes. The guy looked uncommonly like S. Horton Walker, president of The Svelte Shop.
Walker—nuts to Walker, Vanderhof thought. “Fire me, will he?” the chameleon man brooded. “Just on account of Colonel Quester! Tchah!” The fashion show would be going on soon, he remembered. And, simultaneously with the thought, Vanderhof grinned.
A singularly malicious and unpleasant grin . . .
“Fire me, will he?” he asked rhetorically, turning into Ajax for a brief moment. “I’ll fix him!”
While making his way toward the Fifth Avenue store, he pondered. He was achieving some sort of mastery over his chameleon-like changes. If he visualized a person, he could become that person—though his clothing never altered. And, with an effort of will, he could resume his normal form. Good enough. What now?
The fashion show was in full swing when Vanderhof slipped quietly into The Svelte Shop, unobtrusively making his way behind the scenes. Dowagers and damsels in tons of jewelry were sitting about, feeding on canapes and hors d’ouevres, while all sorts and conditions of men waited uneasily upon their respective daughters, wives, and lady friends. Park Avenue had turned out in force for the initial showing of exclusive gowns by The Svelte Shop. Mannequins were gliding along the runways, and over all presided the figure of S. Horton Walker, resplendent in specially-tailored garments, and looking more than ever like a shaved ape.
“And Model Twelve?” a slightly decayed socialite inquired from above her tiers of chins. “The exclusive Model Twelve, Mr. Walker?”
“Soon,” said Walker, rubbing his hands. “Very soon, Mrs. Smythe-Kennicott-Smythe.”
PEERING through drapes of wine-colored fabric, Vanderhof sucked in his lower lip. Model Twelve was already famous.
It was super-exclusive. Only one gown on this model had been created. And, when it showed, the bidding would be high—almost like an auction, though, of course, most genteel. Mrs. Smythe-Kennicott-Smythe would probably get it. She was the wealthiest woman in New York, and cream on the elite’s upper crust, to put it mildly.
“Nuts to you, Mr. Walker,” Vanderhof said silently, and fled. He made his way to the dressing-rooms, pausing at sight of Susan Vail, the shop’s loveliest model. The girl nodded, smiled, and went on her way.
Vanderhof visualized her. Suddenly he was gone. A perfect duplicate of Susan Vail stood in the passage, looking rather odd in Tim Vanderhof’s garments.
“Now for Model Twelve. It was carefully stored away, but Vanderhof knew where to look. Tenderly, almost reverently, he drew it from its hiding-place, and held up the gown. It was a gorgeous creation—one that would transform any woman.
“Why, Susan,” a soft voice said, “what are you doing in those clothes?”
Vanderhof turned hurriedly, to confront a small brown-haired model with wide eyes. “I—”
“And what’s the matter with your voice? Got a cold?”
“No,” said Vanderhof shrilly. “It—it’s just gag.” Seizing Model Twelve, he fled into the nearest dressing-room.
A few minutes later he came out, wearing the gown. Since he looked exactly like Susan Vail, it wasn’t at all unbecoming. But his plans weren’t finished yet. He wanted to perform an experiment.
He entered a room replete with tall mirrors, reflecting him from various angles. And he concentrated. If he could become two men at once, surely he could transform himself into two or more Susan Vails.
The results were beyond all expectations. From every angle Susan Vails materialized. They appeared like rabbits out of a hat. And all of them wore Model Twelve.
Meanwhile, Walker was preening himself as he made the announcement for which everyone was waiting.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, the event of the afternoon. At great expense, we have secured an ultra-exclusive model—a veritable symphony. There is only one like it in the world.”
“How do we know that?” asked a skeptical man with sideburns.
Walker turned a hurt stare upon him. “The Svelte Shop stands ready to guarantee my statement. Our integrity has never been questioned. And now—Model Twelve!”
He flung out an arm toward the runway. The curtains shook convulsively. Through them appeared Susan Vail. A soft gasp went up from the women at sight of Model Twelve.
Then another gasp went up. Another Susan Vail had slipped through the curtains and was following in the track of the first. She, too, wore Model Twelve.
