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diff --git a/32672-h/32672-h.htm b/32672-h/32672-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e7cbed7 --- /dev/null +++ b/32672-h/32672-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1341 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of Direct Wire, by Clee Garson + </title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; background-color: #FFFFFF; +} + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; +} + + +.tr {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; margin-top: 5%; margin-bottom: 5%; padding: 2em; background-color: #f6f2f2; color: black; border: dotted black 1px;} + +.img1 {border:solid 1px; } + +.p1 { margin-left: 70%; } + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 25%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +.blockquot1 { + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +.caption {font-weight: bold; font-size:smaller;} + +/* Images */ +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; +} + +.figleft { + float: left; + clear: left; + margin-left: 0; + margin-bottom: 0em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-right: 0.25em; + padding: 0; + text-align: center; +} + +/* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Direct Wire, by Clee Garson + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Direct Wire + +Author: Clee Garson + +Release Date: June 3, 2010 [EBook #32672] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DIRECT WIRE *** + + + + +Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div class="tr"><p class="center">Transcriber's Note:</p> +<p class="center">This etext was produced from Amazing Stories January 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.</p></div> +<p> </p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img class="img1" src="images/cover.jpg" width="400" height="521" alt="" title="" /> +</div> +<p> </p> +<h1>DIRECT WIRE</h1> +<p> </p> +<h2>by CLEE GARSON</h2> +<p> </p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>Mort and Mike got strange calls on this phone; they didn't +come through Central!</p></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 800px;"> +<img src="images/image_001.jpg" width="800" height="468" alt="He had a strange husky voice that made queer chills go +up and down your spine" title="" /> +<span class="caption">He had a strange husky voice that made queer chills go +up and down your spine</span> +</div> +<p> </p> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_t.jpg" alt="T" width="31" height="40" /></div> +<p>here is an empty cigar store on the first floor of the loop building +in which I keep my office. Formerly it was managed by two of the +slickest small time gambling operators who ever booked a bang-tail or +banked a game of Hooligan.</p> + +<p>There is a small, neatly lettered sign on the door of that unoccupied +store now, however, which has caused no end of comment from the former +customers of the "cigar store" who had always been all too cheerfully +happy to lose their daily dollars there.</p> + +<p>The sign reads:</p> + +<p class="center"> +"CLOSED FOR THE DURATION<br /> +Due to our having<br /> +Entered The Armed<br /> +Forces of the U. S.<br /> +GOD BLESS AMERICA<br /> +Mort & Mike" +</p> + +<p>If you haven't guessed as much by now, the signatures at the bottom of +that sign are those of the two former proprietors of the +establishment, Mort Robbins and Mike Harrigan.</p> + +<p>Now since both Mort and Mike were of military age, and since this +nation is at war, it should hardly seem unusual that their former +customers and all who knew them would consider their summons to the +colors something worthy of great comment. It should hardly seem +unusual, that is, unless you happened to know the two, and realized +further that they were not drafted, but <i>voluntarily</i> enlisted.</p> + +<p>Neither was what you could call deeply patriotic, you see. Nor were +they the sort to be influenced by such emotional appeals as the +beating of drums, the waving of flags, or the playing of brass bands +marching along Jackson Boulevard.