Delphi Complete Works of Thorne Smith (Illustrated), page 110
“Yes,” agreed Megaera with a gin-induced giggle. “I’m what you might call busting out.”
In her enjoyment of her little joke she slapped Mr. Hawk on the back.
“Ouch!” she cried, blowing on her fingers. “This man of mine is certainly hard boiled.” Then in a lower voice she added, “It’s these damn low-cut, tight-fitting dresses. A girl nowadays can’t hide a thing.”
The manager, who had been an interested observer, now made his presence known. He picked up the check and rapidly ran his eyes down the column to the only place that mattered. At the sight of the total his face darkened. Still he retained his poise.
“I hope everything has been satisfactory,” he said, with one of his Ittest smiles, virily showing his white teeth.
“No, it hasn’t,” snapped Daffy. “This place is altogether too rough for a woman of any refinement. I’ve been greatly perturbed by the conduct of some of these lousy bums.” She waved her hand at the room and attempted to look indignant.
The manager opened his eyes wide, then blinked rapidly. The lady’s miscellaneous selection of words made it difficult to place her exact position in the social scale. He tried again.
“Sorry,” he said, running a hand through his boyish bob, a gesture he had always found effective when dealing with women. “Are the gentlemen quite well? If you’ll excuse me for saying it, there seems to be something wrong with them.”
“Nonsense,” replied Daffy. “They’re as hard as a rock — as hard as a couple of rocks. We want some drinks here. What’s happened to the waiter?”
“Stop scratching your head in public,” put in Meg, “and get down to brass tacks.”
The manager nervously handled the check. Evidently these two women were not of the impressionable type. So many women nowadays considered themselves lucky to be singled out by managers of roadhouses, leaders of orchestras and other, for the most part, God-fearing and hard-working members of a restaurant’s staff. He gave up all attempts to It the ladies and came to the point.
“It’s about the check,” he said quite frankly. “It’s a whale of a check, and I wouldn’t feel at all disappointed if a little something were done about it.”
A deep sigh came from the direction of Mr. Hawk. The manager stepped back a pace and regarded the scientist suspiciously.
“Oh, the check,” said Meg indifferently. “Let’s have it.”
She reached out and took the check from the manager. Then she dived into the bosom of her low-cut dress and produced a fat wallet — pin seal trimmed with gold and bearing the irrelevant letters T. H. G.
“I have to keep it for him when he gets this way,” she explained. “It’s an awful bore. Makes one left breasted. See, I’m all right now, Daffy. Not a penny’s worth of difference between ’em.”
As she rapidly examined the contents of the purse a delighted smile lit up her features.
“Why,” she continued in a pleased voice, “he has ever so much money. We can drink gallons more. Here’s one hundred and twenty dollars, and don’t let me see any change. Take that check away and frame it. You’re in luck. And, waiter, bring us a flock of drinks.”
At the sight of the strange wallet, Mr. Hawk had returned to himself with a click. He had then resuscitated Cyril Sparks. Both of them now sat staring at the fat roll of bills in Meg’s brown hand.
“For the love of all things sacred,” said Hawk when the manager and the waiter had withdrawn, “get that wallet and money out of sight. Where did they come from?”
“Oh, so you’re back, are you, you coward?” replied Meg. “Well, don’t worry about this money. It’s an old game to me. If you want any more I’ll get you lots.”
She crammed the bills into the wallet and carelessly returned it to her breast.
“I say,” put in Cyril Sparks to Daffy, “your uncle just did the most surprising thing to me. He actually turned me to stone.”
“And you weren’t any more useless than you ever are,” Daffy hastened to assure him. “We didn’t miss you at all.”
The waiter, also a changed man, returned with the drinks. These were dashed down with avidity and more ordered.
“Now you lugs are going to turn into a couple of gigolos,” announced Meg. “I’m paying for this party, and I insist on being entertained.”
“About that money,” began Mr. Hawk as she led him from the table.
