The Flowered Thundermug 
by
Alfred Bester

    "We will conclude this first semester of Antiquities 107," 
Professor Paul Muni said, "with a reconstruction of an average 
day in the life  of a mid-twentieth-century  inhabitant of the 
United States of America, as Great L.A. was known five hundred 
years ago.

    "Let us refer to him as Jukes, one of the proudest names of
the times, immortalized in the Kallikak-Jukes-feud sagas. It is
now generally agreed that the mysterious code letters JU, found
in the  directories  of  Hollywood East, or New York City as it
was called then--viz., JU 6-0600 or JU 2-1914--indicate in some
manner  a  genealogical  relationship  to  the  powerful  Jukes
dynasty.

    "The  year  is  1950.  Mr.  Jukes, a typical `loner'--i.e.,
`bachelor'--lives on a small ranch outside New York.  He  rises
at  dawn, dresses in spurred boots, Daks slacks, rawhide shirt,
gray flannel waistcoat and black knit tie. He arms himself with
a Police Positive revolver or a Frontier Six Shooter  and  goes
out to the Bar-B-Q to prepare his breakfast of curried plankton
or  converted  algae.  He  may  or  may  not  surprise juvenile
delinquents or red Indians on his ranch in the act of  lynching
a victim or rustling his automobiles, of which he has a herd of
perhaps one hundred and fifty.

    "These  hooligans he disperses after single combat with his
fists. Like all twentieth-century Americans, Jukes is  a  brute
of fantastic strength, giving and receiving sledgehammer blows,
or  being  battered by articles of furniture with inexhaustible
resilience. He rarely uses his gun on  such  occasions;  it  is
usually reserved for ceremonial rituals.

    "Mr.  Jukes  journeys  to  his  job  in  New  York  City on
horseback; in a sports car (a kind of open automobile),  or  on
an  electric trolley car. He reads his morning newspaper, which
will feature such stories  as:  `The  Discovery  of  the  North
Pole,'  `The  Sinking of the Luxury Liner Titanic,' `The
Successful Orbiting of Mars by Manned Space Capsule,'  or  `The
Strange Death of President Harding.'

    "Jukes  works  in an advertising agency situated on Madison
Avenue (now Sunset Boulevard East), which, in those days, was a
rough muddy highway, traversed by stagecoaches, lined with  gin
mills   and   populated   by  bullies,  corpses  and  beautiful
night-club performers  in  abbreviated  dresses.  Jukes  is  an
agency man, dedicated to the guidance of taste, the improvement
of  culture,  the election of public officers and the selection
of national heroes.

    "His office on the twentieth floor of a towering skyscraper
is decorated in the characteristic style of  the  mid-twentieth
century.  He  has a roll-top desk, a Null-G, or Free Fall chair
and a brass spittoon. Illumination is by  Optical  Maser  light
pumps.  Large  fans  suspended from the ceiling cool him in the
summer, and an infrared Franklin stove warms him in the winter.

    "The walls are decorated with  rare  pictures  executed  by
such  famous  painters  as  Michelangelo,  Renoir  and  Sunday.
Alongside the desk is  a  tape  recorder,  which  he  uses  for
dictation.  His  words  are  later  written down by a secretary
using a pen and carbon ink.  (It  has,  by  now,  been  clearly
demonstrated  that  the  typewriting  machine was not developed
until the onset of the Computer Age at the end of the twentieth
century.)

    "Mr. Jukes's work involves the creation  of  the  spiritual
slogans  that  uplift the consumer half of the nation. A few of
these have  come  down  to  us  in  more  or  less  fragmentary
condition,  and  those  of  you  who  have  taken Professor Rex
Harrison's course,  Linguistics  916,  know  the  extraordinary
difficulties  we are encountering in our attempts to interpret:
`Good to the Last Drop' (for `good' read `God'?); `Does She  or
Doesn't  She?'  (what?); and `I Dreamed I Went to the Circus in
My Maidenform Bra' (incomprehensible).

    "At midday, Mr.  Jukes  takes  a  second  meal,  usually  a
community  affair  with thousands of others in a giant stadium.
He returns to  his  office  and  resumes  work,  but  you  must
understand  that  conditions  were not ideal for concentration,
which is why he was forced to labor as much  as  four  and  six
hours  a  day.  In  those deplorable times there was a constant
uproar of highway robberies, hijackings, gang  wars  and  other
brutalities.   The  air  was  filled  with  falling  bodies  as
despairing brokers leaped from their office windows.

    "Consequently it is only natural  for  Mr.  Jukes  to  seek
spiritual  peace  at  the  end  of  the day. This he finds at a
ritual called a `cocktail party.' He and many  other  believers
stand  close-packed in a small room, praying aloud, and filling
the air with the sacred residues of  marijuana  and  mescaline.
The  women  worshipers  often  wear  vestments called `cocktail
dresses,' otherwise known as `basic black.'

    "Afterward, Mr. Jukes may take his last meal of the day  in
a  night club, an underground place of entertainment where rare
shows are presented. He is often accompanied  by  his  `expense
account,'  a  phrase  difficult  to  interpret. Dr. David Niven
argues most cogently that it was cant  for  `a  woman  of  easy
virtue,'  but Professor Nelson Eddy points out that this merely
compounds the difficulty, since no  one  today  knows  what  `a
woman of easy virtue' was.

    "Finally,  Mr.  Jukes returns to his ranch on a `commuters'
special,' a species of steam car, on which he  plays  games  of
chance  with  the  professional  gamblers  who infested all the
transportation systems of the times At home, he builds a  small
outdoor  fire,  calculates  the  day's  expenses on his abacus,
plays sad music on  his  guitar,  makes  love  to  one  of  the
thousands  of strange women who made it a practice of intruding
on campfires at odd hours, rolls up in a blanket  and  goes  to
sleep.

    "Such  was  the  barbarism  of that age--an age so hysteric
that few men lived beyond one hundred years. And yet  romantics
today  yearn  for  that  monstrous  era  of turmoil and terror.
Twentieth-century Americana is all the vogue. Only recently,  a
single copy of Life, a sort of mail-order catalogue, was
bought  at  auction  by  the  noted  collector Clifton Webb for
$150,000. I might mention, in passing, that in my  analysis  of
that  curio  in  the  current  Phil. Trans. I cast grave
doubts on its authenticity. Certain anachronisms  in  the  text
indicate a possible forgery.

    "And  now  a final word about your term examinations. There
has been some talk about bias on the part of the  computer.  It
has  been  suggested  that  when  this department took over the
Multi-III from Biochemistry, various circuits  were  overlooked
and  left  operative,  prejudicing the computer in favor of the
mathematical approach. This is  utter  nonsense.  Our  computer
psychiatrist  assures  me  that  the  Multi-III  was completely
brainwashed and reindoctrinated. Exhaustive checks  have  shown
that all errors were the result of student carelessness.

    "I   urge   you   to  observe  the  standard  sterilization
procedures before taking your examination. Do  not  scamp  your
wash-up.  Make sure your surgical caps, gowns, masks and gloves
are properly adjusted. Be certain that your punching tools  are
in   register   and   sterile.   Remember  that  one  speck  of
contamination on your answer card can wreck your  results.  The
Multi-III  is  not  a  machine, it is a brain, and requires the
same care and consideration you give  your  own  bodies.  Thank
you, good luck, and I hope to see you all again next semester."

    Coming  out  of the lecture hall, Professor Muni was met in
the crowded corridor by his secretary,  Ann  Sothern.  She  was
wearing  a polka dot bikini, carried a tray of drinks and had a
pair of the professor's swim trunks draped over her  arm.  Muni
nodded  in  appreciation,  swallowed a quick one and frowned at
the  traditional  musical  production  number  with  which  the
students  moved  from class to class. He began reassembling his
lecture notes as they hurried from the building.

    "No time for a dip, Miss Sothern," he said. "I'm  scheduled
to  sneer  at  a  revolutionary  discovery  in the Medical Arts
Building this afternoon."

    "It's not on your calendar, Dr. Muni."

    "I know. I know.  But  Raymond  Massey  is  sick,  and  I'm
standing  in for him. Ray says he'll substitute for me the next
time I'm due to advise a young genius to give up poetry."

    They left  the  Sociology  Building,  passed  the  teardrop
swimming  pool, the book-shaped library, the heart-shaped Heart
Clinic, and came to the faculty-shaped Faculty-Building. It was
in a grove of royal palms through which a miniature golf course
meandered, its air  conditioners  emitting  a  sibilant  sound.
Inside   the  Faculty  Building,  concealed  loudspeakers  were
broadcasting the latest noise-hit.

    "What is  it--Caruso's  `Niagara'?"  Professor  Muni  asked
absently.

    "No,  Callas's  `Johnstown  Flood,'" Miss Sothern answered,
opening the door of Muni's office. "Why, that's  odd.  I  could
have  sworn  I  left  the  lights  on."  She felt for the light
switch.

    "Stop," Professor Muni snapped.  "There's  more  here  than
meets the eye, Miss Sothern."

    "You mean . . . ?"

    "Who  does  one traditionally encounter on a surprise visit
in a darkened room? I mean, whom."

    "Th-the Bad Guys?"

    "Precisely."

    A nasal voice spoke. "You are so right, my dear  professor,
but I assure you this is purely a private business matter."

    "Dr.  Muni,"  Miss Sothern gasped. "There's someone in your
office."

    "Do come in, professor," the nasal voice said. "That is, if
you will permit me to invite you into your own office. There is
no use trying to turn on the lights, Miss  Sothern.  They  have
been--attended to."

    "What  is  the  meaning  of this intrusion?" Professor Muni
demanded.

    "Come in. Come in. Boris, guide the professor to  a  chair.
The goon who is taking your arm, Professor Muni, is my ruthless
bodyguard, Boris Karloff. I am Peter Lorre."

    "I  demand  an  explanation,"  Muni  shouted. "Why have you
invaded my office? Why are the lights out?  By  what  right  do
you--"

    "The  lights  arc out because it is best that people do not
see Boris. He is a most useful man, but not, shall we  say,  an
aesthetic  delight. Why I have invaded your office will be made
known to you after  you  have  answered  one  or  two  trifling
questions."