“Hey—” said the skeptical man with sideburns.
He stopped. A third Model Twelve was coming.
Then another. And another!
“My God!” the skeptical man gasped. “Quintuplets!”
Walker had turned a delicate shade of mauve. Cries of outraged fury went up from the audience. Exclusive model,” somebody snapped. “Hah!”
Meanwhile the army of Model Twelves was marching steadily through the curtains. The room was filled with them. Walker was clawing at his hair and making gurgling sounds. Mrs. Smythe-Kennicott-Smythe arose, waggled her chins haughtily, and departed.
“One might as well shop in the five-and-ten,” she observed.
“It’s sabotage!” Walker whispered faintly. “B-boring from within—”
His eyes brightened a trifle. Mrs. Smythe-Kennicott-Smythe had reconsidered. She wasn’t leaving, after all. She was returning, her eyes very wide, and behind her was a large, bulky man with a mask on his face.
Other men arrived. Five of them. And they had guns, and were masked.
“This,” said the leader, is a stick-up. Squat, beetle-puss.” He pushed Mrs. Smythe-Kennicott-Smythe into a chair. “And keep your trap shut. That goes for all of you.” He waved a gleaming automatic. “Cover the exits, boys.”
The boys obeyed. The guests sat, frozen with horror. One dowager attempted to swallow her diamonds, but was dissuaded. Walker gasped for air.
“This will ruin me!” he squawked. “My customers—my clients, I mean—”
“Shaddap,” remarked the big man. “Or I’ll let you have it. Don’t anybody move.
Frisk ’em, boys.”
One of the boys produced a canvas bag and made the rounds, collecting whatever jewelry and money he could unearth. A pearl necklace, the existence of which had heretofore gone unsuspected, was revealed when Mrs. Smythe-Kennicott-Smythe was compelled to stare ceiling-ward.
“Hey!” said one of the boys. “What the hell—what—ulp!’
“Look!” he finished. “Jeez, boos—look!”
The big man looked. He, too, stared. Model Twelve was in action.
THERE were about twenty Susan Vails lined up on the runway. The last of them had stepped forward and—merged—with the one in front of her. This, Vanderhof had found, was the only way of consolidating his various images. He merely had to walk into himself.
The nineteenth Susan Vail merged with the eighteenth. And the eighteenth stepped forward—
Nobody else moved.
There was a stricken silence as the fifteenth Susan Vail became the fourteenth—and so on—the third became the second; there was only one Susan Vail now.
She hurried toward the exit.
But now the stasis broke. One of the thugs barred her path, lifting his gun menacingly.
Susan Vail—or Vanderhof—veered aside, toward an ante-room lined with mirrors. She ducked into it and slid the curtain in place after her.
The leader snapped, “Get her, Phil.” Phil said reluctantly, “There ain’t no way for her to get outa there.”
“I said—”
“Okay,” Phil placated. “Just gimme time. That dame ain’t normal.”
He moved forward, gun lifted. His hand touched the curtain. Then he turned.
“Boss, there ain’t nothing in there but a lot of mirrors. What’s the use—”
“You heard me!” the boss yelped.
“Okay,” said Phil, and yanked the curtain aside.
Apparently there was another way out of the ante-room, for Susan Vail wasn’t there any more. Instead, there were fifteen men, and they all looked exactly like Tim Vanderhof. Oddly enough, they all wore Model Twelve.
“Yaah!” said Phil shrilly, staggering back.
Two Tim Vanderhofs sprang upon him. One struck the gun from his hand, while the other planted a hard fist on Phil’s jaw. The thug folded up limply.
One Vanderhof had pulled the curtain back into place, but Vanderhofs were emerging through it in twos, threes, and dozens. The room was suddenly flooded with Vanderhofs, all wearing Model Twelve. It was as though the ante-room had suddenly decided to give birth. It erupted Vanderhofs. It spewed them forth, and as fast as they emerged new ones followed. For there were many mirrors in that little room.
THE element of surprise was in Vanderhof’s favor. The crooks were struck dumb by this insane manifestation of men in evening gowns. Before they could recover, each one found himself borne down under a tangle of slugging, punching, kicking, homicidally-active Vanderhofs.