Disaster had been delayed but not averted. It descended swiftly as Meg was whirling past the fat gentleman with whom she had just danced. It was not the final disaster, but rather the prelude to disaster. It began with a plop as the well stuffed wallet slipped down through Meg’s dress and landed on the floor. Quick as a flash the girl ducked and seized the lost article. Mr. Hawk, taken by surprise, hurdled on over her and sat heavily on the floor. The fat man, recognizing his wallet, uttered a strangled cry and strove to retain Megaera’s hand. She eluded his grasp and darted across the floor. In her own mind she was satisfied that she had a moral right to the wallet and all that it contained. On the other hand, the fat gentleman had certain definite ideas of his own concerning the rightful ownership of the wallet.
“Run!” cried Meg to the recumbent scientist. “I’ve got it.”
“Then give it back,” called Hawk, rising hastily from the floor and sprinting after the girl.
“Thieves!” shouted the fat gentleman, as was only just and proper. “Robbers! Stop those two!”
“They seem to be running,” observed Daffy to Cyril Spark. “Perhaps we’d better run after them.”
“I’ve already started,” said Cyril who at that moment was in entire agreement with the law of self-preservation.
“Wait for me!” cried Daffy, dashing after him to the door.
As she sped along in the rear of the retreat she encountered several waiters standing in attitudes of petrification. Apparently they had been so ill-advised as to attempt to place themselves between Mr. Hawk and liberty. Behind her she could hear the shouts and excited voices of the multitude. From in front came the sound of ground being scraped energetically by several pairs of flying feet. Her companions were toeing in. Redoubling her efforts, Daffy succeeded in overtaking the main body of the retreating party just as Mr. Hawk was getting the Emperor under way. A long arm reached out and hauled her aboard as the car gathered speed and shot down the drive. Nothing was said until they were well clear of the roadhouse. Mr. Hawk then became vocal.
“Well,” he announced nastily. “You’ve succeeded in making thieves of three honest people. You never were honest yourself.”
“I know it,” said Meg, still panting a little. “We’re all in it now. If they catch us I’m going to swear you made me do it.”
At this information, Mr. Hawk increased the speed of the already flying car.
“Damn these new-fangled dresses, anyway,” Meg continued. “They might have certain advantages, but they’re no good for plunder.”
“Hadn’t you better get rid of that wallet, dearie?” casually inquired Daffy. “And wouldn’t it be a good thing to distribute some of that money among the rest of us?”
Although Meg was far from enthusiastic about the latter suggestion, she complied with both. The wallet was hurled through the window into the bordering woods, and the money was unequally divided among the four. Meg tucked the lion’s share alongside the dagger and took the precaution to warn Mr. Hawk about his hand.
“Not that I object,” she assured the indignant man, “but it’s a sin to fool with money.”
And all this time a motorcycle policeman was burning up the road behind them while several brother officers were approaching from in front. Telephone communications had been established between the roadhouse and the various headquarters of law and order along the road. The hue and cry was out. As fear of apprehension grew farther from the minds of the Emperor’s passengers the actuality of such an occurrence was taking more definite shape.
Cyril Sparks was the first to voice his relief.
“I feel that we all deserve a drink,” he announced as he drew a bottle from some mysterious place of concealment. “I’ll bet no one knew I had hidden this.”
“You win,” said Daffy. “Occasionally you have a brain wave. Pass it around.”
She elevated the bottle, then handed it forward to Meg. That young lady drank without reluctance and asked her companion what he was going to do about it. He stopped the car and proceeded to show her. This was an unwise move. It could not have been better timed for the convenience of the elements of restraint. Three of its members jumped into the glare of the headlights and a fourth sprang to the running board of the car.
“Oh, Goddy,” breathed Mr. Hawk as he dropped the bottle to the roadside.