    "I  will  do  nothing  of  the  sort. Miss Sothern, get the
dean."

    "You will remain where you are, Miss Sothern."

    "Do as you're told, Miss Sothern. I will not permit this--"

    "Boris, light something."

    Something was lit. Miss Sothern  screamed.  Professor  Muni
was dumb-struck.

    "All  right,  Boris, put it out. Now, my dear professor, to
business. First, let me inform you that it will be  worth  your
while  to  answer  my questions honestly. Be good enough to put
out your hand." Professor Muni extended his hand.  A  sheaf  of
bills  was  placed  in  it. "Here is one thousand dollars; your
consultation fee. Would you care to  count  it?  Shall  I  have
Boris light something?"

    "I believe you," Muni muttered.

    "Very  good.  Professor  Muni,  where  and how long did you
study American history?"

    "That's an odd question, Mr. Lorre."

    "You have been paid, Professor Muni."

    "Very true. Well . . . I studied at Hollywood High, Harvard
High, Yale High and the College of the Pacific."

    "What is `college'?"

    "The old  name  for  a  high.  They're  traditionalists  at
Pacific--hidebound reactionaries."

    "And how long did you study?"

    "Some twenty years."

    "How long have you been teaching here at Columbia High?"

    "Fifteen years."

    "Then  that  adds  up  to  thirty-five years of experience.
Would you say that you had an extensive knowledge of the merits
and qualifications of the various living historians?"

    "Fairly extensive. Yes."

    "Then who, in your opinion, is  the  leading  authority  on
twentieth-century Americana?"

    "Ah.   So.   Very  interesting.  Harrison,  of  course,  on
advertising copy,  newspaper  headlines,  and  photo  captions.
Taylor  on domestic science--that's Dr. Elizabeth Taylor. Gable
is probably  your  best  bet  for  transportation.  Clark's  at
Cambridge High now, but he--"

    "Excuse  me,  Professor  Muni.  I put the question badly. I
should  have  asked:  Who   is   the   leading   authority   on
twentieth-century   objects   of  virtu?  Antiques,  paintings,
furniture, curios, objets d'art, and so forth . . ."

    "Ah! I have no hesitation in  answering  that,  Mr.  Lorre.
Myself."

    "Very  good.  Very  good.  Now  listen carefully, Professor
Muni. I have been delegated by a little group of  powerful  men
to  hire  your  professional  services.  You  will  be paid ten
thousand dollars in advance. You will give your word  that  the
transaction will be kept secret. And it must be understood that
if your mission fails, we will do nothing to help you."

    "That's  a  lot of money," Professor Muni said slowly. "How
can I be sure that this offer is from the Good Guys?"

    "You have my assurance that it is for freedom and  justice,
the  man on the street, the underdogs and the L.A. Way of Life.
Of course, you can refuse this  dangerous  assignment,  and  it
will  not  be  held against you, but you are the one man in all
Great L.A. who can carry it out."

    "Well," Professor Muni said, "seeing that  I  have  nothing
better  to  do  than mistakenly sneer at a cancer cure today, I
might as well accept."

    "I knew we could depend on you. You are the sort of  little
man that makes L.A. great. Boris, sing the national anthem."

    "Thank  you,  but I need no praise. I'm just doing what any
loyal, red-blooded, one-hundred-percent Angelino would do."

    "Very good. I will pick you up at  midnight.  You  will  be
wearing rough tweeds, a felt hat pulled down over your face and
stout  shoes. You will carry one hundred feet of mountaineering
rope, prism binoculars and an ugly snub-nosed fission gun. Your
code identity will be .369."

    "This," Peter Lorre said, "is .369. .369, may  I  have  the
pleasure of introducing you to X, Y and Z?"

    "Good   evening,   Professor   Muni,"  the  Italian-looking
gentleman said. "I am Vittorio De Sica.  This  is  Miss  Garbo.
That is Edward Everett Horton. Thank you, Peter. You may go."

    Mr. Lorre exited. Muni stared around. He was in a sumptuous
penthouse  apartment decorated entirely in white. Even the fire
burning in  the  grate  was,  by  some  miracle  of  chemistry,
composed  entirely  of milk-white flames. Mr. Horton was pacing
nervously before the fire. Miss Garbo reclined languidly  on  a
polar-bear  skin,  an  ivory cigarette holder drooping from her
hand.

    "Let me relieve you of that rope, professor," De Sica said.
"And the customary binoculars and snub-nosed pistol, I presume?
I'll take them too. Do  make  yourself  comfortable.  You  must
forgive  our  being  in  faultless  evening  dress;  our  cover
identities,  you  understand.  We  operate  the  gambling  hell
downstairs. Actually we are--"

    "No!" Mr. Horton cried in alarm.

    "Unless  we  have  full  faith  in  Professor  Muni and are
perfectly candid, we will get  nowhere,  my  dear  Horton.  You
agree, Greta?" Miss Garbo nodded.

    "Actually,"  De  Sica  continued, "we are a little group of
powerful art dealers."

    Muni stammered, "Th-then . . . Then  you're  the  De
Sica, and the Garbo, and the Horton?"

    "We are."

    "B-but  .  .  . But everyone says you don't exist. Everyone
believes that the organization known as  the  Little  Group  of
Powerful  Art  Dealers  is  really  owned  by  `The Thirty-nine
Steps,'  with  the  controlling  interest  vested  in   Cosa
Vostro. It is said that--"

    "Yes, yes," De Sica interrupted. "That is what we desire to
have  believed;  hence  our cover identity as the sinister trio
operating this gambling syndicate.  But  it  is  we  three  who
control the art of the world, and that is why you are here."

    "I don't understand."

    "Show him the list," Miss Garbo growled.

    De  Sica  produced  a sheet of paper and handed it to Muni.
"Be good enough to read this list of articles, Professor. Study
it carefully. A great deal will depend on the  conclusions  you
draw."

    Automatic grill-waffler
    Steam-spray iron
    12-speed electric mixer
    Automatic 6-cup percolator
    Electric aluminum fry pan
    4-burner gas heater-range w. griddle
    11-cubic-foot refrigerator plus 170-lb. freezer
    Power sweeper, canister-type, w. vinyl bumper
    Sewing machine w. bobbins and needles
    Maple-finished-pine wagon-wheel chandelier
    Opal-glass ceiling-fixture lamp
    Hobnail-glass provincial-style lamp
    Pull-down brass lamp w. beaded glass diffuser
    Double-bell black-faced alarm clock
    50-piece service for 8, mirror-lite flatware
    16-piece service for 4, Du Barry-pattern dinnerware
    All-nylon pile rug, 9x12, spice beige
    Colonial rug, oval, 9x12, fern green
    Hemp outdoor "Welcome" mat, 18x30
    Sofa-bed and chair, sage green
    Round foam-rubber hassock
    Serofoam recliner chair w. 3-way mechanism
    Drop-leaf extension table, seats 8
    4 captain's chairs w. scoop seats
    Colonial oak bachelor's chest, 3 drawers
    Colonial oak double dresser, 6 drawers
    French Provincial canopy bed, 54 in. wide

    After studying the list for ten minutes, Professor Muni put
the paper  down and heaved a deep sigh. "It reads like the most
fabulous buried treasure in history," he said.

    "Oh, it is not buried, Professor."

    Muni sat bolt upright. "You  mean  these  objects  actually
exist?" he exclaimed.

    "Most  certainly  they  do. More of that later. First, have
you absorbed the items?"

    "Yes."

    "You have them in your mind's eye?"

    "I do."

    "Then can you answer this question: Are these treasures all
of a kind, of a style, of a taste?"

    "You are obscure, Vittorio," Miss Garbo growled.

    "What we want to know," Edward Everett  Horton  burst  out,
"is whether one man could--"

    "Gently,  my  dear  Horton.  Each  question  in  its proper
sequence. Professor, perhaps I have been  obscure.  What  I  am
asking  is  this: Do these treasures represent one man's taste?
That is to say, could the man who--let  us  say--collected  the
twelve-speed  electric  mixer also be the man who collected the
hemp outdoor `Welcome' mat?"

    "If he could afford both," Muni chuckled.

    "We will, for the sake of argument, say that he can  afford
all the items on that list."

    "A  national  government couldn't afford all of them," Muni
replied. "However, let me think...."  He  leaned  back  in  his
chair and squinted at the ceiling, hardly aware that the Little
Group  of Powerful Art Dealers was watching him intently. After
much face-contorting concentration, Muni opened  his  eyes  and
looked around. "Well? Well?" Horton demanded anxiously.

    "I've  been  visualizing those treasures in one room," Muni
said. "They go remarkably well together.  In  fact  they  would
make  one  of  the  most  impressive and beautiful rooms in the
world. If one  were  to  walk  into  such  a  room,  one  would
immediately want to know who the genius was who decorated it."

    "Then . . . ?"

    "Yes. I would say this was the taste of one man."

    "Aha! Then your guess was right, Greta. We are dealing with
a lone shark."

    "No,  no, no. It's impossible." Horton hurled his B&B glass
into the fire, and then flinched at the crash. "It can't  be  a
lone   shark.  It  must  be  many  men,  all  kinds,  operating
independently. I tell you--"

    "My dear Horton,  pour  yourself  another  drink  and  calm
yourself.  You  are  only  confusing the good doctor. Professor
Muni, I told you that the items on that list  exist.  They  do.
But  I  did  not  tell you that we don't know where they are at
present. We do not for a very good reason; they have  all  been
stolen."

    "No! I can't believe it."

    "But yes, plus perhaps a dozen more rarities, which we have
not bothered to itemize because they are rather minor."

    "Surely  this was not a single, comprehensive collection of
Americana. I would have been aware of its existence."

    "No. Such a single collection never was and never will be."

    "Ve vould not permit it," Miss Garbo said.

    "Then how were they stolen? Where?"

