The Fantastic Adventures of Lefty Feep, page 11
I stoop down and notice, when he pulls his feet in, that there is a little steel pick attached to the sole of one shoe. But Mrs. Gorgonzola does not see this. She closes the door and blows him a kiss and then steps back to wait. In about a minute I can hear this Gallstone fumbling around inside with his pick, working on the combination. I just wait. The tumblers start to click.
Another minute goes by and another. Still no Gallstone. Mrs. Gorgonzola stoops down. “Are you all right, Oscar?” she calls.
“Sure — be with you in a jiffy,” he gasps.
But a jiffy passes and so does five minutes. And no Gallstone. Mrs. Gorgonzola is getting impatient. “Can I help you?” she asks.
“No — I’m — getting on fine — just a second,” he groans.
Fifteen more minutes go by. Gallstone is thumping around and rattling the combination and panting for breath. Mrs. Gorgonzola is getting redder and redder. All at once she looks at her wristwatch. “You’ve been in there twenty-five minutes,” she calls. “I’ll give you five minutes more.”
There is a grunt from inside and a lot of rattling. But five minutes pass, and Gallstone is still locked in the safe. The noise stops. Gallstone gives up trying to get out. Mrs. Gorgonzola gives a sigh and looks stern.
“Very well, Oscar, you have shown me your true colors. You are nothing but an imposter. You are not a good magician. You cannot find your way out of a telephone booth, let alone a safe. I will never run off with you. Good night!”
She turns around and marches upstairs. I followed her, because there is nothing more I have to do. I do my job when I keep turning the dial of the safe after Gallstone lines up the tumblers.
So I go to bed very happy. Gallstone will sneak away like the beaten pup he is. Now I know Mrs. Gorgonzola is all through with him, and there is nothing to worry about. Gorgonzola will be back in a day or so and his tricks are safe after all.
I take off my coat and hat and am just going to remove the tuxedo pants, when the door opens. Futzi walks in. “Honorable Feep, I expect you are — oh mercy what in name is honorable that?” he yells.
He is staring at my pants, or rather at the place where my trousers should be. But because of the pants I wear, he does not see anything below my waist at all. “Oh what unhappy accident!” he wails. “You get cut in twice by auto car?”
“No, of course not,” I say.
“Then perhaps you lose on races?”
“There are some things,” I answer with dignity, “which I will never bet. No, I do not lose anything.”
“But you have no limbs downstairs,” Futzi wails. “Just head and torso.”
“I have more so than torso,” I assure him, stepping out of the pants. “There, you see? All that happens, Futzi, is I wear this suit of Gorgonzola’s. It is some kind of trick suit, because when I wear it I am invisible.”
“So?” whispers Futzi. “That is remarkable, also strange.”
“Sure,” I say. “This must be one of the new tricks that Gorgonzola wishes me to protect. I prefer you do not mention this around. Now I lock the suit up again and that is that.”
So I haul out the trunk and lock up the tuxedo and hat. Futzi hangs around staring at me. “Where is honorable Gallstone?” he asks.
“Downstairs on ice,” I tell him. “He locks himself up in a safe like a defense bond.”
“Then he does not rush away with Mrs. Gorgonzola?” Futzi says. “I expect they lope off together.” His face falls.
“No elopement,” I tell him. “You better go down and unlock the safe now and let Gallstone go home.”
Futzi still hangs around. “Maybe you like me to press honorable suit?” he asks. “Make it nice and fresh for Mr. Gorgonzola to be invisible in? Gorgonzola always proud to look his best even if invisible, I gamble you.”
“No, get out of here,” I snap.
“I press and iron plenty fast,” he begs. “Please, let me press nice invisible coat and pants.”
“I’ll press your pants with my foot if you don’t scram,” I suggest.
So Futzi scrams.
I go to bed. I tuck the keys right under my pillow, too, because I do not wish to lose them. An invisible suit is plenty valuable and I am taking no chances. I figure on keeping awake.
But I am not awake a couple of hours later. In fact I am very much asleep, and dreaming about rabbits with big teeth and bushy hair that are locking me into a safe. The dream is so real I can even hear the tumblers clicking. The clicking gets louder and I wake up. Then I know what is making the sound. The keys under my pillow.