Mrs. Smythe-Kennicott-Smythe threw up her hands in horror. A Vanderhof paused to chuck her under the chins. “Keep your shirt on, babe,” he advised. “I’ll get your jewels back.”
The lady fainted.
Not all the Vanderhofs were engaged in taking care of the crooks. Twenty of them had mounted the runway and were delicately parading, showing off Model Twelve, which, to say the least, looked rather startling on Tim Vanderhofs masculine figure. A half-dozen more had surrounded the pallid, paralyzed Walker and were engaged in making horrific faces at him. Another group of Vanderhofs were holding an impromptu jam session in a corner, while still another had recaptured the canvas bag and was strewing its contents around the room, shouting, “Pig pig pig pig” in a hoarse voice. The clients were on hands and knees, scrambling after their stolen property.
It was scene of utter chaos.
And Tim Vanderhof was—or were—having a glorious time. He hadn’t enjoyed himself so much in years. He was doing a dozen different things, all at the same time, and the most delightful one of all dealt with the thugs, who by this time were trying only to escape from the veritable army that was assailing them.
Someone cried, “The police!”
That brought Vanderhof back to sanity. He hurriedly knocked out the thugs—not a difficult task, since they were already nearly smothered by sheer weight of numbers—and then fled in a body, leaving confusion in his wake.
When the police arrived, they found six unconscious gangsters and a horde of socialites on hands and knees, squabbling over the division of their property. Walker was counting his fingers, with a vague air of skeptical disbelief. And there was no sign of a Vanderhof.
Indeed, there was only one Vanderhof by that time. The process of assimilation had again taken place, and the resultant single Vanderhof had removed Model Twelve—now torn into shreds—and resumed his own clothing. He didn’t wait for events to happen, though. He took them into his own hands.
The elevator lifted him fifteen stories above Fifth Avenue, letting him out at the private office of Enoch Throckmorton, the actual owner of The Svelte Shop, as well as a number of other enterprises. Vanderhof had never seen Throckmorton; there were vague rumors of his existence on some Olympian height. Walker sometimes visited the man, and even dined with him on occasion. Now, leaving the elevator, Vanderhof thought of Walker, and visualized the man, blue-black hair, flashing eyes, and apish face.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Walker,” said the receptionist. “Go right in.”
Vanderhof nodded and opened a door, facing a glass-brick desk about a mile long. Behind it sat a shriveled little fellow who was chewing a cigar.
This was Enoch Throckmorton.
Or, better yet: This was—Enoch Throckmorton!
“Ha,” said Throckmorton in a cracked voice, “sit down, Walker. I’ve just been getting a telephone call from downstairs. Quite a little fuss, eh?”
“Nothing much,” Vanderhof shrugged, grinning to himself. Apparently his resemblance to Walker was so complete that even Throckmorton was deceived.
“Nothing much! Indeed! This man Vanderhof deserves recognition! He captured those bandits himself—we’d have had to make good on every cent stolen if he hadn’t. I still don’t know how he did it, but—he did it. That’s file important thing.”
“Well,” Vanderhof said, “I’ve been intending to talk to you about Vanderhof for some time. He’s the smartest man we have. Candidly, I think he deserves promotion.”
“Very well. What have you in mind?”
“Manager. At a corresponding salary.” Throckmorton said slowly, “You know, of course, that the manager of The Svelte Shop is responsible only to me. You will have no authority over Vanderhof if—”
“I know my limitations,” Vanderhof shrugged. “Vanderhof needs no discipline.”
“Very well,” said Throckmorton, pressing a button. “I’ll attend to it immediately.”
Vanderhof looked at the nearest mirror. The result was shocking, but did not quite satisfy him. He looked at another, and then another, after that turning to confront his enemy.
Not even Samson could have faced the chaotic Vanderhof without screaming then. He looked like a piecemeal zombie assembled by someone with no knowledge of anatomy. One leg was six feet longer than the other. He had five arms. His chest was like a balloon, and his waist measured perhaps three inches around.