</p> + +<p>"We gotta lick them lice!" Mike constantly proclaimed in regard to +Adolf and the Axis, when war discussions came up around the "cigar +store." But aside from those loud and perhaps sincere pronouncements, +Mike's only contribution to the cause of Victory was the purchase of +war bonds which he looked on merely with the cold eye of one seeking a +smart investment. And as for his attitude toward the army, Mike best +expressed himself with a small embryo ulcer which he kept always on +the verge of eruption within twenty-four hours notice to report for a +draft board examination. It was rumored that, through a swift, +sufficient amount of whisky, Mike could make his embryo ulcer dance +angrily for the draft medicos at any time. This none too admirable +accomplishment with an ailment not actually serious had kept Mike +Harrigan in Class 4 F ever since the last draft registration.</p> + +<p>As for Mike's partner, Mort Robbins, the patriotic picture was pretty +much the same. Mort was loudly belligerent toward our enemies in all +the "cigar store" discussions, wisely put much of his funds into war +bonds, but kept one of the most extensive libraries of medical +statements from doctors in existence. All these statements concerned +the tragic asthma and hay-fever of one Mort Robbins and went on to +declare that he might possibly stop breathing completely should he be +placed in the army. The fact that Mort had connived to get these +statements and was not really seriously troubled by those two maladies +didn't alter the fact that they had resulted so far in keeping him out +of khaki.</p> + +<p>Consequently, since more than one of their customers knew or suspected +their lack of practical patriotism, the appearance of that sign on the +door of what had once been their establishment caused quite a +considerable flurry of comment for a time.</p> + +<p>Naturally, no one could understand what had caused it all. For that, +they can't be blamed. I'd never have understood it, if I hadn't +accidentally been the one person in the world, outside of Mort and +Mike, who knew the true story....</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_o.jpg" alt="O" width="35" height="40" /></div> +<p>n the morning that it all began, I was down in the "cigar store," +killing time and having a coke and some conversation before going +upstairs to the grimly reproachful surroundings of my too neglected +office.</p> + +<p>Mike Harrigan was the only one behind the counter, and I was the only +one on the customer side.</p> + +<p>Mike was red headed and freckle necked, a massive chap with a blarney +smile and a baby face. He's been in the "cigar store" bookie racket +ever since repeal had closed a speakeasy he'd had on Grand Avenue. +This morning, however, he was glaring glumly down at a newspaper +spread before him atop the glass cigar counter, and scarcely nodded to +half my conversational sallies.</p> + +<p>"What's eating you, Mike?" I finally demanded. "That ulcer getting +well in spite of you?"</p> + +<p>Mike ignored the crack. But he looked up from his reading and jabbed a +big red freckled thumb down on a column of print in the paper before +him.</p> + +<p>"That State's Attorney!" Mike snorted indignantly. "He's gonna go too +far pretty damn soon!"</p> + +<p>"What now?" I grinned. Mike was always indignant over the efforts of +the State's Attorney to "ruin an honest man's business" with his +crack-downs on small-time handbooks throughout the city. "What's his +latest move in the battle against Mike Harrigan?"</p> + +<p>"This here story in the paper," Mike declared, "says how the State's +Attorney's office is starting to investigate the lists of the +telephone company in order to track down any phones used by us +bookmakers in our business. It's illegal!" He concluded with the +virtuous snort of an indignant taxpayer shocked by the violation of +law, smacking his big red-knuckled hand on the counter top to +emphasize his disturbance.</p> + +<p>"Aha!" I said. "In other words the State's Attorney's office is going +to find their way into this handbook of yours by the direct approach, +eh? It'll take time for them, won't it, to go over the entire +telephone lists?"</p> + +<p>"You never can tell," Mike predicted gloomily. "They might nail us +all," he snapped his big fingers, "like that."