Then he did about the most effective thing he could have thought of to annoy and baffle the officers. He petrified the entire personnel of the Emperor. When the investigating officer shouted out the customary no-monkey-business warning, he found himself looking into a face of stone. And when he glanced at the others in quest of some explanation of this incredible occurrence he was prodigiously shocked to find their faces equally stony. For a moment he thought he had gone mad or lost the sense of touch, then, being an officer of no little resource, he summoned his colleagues to a conference.
“This isn’t the mob we’re after,” he told them. “This damn car is full of abandoned statues.”
“The hell you say,” exclaimed another officer. “There’s some funny business about this. These things can’t be statues. They’re all sitting.”
“Why can’t statues sit?” asked a third officer, remembering his Bulfinch days. “There’s crouching Venuses and flying Mercuries and leaping fawns and a hell of a lot of other funny statues.”
“Then I suppose you’d call these Sitting Automobilists?” the second speaker put in sarcastically.
“Not necessarily, but they might have been removed from someone’s garden,” was the nearly impossible reply.
“Well,” replied the other, “from the looks of them they might have been removed from a graveyard suffering from an attack of acute cramps.”
This was too much for the fourth officer, who up to that moment had been content to remain in wondering silence.
“Who ever heard of a corpse having cramps?” he demanded.
“Who ever heard anything to the contrary?”
The fourth officer was not prepared for this essentially unfair question.
“Oh, of course,” he hedged, “a corpse might have cramps, for all I know. I’ve heard that their teeth keep on growing.”
“Not teeth, you dunce, hair.” Mr. Hawk had been unable to restrain himself. His voice fell like a ghostly whisper among the officers.
“Who said that?” one of them asked nervously.
Receiving no reply, he backed hastily out of the car, his interest in the problem completely evaporated. Let those who would carry on the investigation so far as he was concerned. He would be satisfied to remain at a modest distance and watch the car, the number of which he took as a pretext for his absence.
“There’s something fishy about this,” said the senior officer of the group. “Statues or no statues, I’m going to put the lot of ’em under arrest. We got to show something to the chief.”
“He’ll be tickled pink to put that outfit behind the bars,” remarked the mythological expert.
“Yeah,” put in another. “What are you going to charge ’em with, resisting arrest?”
“No,” replied the senior officer quite seriously. “I’ll charge ’em with obstructing traffic. Get in there, Delaney, and drive this bus to the lockup.”
“One of you guys lend a hand and help me push this statue or corpse or whatever the devil it is over,” complained Delaney. “Damned if I’ll sit on its lap.”
With much puffing and panting the two officers succeeded in prying the unhelpful Mr. Hawk clear of the steering wheel. He clattered dangerously against Megaera. Then Officer Delaney, feeling none too happy at the prospect of the drive that lay ahead of him, slid down in the seat by the petrified scientist and set the car in motion.
Everything went well for the first mile or so, then Officer Delaney began to have an uneasy feeling that eyes were fixed watchfully upon him. It was an unpleasant feeling to have, and it became even more so when it grew from a feeling to a conviction. He turned his head quickly and could have sworn he detected an ironical flicker in the sightless eyes of the figure beside him.
“Nerves,” muttered the officer, beginning to sweat profusely. “Shouldn’t have gone on that party last night.”
Then, to his profound discomfort, he distinctly felt himself being tapped on the shoulder. The first three taps he allowed to pass unchallenged, but at the fourth and most impatient of the series he spun round in the seat and looked behind him.
“Eyes on the road, Delaney!” a ghoulish voice commanded. Officer Delaney whirled back to the wheel and looked numbly at the road ahead.
“That’s better,” said a feminine voice. “Have you enough room, Delaney?”
“No,” said Delaney in a hoarse but positive voice. “I haven’t near enough room, but I’m going to get a lot more.”
He brought the car to an abrupt stop and signaled to his escort.
“Listen,” he told its leader, “these damned statues are talking and asking me foolish questions, and one of them had the nerve to go tapping me on the back. Get somebody else to drive this car. I’m a sick man.”
