Delphi Complete Works of Thorne Smith (Illustrated), page 162
“Am I a little bit that way,” he inquired of the lady at his side, “or do I actually see a driverless taxicab?”
“You do,” replied the lady, arresting her own glass, “and what is more you hear it. That taxicab is singing.”
The cab was indeed singing. “I got shoes. You got shoes. All God’s chillun got shoes,” came shatteringly from it. At the same time three pairs of white shoes were proudly waved in the air. George Kerby even succeeded in placing one of his on the wheel.
“He must look awful,” Topper thought with a shudder. “Thank God one can’t see the rest of him.”
The singing taxicab made a grand loop and returned down the boulevard. People were now standing up at their tables to get a better view of the driverless cab. They could distinctly hear the voices of men and women singing lustily about shoes, yet all they saw was a dignified gentleman of middle age sitting in the taxicab with his mouth grimly shut. Several observers, not knowing what else to do, cheered the speeding car.
“I got shoes. You got shoes. All God’s chillun got shoes,” chanted the Colonel in a deep bass voice.
Whistles were blowing along the boulevard. Gendarmes were appearing. Lots of them. There was an excited honking of horns. Yet above it all boomed the voice of the indomitable Colonel loudly informing France that all God’s children were shod.
“We’ll sing for you, Topper,” cried George Kerby, “until you go down to defeat. You know how we are that way.”
“Too well,” replied Mr. Topper.
“I’m afraid Mr. Topper will have to be pulled in for the lot of us,” the Colonel interrupted his singing to observe.
“It’s a rotten shame,” said Marion Kerby. “I’ll go along with you, my old.”
“Oh, don’t do that,” Topper hastily pleaded.
When a human wall composed of gendarmes and spectators made further progress inexpedient, Topper’s companions, including Oscar, quietly melted away. God’s chillun took their shoes elsewhere. Mr. Topper was asked to descend. Witnesses readily declared that they had carefully observed Mr. Topper and he had neither driven nor sung. How, then, had it all come to pass? the gendarmes insisted on knowing. Mr. Topper was cast down at not being able to be of help. He had stepped into the automobile in all good faith and innocence, then the machine had immediately started to march. Why the car insisted on singing he had no idea. He was not familiar with the habits of French taxicabs. Perhaps the car was happy. Did automobiles sing in France? The gendarme was baffled in several directions. Suddenly his face cleared. Obviously the automobile was the offender. Mr. Topper had been more sinned against than sinning. In the name of France the gendarme apologized. The automobile would be well arrested. Also its owner. That one would indubitably remain in jail all the years of his life. As for the automobile, that would be taken apart piece by piece and inspected with the utmost rigor. Mr. Topper was allowed to depart. The crowd regarded his back with admiring eyes.
For the first time it seemed in years Topper had the sensation of being alone. He hardly knew whether he liked it or not. He decided that for the time being he rather liked it. The other world had been too much with him.
Slowly he began to smile. By the time he reached his own house he was laughing unwillingly but well. It was a thing he seldom did. He was thinking of the sightless sun glasses scrutinizing the neck of the affronted jeweler.
Mrs. Topper, watching him approach and overhearing his laughter, decided he had been drinking. Topper was only too willing to let it go at that. His unexpected appearance in sun glasses and beach shoes confirmed her in this opinion. She had been given to understand that men who drank usually made some strange and ill-advised purchases.
The glasses, she decided, lent to her husband’s customarily placid features a sinister appearance. They were violet in shade. There was about Mr. Topper the suggestion of a wild horse — one that laughed dangerously at its own evil thoughts.
Mrs. Topper was not at all satisfied in her own mind about the sanity of her husband. She suspected him of secret depths of depravity far too abysmal to be penetrated by ordinary mortals.