They are sliding out, in a hand. Futzi’s hand.
He is standing over my bed in the dark, grabbing for those keys. “Hey!” I yell, jumping up. “Hey!” I yell, going down again.
Because Futzi’s hand drops the keys and grabs my wrist. He jerks it and I go back on my head. Then his other hand gets hold of my waist. I turn over on my stomach. Then he uses both hands in a very busy fashion and we have quite a scramble.
In a minute I am sitting on the bed looking straight into a pair of legs wrapped around my neck. Something about them looks quite familiar to me. And I suddenly realize that these are my legs. Around my neck. I am tied up like a Christmas package.
Futzi stands in front of me, grinning.
“Very sorry to disturb,” he says.
“What is this?” I gasp, trying to get loose.
“Jiu-jitsu,” he tells me.
“Jiu-jitsu? But that’s a Japanese trick, isn’t it? Then you’re not a Filipino, you’re a —”
Futzi bows.
“That is most correct,” he tells me. “I am not a Filipino, Mr. Feep. Nor do I need to continue the disguise with that ridiculous accent, either. All I require now are those keys of yours. I shall take the suit and leave.”
“But I don’t understand —” I say.
“Of course not.” Futzi laughs, very low. “Why should I disguise myself as a Filipino house boy, get a job in a magician’s house, and act as a servant? The answer is obvious. Gorgonzola is a clever man, but I know his secret. He has not left town — he’s here now, down at local headquarters of army ordnance. He’s telling them that he has discovered a new chemical treatment which renders clothing invisible and offering it to the army as a military weapon. Like Dunninger’s work in camouflage that makes battleships invisible. The invisible suit is just a sample of the material. Quite a valuable secret.
“Now I have that suit. I shall wear it, slip downtown and put Gorgonzola out of the way once and for all. Information comes to me that his conference with ordnance officials is scheduled for late tonight.
“Naturally I would not be admitted to such a gathering under normal circumstances.” Here Futzi gives a little smirk and bow. “But with this suit on as a passport I think I can slip in quite freely. With your curiosity thus satisfied, I leave you.”
I still sit there with my legs tied into Boy Scout knots while Futzi goes over to the closet, hauls out the trunk, and opens it. He gets the dress suit and hat and slips them on very fast. He is so small the clothes hang all over him and in a few seconds he is gone. Disappears into thin air. I see the door open. His voice chuckles.
“Goodnight, honorable Feep,” he says, sarcastic. “We must discuss hari-kari again some time. Perhaps you will prefer committing it yourself when you think of what’s going to happen to your friend Gorgonzola.”
When the door closes and I am left tied to be fit. I grunt and groan and wrestle with myself, but I can not get my legs loose. Finally I roll off the bed onto the floor. That does it. It cracks my skull, but it loosens my legs. I stagger downstairs to the phone and look up the ordnance headquarters number. I ring and there is no answer. Then I decide to call the cops — until I remember this invisible suit stuff is a military secret. Also, it will not sound so good to ask the cops to chase an invisible man at midnight.
So there is only one thing to do. I spot Gallstone’s Packard still standing outside. Futzi has the other car, of course. I have some trouble sitting down inside, with my sore legs, but no trouble at all in getting that car up to ninety. When I think of that invisible little Jap sneaking around and trying to knock off Gorgonzola and steal his plans, I know there is no time to lose.
In exactly seven minutes I pull up in front of the old destination. The joint is dark, but open, and I make the stairs very fast to the second floor. There is a light burning in an office room and the door is open. They are inside — and I am sure from the open door that Futzi is with them. Invisible.
I tiptoe in and look through the inside door. There are four characters sitting around a desk, and sure enough, Gorgonzola is with them. He has a briefcase open in front of him and he is talking very fast. I am the only one who sees what is behind him, though. It hangs in the air very still, but it is ready for action. A big black revolver, in the hands of that invisible Jap.