    "By crooks," Horton exclaimed, waving the Brandy  &  Banana
decanter.  "By  dozens  of  different  thieves. It can't be one
man's work."

    "The professor has said it is one man's taste."

    "It's impossible. Forty daring robberies in fifteen months?
I won't believe it."

    "The rare objects on that list," De Sica continued to Muni,
were stolen over a period of fifteen  months  from  collectors,
museums, dealers and importers, all in the Hollywood East area.
If, as you say, the objects represent one man's taste--"

    "I do."

    "Then  it  is  obvious  we  have  on  our  hands  a rara
avis, a clever criminal who is also a connoisseur, or, what
is perhaps even more dangerous, a connoisseur  who  has  turned
criminal."

    "But  why  particularize?"  Muni  asked.  "Why must he be a
connoisseur? Any average art dealer  could  tell  a  crook  the
value  of  antique  objets  d'art. The information could
even be obtained from a library."

    "I say connoisseur," De Sica answered, "because none of the
stolen objects has ever been seen again. None has been  offered
for  sale anywhere in the four orbits of the world, despite the
fact that any one of them would be worth a king's ransom. Ergo,
we are dealing with  a  man  who  steals  to  add  to  his  own
collection."

    "Enough,  Vittorio,"  Miss Garbo growled. "Ask him the next
qvestion."

    "Professor, we now assume we are  dealing  with  a  man  of
taste. You have seen the list of what he has stolen thus far. I
ask  you,  as  a historian: can you suggest any object of virtu
that obviously belongs in his collection? If a rare  item  were
to   come  to  his  attention,  something  that  would  fit  in
beautifully with that hypothetical  room  you  visualized--what
might it be? What would tempt the connoisseur in the criminal?"

    "Or  the criminal in the connoisseur," Muni added. Again he
squinted at the ceiling while the others watched  breathlessly.
At last he muttered, "Yes . . . Yes, . . That's it. It must be.
It would be the focal point of the entire collection."

    "What?" Horton cried. "What are you talking about?"

    "The Flowered Thundermug," Muni answered solemnly.

    The  three  art  dealers  looked so perplexed that Muni was
forced to elaborate. "It is  a  blue  porcelain  jardiniere  of
uncertain  function,  decorated with a border of white and gold
marguerites. It was discovered over a century ago by  a  French
interpreter  in  Nigeria.  He  brought  it  to Greece, where he
offered  it  for  sale,  but  he  was  murdered,  and  the  mug
disappeared.  It  next  turned up in the possession of an Uzbek
prostitute traveling under a Formosan passport who  surrendered
it  to  a  quack  in  Civitavecchia  in  return  for an alleged
aphrodisiac.

    "The quack hired a  Swiss,  a  deserter  from  the  Vatican
Guards,  to safeguard him to Quebec, where he hoped to sell the
mug to a Canadian uranium tycoon, but he disappeared en  route.
Ten  years  later a French acrobat with a Korean passport and a
Swiss accent sold the mug in Paris. It was bought by the  ninth
Duke of Stratford for one million gold francs, and has remained
in the Olivier family ever since."

    "And this," De Sica asked keenly, "could be the focal point
of our connoisseur's entire collection?"

    "Most definitely. I stake my reputation on it."

    "Bravo!  Then  our  plan  is  simplicity  itself.  We  much
publicize a pretended sale of  the  Flowered  Thundermug  to  a
prominent Hollywood East collector. Perhaps Mr. Clifton Webb is
best  suited to the role. We much publicize the shipment of the
rare treasure to Mr. Webb. We bait a trap in the  home  of  Mr.
Webb for our criminal and--Mah! we have him."

    "Will the Duke and Mr. Webb cooperate?" Muni asked.

    "They will. They must."

    "They must? Why?"

    "Because  we  have  sold  art  treasures  to  both of them,
Professor Muni."

    "I don't follow."

    "My good doctor, sales today are entirely on  the  residual
basis.  From  five  to  fifty  percent of ownership control and
resale value of all works of art remain in our  possession.  We
own  residual  rights in all those stolen objects too, which is
why they must be recovered. Do you understand now?"

    "I do, and I see that I'm in the wrong business."

    "So. Peter has paid you already?"

    "And pledged you to secrecy?"

    "I gave my word."

    "Grazie. Then if you will excuse us,  we  have  much
work to do."

    As  De  Sica  handed  Muni the coil of rope, binoculars and
snub-nosed gun, Miss Garbo said, "No."

    De Sica gave her an inquiring glance. "Is  there  something
else, cara mia?"

    "You  and  Horton  go and do your vork somevhere else," she
growled. "Peter may have paid him, but I have not. Ve  vant  to
be alone." And she beckoned Professor Muni to the bearskin.

    In  the  ornate  library  of  the  Clifton  Webb mansion on
Skouras  Drive,  Detective   Inspector   Edward   G.   Robinson
introduced  his  assistants to the Little Group of Powerful Art
Dealers.  His  staff  was  lined  up  before  the   exquisitely
simulated    trompe-l'oeil   bookshelves,   and   were   rather
trompe-l'oeil  themselves  in  their  uniforms   of   household
servants.

    "Sergeant   Eddie   Brophy,  footman,"  Inspector  Robinson
announced. "Sergeant Eddie Albert, second footman. Sergeant  Ed
Begley,  chef.  Sergeant Eddie Mayhoff, second chef. Detectives
Edgar Kennedy, chauffeur, and Edna May Oliver, maid."

    Inspector Robinson himself was in the uniform of a  butler.
"Now,  ladies  and  gents, the trap is baited and set, with the
invaluable  aid  of  the  Police  Costume,  Prop   and   Makeup
Department,  Deputy  Commissioner  Eddie Fisher in charge, than
which there is none better."

    "We congratulate you," De Sica said.

    "As you very well  know,"  Robinson  continued,  "everybody
believes  that  Mr. Clifton Webb has bought the Thundermug from
Duke Stratford for two million dollars.  They  are  well  aware
that  it  was  secretly  shipped  to Hollywood East under armed
guard and that at this very moment the art treasure reposes  in
a  concealed safe in Mr. Webb's library." The inspector pointed
to a wall, where the combination dial of a  safe  was  artfully
set  in  the  navel of a nude by Amedeo Modigliani (2381-2431),
and highlighted by a concealed pin spot.

    "Vhere is Mr. Vebb now?" Miss Garbo asked.

    "Having turned over his palatial  mansion  to  us  at  your
request,"  Robinson  answered,  "he  is presently on a pleasure
cruise of the Carib with his family and servants. As  you  very
well know, this is a closely guarded secret."

    "And  the  Thundermug?"  Horton  asked nervously. "Where is
it?"

    "Why, sir, in that safe."

    You mean--you  mean  you  actually  brought  it  over  from
Stratford? It's here? Oh, my God! Why? Why?"

    "We  had  to have the art treasure transported, Mr. Horton.
How else could we have leaked the  closely  guarded  secret  to
Associated  Press,  United  Television,  Reuters  News  and the
Satellite  Syndicate,  thus  enabling  them   to   take   sneak
photographs?"

    "B-but ... But if it's actually stolen.... Oh, my God! This
is awful."

    "Ladies  and  gents," Robinson said. "Me and my associates,
the best cops on the Hollywood East force, the Honorable Edmund
Kean, Commissioner, will be here, nominally going  through  the
duties  of  the  household  staff,  actually  keeping  our eyes
peeled, leaving no stone unturned, up to every trick and  dodge
known  in the annals of crime. If anything's taken, it will not
be the Flowered Thundermug; it will be the Artsy-Craftsy Kid."

    "The who?" De Sica asked.

    "Your crooked connoisseur, sir. That's our nickname for him
on the Bunco Squad. And now, if you will be good enough to slip
out under cover of darkness, using a little-known door  in  the
back  garden,  me  and  my  associates will begin our simulated
domestic duties. We have a hot tip from the underworld that the
Artsy-Craftsy Kid will strike--tonight."

    The Little Group of Powerful  Art  Dealers  departed  under
cover  of darkness; the Bunco Squad began the evening household
routine to reassure  any  suspicious  observer  that  life  was
proceeding  normally  in the Webb pleasance. Inspector Robinson
was to be seen, gravely pacing back and forth before the living
room windows, carrying a silver salver on  which  was  glued  a
wineglass,  its  interior  ingeniously  painted red to simulate
claret.

    Sergeants  Brophy  and  Albert,  the  footmen,  alternately
opened  the  front  door  for  each  other  with much elaborate
formality as  they  took  turns  going  out  to  mail  letters.
Detective Kennedy painted the garage. Detective Edna May Oliver
hung  the  bedding  out  the  upstairs  windows  to air. And at
frequent  intervals  Sergeant  Begley  (chef)  chased  Sergeant
Mayhoff (second chef) through the house with a meat cleaver.

    At  2300  hours, Inspector Robinson put the salver down and
yawned prodigiously. The cue was picked up by  his  staff,  and
the  entire  mansion  echoed  with  yawns.  In the living room,
Inspector Robinson undressed, put on a nightgown and  nightcap,
lit  a  candle  and  extinguished  the  lights.  He put out the
library lights, leaving only the pin spot focused on  the  safe
dial. Then he trudged upstairs. In other parts of the house his
staff also changed to nightgowns, and then joined him. The Webb
home was dark and silent.

    An  hour  passed;  a clock chimed twenty-four. A loud clank
sounded from the direction of Skouras Drive.

    "The front gate," Ed whispered.

    "Someone's coming in," Ed said.

    "It's the Artsy-Craftsy Kid," Ed added.

    "Keep your voices down!"

    "Right, Chief."

    There was a crunch-crunch-crunch of gravel.

    "Coming up the front drive," Ed muttered.

    "Oh, he's a deep one," Ed said.

    The gravel noises changed to mushy sounds.

    "Crossing the flower border," Ed said.

    "You got to hand it to him," Ed said.

    There was a dull thud, a stumble and an imprecation.

    "Stepped into a flowerpot," Ed said.

    There  came  a  series  of  thuddy  noises   at   irregular
intervals.

    "Can't get it off," Ed said.