“Nonsense,” said the senior officer. “This won’t look at all well on your record, Delaney.”
“I’ll turn in my resignation before I’ll touch that wheel again.” Delaney was firm about it.
“All right, Brownell,” snapped the officer. “Get in there and relieve Delaney.”
Brownell reluctantly obeyed. With a shrinking feeling he climbed into the seat and squeezed over to the door as far as possible. With the starting of the car his ordeal was begun.
He didn’t think, he actually knew someone was breathing heavily on his neck. Also he was certain that the gaunt figure beside him was scrutinizing him disapprovingly out of the tail of its eyes. Then the officer had a bright idea. He raised his eyes quickly to the driving mirror and uttered a wild cry. Over his shoulder was peering a white grinning face.
“Great Godamighty — whew!” rushed from the lips of the officer as he endeavored to bring the car to a stop.
“What, again?” demanded a disgusted voice. “Drive on, Brownie. Have we far to go?”
“None of your damn business,” Brownell shouted. “But if you want to know we don’t go one inch farther. I don’t know what you are or who you are, but whether you’re human or devils you should feel damn well ashamed of yourselves, carrying on like this.”
“Come, come, Brownie,” said an admonitory voice from the back of the car. “Don’t you carry on like this. You’re making yourself ridiculous. Hurry up and drive this car, or something decidedly unpleasant might happen.”
“Something unpleasant is happening,” vouchsafed Officer Brownell. “If you were any sort of statues at all you’d shut up and act like statues. You’re more talkative than a bunch of drunks.”
“What an unpleasant officer,” came a woman’s voice from the back of the car.
“My God, is there another one of you?” demanded the officer.
“There is,” said another voice, this time a man’s. “Do you want any more?”
“No!” shouted the officer.
“Your voice, Brownie, your voice,” said a soft, reproving voice from the front seat. “Do something about it. We don’t want any trouble, you know. And you’d better lay off making these wisecracks about what sort of statues we are. We’re about the finest body of statues yet uncaught. If you don’t believe it, just take a look at that leg.”
Officer Brownell was so heavily married he even depressed his wife. This ribald invitation on the part of a female statue shocked him more than anything else so far. The color mounted to his face; he elevated his chin haughtily and drove on in silence. The statues were singing a drinking song when he pulled up before the police station.
By the time the last statues had been lugged into the charge room and seated in a chair Chief of Police McGowan was almost crying with rage.
“I’ll break the whole damn lot of you,” he shouted. “What are you trying to do, anyway, turn my jail into a goddam museum?”
The motorcycle policemen had filed into the room and now stood facing their chief. There was an expression of dismay on their faces. Suddenly from among them came a wild, insulting noise, sounding like the neighing of a demented stallion or a sail being ripped in a mighty wind. The chief’s face went white.
“Who did that?” he thundered. “Speak up, or I’ll strip you clean of every damn button you own.”
A shriek of feminine laughter greeted this dire threat.
“That settles it,” said the chief. “I break you all. Tear each other’s buttons off. Start in.”
The officers were about to obey this drastic order when the sound of an engine starting outside the door of the station house attracted their attention.
“They’re gone!” an officer suddenly shouted. “Look! Their chairs are empty.”
“Go out and round up those statues,” commanded the head of the motorcycle squad.
“Come back here, boys,” called the chief in a weak voice. “Let’s forget the whole damn thing ever happened. I’ll stand for a certain amount of skylarking, but, for God’s sake, don’t bring me any more statues. We don’t want to get this town laughed at in the newspapers.”
“Do we keep our buttons, chief?” sang out an officer.
“Sure you do,” grinned the chief. “And be sure to keep ’em buttoned.”
“Say, you guys,” announced a bright young officer coming snappily into the room, “every damn one of your motorcycles is punctured both fore and aft.”
Far down the road four limp and drunken occasional statues were speeding through the dawn and singing at the top of their lungs a song derogatory to the morals, antecedents, and personal appearance of Chief of Police McGowan.