His head resembled a fried egg that had broken in the pan. The mouth was, oddly enough, in the forehead, and there was a tasty assortment of eyes scattered around them, all of these glaring furiously. He towered to the ceiling, and the horse-faced man, giving up all thought of hostility, skittered away like a rabbit.
“Go ’way!” he babbled. “Don’t touch me! You’re not human, that’s what you ain’t!”
“You don’t get out of it that easily,” Vanderhof snapped, barring the door with a fifteen-foot arm. “What do you think I am, anyhow?”
“The devil himself,” said the drunk, with flash of sudden insight. ” Awrrrgh! Don’t do that!”
“I’ll do it again,” Vanderhof announced, and a scream of pain from the drunk bore testimony to the fact that he had done it again. “Thus.”
The wild and impassioned shrieks of the horse-faced man bore fruit. Vanderhof heard faint cries from behind him. He turned to see faces peering in through the door.
They went white and drew back. Someone cried, “A freak! He’s gone mad!”
“He’s murdering me!” the drunk announced. “Help!”
Heartened by reinforcements, he made the mistake of prodding Vanderhof from the rear with his cane. At this all semblance of sanity departed from Tim Vanderhof. Completely forgetting everything else, he bent all his energies to the task of reducing the horse-faced man to a state of babbling idiocy.
“Give me that cane!” he grated.
“So you can ram it down my throat?” came the prescient reply. “I won’t.”
At this Vanderhof looked in a mirror, sprouted another arm, grew two feet, and advanced toward his opponent. He got the cane and broke it into six pieces. One in each hand, he commenced to tattoo a rhythm on the drunk.
This wasn’t quite satisfactory, so he gave it up, and concentrated on scaring the wretched man to death. Never was any revenge more horrifying or complete. Vanderhof felt a random sense of warning; it might be wiser, safer, to leave now, before more trouble arrived. But—what the hell!
He grinned, and the horse-faced man bellowed in anguish. “He’s going to eat me!” he cried. “Don’t let him eat me!”
“There they are,” someone observed. “In there, Sergeant. It’s a freak. Quite mad.”
“It’s a freak, all right,” said a gruff voice. “But I’m thinking that I’m the looney one. Will you look at the horrid thing!”
“I’ve been looking at it for ten minutes,” said the other voice. “Ever since I turned in the alarm. You’ve got your squad with you. Arrest him before he kills that man.”
Vanderhof turned. The doorway held a burly, grizzled oldster in police uniform, and behind him a group of plainclothes men, their profession easily established by a glance at their feet. There were guns.
HE WAS sent staggering. The horsefaced man had made a break for freedom. Vanderhof, boiling with rage, plunged in pursuit. There was chaos on the threshold; then Vanderhof was past, and racing after his victim.
A bullet whistled past his ear.
Oh-oh! This altered matters. Vanderhof, hidden momentarily behind the bandstand, paused, looking around. He saw no one—the horse-faced man had vanished—but heard voices.
“He went behind there—get him—guns ready, men!”
Vanderhof thought hard. He visualized the drunk. And, instantly, he assumed the appearance of the drunk.
He ran out from behind the bandstand, almost colliding with the sergeant and a plainclothes man with him.
“Key—”
“He went that way!” Vanderhof cried. “After him! Don’t let him get away!” Without waiting for an answer, he ran for the exit. There was startled silence, and then the sergeant and his crew raced in pursuit.
Vanderhof leaped out into the open air, flattened himself against the wall of the building, and concentrated on the face of the plainclothes man who had accompanied the sergeant. And, of course, the inevitable happened.
The sergeant appeared. He cast a swift glance at Vanderhof.
“Where is he, Clancy?” he bellowed. “Which way did he go?”
“There!” said the pseudo-Clancy, and pointed. He was borne away in a mob of detectives who gushed out of the exit. All of them were busily searching for a freak with six arms and an impossible head—a freak who no longer existed!
Ten minutes later Vanderhof, in his normal guise, was on the train bound back for Manhattan. It had been easy to drift away from the detectives, who naturally suspected nothing. And, after that, Vanderhof wanted only to get away from Coney Island. His nerves were in bad shape. He needed a rest.
