Уильям Макгиверн - Collected Fiction - 1940-1963

“First of all,” Celeste said coolly, “did you get the bond?”

Oscar started violently as the import of these words crashed into his brain. His suspicions had been correct! Mercer was the culprit!

“Quiet, you little fool!” Mercer hissed at Celeste. “Suppose someone overheard you. Certainly I have it. But I wasn’t able to slip out and give it to you as we planned. We had a little slip-up here.”

“Slip-up?” There was an anxious edge to Celeste’s voice.

“Yes. The little dope we pinned this job on managed to escape. I still don’t know how he did it. Anyway, it created a lot of excitement and if I had left then, it would have looked rather suspicious.”

“Well, give it to me now,” Celeste told him. “I can slip out of here without being searched.”

Mercer stuck a hand into his inside coat pocket.

“All right,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll give it to you; and then for Pete’s sake, clear out of here.”

Oscar trembled with excitement as Mercer’s hand emerged from his pocket holding an oblong piece of crisp, gilt-edged paper. The missing bond! Oscar wavered indecisively. Should he make a desperate lunge for the bond, the evidence that would clear him of any possible guilt? He knew that if Celeste got her hands on that gilt-edged certificate, left the bank with it, his last chance would go glimmering. He tensed himself, determined to risk everything on one frantic gamble.

Mercer was extending the bond, Celeste’s slim hand was reaching greedily for it...

Oscar crouched, gathering his muscles — and then the door banged open and the hearty voice of Phineas Q. Botts boomed through the room.

“Been looking for you, Mercer. Thought I might find you here.”

Mercer wheeled toward the door, stuffing the incriminating paper into his trouser pocket as he faced his employer.

Oscar’s shoulders sagged dispiritedly. His moment for vindication was gone. Anything could happen now.

Botts looked from Mercer to Celeste.

“Not interrupting anything, I hope?” he rumbled jovially.

“Not at all,” Mercer said hastily. “As a matter of fact, Miss — er — Miss Summers was just going.”

“That’s right,” Celeste smiled coyly. “I simply have to dash off.” She turned slightly to look straight at Mercer. “It’s a pity you didn’t have that snapshot with you,” she murmured. “Perhaps I can arrange to see you tonight and pick it up. I’m so anxious to have it!”

“Excellent idea,” Mercer agreed quickly. “The bank employees are holding their dance tonight at the Grande Arms Hotel. If you could arrange to meet me in the lobby I’ll have it for you then.”

“You can expect me,” murmured Celeste, “at nine. There’s a sentimental value to that particular snapshot — and I wouldn’t like anything to happen to it.”

She turned, her bright smile turned incandescently on the portly personage of Mr. Botts, and swished enticingly from the room.

“Lovely creature,” Botts breathed gustily. “Charming! Reminds me of a girl I knew once in France. I was younger then, but—”

Botts broke off suddenly, coughing in embarrassment.

“As I was saying,” he rumbled on, “we can’t find hide nor hair of this fellow Doolittle. He’s not in the building; there’s not a trace of him anywhere.”

Oscar felt a comfortable glow warming him. He was safe, secure at last! Why, he could walk right out of the bank this minute and nobody would be the wiser. Along with this feeling of security came a sudden rush of confidence. He wouldn’t run like a scared chicken. No, sir, he’d stick.

Mercer had the bond. He’d follow Mercer until an opportunity presented itself to grab the precious paper. With this evidence he could clear himself. For the first time that day, Oscar’s course of action seemed simple and uncomplicated—

And then suddenly the smug, complacent smile that adorned his invisible features was wiped away by a horrible noise — the strange buzzing noise that accompanied his miraculous transformations.

In a few seconds he would be visible again. Goodness, this was terrible!

In fact, it was positively catastrophic. Because Phineas Q. Botts and Lester Mercer showed no signs of leaving the room. Mercer was trying to get on the good side of his boss, always a splendid idea if it isn’t done too obviously.

“Ahem!” Mercer coughed. “I didn’t recall that you had been in France, sir.” He winked slyly. The two policemen, sensing the drift of things, stood around grinning.

Botts’ pink-jowled face colored pinker, but he took the innuendo in good stride.

“Ah yes, Mercer. Lovely country, France, lovely country! Before the Nazis got hold of it, of course. Why, I was only a young man when my father sent me to Paris before the World War to — er — paint. Ah yes, great artists, those Parisians, great artists! Good red wine, attractive — harrumph! — young ladies—” Botts fairly glowed at the reminiscence.

“I trust, sir, that you did considerable painting,” Mercer said with a Grandpa-you’re-an-old-devil grin.

“Paris has never been the same since,” Botts breathed in a gust of frankness. Then he remembered what he had said, and blushed furiously.

Meanwhile, Oscar’s bovine eyes were flying frantically around the room, searching desperately for a place of concealment. They lighted on the huge desk that stood in the center of the room. He moved quickly — but even as he took the first steps, he knew he was too late.

For it had happened again. Oscar was suddenly as plain as a light snapped on in a dark room. Every inch of his unprepossessing body became as glaringly obvious as the Lindbergh Beacon.

Phineas Q. Botts spotted him first.

“There he is!” he shouted. “Grab him!”

Botts obeyed his own command by lunging across the room, crashing into Oscar’s slight form. His fat arms wrapped around the wasp-like waist and his booming voice roared into Oscar’s ears.

Oscar felt a pair of strong hands on his arms. A bulky uniformed figure loomed before him. There was a metallic click as handcuffs were snapped around his thin wrists. Through the cloudy fog of hysteria that blanketed his brain, he could hear his own voice, shrill and incoherent, pleading his innocence.

“How did he get in here?” Mercer said wonderingly. “It’s incredible, amazing!”

“Nonsense!” bleated Botts triumphantly. “I saw him as he slipped in the door. They have to get up mighty early in the morning to steal a march on Phineas Botts!”

“You’ve got to listen!” Oscar began to plead hysterically. “I’ve been framed! I’m innocent! But I know who the real thief is. You’ve got to believe me!”

“What’s that?” Botts said instantly. “You know who the thief is? Well, speak up, man! Who is he?”

“I’ll tell you!” Oscar panted.

He shook himself free from the clutch of the policeman and advanced belligerently toward Lester Mercer.

“There’s the real thief!” he shouted, pointing both manacled fists at the efficiency expert. “He’s got the bond on him right now! Search him,” Oscar concluded triumphantly, “and see whether or not I’m telling the truth!”

Mercer licked his lips as all eyes in the room focused on him. He looked nervously about, clenching and unclenching his hands.

“That’s absurd!” he protested weakly. “The man’s insane. Take him away before he goes berserk and hurts somebody.”

“Now just a moment, Lester,” Botts interposed. “Seems to me we ought to give Oscar every chance to clear himself. If you have nothing to fear, you shouldn’t object to being searched.”

“I don’t,” Mercer gasped nervously. “It’s only that...”

“He’s stalling,” Oscar cut in. “He’s got the bond on him. He knows he’s guilty!” he added confidently.