CHAPTER XI
In her enjoyment of her little joke she slapped Mr. Hawk on the back.
“Ouch!” she cried, blowing on her fingers. “This man of mine is certainly hard boiled.” Then in a lower voice she added, “It’s these damn low-cut, tight-fitting dresses. A girl nowadays can’t hide a thing.”
The manager, who had been an interested observer, now made his presence known. He picked up the check and rapidly ran his eyes down the column to the only place that mattered. At the sight of the total his face darkened. Still he retained his poise.
“I hope everything has been satisfactory,” he said, with one of his Ittest smiles, virily showing his white teeth.
“No, it hasn’t,” snapped Daffy. “This place is altogether too rough for a woman of any refinement. I’ve been greatly perturbed by the conduct of some of these lousy bums.” She waved her hand at the room and attempted to look indignant.
The manager opened his eyes wide, then blinked rapidly. The lady’s miscellaneous selection of words made it difficult to place her exact position in the social scale. He tried again.
“Sorry,” he said, running a hand through his boyish bob, a gesture he had always found effective when dealing with women. “Are the gentlemen quite well? If you’ll excuse me for saying it, there seems to be something wrong with them.”
“Nonsense,” replied Daffy. “They’re as hard as a rock — as hard as a couple of rocks. We want some drinks here. What’s happened to the waiter?”
“Stop scratching your head in public,” put in Meg, “and get down to brass tacks.”
The manager nervously handled the check. Evidently these two women were not of the impressionable type. So many women nowadays considered themselves lucky to be singled out by managers of roadhouses, leaders of orchestras and other, for the most part, God-fearing and hard-working members of a restaurant’s staff. He gave up all attempts to It the ladies and came to the point.
“It’s about the check,” he said quite frankly. “It’s a whale of a check, and I wouldn’t feel at all disappointed if a little something were done about it.”
A deep sigh came from the direction of Mr. Hawk. The manager stepped back a pace and regarded the scientist suspiciously.
“Oh, the check,” said Meg indifferently. “Let’s have it.”
She reached out and took the check from the manager. Then she dived into the bosom of her low-cut dress and produced a fat wallet — pin seal trimmed with gold and bearing the irrelevant letters T. H. G.
“I have to keep it for him when he gets this way,” she explained. “It’s an awful bore. Makes one left breasted. See, I’m all right now, Daffy. Not a penny’s worth of difference between ’em.”
As she rapidly examined the contents of the purse a delighted smile lit up her features.
“Why,” she continued in a pleased voice, “he has ever so much money. We can drink gallons more. Here’s one hundred and twenty dollars, and don’t let me see any change. Take that check away and frame it. You’re in luck. And, waiter, bring us a flock of drinks.”
At the sight of the strange wallet, Mr. Hawk had returned to himself with a click. He had then resuscitated Cyril Sparks. Both of them now sat staring at the fat roll of bills in Meg’s brown hand.
“For the love of all things sacred,” said Hawk when the manager and the waiter had withdrawn, “get that wallet and money out of sight. Where did they come from?”
“Oh, so you’re back, are you, you coward?” replied Meg. “Well, don’t worry about this money. It’s an old game to me. If you want any more I’ll get you lots.”
She crammed the bills into the wallet and carelessly returned it to her breast.
“I say,” put in Cyril Sparks to Daffy, “your uncle just did the most surprising thing to me. He actually turned me to stone.”
“And you weren’t any more useless than you ever are,” Daffy hastened to assure him. “We didn’t miss you at all.”
The waiter, also a changed man, returned with the drinks. These were dashed down with avidity and more ordered.
“Now you lugs are going to turn into a couple of gigolos,” announced Meg. “I’m paying for this party, and I insist on being entertained.”
“About that money,” began Mr. Hawk as she led him from the table.