    A crack and a clatter.

    "Got it off now," Ed said.

    "Oh, he's slick all right," Ed said.

    There came exploratory taps on glass.

    "At the library window," Ed said.

    "Did you unlock it?"

    "I thought Ed was going to do that, Chief."

    "Did you, Ed?"

    "No, Chief. I thought Ed was supposed to."

    "He'll  never  get in. Ed, see if you can unlock it without
him seeing--"

    A crash of glass.

    "Never mind, he's got it open. You can always trust a pro."

    The window creaked up; there were scrapes and grunts as the
midnight intruder climbed through When he finally stood upright
in the library, his silhouette against the beam of the pin spot
was apelike. He looked around uncertainly for some time, and at
last began searching aimlessly through drawers and cupboards.

    "He'll never find it," Ed whispered. "I told you we  should
of put a sign under the dial, Chief."

    "No, trust an old pro. See? What'd I tell you? He's spotted
it. All set now?"

    "Don't you want to wait for him to crack it, Chief?"

    "Catch him red-handed."

    "For  God's  sake,  that safe's burglar proof. Come on now.
Ready? Go!"

    The library was flooded with light. The thief started  back
from  the  concealed  safe  in  consternation,  to find himself
surrounded by seven grim detectives, all leveling guns  at  his
head.  The fact that they were wearing nightshirts did not make
them look any less resolute. For their part, the detectives saw
a broad-shouldered, bullnecked burglar with a lantern jaw.  The
fact  that he had not altogether shaken off the contents of the
flowerpot and wore a Parma violet (Viola pallida  plena)
on his night shoe, did not make him look any less vicious.

    "And  now,  Kid,  if you please," Inspector Robinson
said with the exaggerated courtesy that made his admirers  call
him the Beau Brummel of the Bunco Squad.

    They bore the malefactor off to headquarters in triumph.

    Five  minutes  after  the  detectives  departed  with their
captive, a gentleman in full evening cloak sauntered up to  the
front  door  of  the  Webb  mansion. He rang the doorbell. Prom
within came the music  of  the  first  eight  bars  of  Ravel's
Bolero played on full carillon orchestra in waltz tempo.
While the gentleman appeared to wait carelessly, his right hand
slid  through a slit in his cloak and rapidly tried a series of
keys in the lock. The gentleman rang  the  bell  again.  Midway
through  the  second rendition of the Bolero, he found a
key that fitted.

    He turned the lock, thrust the door open a few inches  with
a  twist  of  his toe, and spoke pleasantly, as to an invisible
servant inside.

    "Good evening. I'm afraid I'm  rather  late.  Is  everybody
asleep,  or  am  I  still  expected?  Oh, good. Thank you." The
gentleman entered the house, shut the door behind  him  softly,
looked  around  at  the  dark,  empty foyer, and grinned. "Like
taking candy from kids," he murmured. "I ought to be ashamed of
myself.

    He located the library,  entered  and  turned  on  all  the
lights.  He removed his cloak, lit a cigarette, noticed the bar
and then poured himself a drink from one of the more  appealing
decanters.  He  tried  it and gagged. "Ack! A new horror, and I
thought I knew them all. What the hell is it?"  He  dipped  his
tongue  into  the glass. "Scotch, yes; but Scotch and what?" He
sampled again. "My God, it's broccoli juice."

    He glanced around,  found  the  safe,  crossed  to  it  and
inspected   it.   "Great   heavens!"  he  exclaimed.  "A  whole
three-number dial--all of twenty-seven  possible  combinations.
Absolutely burglar-proof. I really am impressed."

    He  reached for the dial, looked up, met the nude's melting
glance, and smiled apologetically.  "I  beg  your  pardon,"  he
said,  and began twisting the dial: 1-1-1, 1-1-2, 1-1-3, 1-2-1,
1-2-2, 1-2-3, and so on, each time trying  the  handle  of  the
safe,   which   had  been  cleverly  disguised  as  the  nude's
forefinger. At 3-2-1, the handle came down with a smart  click.
The  safe  door  opened,  eviscerating,  at it were, the lovely
belly. The cracksman reached in and brought  out  the  Flowered
Thundermug. He contemplated it for a full minute.

    A low voice spoke. "Remarkable, isn't it?"

    The cracksman looked up quickly. A girl was standing in the
library door, examining him casually. She was tall and slender,
with  chestnut  hair and very dark-blue eyes. She was wearing a
revealing white sheath, and her clear skin  gleamed  under  the
lights.

    "Good evening, Miss Webb--Mrs.--?"

    "Miss."  She  flicked  the third finger of her left hand at
him.

    "I'm afraid I didn't hear you come in."

    "Nor I you." She strolled into the library. "You  do  think
it's   remarkable,  don't  you?  I  mean,  I  hope  you're  not
disappointed."

    "No, I'm not. It's unique."

    "Who do you suppose designed it?"

    "We'll never know."

    "Do you think he didn't make many?  Is  that  why  it's  so
rare?"

    "It  would  be  pointless  to  speculate, Miss Webb. That's
rather like  asking  how  many  colors  an  artist  used  in  a
painting, or how many notes a composer used in an opera."

    She  flowed  onto  a lounge. "Cigarette, please? Are you by
any chance being condescending?"

    "Not at all. Light?"

    "Thank you."

    "When we contemplate beauty we should see only the  Ding
an  sich, the thing in itself. Surely you're aware of that,
Miss Webb."

    "I suspect you're rather detached."

    "Me? Detached? Not at all. When I contemplate you,  I  also
see  only the beauty in itself. And while you're a work of art,
you're hardly a museum piece."

    "So you're also an expert in flattery."

    "You could make any man an expert, Miss Webb."

    "And now that you've broken into  my  father's  safe,  what
next?"

    "I intend to spend many hours admiring this work of art."

    "Make yourself at home."

    "I  couldn't  think  of  intruding. I'll take it along with
me."

    "So you're going to steal it."

    "I beg you to forgive me."

    "You're doing a very cruel thing, you know."

    "I'm ashamed of myself."

    "Do you know what that mug means to my father?"

    "Certainly. A two-million-dollar investment."

    "You think he trades in beauty, like brokers on  the  stock
exchange?"

    "Of  course.  All wealthy collectors do. They buy to own to
sell at a profit."

    "My father isn't wealthy."

    "Oh come now, Miss Webb. Two million dollars?"

    "He borrowed the money."

    "Nonsense."

    "He did." She spoke with great intensity, and her  darkblue
eyes narrowed. "He has no money, not really. He has nothing but
credit.  You must know how Hollywood financiers manage that. He
borrowed the money, and that mug is the security."  She  surged
up  from  the lounge. "If it's stolen it will be a disaster for
him--and for me."

    "Miss Webb, I--"

    "I beg you, don't take it. Can I persuade you?"

    "Please don't come any closer."

    "Oh, I'm not armed."

    "You're endowed  with  deadly  weapons  that  you're  using
ruthlessly."

    "If you love this work of art for its beauty alone, why not
share it with us? Or are you the kind of man you hate, the kind
that must own?"

    "I'm getting the worst of this."

    "Why can't you leave it here? If you give it up now, you'll
have  won a half interest in it forever. You'll be free to come
and go as you please. You'll have won a half  interest  in  our
family--my father, me, all of us...."

    "My  God!  I'm  completely outclassed. All right, keep your
confounded--" He broke off.

    "What's the matter?"

    He was staring at her left arm. "What's that on your  arm?"
he asked slowly.

    "Nothing."

    "What is it?" he persisted.

    "It's a scar. I fell when I was a child and--"

    "That's no scar. It's a vaccination mark."

    She was silent.

    "It's  a  vaccination  mark,"  he  repeated  in  awe. "They
haven't vaccinated in four hundred years--not like that."

    She stared at him. "How do you know?"

    In answer he rolled up his left sleeve and showed  her  his
vaccination mark.

    Her eyes widened. "You too?"

    He nodded.

    "Then we're both from . . ."

    "From then? Yes."

    They  gazed  at each other in amazement. Then they began to
laugh with incredulous delight. They embraced and thumped  each
other,  very much like tourists from the same home town meeting
unexpectedly  on  top  of  the  Eiffel  Tower.  At  last   they
separated.

    "It's the most fantastic coincidence in history," he said.

    "Isn't  it?"  She  shook her head in bewilderment. "I still
can't quite believe it. When were you born?"

    "Nineteen fifty. You?"

    "You're not supposed to ask a lady."

    "Come on! Come on!"

    "Nineteen fifty-four."

    "Fifty-four?" He grinned.  "You're  five  hundred  and  ten
years old.

    "See? Never trust a man."

    "So you're not the Webb girl. What's your real name?"

    "Dugan. Violet Dugan."

    "What a nice, plain, wholesome sound that has."

    "Sam Bauer."

    "That's even plainer and nicer. Well!"

    "Shake, Violet."

    "Pleased to meet you, Sam."

    "It's a pleasure."

    "Likewise, I'm sure."

    "I   was   a   computer   man  at  the  Denver  Project  in
seventy-five," Bauer said, sipping his gin and gingersnap,  the
least horrific combination from the Webb bar.

    "Seventy-five?"  Violet  exclaimed.  "That  was the year it
blew up."

    "Don't I know it. They'd bought one of the new IBM  1709's,
and  IBM  sent  me  along as installation engineer to train the
Army personnel. I remember the night of the blast--at  least  I
figure  it was the blast. All I know is, I was showing them how
to program some new algorisms for the computer when--"

    "When what?"

    "Somebody put out the lights. When I woke up, I  was  in  a
hospital  in Philadelphia--Santa Monica East, they call it--and
I learned that I'd been kicked five centuries into the  future.
I'd been picked up, naked, half dead, no identification."

    "Did you tell them who you really were?"

    "No. Who'd believe me? So they patched me up and discharged
me, and I hustled around until I found a job."

    "As a computer engineer?"

    "Oh, no; not for what they pay. I calculate odds for one of
the biggest bookies in the East. Now, what about you?"