CHAPTER TEN
La Plage Tranquille
TOPPER OWNED A little book that went intimately into the climate, topography, diversions, and accommodations of the Côte d’Azur. He had paid four and a half francs for this little book, and had always found it to be at least fifty per cent accurate. It had instincts of veracity. The less agreeable features of the Riviera not mentioned were probably omitted with the knowledge that visitors would soon find them out for themselves. And because Topper found that this little book tended in the general direction of the truth he prized it highly and thumbed it assiduously. He knew innumerable bits about the Riviera that those who had been born and bred there never suspected — bits that would bring him neither pleasure nor profit. This little book had referred glowingly to the beach that he frequented as la plage tranquille. And indeed he had always found it tranquil enough until the arrival of the German model. Even then it had not become noisy. Merely alert.
The French are not loud people in the sense that Americans are. They are much more nosey than noisy. This does not hold for disputes, when animals of all species are prone to forget their manners. But the French can pack themselves by battalions into relatively small spaces and maintain a truly amazing degree of decorum — a sort of vivacious family monotone. However, they will regard. Their interest is quick to arouse and difficult to lull when once aroused. They will peer, scrutinize, and listen. What is even more disturbing to those unacquainted with the fine nuances of their language, they will comment with innocent frankness and abandon.
Mr. Topper was now on the beach. So was the German model. They were separated from each other by a scant six feet of sand. This afternoon the beach was crowded. There were large families present with baskets of lunch and bottles of wine. Some of these bottles had been thrust deep in the sand to cool. There were droves of children and a constant procession of couples that entertained nothing but the most agreeable ideas about one another. All was well. The plage was tranquille. Mr. Topper drew a deep breath and basked in the sun. After the excitement of the morning he felt at peace with France.
As he watched a well formed French girl shift dexterously from her dress to her bathing suit he idly wondered how she did it without revealing ever so much more of herself. Long practice, he decided. It was truly remarkable the way these French girls could dress and undress on the beach without in the least disturbing either its or their own tranquillity. Then he shifted his gaze to the trunks adorning some of the men. These always intrigued Mr. Topper. He wondered, in the first place, why they ever put them on, and in the second place, how they ever kept them on once they had been put. It was obvious that the average Frenchman gave little thought to his trunks. In his mind’s eye he could see them emptying old chests of clothes in search of the drawers of their ancestors which thrifty hands could make suitable for the beach. A slash here and a tuck there, a casually affixed button and, lo, their loins were girded sportively for the sand.
Mr. Topper was not aware of the fact that all was not well on the beach until two of his fellow countrymen, who had evidently abused the indulgence of the beach café, drew his attention to what was to them a strange and absorbing phenomenon.
“Tell me, T. D.,” said the longer of the two Americans, “has that dog dug its damn fool self down into the sand and allowed only its tail to remain exposed?”
“If it has, Joe,” replied T. D., “it’s the first dog I ever heard of acting in such a manner. Peculiar, I’d call it.”
“I’d call it impossible,” said Joe, “if it wasn’t waving there before my very eyes. There’s life in that tail.”
Mr. Topper’s eyes followed the direction of the Americans’ gaze and saw no more nor less than he had expected. There was Oscar’s tail waving negligently in the light breeze from the sea. However, Topper knew there was more to it than that — much more than met the eye. If Oscar’s tail was present, then it followed that Oscar’s companions were not far off. He cast a quick glance about him for unoccupied beach shoes. With a feeling of relief he was unable to discover any.
“Perhaps that dog’s a sand hound,” Joe suggested.
“Never even heard of any such dog,” declared T. D.
“Might have any kind of dog in France, though,” said the other. “Maybe he’s looking for sand fleas.”
“A dog with a tail like that doesn’t have to look for fleas,” wisely declared T. D. “He might be trying to get rid of some sand fleas.”
“Well, I wish he would stop whatever he’s doing,” complained Joe. “I don’t want to see his face, but I hate to think of him down there smothering himself to death. First thing you know that tail will collapse from lack of breath.”
“For God’s sake,” breathed T. D., suddenly sitting up, “will you look at what he’s doing now!”