So, illogically enough, he went back to New York.
He was still angry about the horse-faced man. He would have dearly loved to have taken another poke at the guy. But the police had interrupted. Vanderhof’s resentment wandered, and finally focused on a man with bristling blue-black hair and a vicious gleam in his eyes. The guy looked uncommonly like S. Horton Walker, president of The Svelte Shop.
Walker—nuts to Walker, Vanderhof thought. “Fire me, will he?” the chameleon man brooded. “Just on account of Colonel Quester! Tchah!” The fashion show would be going on soon, he remembered. And, simultaneously with the thought, Vanderhof grinned.
A singularly malicious and unpleasant grin . . .
“Fire me, will he?” he asked rhetorically, turning into Ajax for a brief moment. “I’ll fix him!”
While making his way toward the Fifth Avenue store, he pondered. He was achieving some sort of mastery over his chameleon-like changes. If he visualized a person, he could become that person—though his clothing never altered. And, with an effort of will, he could resume his normal form. Good enough. What now?
The fashion show was in full swing when Vanderhof slipped quietly into The Svelte Shop, unobtrusively making his way behind the scenes. Dowagers and damsels in tons of jewelry were sitting about, feeding on canapes and hors d’ouevres, while all sorts and conditions of men waited uneasily upon their respective daughters, wives, and lady friends. Park Avenue had turned out in force for the initial showing of exclusive gowns by The Svelte Shop. Mannequins were gliding along the runways, and over all presided the figure of S. Horton Walker, resplendent in specially-tailored garments, and looking more than ever like a shaved ape.
“And Model Twelve?” a slightly decayed socialite inquired from above her tiers of chins. “The exclusive Model Twelve, Mr. Walker?”
“Soon,” said Walker, rubbing his hands. “Very soon, Mrs. Smythe-Kennicott-Smythe.”
PEERING through drapes of wine-colored fabric, Vanderhof sucked in his lower lip. Model Twelve was already famous.
It was super-exclusive. Only one gown on this model had been created. And, when it showed, the bidding would be high—almost like an auction, though, of course, most genteel. Mrs. Smythe-Kennicott-Smythe would probably get it. She was the wealthiest woman in New York, and cream on the elite’s upper crust, to put it mildly.
“Nuts to you, Mr. Walker,” Vanderhof said silently, and fled. He made his way to the dressing-rooms, pausing at sight of Susan Vail, the shop’s loveliest model. The girl nodded, smiled, and went on her way.
Vanderhof visualized her. Suddenly he was gone. A perfect duplicate of Susan Vail stood in the passage, looking rather odd in Tim Vanderhof’s garments.
“Now for Model Twelve. It was carefully stored away, but Vanderhof knew where to look. Tenderly, almost reverently, he drew it from its hiding-place, and held up the gown. It was a gorgeous creation—one that would transform any woman.
“Why, Susan,” a soft voice said, “what are you doing in those clothes?”
Vanderhof turned hurriedly, to confront a small brown-haired model with wide eyes. “I—”
“And what’s the matter with your voice? Got a cold?”
“No,” said Vanderhof shrilly. “It—it’s just gag.” Seizing Model Twelve, he fled into the nearest dressing-room.
A few minutes later he came out, wearing the gown. Since he looked exactly like Susan Vail, it wasn’t at all unbecoming. But his plans weren’t finished yet. He wanted to perform an experiment.
He entered a room replete with tall mirrors, reflecting him from various angles. And he concentrated. If he could become two men at once, surely he could transform himself into two or more Susan Vails.
The results were beyond all expectations. From every angle Susan Vails materialized. They appeared like rabbits out of a hat. And all of them wore Model Twelve.
Meanwhile, Walker was preening himself as he made the announcement for which everyone was waiting.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, the event of the afternoon. At great expense, we have secured an ultra-exclusive model—a veritable symphony. There is only one like it in the world.”
“How do we know that?” asked a skeptical man with sideburns.