    "Practically  the  same  story. I was on assignment at Cape
Kennedy, doing illustrations for a magazine piece on the  first
Mars shoot. I'm an artist by trade--"

    "The Mars shoot? That was scheduled for seventy-six, wasn't
it? Don't tell me they loused it."

    "They  must  have, but I can't find out much in the history
books."

    "They're pretty vague about our time. I think that war must
have wiped most of it out."

    "Anyway, I was in the control  center  doing  sketches  and
making  color  notes  during the countdown, when--well, the way
you said, somebody put out the lights."

    "My God! The first atomic shoot, and they blew it."

    "I woke up in a hospital in Boston--Burbank  North--exactly
like you. After I got out, I got a job."

    "As an artist?"

    "Sort  of.  I'm  an  antique-faker.  I  work for one of the
biggest art dealers in the country."

    "So here we are, Violet."

    "Here we are. How do you think it happened, Sam?"

    "I have no idea, but  I'm  not  surprised.  When  you  fool
around with atomic energy on such a massive scale, anything can
happen. Do you think there are any more of us?

    "Shot forward?"

    "Uh huh."

    "I couldn't say. You're the first I ever met."

    "If  I  thought  there  were,  I'd  look  for them. My God,
Violet, I'm so homesick for the twentieth century."

    "Me too."

    "It's grotesque here; it's  all  B  picture,"  Bauer  said.
"Pure  Hollywood  cliché.  The names. The homes. The way
they talk. The way they carry on. All like it's straight out of
the world's worst double feature."

    "It is. Didn't you know?"

    "Know? Know what? Tell me."

    "I got it from their history books.  It  seems  after  that
star  nearly  everything  was  wiped  out.  When  they  started
building a new civilization, all they had for a pattern was the
remains of Hollywood. It was  comparatively  untouched  in  the
war."

    "Why?"

    "I guess nobody thought it was worth bombing."

    "Who were the two sides, us and Russia?"

    "I  don't know. Their history books just call them the Good
Guys and the Bad Guys."

    "Typical. Christ, Violet, they're like idiot children.  No,
they're  like  extras in a bad movie. And what kills me is that
they're happy. They're all living this grade Z  synthetic  life
out  of  a Cecil B. De Mille spectacle, and the idiots love it.
Did you see President Spencer Tracy's funeral? They carried the
coffin in a full-sized Sphinx."

    "That's nothing. Did you see Princess Joan's wedding?"

    "Fontaine?"

    "Crawford. She was married under anesthesia."

    "You're kidding."

    "I am  not.  She  and  her  husband  were  joined  in  holy
matrimony by a plastic surgeon."

    Bauer  shuddered.  "Good  old Great L.A. Have you been to a
football game?"

    "No."

    "They don't play football; they  just  give  two  hours  of
half-time entertainment."

    "Like  the  marching  bands; no musicians, nothing but drum
majorettes with batons."

    "They've got everything air conditioned, even outdoors."

    "With Muzak in every tree."

    "Swimming pools on every street corner."

    "Kleig lights on every roof."

    "Commissaries for restaurants."

    "Vending machines for autographs."

    "And for medical diagnosis. They call them Medicmatons."

    "Cheesecake impressions in the sidewalks."

    "And here we are, trapped in hell," Bauer  grunted.  "Which
reminds  me,  shouldn't  we  get out of this house? Where's the
Webb family?"

    "On a cruise. They won't be  back  for  days.  Where's  the
cops?"

    "I  got  rid  of  them with a decoy. They won't be back for
hours. Another drink?"

    "All right. Thanks." Violet looked at Bauer curiously.  "Is
that  why you're stealing, Sam, because you hate it here? Is it
revenge?"

    "No, nothing like that. It's because I'm  homesick....  Try
this;  I think it's Rum and Rhubarb.... I've got a place out on
Long Island--Catalina East, I ought to say--and I'm  trying  to
turn  it  into  a  twentieth-century  home. Naturally I have to
steal the stuff.  I  spend  weekends  there,  and  it's  bliss,
Violet. It's my only escape."

    "I see."

    "Which  again  reminds  me.  What  the devil were you doing
here, masquerading as the Webb girl?"

    "I was after the Flowered Thundermug too."

    "You were going to steal it?"

    "Of course. Who was as surprised as  I  when  I  discovered
someone was ahead of me?"

    "And that poor-little-rich-girl routine--you were trying to
swindle it out of me?"

    "I was. As a matter of fact, I did."

    "You did indeed. Why?"

    "Not the same reason as you. I want to go into business for
myself."

    "As an antique-faker?"

    "Faker  and  dealer  both.  I'm building up my stock, but I
haven't been nearly as successful as you."

    "Then was it you who got away with that three-panel  vanity
mirror framed in simulated gold?"

    "Yes."

    "And  that  brass  bedside  reading  lamp  with  adjustable
extension."

    "That was me."

    "Too bad; I really wanted that. How about the tufted chaise
tongue covered in crewel?"

    She nodded. "Me again. It nearly broke my back."

    "Couldn't you get help?"

    "How could I trust anyone? Don't you work alone?"

    "Yes," Bauer said thoughtfully. "Up  to  now,  yes;  but  I
don't  see any reason for going on that way. Violet, we've been
working against each other without knowing it. Now  that  we've
met, why don't we set up housekeeping together?"

    "What housekeeping?"

    "We'll  work together, furnish my house together and make a
wonderful sanctuary. And at the same time you can  be  building
up  your  stock.  I  mean, if you want to sell a chair out from
under me, that'll be all right. We  can  always  pinch  another
one."

    "You mean share your house together?"

    "Sure."

    "Couldn't we take turns?"

    "Take turns how?"

    "Sort of like alternate weekends?"

    "Why?"

    "You know."

    "I don't know. Tell me."

    "Oh, forget it."

    "No, tell me why."

    She  flushed. "How can you be so stupid? You know perfectly
well why. Do you think I'm the kind of girl who spends weekends
with men?"

    Bauer was taken aback. "But I had no  such  proposition  in
mind,  I  assure  you.  The  house  has two bedrooms. You'll be
perfectly safe. The first thing we'll do is steal a  Yale  lock
for your door."

    "It's out of the question," she said. "I know men."

    "I  give  you  my word, this will be entirely on a friendly
basis. Every decorum will be observed."

    "I know men," she repeated firmly.

    "Aren't you being a little unrealistic?" he asked. "Hero we
are, refugees in this  Hollywood  nightmare;  we  ought  to  be
helping  and  comforting  each other; and you let a silly moral
issue stand between us."

    "Can you look me in the eye and  tell  me  that  sooner  or
later  the  comfort  won't wind up in bed?" she countered. "Can
you?"

    "No, I can't," he answered honestly. "That would be denying
the fact that you're a damned attractive girl. But I--"

    "Then it's out of the question, unless you want to legalize
it; and I'm not promising that I'll accept."

    "No," Bauer said sharply. "There I draw the  line,  Violet.
That would be doing it the L.A. way. Every time a couple want a
one-night stand they go to a Wedmaton, put in a quarter and get
hitched.  The  next  morning  they  go  to  a Renomaton and get
unhitched, and their conscience is clear. It's hypocrisy!  When
I  think  of  the girls who've put me through that humiliation:
Jane Russell, Jane Powell, Jayne Mansfield, Jane Withers,  Jane
Fonda, Jane Tarzan--Iyeuch!"

    "Oh!  You!" Violet Dugan leaped to her feet in a fury. "So,
after all  that  talk  about  loathing  it  here,  you've  gone
Hollywood too."

    "Go  argue  with  a  woman." Bauer was exasperated. "I just
said I didn't want to do it the L.A. way, and she accuses me of
going Hollywood. Female logic!"

    "Don't you pull your male supremacy  on  me,"  she  flared.
"When I listen to you, it takes me back to the old days, and it
makes me sick."

    "Violet  .  .  . Violet . . . Don't let's fight. We have to
stick together. Look, I'd go along with it your way.  What  the
hell,  it's only a quarter. But we'd put that lock on your door
anyway. All right?"

    "Oh! You! Only a quarter! You're disgusting." She picked up
the Flowered Thundermug and turned.

    "Just a minute," Bauer said. "Where  do  you  think  you're
going?"

    "I'm going home."

    "Then we don't team up?"

    "No."

    "We don't get together on any terms?"

    "No.  Go and comfort yourself with those tramps named Jane.
Good night."

    "You're not leaving, Violet."

    "I'm on my way, Mr. Bauer."

    "Not with that Thundermug."

    "It's mine."

    "I did the stealing."

    "And I did the swindling."

    "Put it down, Violet."

    "You gave it to me. Remember?"

    "I'm telling you, put it down."

    "I will not. Don't you come near me!"

    "You know men. Remember? But not all about  them.  Now  put
that  mug  down  like  a  good  girl  or  you're going to learn
something  else  about  male  supremacy.   I'm   warning   you,
Violet.... All right, love, here it comes."

    Pale  dawn  shone  into  the  office of Inspector Edward G.
Robinson, casting blue beams through the dense cigarette smoke.
The Bunco Squad made  an  ominous  circle  around  the  apelike
figure slumped in a chair. Inspector Robinson spoke wearily.

    "All right, let's hear your story again."

    The  man  in  the  chair stirred and attempted to raise his
head. "My name is William Bendix,"  he  mumbled.  "I  am  forty
years  of  age.  I  am  a  pinnacle  expediter in the employ of
Groucho, Chico, Harpo  and  Marx,  construction  engineers,  at
12203 Goldwyll Terrace."

    "What is a pinnacle expediter?"

    "A pinnacle expediter is a specialist whereby when the firm
builds  like  a  shoe-shaped building for a shoe store, he ties
the laces on top; also he puts the straws  on  top  of  an  ice
cream parlor; also he--"

    "What was your last job?"

    "The Memory Institute at 30449 Louis B. Mayer Boulevard."

    "What did you do?"

    "I put the veins in the brain."

    "Have you got a police record?"

    "No, sir."

    "What  were  you perpetrating in the luxurious residence of
Clifton Webb on or about midnight last night?"