Disaster had been delayed but not averted. It descended swiftly as Meg was whirling past the fat gentleman with whom she had just danced. It was not the final disaster, but rather the prelude to disaster. It began with a plop as the well stuffed wallet slipped down through Meg’s dress and landed on the floor. Quick as a flash the girl ducked and seized the lost article. Mr. Hawk, taken by surprise, hurdled on over her and sat heavily on the floor. The fat man, recognizing his wallet, uttered a strangled cry and strove to retain Megaera’s hand. She eluded his grasp and darted across the floor. In her own mind she was satisfied that she had a moral right to the wallet and all that it contained. On the other hand, the fat gentleman had certain definite ideas of his own concerning the rightful ownership of the wallet.
“Run!” cried Meg to the recumbent scientist. “I’ve got it.”
“Then give it back,” called Hawk, rising hastily from the floor and sprinting after the girl.
“Thieves!” shouted the fat gentleman, as was only just and proper. “Robbers! Stop those two!”
“They seem to be running,” observed Daffy to Cyril Spark. “Perhaps we’d better run after them.”
“I’ve already started,” said Cyril who at that moment was in entire agreement with the law of self-preservation.
“Wait for me!” cried Daffy, dashing after him to the door.
As she sped along in the rear of the retreat she encountered several waiters standing in attitudes of petrification. Apparently they had been so ill-advised as to attempt to place themselves between Mr. Hawk and liberty. Behind her she could hear the shouts and excited voices of the multitude. From in front came the sound of ground being scraped energetically by several pairs of flying feet. Her companions were toeing in. Redoubling her efforts, Daffy succeeded in overtaking the main body of the retreating party just as Mr. Hawk was getting the Emperor under way. A long arm reached out and hauled her aboard as the car gathered speed and shot down the drive. Nothing was said until they were well clear of the roadhouse. Mr. Hawk then became vocal.
“Well,” he announced nastily. “You’ve succeeded in making thieves of three honest people. You never were honest yourself.”
“I know it,” said Meg, still panting a little. “We’re all in it now. If they catch us I’m going to swear you made me do it.”
At this information, Mr. Hawk increased the speed of the already flying car.
“Damn these new-fangled dresses, anyway,” Meg continued. “They might have certain advantages, but they’re no good for plunder.”
“Hadn’t you better get rid of that wallet, dearie?” casually inquired Daffy. “And wouldn’t it be a good thing to distribute some of that money among the rest of us?”
Although Meg was far from enthusiastic about the latter suggestion, she complied with both. The wallet was hurled through the window into the bordering woods, and the money was unequally divided among the four. Meg tucked the lion’s share alongside the dagger and took the precaution to warn Mr. Hawk about his hand.
“Not that I object,” she assured the indignant man, “but it’s a sin to fool with money.”
And all this time a motorcycle policeman was burning up the road behind them while several brother officers were approaching from in front. Telephone communications had been established between the roadhouse and the various headquarters of law and order along the road. The hue and cry was out. As fear of apprehension grew farther from the minds of the Emperor’s passengers the actuality of such an occurrence was taking more definite shape.
Cyril Sparks was the first to voice his relief.
“I feel that we all deserve a drink,” he announced as he drew a bottle from some mysterious place of concealment. “I’ll bet no one knew I had hidden this.”
“You win,” said Daffy. “Occasionally you have a brain wave. Pass it around.”
She elevated the bottle, then handed it forward to Meg. That young lady drank without reluctance and asked her companion what he was going to do about it. He stopped the car and proceeded to show her. This was an unwise move. It could not have been better timed for the convenience of the elements of restraint. Three of its members jumped into the glare of the headlights and a fourth sprang to the running board of the car.
“Oh, Goddy,” breathed Mr. Hawk as he dropped the bottle to the roadside.