The tail was slowly creeping across the sand in the direction of a large open lunch basket. Topper could picture to himself the stealthy movements of the rest of the dog.
“It’s burrowing,” said Joe, “like an — an — like a mole.”
“But what speed,” observed T. D. admiringly. “Do you think we drank too much and are seeing things?”
His question was never answered. Joe was too busy looking. The tail had achieved its objective. It was well under the lee of the basket now, and close to the sand. In another moment a sandwich emerged from the basket, quivered nervously in the air, then went out like a light. There was no more sandwich.
“Gord!” breathed Joe. “Can you match that?”
“Look,” was all T. D. said.
This time the leg of a chicken made its mysterious appearance. Evidently the tail considered this piece of loot worthy of more serious consideration. Slowly the leg followed by the tail moved across the sand to the protection of a rotting row-boat. In the security of this object the leg was consumed at the leisure of the tail.
“La jambe!” exclaimed the mother of the brood attached to the basket. “Elle n’est pas ici. Quel dommage!”
Apprehending the nearest child, she administered a routine chastisement upon the scrap of cloth it was wearing. Joe looked at T. D., and T. D. looked at Joe. No word was spoken. Both rose from the sand and made their way to the café. As they passed Mr. Topper, Joe paused and asked him a question.
“Pardon me,” said Joe, “but have you noticed anything peculiar going on — anything having to do with a tail?”
“No,” replied Topper coldly. “I have seen nothing peculiar in that line, although I have seen some rather amusing as well as provocative examples.”
“Let’s hurry,” said Joe to his companion. “He’s harder to understand than the French themselves.”
On this beach there was a huge push ball, the property of Monsieur Sylvestre. Mr. Topper was watching this push ball. So were a number of other bathers. It appeared to be pushing itself. Exclamations of alarm and surprise issued from the crowd. These were speedily augmented and intensified when the ball, suddenly tossing appearances to the wind, pushed itself over a family group inoffensively eating lunch on the sand. For a moment the family was blotted out; then it reappeared in a crumpled condition, its luncheon sadly attenuated. The father of the family picked himself up and in an impassioned speech demanded to be immediately informed who had made the balle to march not only over his lunch but also over his blood relations. As if it were an afterthought, the balle returned and smote the voluble Frenchman heavily upon his unguarded back. This forcibly returned the man to his former place on the sand in the heart of his family. The ball passed on and made for the crowd. It seemed to have become infuriated about something. The crowd parted, and the ball sped down the beach, where it crashed against a tent, the two occupants of which would have preferred not to be seen. As if satisfied by this display of ferocity the ball came to rest.
By this time Monsieur Sylvestre was receiving a lot of complaints about his ball. He strode down the beach and confronted it with a severe eye. Immediately the ball set itself in motion. It began to march on Monsieur Sylvestre. This act of defiance enraged the good patron. He, in turn, defied the ball. He rushed to meet its advance. In this the Frenchman displayed more valor than discretion. There was no stopping that ball. It met Monsieur Sylvestre face to face, and it was the patron’s face that yielded. When he dazedly arose he experienced the final humiliation of being chased back to the crowd by his own ball. The ball stopped short of the crowd and rested on its laurels. It was master of the field. None disputed its authority to go where it pleased. Monsieur Sylvestre had suffered a crushing defeat. He was stunned.
Throughout all this the German model alone had remained unmoved. She was gradually edging her bathing suit lower down on her body. A small towel served as supplementary protection. For once Topper was not interested. His eyes were on the springboard jutting out from the end of the bathing pier. Many eyes were centered on this spot.