    "Like I said, I was having a vodka-and-spinach in  Ye  Olde
Moderne  Beer  Taverne--I  put  the  foam  on top when we built
it--and this guy come up to me and got to talking. He  told  me
all  about  this  art  treasury just imported by a rich guy. He
told me he was a collector hisself, but couldn't afford to  buy
this  treasury,  and  the  rich  guy  was  so jealous of him he
wouldn't even let him see it.  He  told  me  he  would  give  a
hundred dollars just to get a look at it."

    "You mean steal it."

    "No,  sir, look at it. He said if I would just bring
it to the window so he could look at it,  he  would  pay  me  a
hundred dollars."

    "And how much if you handed it to him?"

    "No,  sir,  just  look at it. Then I was supposed to
put it back from whence it come from, and that  was  the  whole
deal."

    "Describe the man."

    "He  was  maybe  thirty  years  old. Dressed good. Talked a
little funny, like a foreigner, and laughed a lot, like he  had
a  joke  he  wanted  to tell. He was maybe medium height, maybe
taller. His eyes was dark. His hair  was  dark  and  thick  and
wavy; it would of looked good on top of a barbershop."

    There  was an urgent rap on the office door. Detective Edna
May Oliver burst in, looking distressed.

    "Well?" Inspector Robinson snapped.

    "His story stands up, Chief,"  Detective  Oliver  reported.
"He was seen in Ye Olde Moderne Banana Split last night--"

    "No, no, no. It was Ye Olde Moderne Beer Taverne."

    "Same  place,  Chief. They just renovated for another grand
opening tonight."

    "Who put the cherries on top?" Bendix wanted  to  know.  He
was ignored.

    "This  perpetrator  was  seen talking to the mystery man he
described," Detective Oliver continued. "They left together."

    "It was the Artsy-Craftsy Kid."

    "Yes, Chief."

    "Could anyone identify him?"

    'No, Chief."

    "Damn! Damn! Damn!" Inspector Robinson smote  the  desk  in
exasperation. "I have a hunch that we've been tricked."

    "How, Chief?"

    "Don't  you  see,  Ed?  There's a chance the Kid might have
found out about our secret trap."

    "I don't get it, Chief."

    "Think, Ed.  Think!  Maybe  he  was  the  underworld
informer  who  sent  us  the  anonymous  tip that the Kid would
strike last night."

    "You mean squeal on himself?"

    "Exactly."

    "But why, Chief?"

    "To trick us into arresting the wrong man. I tell you, he's
diabolical."

    "But what did that get him, Chief? You already seen through
the trick."

    "You're right, Ed. The Kid's plan must go deeper than that.
But how? How?" Inspector Robinson arose and began  pacing,  his
powerful  mind grappling with the tortuous complications of the
Artsy-Craftsy Kid's caper.

    "So how about me?" Bendix asked.

    "Oh, you can go," Robinson said  wearily.  "You're  just  a
pawn in a far bigger game, my man."

    "No,  I  mean,  can  I  go through with that deal now? He's
prolly still waiting outside the house for a look."

    "What's that you say? Waiting?"  Robinson  exclaimed.  "You
mean he was there when we arrested you?"

    "He must of been."

    "I've  got  it! I've got it!" Robinson cried. "Now I see it
all."

    "See what, Chief?"

    "Don't you get the picture, Ed? The Kid  watched  us  leave
with  this  dupe.  Then,  after we left, the Kid entered the
house."

    "You mean . . . ?"

    "He's probably there right now, cracking that safe."

    "Great Scot!"

    "Ed, alert the Flying Squad and the Riot Squad."

    "Right, Chief."

    "Ed, I want roadblocks all around the house."

    "Check, Chief."

    "Ed, you and Ed come with me."

    "Where to, Chief?"

    "The Webb mansion."

    "You can't, Chief. It's madness."

    "I must. This town isn't big enough for both  of  us.  This
time it's the Artsy-Craftsy Kid--or me."

    It made headlines: how the Bunco Squad had seen through the
diabolical  plan  of  the  Artsy-Craftsy Kid and arrived at the
fabled Webb mansion only moments after he had made off with the
Flowered Thundermug; how they had found his unconscious victim,
the plucky Audrey Hepburn, devoted assistant to the  mysterious
gambling   overlord  Greta  "Snake  Eyes"  Garbo;  how  Audrey,
intuitively suspecting that something was amiss, had  taken  it
upon herself to investigate; how the canny cracksman had played
a  sinister  cat-and-mouse  game with her until the opportunity
came to fell her with a brutal blow.

    Interviewed by the news syndicates, Miss Hepburn said,  "It
was  just  a woman's intuition. I suspected something was amiss
and took it upon myself to  investigate.  The  canny  cracksman
played   a  sinister  cat-and-mouse  game  with  me  until  the
opportunity came to fell me with a brutal blow."

    She received seventeen proposals of marriage  by  Wedmaton,
three  offers  of  screen  tests,  twenty-five  dollar from the
Hollywood East Community Chest, the Darryl P. Zanuck Award  for
Human Interest and a reprimand from her boss.

    "You should also have said you vere ravished, Audrey," Miss
Garbo told her. "It vould have improved the story."

    "I'm  sorry, Miss Garbo. I'll try to remember next time. He
did make an indecent proposal."

    This was in Miss Garbo's secret atelier, where Violet Dugan
(Audrey Hepburn) was busily engaged in faking a calendar of the
Corn Exchange Bank for the year I943, while the members of  the
Little Group of Powerful Art Dealers consulted.

    "Cara  mia," De Sica asked Violet, "can you not give
us a fuller description of the scoundrel?"

    "I've told you everything I can remember, Mr. De  Sick  The
one detail that seems to help is the fact that he computes odds
for one of the biggest bookies in the East."

    "Mah!  There  are hundreds of that species. It is no
help at all. You did not get a clue to his name?"

    "No, sir; at least, not the name he uses now."

    "The name he uses now? How do you mean that?"

    "I--I  meant--the  name  he  uses   when   he   isn't   the
Artsy-Craftsy Kid."

    "I see. And his home?"

    "He said somewhere in Catalina East."

    "There  are  a hundred and forty miles of homes in Catalina
East," Horton said irritably.

    "I can't help that, Mr. Horton."

    "Audrey," Miss Garbo commanded, "put down that calendar and
look at me."

    "Yes, Miss Garbo."

    "You have fallen in love vith this man.  To  you  he  is  a
romantic figure, and you do not vant him brought to justice. Is
that not so?"

    "No,  Miss  Garbo," Violet answered vehemently. "If there's
anything in the world I want, it's to have him  arrested."  She
fingered her jaw. "In love with him? I hate him!"

    "So."  De  Sica  sighed. "It is a disaster. Plainly, we are
obliged to pay his grace two million dollars if the  Thundermug
is not recovered."

    "In  my  opinion," Horton burst out, "the police will never
find it. They're dolts! Almost as big a pack  of  fools  as  we
were to get mixed up in this thing in the first place."

    "Then  it  must  be  a  case  for  a  private eye. With our
unsavory underworld connections, we should have  no  difficulty
contacting the right man. Are there any suggestions?"

    "Nero Volfe," Miss Garbo said.

    "Excellent,  cara  mia.  A  gentleman of culture and
erudition."

    "Mike Hammer," Horton said.

    "The nomination is noted.  What  would  you  say  to  Perry
Mason?"

    "That shyster is too honest," Horton snapped.

    "The shyster is scratched. Any further suggestions

    "Mrs. North," Violet said.

    "Who,  my  dear? Oh, yes, Pamela North, the lady detective.
No--no, I think not. This is hardly a case for a woman."

    "Why not, Mr. De Sica?"

    "There are prospects of violence that make it  unsuited  to
the tender sex, my dear Audrey."

    "I don't see that," Violet said. "We women can take care of
ourselves."

    "She is right," Miss Garbo growled.

    "I  think  not, Greta; and her experience last night proves
it."

    "He felled me with a brutal blow when  I  wasn't  looking,"
Violet protested.

    "Perhaps. Shall we vote? I say Nero Wolfe."

    "Why  not  Mike Hammer?" Horton demanded. "He gets results,
and he doesn't care how."

    "But  that  carelessness  may  recover  the  Thundermug  in
pieces."

    "My  God! I never thought of that. All right, I'll go along
with Wolfe."

    "Mrs. North," Miss Garbo said.

    "You are outvoted, cara mia. So, it is to be  Wolfe,
then.  Bene.  I  think  we had best approach him without
Greta, Horton. He is notoriously  antipatico  to  women.
Dear ladies, arrivederci."

    After  two  of  the  three  Powerful  Art Dealers had left,
Violet glared at Miss Garbo. "Male chauvinists!" she  grumbled.
"Are we going to stand for it?"

    "Vhat can ve do about it, Audrey?"

    "Miss  Garbo,  I  want  permission  to  track that man down
myself."

    "You do not mean this?"

    "I'm serious."

    "But vhat could you do?"

    "There has to be a woman in his life somewhere."

    "Naturally."

    "Cherchez la femme."

    "But that is brilliant!"

    "He mentioned a few likely names, so if I find her, I  find
him. May I have a leave of absence, Miss Garbo?"

    "Go, Audrey. Bring him back alive."

    The  old lady wearing the Welsh hat, white apron, hexagonal
spectacles, and carrying a  mass  of  knitting  bristling  with
needles,  stumbled  on  the reproduction of the Spanish Stairs,
which led to the King's Arms Residenza.  The  King's  Arms  was
shaped like an imperial crown, with a fifty-foot replica of the
Hope diamond sparkling on top.

    "Damn!"  Violet  Dugan  muttered. "I shouldn't have been so
authentic with the shoes. Sandals are hell."

    She entered the Residenza and mounted to the  tenth  floor,
where  she  rang  a  hanging bell alongside a door flanked by a
lion and a unicorn, which roared and  brayed  alternately.  The
door  turned  misty  and  then  cleared,  revealing an Alice in
Wonderland with great innocent eyes.

    "Lou?" she said eagerly. Then her face fell.