Then he did about the most effective thing he could have thought of to annoy and baffle the officers. He petrified the entire personnel of the Emperor. When the investigating officer shouted out the customary no-monkey-business warning, he found himself looking into a face of stone. And when he glanced at the others in quest of some explanation of this incredible occurrence he was prodigiously shocked to find their faces equally stony. For a moment he thought he had gone mad or lost the sense of touch, then, being an officer of no little resource, he summoned his colleagues to a conference.
“This isn’t the mob we’re after,” he told them. “This damn car is full of abandoned statues.”
“The hell you say,” exclaimed another officer. “There’s some funny business about this. These things can’t be statues. They’re all sitting.”
“Why can’t statues sit?” asked a third officer, remembering his Bulfinch days. “There’s crouching Venuses and flying Mercuries and leaping fawns and a hell of a lot of other funny statues.”
“Then I suppose you’d call these Sitting Automobilists?” the second speaker put in sarcastically.
“Not necessarily, but they might have been removed from someone’s garden,” was the nearly impossible reply.
“Well,” replied the other, “from the looks of them they might have been removed from a graveyard suffering from an attack of acute cramps.”
This was too much for the fourth officer, who up to that moment had been content to remain in wondering silence.
“Who ever heard of a corpse having cramps?” he demanded.
“Who ever heard anything to the contrary?”
The fourth officer was not prepared for this essentially unfair question.
“Oh, of course,” he hedged, “a corpse might have cramps, for all I know. I’ve heard that their teeth keep on growing.”
“Not teeth, you dunce, hair.” Mr. Hawk had been unable to restrain himself. His voice fell like a ghostly whisper among the officers.
“Who said that?” one of them asked nervously.
Receiving no reply, he backed hastily out of the car, his interest in the problem completely evaporated. Let those who would carry on the investigation so far as he was concerned. He would be satisfied to remain at a modest distance and watch the car, the number of which he took as a pretext for his absence.
“There’s something fishy about this,” said the senior officer of the group. “Statues or no statues, I’m going to put the lot of ’em under arrest. We got to show something to the chief.”
“He’ll be tickled pink to put that outfit behind the bars,” remarked the mythological expert.
“Yeah,” put in another. “What are you going to charge ’em with, resisting arrest?”
“No,” replied the senior officer quite seriously. “I’ll charge ’em with obstructing traffic. Get in there, Delaney, and drive this bus to the lockup.”
“One of you guys lend a hand and help me push this statue or corpse or whatever the devil it is over,” complained Delaney. “Damned if I’ll sit on its lap.”
With much puffing and panting the two officers succeeded in prying the unhelpful Mr. Hawk clear of the steering wheel. He clattered dangerously against Megaera. Then Officer Delaney, feeling none too happy at the prospect of the drive that lay ahead of him, slid down in the seat by the petrified scientist and set the car in motion.
Everything went well for the first mile or so, then Officer Delaney began to have an uneasy feeling that eyes were fixed watchfully upon him. It was an unpleasant feeling to have, and it became even more so when it grew from a feeling to a conviction. He turned his head quickly and could have sworn he detected an ironical flicker in the sightless eyes of the figure beside him.
“Nerves,” muttered the officer, beginning to sweat profusely. “Shouldn’t have gone on that party last night.”
Then, to his profound discomfort, he distinctly felt himself being tapped on the shoulder. The first three taps he allowed to pass unchallenged, but at the fourth and most impatient of the series he spun round in the seat and looked behind him.
“Eyes on the road, Delaney!” a ghoulish voice commanded. Officer Delaney whirled back to the wheel and looked numbly at the road ahead.
“That’s better,” said a feminine voice. “Have you enough room, Delaney?”
“No,” said Delaney in a hoarse but positive voice. “I haven’t near enough room, but I’m going to get a lot more.”
He brought the car to an abrupt stop and signaled to his escort.
“Listen,” he told its leader, “these damned statues are talking and asking me foolish questions, and one of them had the nerve to go tapping me on the back. Get somebody else to drive this car. I’m a sick man.”
“Nonsense,” said the senior officer. “This won’t look at all well on your record, Delaney.”