Walker turned a hurt stare upon him. “The Svelte Shop stands ready to guarantee my statement. Our integrity has never been questioned. And now—Model Twelve!”
He flung out an arm toward the runway. The curtains shook convulsively. Through them appeared Susan Vail. A soft gasp went up from the women at sight of Model Twelve.
Then another gasp went up. Another Susan Vail had slipped through the curtains and was following in the track of the first. She, too, wore Model Twelve.
“Hey—” said the skeptical man with sideburns.
He stopped. A third Model Twelve was coming.
Then another. And another!
“My God!” the skeptical man gasped. “Quintuplets!”
Walker had turned a delicate shade of mauve. Cries of outraged fury went up from the audience. Exclusive model,” somebody snapped. “Hah!”
Meanwhile the army of Model Twelves was marching steadily through the curtains. The room was filled with them. Walker was clawing at his hair and making gurgling sounds. Mrs. Smythe-Kennicott-Smythe arose, waggled her chins haughtily, and departed.
“One might as well shop in the five-and-ten,” she observed.
“It’s sabotage!” Walker whispered faintly. “B-boring from within—”
His eyes brightened a trifle. Mrs. Smythe-Kennicott-Smythe had reconsidered. She wasn’t leaving, after all. She was returning, her eyes very wide, and behind her was a large, bulky man with a mask on his face.
Other men arrived. Five of them. And they had guns, and were masked.
“This,” said the leader, is a stick-up. Squat, beetle-puss.” He pushed Mrs. Smythe-Kennicott-Smythe into a chair. “And keep your trap shut. That goes for all of you.” He waved a gleaming automatic. “Cover the exits, boys.”
The boys obeyed. The guests sat, frozen with horror. One dowager attempted to swallow her diamonds, but was dissuaded. Walker gasped for air.
“This will ruin me!” he squawked. “My customers—my clients, I mean—”
“Shaddap,” remarked the big man. “Or I’ll let you have it. Don’t anybody move.
Frisk ’em, boys.”
One of the boys produced a canvas bag and made the rounds, collecting whatever jewelry and money he could unearth. A pearl necklace, the existence of which had heretofore gone unsuspected, was revealed when Mrs. Smythe-Kennicott-Smythe was compelled to stare ceiling-ward.
“Hey!” said one of the boys. “What the hell—what—ulp!’
“Look!” he finished. “Jeez, boos—look!”
The big man looked. He, too, stared. Model Twelve was in action.
THERE were about twenty Susan Vails lined up on the runway. The last of them had stepped forward and—merged—with the one in front of her. This, Vanderhof had found, was the only way of consolidating his various images. He merely had to walk into himself.
The nineteenth Susan Vail merged with the eighteenth. And the eighteenth stepped forward—
Nobody else moved.
There was a stricken silence as the fifteenth Susan Vail became the fourteenth—and so on—the third became the second; there was only one Susan Vail now.
She hurried toward the exit.
But now the stasis broke. One of the thugs barred her path, lifting his gun menacingly.
Susan Vail—or Vanderhof—veered aside, toward an ante-room lined with mirrors. She ducked into it and slid the curtain in place after her.
The leader snapped, “Get her, Phil.” Phil said reluctantly, “There ain’t no way for her to get outa there.”
“I said—”
“Okay,” Phil placated. “Just gimme time. That dame ain’t normal.”
He moved forward, gun lifted. His hand touched the curtain. Then he turned.
“Boss, there ain’t nothing in there but a lot of mirrors. What’s the use—”
“You heard me!” the boss yelped.
“Okay,” said Phil, and yanked the curtain aside.
Apparently there was another way out of the ante-room, for Susan Vail wasn’t there any more. Instead, there were fifteen men, and they all looked exactly like Tim Vanderhof. Oddly enough, they all wore Model Twelve.
“Yaah!” said Phil shrilly, staggering back.
Two Tim Vanderhofs sprang upon him. One struck the gun from his hand, while the other planted a hard fist on Phil’s jaw. The thug folded up limply.