    "Good morning, Miss Powell," Violet said, her eyes  peering
past the lady and examining the apartment.

    "I represent Slander Service, Inc. Does gossip give you the
go-by?  Are you missing out on the juiciest scandals? Our staff
of trained mongers  guarantees  the  latest  news  within  five
minutes after the event; news defamatory, news derogatory, news
libelous, scurrilous, disparaging and vituperative--"

    "Flam," Miss Powell said. The door turned opaque.

    The  Marquise  de Pompadour, in full brocade skirt and lace
bodice, her powdered wig standing no less than two  feet  high,
entered  the  grilled  portico of Birdies' Rest, a private home
shaped like a birdcage. A cacophony of bird calls assailed  the
ears from the gilt dome. Madame Pompadour blew the bird whistle
set  in  the  door,  which  was shaped like a cuckoo clock. The
little hatch above the clock face  flew  open,  and  a  TV  eye
popped out with a cheerful "Cuckoo!" and inspected her.

    Violet  sank into a deep curtsy. "May I see the lady of the
house, please?"

    The  door  opened.  Peter  Pan  stood  there,  dressed  ill
Lincoln-green transparencies, which revealed her sex.

    "Good afternoon, Miss Withers. This is Avon calling. Ignatz
Avon,   the   Topper  Tailor,  designs  wigs,  transformations,
chignons, merkins, toupees  and  hairpieces  for  fun,  fashion
and--"

    "Fawf,"  Miss  Withers said. The door slammed. The Marquise
de Pompadour fawfed.

    The Left Bank artiste in beret and velvet smock carried her
palette and easel to the fifteenth floor of La  Pyramide.  Just
under  the  apex  there  were  six  Egyptian columns fronting a
massive basalt door. When the artiste tossed baksheesh  onto  a
stone  beggar's plate, the door swung open on pivots, revealing
a gloomy tomb in which stood a Cleopatra type  dressed  like  a
Cretan serpent goddess, with serpents to match.

    "Good  morning,  Miss Russell. Tiffany's proudly presents a
new coup in organic jewelry, the Tifftoo skin gems. Tattooed in
high relief, Tifftoo skin gems incorporate a  source  of  gamma
radiation,   warranted   harmless   for   thirty   days,  which
outscintillates diamonds of the finest water."

    "Shlock!" Miss Russell said. The door closed on its pivots,
accompanied by the closing bars of Aida,  softly  moaned
by a harmonica choir.

    The  schoolmann  in crisp tailleur, her hair skinned
back into a tight bun, her eyes  magnified  by  thick  glasses,
carried  her  schoolbooks  across  the  drawbridge of The Manor
House. She was lifted by a crenelated elevator to  the  twelfth
floor,  where she was forced to leap across a small moat before
she could wield the door  knocker,  which  was  shaped  like  a
mailed  fist.  The door rumbled upward, a miniature portcullis,
and there stood Goldilocks.

    "Louis?" she laughed. Then her face fell.

    "Good  evening,   Miss   Mansfield.   Read-Eze   offers   a
spectacular   new  personalized  service.  Why  submit  to  the
monotony of  mechanical  readers  when  Read-Eze  experts  with
cultivated  voices,  capable  of coloring each individual word,
will, in person, read  you  comic  books,  true-confession  and
movie  magazines  at  five dollars an hour; mysteries, westerns
and society columns at--"

    The portcullis rumbled down.

    "First Lou, then Louis," Violet muttered. "I wonder."

    The little pagoda was set in an exact reproduction  of  the
landscape  on  a Willow Pattern plate, including the figures of
three coolies posed on the bridge. The  movie  starlet  wearing
black  sunglasses  and  a  white  sweater  stretched  over  her
forty-four-inch poitrine,  patted  their  heads  as  she
passed.

    "That tickles, doll," the last one said.

    "Oh, excuse met I thought you were dummies."

    "At fifty cents an hour we are, but that's show business."

    Madame Butterfly came to the archway of the pagoda, hissing
and bowing  like  a  geisha,  but rather oddly decorated with a
black patch over her left eye.

    "Good morning, Miss Fonda. Sky's The  Limit  is  making  an
introductory  offer of a revolutionary concept in bosom uplift.
One  application  of  Breast-G,  our  fleshtinted   antigravity
powder,  under  the  bust works miracles. Comes in three tints:
blond, titian and  brunette;  and  three  uplifts:  grapefruit,
Persian melon and--"

    "I  don't  need  no  balloon  ascension,"  Miss  Fonda said
drearily. "Fawf."

    "Sorry to have bothered you."  Violet  hesitated.  "Forgive
me, Miss Fonda, but isn't that eye patch out of character?"

    "It  ain't  no  prop,  dearie;  it's  for  Real  City. That
Jourdan's a bastard."

    "Jourdan," Violet said  to  herself,  retracing  her  steps
across the bridge. "Louis Jourdan. Could it be?"

    The  frogman  in  black  rubber,  complete  with full scuba
equipment including face mask, oxygen tank and harpoon, trudged
through the jungle path to Strawberry Hill  Place,  frightening
the  chimpanzees.  In  the  distance an elephant trumpeted. The
frogman banged on a brazen gong suspended from a coconut  palm,
and  African  drums  answered. A seven-foot Watusi appeared and
conducted the visitor  to  the  rear  of  the  house,  where  a
Pocahontas type was dangling her legs in a hundred-foot replica
of the Congo.

    "Is it Louis Bwana?" she called. Then her face fell.

    "Good afternoon, Miss Tarzan," Violet said. "Up-Chuck, with
a fifty-year  record  of bonded performance, guarantees sterile
swimming pleasure whether it's an Olympic pool or just a plain,
old-fashioned swimming hole.  With  its  patented  mercury-pump
vacuum-cleaning  system,  Up-Chuck  chucks  up mud, sand, silt,
drunks, dregs, debris--"

    The brazen gong sounded, and was again answered by drums.

    "Oh! That must be Louis now," Miss Tarzan  cried.  "I  knew
he'd keep his promise."

    Miss  Tarzan  ran  around  to  the front of the house. Miss
Dugan pulled the mask down over her face and plunged  into  the
Congo.  On  the far side she came to the surface behind a frond
of bamboo, alongside a most realistic alligator. She poked  its
head  once to make sure it was stuffed. Then she turned just in
time to see Sam Bauer come strolling into  the  jungle  garden,
aim in arm with Jane Tarzan.

    Concealed  in  the telephone-shaped booth across the street
from Strawberry Hill Place, Violet Dugan and Miss Garbo  argued
heatedly.

    "It vas a mistake to call the police, Audrey."

    "No, Miss Garbo."

    "Inspector  Robinson  has  been  in  that house ten minutes
already. He vill blunder again."

    "That's what I'm counting on, Miss Garbo."

    "Then I vas right. You do not vant this--this Louis Jourdan
to be caught."

    "I do, Miss Garbo. I do! If you'll just let me explain!"

    "He captured your fancy vith his indecent proposal."

    "Please listen, Miss Garbo. The important  thing  isn't  so
much  to  catch  him as it is to recover the stolen loot. Isn't
that right?"

    "Excuses! Excuses!"

    "If he's arrested now, he  may  never  tell  us  where  the
Thundermug is."

    "So?"

    "So we've got to make him show us where it is."

    "But how?"

    "I've  taken  a leaf from his book. Remember how he duped a
decoy into fooling the police?"

    "That stupid creature Bendix."

    "Well,  Inspector  Robinson  is  our   decoy.   Oh,   look!
Something's happening."

    Pandemonium  was  breaking  loose in Strawberry Hill Place.
The chimpanzees were screaming  and  flitting  from  branch  to
branch. The Watusi appeared, running hard, pursued by Inspector
Robinson.  The  elephant  began  trumpeting.  A giant alligator
crawled hastily through the heavy grass. Jane Tarzan  appeared,
running  hard, pursued by Inspector Robinson. The African drums
pounded.

    "I could have sworn that  alligator  was  stuffed,"  Violet
muttered.

    "Vhat vas that, Audrey?"

    "That  alligator  .  .  . Yes, I was right! Excuse me, Miss
Garbo. I've got to be going."

    The alligator had risen  to  its  hind  legs  and  was  now
strolling down Strawberry Lane. Violet left the telephone booth
and  began following it at a leisurely pace. The spectacle of a
strolling alligator followed, at  a  discreet  distance,  by  a
strolling   frogman   evoked  no  particular  interest  in  the
passers-by of Hollywood East.

    The alligator glanced back over his shoulder once or  twice
and  at  last  noticed  the frogman. He quickened his pace. The
frogman stayed with him. He began to run. The frogman ran,  was
outdistanced,  turned on her oxygen tank and began to close the
gap. The  alligator  leaped  for  a  handle  on  the  crosstown
straphanger  and  was  borne east, dangling from the cable. The
frogman hailed a passing rickshaw. "Follow that alligator!" she
cried into the hearing aid of the robot.

    At the zoo, the alligator dropped off the  straphanger  and
disappeared  into  the  crowd.  The  frogman  leaped out of the
rickshaw and hunted frantically through the Berlin  House,  the
Moscow  House  and  the  London House. In the Rome House, where
sightseers were tossing pizzas  to  the  specimens  behind  the
bars,  she saw one of the Romans lying naked and unconscious in
a small corner cage. Alongside him was an empty alligator skin.
Violet looked  around  hastily  and  saw  Bauer  slinking  out,
dressed in a striped suit and a Borsalino hat.

    She ran after him. Bauer pulled a small boy off an electric
carrousel  pony,  leaped  on its back and began galloping west.
Violet leaped onto the back of a  passing  Lama.  "Follow  that
carrousel,"  she  cried.  The  Lama  began  running. "Ch-iao
hsi-fu nan tso mei mi chou,"  he  complained.  "But  that's
always been my problem."