I throw myself through the doorway and grab the revolver. There is a lot of yelling, but I get it in my hands. Then there is a real yell. Naturally, all these birds can see is me, waving a gun. They do not see any invisible Futzi, and I can not yell out to them to look for him, either. He can be hiding anywhere in the room and nobody can spot him.
So I just turn my gun around, point it at a perfect bullseye, and shoot Futzi.
And that is how I save a military secret.
Lefty Feep stopped waving the celery and put it in his mouth.
“I can understand now why it upset you when I spoke of not seeing you,” I said. “You must have had quite an experience.”
“Sure. But it is okay now. Gorgonzola gives the ordnance department his new chemical invisibility formula, his wife gives Gallstone the air, and I give that little Jap spy some lead poisoning where it does him the least good.”
I coughed.
“About that business of shooting the Jap,” I said. “There’s just one question that bothers me.”
“Yes?”
“Well, you say he was wearing this invisible suit and nobody could see him. Yet you managed to shoot him at once. Just what were you aiming at?”
Feep blushed.
“I do not like to say exactly,” he confessed. “But I will mention that I get suspicious that night when Futzi hangs around wanting to get his hands on the suit. I decide to figure out a way to make the suit a little less invisible, in case it is worn by anybody else. So I do, and as a result when Futzi wears it he gives me a target he does not notice himself in his hurry putting it on.”
“What target?” I persisted.
“I refuse to say,” Feep grinned. “All I can tell you is that before I lock honorable suit up for the night, I take a scissors and cut a big hole in the seat of honorable pants.”
Son of a Witch
September 1942
When Lefty Feep approached my table at Jack’s Shack, I rose to my feet with a gasp of indignation. “Here, let me brush you off,” I said. “The nerve of those careless waiters – spilling a tray full of chop suey on your suit.”
Feep’s eyebrows rose and circled above his thin, morose face. His hand motioned me back into my seat. “Nobody spills chop suey on me,” he corrected. “This is not Chinese hash on my coat – it is the weave of my suit.” I took another look. What I saw on Feep’s suit was more of a writhe than a weave. The threads cascaded snakily through a baggy tweed in a riot of clashing colors.
As Feep sat down, I shook my head. “I don’t understand you, left,” I murmured. “Those loud clothes you sport – your taste in color! Don’t you ever wear anything quiet?”
“Sure,” snapped Feep. “Earmuffs.”
“I mean, why these awful patterns and color combinations? Have you no love of beauty?”
“Certainly. Me, I like blondes.”
“No,” I amended hastily. “I speak of aesthetics.”
“Aesthetics? I has aesthetics last year when they yank my tonsils out.”
“That’s anaesthetics,” I told him. “But don’t you like soft, pastel shadings in paintings and tapestries? Don’t you like the quiet richness, say, of a fine Oriental rug?”
“Rugs!” snarled Lefty Feep.
“But you haven’t –”
“Rugs!” howled Feep. “Bugs to rugs!”
“What’s the matter, man? I only asked you if you liked rugs.”
Feep’s eyebrows bristled like twi toothbrushes. He leaned even closer and spoke between tight lips. “Rugs are for mugs, thugs and slugs,”he grated. “On my floor at home you find only tile, linoleum, or empty gin bottles. Rugs, never!”
“Why? What have you got against rugs?”
“You ask me that? Can it be that I do not tell you about the time I go to Out-Of -Business Oscar’s auction?”
“Can be,” I answered. “I never knew you attended an auction in your life.”
“It is very nearly the last thing I do attend,” murmured Lefty Feep, closing his eyes. “When I think what could happen to me because of it, the cold chills still use my spine for a racetrack.” Something about Feep’s voice made me want to hear the story. Or perhaps it was just the fact that he now grabbed me by the lapels and held me so I couldn’t escape.
“I will tell you about the experience I have with a rug,” he muttered. “Then we will take you out to be defrosted.”
“Why?”
“Because,” whispered Lefty Feep, “it will turn your blood to ice.”
I sat there, refrigerating slowly, as Feep began to unwind his tongue.
I am always a very active personality, as you know. I am hep to pep. Making lazy drives me crazy. Well, I get up bright and early one afternoon, all ready for a big day. I am just pulling the cork out of my breakfast when I realize there is nothing to do.