</p> + +<p>I glanced over at the telephone booth in the corner of the store. Its +folding door was open, and the ever-present "Out Of Order" sign was +suspended from a cord around the mouthpiece. Over that phone Mike and +Mort conducted the bulk of their horse booking business. Through it +they kept in touch with a central gambling syndicate service which +provided day-long racing results, odds and other essential data to +numerous other such small establishments around the city. Through it, +also, they took in a nice business of telephone bets from wagerers too +busy to get in to make them in person. The never-missing "Out of +Order" sign was to prevent customers from using the telephone for +out-going calls which might interfere with business. The telephone +was, of course, not at all out of order.</p> + +<p>"Maybe," I suggested cheerfully, taking my eyes from the telephone +booth, "they'll snatch out your phone on you. Then where'll you be?"</p> + +<p>Mike smacked his open palm against his broad brow.</p> + +<p>"My God," he exclaimed, "don't say no such things!"</p> + +<p>I gulped the rest of my coke, lit another cigarette, shrugged +cheerfully, and started for the door. I turned before leaving.</p> + +<p>"Cheer up," I said. "This will probably blow over. And if it doesn't, +there's always the army."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_m.jpg" alt="M" width="42" height="40" /></div> +<p>ike glared and started to answer. And at that moment the telephone in +the booth began to ring. He started for it, and I started out the door +again, running headlong into Mort Robbins.</p> + +<p>"Good morning, good morning, chumly!" Mort exclaimed cheerfully when +we had untangled ourselves. "What's new with you?"</p> + +<p>Mort is short, slightly on the plump side, with straight, dark hair, a +round, beaming face, and a penchant for flamboyantly colored sport +shirts.</p> + +<p>"Nothing's new with me," I told him, "but plenty seems to be new with +Mike. He's cursing the State's Attorney's office again."</p> + +<p>Mort frowned.</p> + +<p>"Whatcha mean? What's on the fire now? I didn't read the morning rags +yet."</p> + +<p>Briefly, I told him about the news story which had excited his +partner. He nodded, thought a moment, then grinned.</p> + +<p>"They can't do that," he said. "It's illegal."</p> + +<p>"Tell Mike, if that's so," I said. "He's working himself into a boil."</p> + +<p>Mort hadn't heard me. He was frowning thoughtfully again.</p> + +<p>"Or can they?" he wondered aloud. "Where's that news story?"</p> + +<p>I pointed to the paper on the counter and he stepped over to it. I +started to leave again, but at that moment the telephone booth in the +corner shook from side to side and Mike stepped out, face red with +wrath.</p> + +<p>"I'd like to get my hands on that guy, the wisenheimer!" he growled. +"Hah! Practical jokes, eh?"</p> + +<p>Again I stopped at the door.</p> + +<p>"What's wrong this time?" I demanded. "Or is it still the State's +Attorney you're frothing about?"</p> + +<p>"Some guy," Mike thundered explosively, "just called to say he wanted +to talk to Hitler and Mussolini. Wise guy, hah, the louse!"</p> + +<p>"Hitler and Mussolini?" I demanded. "Who was it?"</p> + +<p>"Wouldn't I like to know," Mike exclaimed redly. "Wouldn't I just like +to know!" He made a grasping gesture with his two big fists, +indicating what he would do to the party if he did know.</p> + +<p>Mort had put down the newspaper and had been listening to Mike's +explosion.</p> + +<p>"Don't bust your buttons, Mike," Mort advised. "It's probably just one +of our customers having a gag."</p> + +<p>"Bum gag, I say. If they wanta gag whyn't they gag funny?" Mike +snorted angrily. "Talk to Hitler and Mussolini, eh? Huh!"</p> + +<p>And at that juncture, the telephone rang again. Mort looked up, then +looked at me and winked. He turned to Mike, who'd started wrathfully +for the booth.</p> + +<p>"Hold it, chumly," Mort said. "I'll answer this one. If it's the joker +again I can handle him better than you can."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_m.jpg" alt="M" width="42" height="40" /></div> +<p>ort walked nonchalantly over to the booth, took down the receiver, +and turned to wink again at me.</p> + +<p>"Hello," Mort said.</p> + +<p>Obviously the voice on the other end of the wire said something. Mort +grinned.