Fredric Brown - The Shaggy Dog and Other Murders

And I remembered, too, that if I could get him back to normal, such as normal was, I could clean up enough in a week or two to retire. As it was, I was out a couple of hundred bucks of my own dough.

Then I had my big idea. You can't argue with a nut. Or maybe you can, Mr. Gupstein, because you're a lawyer, but I couldn't. But my idea was this: How could two guys both be Napoleon? If you put two Napoleons in the same cell, wouldn't one of them outtalk the other? And wouldn't the guy who had the delusion longest be the best talker?

I went around to the bank and drew some dough and then I hunted up a private sanitarium and a bit of fast talking got me an audience in private with the head cheese.

"Have you got any Napoleons here?" I asked him.

"Three of them," he admitted, looking me over like he was wondering if I'd dispute their claims to that identity. "Why?"

I leaned forward confidentially. "I have a very dear friend who has the same delusion. I think if he were shut up with another guy who has prior claim on the same idea, he might be talked out of it. They can't both be Napoleon, you know."

"Such a procedure," he said, "would be against medical ethics. We couldn't possibly--"

I took a roll of bills from my pocket and held them under his nose. "A hundred dollars," I suggested, "for a three-day trial; win, lose, or draw."

He looked offended. He opened his mouth to turn me down, but I could see his eyes on the frogskins.

"Plus, of course," I added, "the regular sanitarium fees for the three days. The hundred dollars as an honorarium to you personally for taking an interest in the experiment."

"It couldn't possibly--" he began, and looked at me expectantly to see if I was going to cut in and raise the ante. I stood pat; that was all I wanted to invest. There was silence while I kept holding the bills out toward him.

"--do any harm," he concluded, taking the money. "Can you bring your friend today?"

Cadwallader was under the bed when I got home. He said the spies had been closing in on the apartment. It took a lot of fast talking to get him out. I had to go and buy him a false mustache and colored glasses for a disguise. And I pulled the shades down in the taxi that took us to the sanitarium.

It took all my curiosity-tortured will power, Mr. Gup-stein, to wait the full three days, but I did it.

When I was shown into his office, the doctor looked up sadly.

"I fear the experiment was a dismal failure," he ad-mitted. "I warned you. The patient still has paranoia."

"I don't give three shrieks in Hollywood if he still has pyorrhea," I came back. "Does he or does he not still think he's Napoleon?"

"No," he said. "He doesn't. Come on, I'll let you see for yourself."

We went upstairs and the doc waited outside while I went into the room to talk to Cadwallader.

The other Napoleon had already been moved on.

My blue-eyed wonder was lying on a bed with his head in his mitts, but he sprang up with delight when he saw me.

"Rajah, old pal," he asked eagerly. "Have you a saucer?"

"A saucer?" I looked at him in bewilderment.

"A saucer."

"What do you want with a saucer?"

The beginning wasn't promising, but I plowed on. There was one thing interested me most.

"Are you Napoleon Bonaparte?" I asked him.

He looked surprised. "Me?"

I was getting fed up. "Yes, you," I told him.

He didn't answer, and I could see that his mind, what there was of it, wasn't on the conversation. His eyes were roving around the room.

"What are you looking for?" I demanded.

"A saucer."

"A saucer?"

"Sure. A saucer."

The conversation was getting out of hand. "What on earth do you want with a saucer?"

"So I can sit down, of course."

"Huh?" I asked, startled.

"Naturally," he replied. "Can't you see that I'm a teacup?"

I gulped, and turned sadly to the door. Then for a mo-ment he seemed to gather shreds of his sanity together. "I say, Rajah," he piped up. I turned.

"If I don't see you again, Rajah, I want you to have something to remember me by." He reached for his tie and pulled out the stickpin with the rock the size of a postage stamp. I'd forgotten about it, no kidding. He handed it to me, and I thanked him. And I meant it.

"You'll come again, though?" he asked wistfully.

"Sure I will, Cadwallader." I turned to the door again. Darned if I didn't want to bawl, Mr. Gupstein.

I told the doctor he'd be sent for, and got out of the sanitarium safely. Then I looked the sparkler over care-fully again, and I decided it's worth at least five G's. So I'll come out ahead on the deal as soon as I cash in on it.

First, I was going to appraise the stone, so I trotted into one of the ritziest shops in town. I knew I'd have to pick an expensive joint to flash a rock that size without arousing too much suspicion.

There was only one clerk behind the counter and an-other customer was ahead of me. I began to look around, but when I caught part of the conversation, I froze.

"... and since then," the clerk was saying, "you haven't heard a word from or about your brother, Mr. Van Aylslea?"

The customer shook his head. "Not a word. We're keep-ing it from the press, of course."

I took a close look. The bloke was older and not so heavy, but I could see he resembled my kleptomaniac teacup.

So as quietly as though I was walking on eggs, I eased out of the shop. But I waited outside. I figured I might do Cadwallader a final favor. When Van Aylslea came out, I buttonholed him.

"Mr. Van Aylslea," I whispered. "I'm Operative Fifty-three. Your brother is at Bide-a-Wee Sanitarium."

His face lighted up, and he shook my hand and patted my shoulder like a long-lost brother. "I'll get him right away," he said.

"Better stop for a saucer," I called after him as his car started, but I guess he didn't hear me.

I drifted on. If that stone had belonged to the Van Aylsleas and if they traded at that particular shop, they might recognize it, so I figured I'd had a narrow squeak.

It occurred to me that it had been in my tie when I talked to Cadwallader's brother, which had been a foolish chance to take, but I guess he didn't notice it. He was too excited.

Well, that takes me up to a few minutes ago, Mr. Gupstein. I decided to skip the appraisal and come right to you for advice.

Are you willing to approach the Van Aylsleas for me and find out if they want to offer a reward for the rock? I understand, Mr. Gupstein, that you have handled deals like that very successfully, and I'd rather not risk trying to peddle it if they offer a good reward.

And the Van Aylslea guy I just left looked like a reason-able guy who--

Huh? You say you know the family and that the brother is almost as batty as Cadwallader, and that he's a klepto too, at times?

Nix, Mr. Gupstein, you can't make me believe that he's slicker than his brother with the finger-work. That's im-possible. Mr. Gupstein. Nobody could be smoother than--

Oh, well, let's not worry about that. The point is, are you willing to handle the deal for me?

The stickpin? Why, it's right here in my tie, of course, where it's been ever since . . .

Huh?

...Well, Mr. Gupstein, I'm sorry I took up your time. But this decides me, Mr. Gupstein. When two amateur dips give me a cleaning the same week, I'm through.

I've got a brother-in-law who's a bookie and wants to give me a good, honest job. And I'm taking it. I've lifted my last leather.

You're darned right I mean it, Mr. Gupstein. And to prove it, here's your billfold back. So long, Mr. Gupstein.

The bar in front of him was wet and sloppy; Sir Charles Hanover Gresham carefully rested his forearms on the raised dry rim of it and held the folded copy of Stage-craft that he was reading up out of the puddles. His fore-arms, not his elbows; when you have but one suit and it is getting threadbare you remember not to rest your el-bows on a bar or a table. Just as, when you sit, you always pull up the trouser legs an inch or two to keep the knees from becoming baggy. When you are an actor you remem-ber those things. Even if you're a has-been who never really was and who certainly never will be, living--barely --off blackmail, drinking beer in a Bowery bar, hung over and miserable, at two o'clock on a cool fall afternoon, you remember.