Here he saw George Kerby, ludicrously clad in a flapping bathing suit which must once have been the property of a felon. George was poised on the extreme edge of the springboard. He was contorting his body in the most excruciating postures preparatory to diving. Suddenly he flung his striped form high in the air, scrambled himself there for a moment, then faded out. The bathing suit dropped to the water with a wistful splash. Before the astounded watchers had had time to recover from this shocking event, the tall form of the Colonel, clad like a patriarch in a flowing robe, appeared upon the lip of the springboard. The crowd was breathing heavily. One woman was actually praying, while several others were furtively crossing themselves. Even Mr. Topper was moved by the sight of the Colonel. Dressed as he was, it seemed likely that the priestly Colonel would, at least, ascend to heaven, instead of which he treated his audience to several dizzy flips, then landed in the water with a terrific flop. As far as the crowd could tell, the Colonel never came up, for his robe, too, drifted on the tide in company with the garment George Kerby had abandoned.
The bathers out on the float now began to experience difficulty in maintaining their footing. Topper watched them as one by one they appeared to hurl themselves into the sea. Only the ladies remained, and they looked as if remaining was the last thing in the world they wanted to do.
Mr. Topper decided that George Kerby and the Colonel must be very busy about having a good time. They seemed to be everywhere at once, causing disturbance.
When the men climbed back on the float they naturally wanted to know who was the dirty dog that had been so mentally warped as to push them overboard. This question was asked in several different languages, but in none pleasantly. This led to complications, for the answers were in all tongues an approximation of “go to hell.” So enraged did one small man become that he struck a large man in the stomach. The large man in his fury literally threw the small man away. Not quite mollified by this rather drastic step, he turned and punched an inquiring stranger heavily upon the nose. The stricken man, realizing the futility of meeting the large man on his own ground, satisfied his exasperation by tearing the bathing suit off an elderly gentleman in spectacles. Not knowing what else to do, yet feeling called upon to do something, the elderly gentleman held the nearest head he could find under water. One show of ill temper speedily led to another. It was not long before the crowd on the beach was stricken mute with amazement by the condition of the float. Its occupants seemed to have gone in for murder. Half clad and totally nude they attacked one another like so many Neolithic warriors.
Blind unreason ruled the day. Blows rained, and imprecations rose. Murderous ambitions were frustrated by a splash. Whether all the occupants of the float ever returned to the beach or some drowned on the way was never satisfactorily settled. Topper remembered seeing one man, evidently unhinged by terror, swimming industriously out to sea. He assumed the man eventually returned. He could not have sworn to it. Topper did not care a great deal if none of them got back.
Exhaustion and salt water eventually put an end to the activities on the float. The crowd drew a deep breath and wondered what the admirable Monsieur Sylvestre was going to do about it all. That gentleman was moodily considering taking either one of two steps — putting his café, bath houses, and diversions up for sale, or sending for the gendarmes. His plage tranquille had suddenly changed to la plage de la pandémonium. He sank heavily down on the sand by Mr. Topper and asked him about it. Mr. Topper admitted that it was a little too much for him to explain. That push ball, for instance, could it have been in the clutch of a strong but self-contained wind? Monsieur Sylvestre stoutly declared that the conduct of the push ball would have been inexcusable in a hurricane. And as for those diving bodies that disappeared even as they dived, that was a thing inexplicable. No, of a truth le bon Dieu had turned His face against his, Monsieur Sylvestre’s, beach. At this moment the distracted man caught sight of Oscar’s self-propelling tail snaking its way across the sand in the general direction of another lunch basket. Monsieur Sylvestre’s eyes started from his head. Several times he opened his mouth as if to speak, but no articulate sounds issued therefrom. Finally they came in awed accents.
“M’sieu,” he said in a choked voice. “Regardez! Even now dogs have begun to forsake their tails. Soon the entire beach may be doing likewise. Who can tell where these things will end?”
Not waiting to see what disposition this forsaken tail was going to make of itself, Monsieur Sylvestre rose unsteadily to his feet and lurched off in the direction of his café and level-headed wife. Mr. Topper sighed deeply and turned to regard the bare reaches of the German model. Today she was barer than ever, there was no doubt about it. Too bad so much was going on elsewhere. She was not receiving the attention she deserved.