One Vanderhof had pulled the curtain back into place, but Vanderhofs were emerging through it in twos, threes, and dozens. The room was suddenly flooded with Vanderhofs, all wearing Model Twelve. It was as though the ante-room had suddenly decided to give birth. It erupted Vanderhofs. It spewed them forth, and as fast as they emerged new ones followed. For there were many mirrors in that little room.
THE element of surprise was in Vanderhof’s favor. The crooks were struck dumb by this insane manifestation of men in evening gowns. Before they could recover, each one found himself borne down under a tangle of slugging, punching, kicking, homicidally-active Vanderhofs.
Mrs. Smythe-Kennicott-Smythe threw up her hands in horror. A Vanderhof paused to chuck her under the chins. “Keep your shirt on, babe,” he advised. “I’ll get your jewels back.”
The lady fainted.
Not all the Vanderhofs were engaged in taking care of the crooks. Twenty of them had mounted the runway and were delicately parading, showing off Model Twelve, which, to say the least, looked rather startling on Tim Vanderhofs masculine figure. A half-dozen more had surrounded the pallid, paralyzed Walker and were engaged in making horrific faces at him. Another group of Vanderhofs were holding an impromptu jam session in a corner, while still another had recaptured the canvas bag and was strewing its contents around the room, shouting, “Pig pig pig pig” in a hoarse voice. The clients were on hands and knees, scrambling after their stolen property.
It was scene of utter chaos.
And Tim Vanderhof was—or were—having a glorious time. He hadn’t enjoyed himself so much in years. He was doing a dozen different things, all at the same time, and the most delightful one of all dealt with the thugs, who by this time were trying only to escape from the veritable army that was assailing them.
Someone cried, “The police!”
That brought Vanderhof back to sanity. He hurriedly knocked out the thugs—not a difficult task, since they were already nearly smothered by sheer weight of numbers—and then fled in a body, leaving confusion in his wake.
When the police arrived, they found six unconscious gangsters and a horde of socialites on hands and knees, squabbling over the division of their property. Walker was counting his fingers, with a vague air of skeptical disbelief. And there was no sign of a Vanderhof.
Indeed, there was only one Vanderhof by that time. The process of assimilation had again taken place, and the resultant single Vanderhof had removed Model Twelve—now torn into shreds—and resumed his own clothing. He didn’t wait for events to happen, though. He took them into his own hands.
The elevator lifted him fifteen stories above Fifth Avenue, letting him out at the private office of Enoch Throckmorton, the actual owner of The Svelte Shop, as well as a number of other enterprises. Vanderhof had never seen Throckmorton; there were vague rumors of his existence on some Olympian height. Walker sometimes visited the man, and even dined with him on occasion. Now, leaving the elevator, Vanderhof thought of Walker, and visualized the man, blue-black hair, flashing eyes, and apish face.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Walker,” said the receptionist. “Go right in.”
Vanderhof nodded and opened a door, facing a glass-brick desk about a mile long. Behind it sat a shriveled little fellow who was chewing a cigar.
This was Enoch Throckmorton.
Or, better yet: This was—Enoch Throckmorton!
“Ha,” said Throckmorton in a cracked voice, “sit down, Walker. I’ve just been getting a telephone call from downstairs. Quite a little fuss, eh?”
“Nothing much,” Vanderhof shrugged, grinning to himself. Apparently his resemblance to Walker was so complete that even Throckmorton was deceived.
“Nothing much! Indeed! This man Vanderhof deserves recognition! He captured those bandits himself—we’d have had to make good on every cent stolen if he hadn’t. I still don’t know how he did it, but—he did it. That’s file important thing.”
“Well,” Vanderhof said, “I’ve been intending to talk to you about Vanderhof for some time. He’s the smartest man we have. Candidly, I think he deserves promotion.”
“Very well. What have you in mind?”
“Manager. At a corresponding salary.” Throckmorton said slowly, “You know, of course, that the manager of The Svelte Shop is responsible only to me. You will have no authority over Vanderhof if—”
“I know my limitations,” Vanderhof shrugged. “Vanderhof needs no discipline.”
“Very well,” said Throckmorton, pressing a button. “I’ll attend to it immediately.”