This is a terrible feeling for an ambitious guy like me, but it is true. Today there is nothing for me to do at all. No races are running. No football pools are going. All the pinball machines are shut down. There isn’t even a crap game going on over at Gorilla Gabface’s pool hall. In other words, I am unemployed. Naturally, any sensible citizen will realize the only way out is to crawl right back into bed until at least the burlesque shows open. But I am all energy today, so I decide to go out and stroll around.
I am toddling down the old stem about an hour later when I find myself passing Out-Of-Business Oscar’s. This Out-Of-Business Oscar is a personality who runs a second-hand joint down the street. He derives his nickname from the big signs he plasters up all over the front of his rubbish palace.
GOING OUT OF BUSINESS says the big banner across the front.
MUST VACATE IN THIRTY DAYS. FORCED SALE — LEASE EXPIRES!
It is hard to read the words on these signs. They are pretty faded, because the signs must be about twenty years old by now. But Oscar has some new ones up today.
PRICES CUT says the first one.
PRICES SLASHED says the second one.
PRICES BLEEDING TO DEATH says the third.
Then there is one just under these that reads FIRE SALE. But I do not pay any attention to that. Out-Of-Business Oscar is the kind of guy who starts a fire sale every time he lights a cigar. Which is pretty often, because Oscar finds a lot of cigars in front of the curb.
The sign that does interest me is hanging over the door. AUCTION TODAY!
Sure enough, I peek in and see a lot of specimens around a big counter; and Oscar is standing up on top looking like a judge with a gavel in his hand. So I figure I got time to kill and maybe I can murder it by taking a look at this auction. I walk inside and listen while Oscar begins to deal out the spiel.
“Gentlemen,” he yaps, just as though there are some in the crowd. “As you know, today we auction off the estate of the late Mrs. Bobo Grope. We are privileged to dispose of the household effects of this millionairess — her valuable collection of old masters, her antiques and art treasures, and her priceless Oriental curiosities.”
Then he starts the sale. Well, to make a long story tedious, he is not doing so hot. The stuff he auctions off is very high class, but the customers aren’t. They bid only a half buck or a dollar on all the lovely pictures and pottery. This is a shame — I am not a corner sewer of art, but from the way he describes it, I see that this is all the real McCoy, if Oriental furnishings are ever made by any McCoy.
Poor Oscar warms up and sweats. He hauls out the brie and the brae and gives with the tongue. He grabs a couple pots and waves his arms. ”I have here two gorgeous specimens of the Sung Dynasty,” he hollers. “Two exquisite Chinese cuspidors.”
They go for a mere six bits.
“And here is a rare Ming mustache cup,” he says — and knocks it down to an old goat for a dime.
So it goes. He sells an Egyptian mummy case to a musician who wants it to carry his bass violin. He disposes of Hindu idols and Siamese carvings for a buck or two. It is breaking his heart. On top of it, some smart alecks in the crowd keep making rude remarks, and it is very embarrassing to poor Oscar.
He hauls out a big rack and says, “We will now proceed to dispose of this remarkable collection of Persian and Oriental rugs.”
A jerk in the rear hollers out to him. “Get rid of that junk and start auctioning off the harem!” This is too much for Oscar. He announces that there will be a five-minute pause in the sale and slides back of the counters.
I know he is going for a drink, so I quick scoot along after him and nab him in the act. “Why it’s Lefty Feep,” he says, recognizing my lips on the bottle. “You are a sight for sore eyes. And my eyes are plenty sore today from looking at that crummy mob.”
“Too bad,” I sympathize.
“Well, it is my fault,” he shrugs. ‘‘This collection of Mrs. Bobo Grape’s is famous all over the world. A dozen big experts and orientalists wire and phone that they will show up today. I expect they will pay thousands for some of these rare and curious pieces. So I send out regular engraved announcements, very high class.
“Only I make a mistake. I print that the sale begins at three in the afternoon. And when I file notice legally, I set the time for two. According to law I must start the auction at two, and so here I am, an hour early. None of the big shots arrive yet, and this stuff goes for next to nothing.”