    At Hudson Terminal, Bauer abandoned the pony, was corked in
a bottle  and  jetted  across the river. Violet leaped into the
coxswain's seat of an eight-oared shell. "Follow that  bottle,"
she  cried.  On  the  Jersey  side (Nevada East) Violet pursued
Bauer onto the Freeway and thence,  by  Dodge-Em  Kar,  to  Old
Newark,  where Bauer leaped onto a trampolin and was catapulted
up to the forward cylinder of  the  Block  Island  &  Nantucket
Monorail.  Violet  shrewdly  waited until the monorail left the
terminal, and then just made the rear cylinder.

    Inside, at point of harpoon, she held up  a  teenage  madam
and  forced  her  to  exchange clothes. Dressed in opera pumps,
black net  stockings,  checked  skirt,  silk  blouse  and  hair
rollers,  she  threw  the cursing madam off the monorail at the
blast Vine  Street  station  and  began  watching  the  forward
cylinder  more  openly.  At  Montauk,  the  eastermost point on
Catalina East, Bauer slipped off.

    Again she waited until the monorail was leaving the station
before she followed. On the platform below, Bauer slid  into  a
Commuters'  Cannon  and  was shot into space. Violet ran to the
same cannon, carefully left the  coordinate  dials  exactly  as
Bauer  had  set them, and slipped into the muzzle. She was shot
off less than thirty seconds after Bauer, and bounced into  the
landing net just as he was climbing down the rope ladder.

    "You!" he exclaimed.

    "Me."

    "Was that you in the frog suit?"

    "Yes."

    "I thought I ditched you in Newark."

    "No,  you  didn't,"  she said grimly. "I've got you dead to
rights, Kid."

    Then she saw the house.

    It was shaped like the house that  children  used  to  draw
back  in  the  twentieth  century:  two  stories;  peaked roof,
covered with torn tar paper; dirty brown shingles, half of them
hanging; plain windows with four  panes  in  each  sash;  brick
chimney  overgrown  with  poison  ivy; sagging front porch; the
rotted remains of a two-car garage on the  right;  a  clump  of
sickly  sumac  on  the  left. In the gloom of evening it looked
like a haunted house.

    "Oh, Sam," she breathed. "It's beautiful!"

    "It's a home," he said simply.

    "What's it like inside?"

    "Come and see."

    Inside it was unadulterated mail-order house; it  was  dime
store,  bargain  basement,  second  hands castoff, thrift shop,
flea market.

    "It's sheer heaven," Violet  said.  She  lingered  lovingly
over  the  power sweeper, canister-type, w. vinyl bumper. "It's
so--so soothing. I haven't been this happy in years."

    "Wait, wait!" Bauer said, bursting  with  pride.  He  knelt
before  the  fireplace  and  lit  a  birch-log fire. The flames
crackled yellow and orange. "Look," he said.  "Real  wood,  and
real  flames.  And  I know a museum where they've got a pair of
matching andirons."

    "No! Really?"

    He nodded. "The Peabody, at Yale High."

    Violet made up her mind. "Sam, I'll help you."

    He stared at her.

    "I'll help you steal them," she  said.  "I--I'll  help  you
steal anything you want."

    "You mean that, Violet?"

    "I  was  a fool. I never realized.... I-- You were right. I
should never have let such a silly thing come between us."

    "You're not just saying that to trick me, Violet?"

    "I'm not, Sam. Honest."

    "Or because you love my house?"

    "Of course I love it, but that's not the whole reason."

    "Then we're partners?"

    "Yes."

    "Shake."

    Instead she flung her arms  around  his  neck  and  pressed
herself  against  him.  Minutes later, on the Serofoam recliner
chair w. three-way mechanism, she murmured in his ear, "It's us
against everybody, Sam."

    "Let 'em watch out, is all I have to say."

    "And `everybody' includes those women named Jane."

    "Violet, I swear it was never serious  with  them.  If  you
could see them--"

    "I have."

    "You have? Where? How?"

    "I'll tell you some other time."

    "But--"

    "Oh, hush!"

    Much later he said, "If we don't put a lock on that bedroom
door, we're in for trouble."

    "To hell with the lock," Violet said.

    "ATTENTION  LOUIS  JOURDAN,"  a voice
blared.

    Sam and Violet scrambled out of the chair in  astonishment.
Blue-white light blazed through the windows of the house. There
came the excited clamor of a lynch mob, the galloping crescendo
of  the  William Tell Overture, and sound effects of the
Kentucky  Derby,  a  4-6-4  locomotive,  destroyers  at  battle
stations, and the Saskatchewan Rapids.

    "ATTENTION  LOUIS JOURDAN," the voice
brayed again.

    They ran  to  a  window  and  peered  out.  The  house  was
surrounded  by  blinding  Kleig  lights. Dimly they could see a
horde of Jacqueries with a  guillotine,  television  and
news  cameras,  a  ninety-piece  orchestra,  a battery of sound
tables manned by technicians wearing earphones, a  director  in
jodhpurs   carrying   a  megaphone,  Inspector  Robinson  at  a
microphone, and a ring of canvas  deck  chairs  in  which  were
seated a dozen men and women wearing theatrical makeup.

    "ATTENTION  LOUIS JOURDAN. THIS IS INSPECTOR
EDVARD G. ROBINSON SPEAKING. YOU ARE SURROUNDED. WE--WHAT?  OH,
TIME FOR A COMMERCIAL? ALL RIGHT. GO AHEAD."

    Bauer glared at Violet. "So it was a trick."

    "No, Sam, I swear it."

    "Then what are they doing here?"

    "I don't know."

    "You brought them."

    "No,  Sam,  no!  I-- Maybe I wasn't as smart as I thought I
was. Maybe they trailed me when I was chasing you; but I  swear
I never saw them."

    "You're lying."

    "No, Sam." She began to cry.

    "You sold me out."

    "ATTENTION  LOUIS  JOURDAN.  ATTENTION LOUIS
JOURDAN. YOU WILL RELEASE AUDREY HEPBURN AT ONCE."

    "Who?" Bauer was confused.

    "Th-that's me," Violet sobbed. "It's the name I took,  just
like  you.  Audrey  Hepburn  and  Violet  Dugan are one and the
s-same person. They think you captured me; but  I  didn't  sell
you out, S-Sam. I'm no fink."

    "You're leveling with me?"

    "Honest."

    "ATTENTION LOUIS JOURDAN. WE KNOW YOU ARE THE
ARTSY-CRAFTSY  KID. COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP. RELEASE AUDREY
HEPBURN AND COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP."

    Bauer flung the window open. "Come and get me, copper,"  he
yelled.

    "WAIT  UNTIL  AFTER  THE  NETWORK I.D., WISE
GUY."

    There was a ten-second pause  for  network  identification.
Then  a  fusillade of shots rang out. Minuscule mushroom clouds
arose where the fission slugs struck.  Violet  screamed.  Bauer
slammed the window down.

    "Got  their  ammunition  damped to the lowest exponent," he
said. "Afraid of hurting the goodies in here. Maybe  there's  a
chance, Violet."

    "No! Please, darling, don't try to fight them."

    "I can't. I haven't got anything to fight with."

    The  shots  came  continuously  now. A picture fell off the
wall.

    "Sam, listen to me," she pleaded. "Give yourself up. I know
it's ninety days for burglary, but I'll be waiting for you when
you come out."

    A window shattered.

    "You'll wait for me, Violet?"

    "I swear it."

    A curtain caught fire.

    "But ninety days! Three whole months!"

    "We'll make a new life together."

    Outside, Inspector Robinson suddenly groaned  and  clutched
his shoulder.

    "All  right,"  Bauer  said,  "I'll  quit. But look at them,
turning it into a damned Spectacular--`Gang Busters'  and  `The
Untouchables'  and  `The Roaring Twenties.' I'm damned if I let
them get anything I've pinched. Wait a minute...."

    "What are you going to do?"

    Outside, the Bunco Squad began coughing, as  if  from  tear
gas.

    "Blow  it  all  up,"  Bauer said, rooting around in a sugar
canister.

    "Blow it up? How?"

    "I've got some dynamite I lifted from Groucho, Chico, Harpo
and Marx when I was after their pickax collection. Didn't get a
pickax, but I got this." He displayed a small red stick with  a
clockwork top. On the side of the stick was stenciled: TNT.

    Outside, Ed (Begley) clutched his heart, smiled bravely and
collapsed.

    "I  don't  know how much time the fuse will give us," Bauer
said. "So when I start it, go like hell. All set?"

    "Y-yes," she quavered.

    He snapped the fuse, which began an  ominous  ticking,  and
tossed the TNT onto the sage-green sofabed.

    "Run!"

    They  charged  out through the front door into the blinding
light with their hands up.

    The TNT stood for thermonuclear toluene.

    "Dr. Culpepper," Mr. Pepys said, "this  is  Mr.  Cristopher
Wren.  That  is Mr. Robert Hooke. Pray, be seated, sir. We have
begged you to wait upon the Royal Society and advantage us with
your advice as the  foremost  physician-astrologer  in  London.
However, we must pledge you to secrecy."

    Dr.  Culpepper  nodded  gravely  and  stole a glance at the
mysterious  basket  resting  on  the  table  before  the  three
gentlemen. It was covered with green felt.

    "Imprimis,"  Mr.  Hooke said, "the articles we shall
show you were sent to the Royal Society from Oxford, where they
were required of various artificers, the designs for same being
supplied by the purchaser. We obtained these specimens from the
said craftsmen by stealth. Secundo, the  fabrication  of
the  objects  was commissioned in secret by certain persons who
have attained great power and wealth at  the  colleges  through
sundry soothsayings, predictions, auguries and premonstrations.
Mr. Wren?"

    Mr.  Wren  delicately  lifted  the  felt cloth as though he
feared infection. Displayed in the basket were: a neat pile  of
soft  paper  napkins;  twelve  wooden  splinters,  their  heads
curiously  dipped  in  sulphur;  a  pair  of   tortoise   shell
spectacles with lenses of a dark, smoky color; an extraordinary
pin, doubled upon itself so that the point locked in a cap; and
two  large  Puffy  flannel cloths, one embroidered HIS, and the
other, HERS.

    "Dr. Culpepper," Mr. Pepys asked in sepulchral tones,  "are
these the amulets of witchcraft?"