“I’ll turn in my resignation before I’ll touch that wheel again.” Delaney was firm about it.
“All right, Brownell,” snapped the officer. “Get in there and relieve Delaney.”
Brownell reluctantly obeyed. With a shrinking feeling he climbed into the seat and squeezed over to the door as far as possible. With the starting of the car his ordeal was begun.
He didn’t think, he actually knew someone was breathing heavily on his neck. Also he was certain that the gaunt figure beside him was scrutinizing him disapprovingly out of the tail of its eyes. Then the officer had a bright idea. He raised his eyes quickly to the driving mirror and uttered a wild cry. Over his shoulder was peering a white grinning face.
“Great Godamighty — whew!” rushed from the lips of the officer as he endeavored to bring the car to a stop.
“What, again?” demanded a disgusted voice. “Drive on, Brownie. Have we far to go?”
“None of your damn business,” Brownell shouted. “But if you want to know we don’t go one inch farther. I don’t know what you are or who you are, but whether you’re human or devils you should feel damn well ashamed of yourselves, carrying on like this.”
“Come, come, Brownie,” said an admonitory voice from the back of the car. “Don’t you carry on like this. You’re making yourself ridiculous. Hurry up and drive this car, or something decidedly unpleasant might happen.”
“Something unpleasant is happening,” vouchsafed Officer Brownell. “If you were any sort of statues at all you’d shut up and act like statues. You’re more talkative than a bunch of drunks.”
“What an unpleasant officer,” came a woman’s voice from the back of the car.
“My God, is there another one of you?” demanded the officer.
“There is,” said another voice, this time a man’s. “Do you want any more?”
“No!” shouted the officer.
“Your voice, Brownie, your voice,” said a soft, reproving voice from the front seat. “Do something about it. We don’t want any trouble, you know. And you’d better lay off making these wisecracks about what sort of statues we are. We’re about the finest body of statues yet uncaught. If you don’t believe it, just take a look at that leg.”
Officer Brownell was so heavily married he even depressed his wife. This ribald invitation on the part of a female statue shocked him more than anything else so far. The color mounted to his face; he elevated his chin haughtily and drove on in silence. The statues were singing a drinking song when he pulled up before the police station.
By the time the last statues had been lugged into the charge room and seated in a chair Chief of Police McGowan was almost crying with rage.
“I’ll break the whole damn lot of you,” he shouted. “What are you trying to do, anyway, turn my jail into a goddam museum?”
The motorcycle policemen had filed into the room and now stood facing their chief. There was an expression of dismay on their faces. Suddenly from among them came a wild, insulting noise, sounding like the neighing of a demented stallion or a sail being ripped in a mighty wind. The chief’s face went white.
“Who did that?” he thundered. “Speak up, or I’ll strip you clean of every damn button you own.”
A shriek of feminine laughter greeted this dire threat.
“That settles it,” said the chief. “I break you all. Tear each other’s buttons off. Start in.”
The officers were about to obey this drastic order when the sound of an engine starting outside the door of the station house attracted their attention.
“They’re gone!” an officer suddenly shouted. “Look! Their chairs are empty.”
“Go out and round up those statues,” commanded the head of the motorcycle squad.
“Come back here, boys,” called the chief in a weak voice. “Let’s forget the whole damn thing ever happened. I’ll stand for a certain amount of skylarking, but, for God’s sake, don’t bring me any more statues. We don’t want to get this town laughed at in the newspapers.”
“Do we keep our buttons, chief?” sang out an officer.
“Sure you do,” grinned the chief. “And be sure to keep ’em buttoned.”
“Say, you guys,” announced a bright young officer coming snappily into the room, “every damn one of your motorcycles is punctured both fore and aft.”
Far down the road four limp and drunken occasional statues were speeding through the dawn and singing at the top of their lungs a song derogatory to the morals, antecedents, and personal appearance of Chief of Police McGowan.
CHAPTER XI