</p> + +<p>"They ain't here," Mort said, grinning more widely. "No. Not either of +'em. Adolf sleeps late and don't get down until noon. Benito is out +having himself a milkshake. Who'll I tell 'em called? Huh? What's +that? You call back? But who'll I tell 'em called? Huh? Gab—Gabby? +What?"</p> + +<p>Mort put the receiver back on the hook and turned back to us, stepping +out of the booth.</p> + +<p>"The joker said to tell Adolf and Benito he'd call back later. I +didn't get his name, but it sounded like Gabby. Smart joe, this +Gabby."</p> + +<p>Mike was glaring. "Gabby, eh? Gabby, Gabby, Gabby," he scratched his +red head frowningly. "Who do I know named Gabby?"</p> + +<p>"Skip it," Mort advised smilingly. "It wouldn't be the right monicker, +anyway."</p> + +<p>Mike muttered dourly, moving back behind the counter. Suddenly he +stopped.</p> + +<p>"You see the morning paper?" he asked his partner in sudden +recollection. "You see about that louse State's Att—"</p> + +<p>"Yeah, I read it," Mort cut him off. "It'll blow over, even if they +get away with it. But they might not even get away with it. It's +illegal."</p> + +<p>Mike beamed for the first time since I'd seen him that morning. +Obviously he was pleased to have his own legal judgment upheld by his +partner.</p> + +<p>"You think so? That's what I thought." He turned to me. "Isn't that +what I thought?" he demanded.</p> + +<p>"Did you call for the morning line check on the tracks yet?" Mort +asked, changing the subject.</p> + +<p>Mike shook his head. "I was waiting for a few phone bets to come in, +first," he said.</p> + +<p>"How many come in so far?" Mort asked.</p> + +<p>Mike suddenly looked at his wrist watch and swore. "None!" he +exclaimed. "None and it's already after ten!"</p> + +<p>Mort looked alarmed. "You mean the phone ain't rang with a bet since +you been down?"</p> + +<p>"Only time the phone rung was with that practical joker, twicet. You +heard 'em," Mike declared.</p> + +<p>"But by this time we generally have a couple dozen bets in from the +phones!" Mort exclaimed. "This is bad. Whatcha think goes?"</p> + +<p>"Goes?" Mike exclaimed indignantly. "How should I know what goes?"</p> + +<p>Mort suddenly clapped his palm to his brow. "Maybe it's got somethin' +to do with that news story!"</p> + +<p>"About the State's Attorney gonna check the phone lists?" Mike +demanded.</p> + +<p>"Yeah."</p> + +<p>Mike thought this over. "No," he decided. "Couldn't be. Not so soon, +yet. Tomorrow, maybe, but not so soon."</p> + +<p>Mort calmed down a little. "You're right there," he said. "It wouldn't +be so soon."</p> + +<p>"Maybe this is a bad day," I broke in. "Maybe your customers just +aren't betting this morning."</p> + +<p>Mort and Mike looked at me as if I were crazy, which possibly I was. +Two dozen steady horse players don't all stop at once, if ever.</p> + +<p>Mike was as sorely troubled as Mort.</p> + +<p>"We got at least couple dozen bets acrosst the counter already this +morning," he said. "But no phone bets."</p> + +<p>"Maybe the damn thing is <i>actually</i> out of order," Mort groaned, +glancing at the telephone.</p> + +<p>"Then how did we get them two calls from the joker?" Mike demanded. +"No. That phone ain't no more outta order than I am."</p> + +<p>"You're right. I forgot those calls," Mort acknowledged.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_a.jpg" alt="A" width="37" height="40" /></div> +<p>nd at that moment the telephone rang again. Mort looked at Mike. Mike +looked at Mort. Both wet their lips.</p> + +<p>"Ordinary days that joker might be funny," Mort said. "But now I'm +thinking this isn't an ordinary day. I'm thinking it's not as funny as +I first thought."</p> + +<p>He crossed to the telephone booth, jerked the receiver from the hook, +and bellowed into the mouthpiece.</p> + +<p>"Hello!"</p> + +<p>There was a brief pause in which someone said something to him from +the other end of the wire.</p> + +<p>"Listen!" Mort suddenly exploded. "Nothing is funny three times, wise +guy. I wish you would take your Hitler-Mussolini gag and—" at which +point he described what he wanted the caller to do with the gag. Then, +slamming the receiver back into the hook, Mort stormed out of the +booth.</p> + +<p>"Same guy?" Mike demanded, his veins bulging in his thick, freckled +neck.</p> + +<p>"Same guy," Mort said grimly. His lips were tight. "He asked if we +could get Hitler and Musso to the phone in a hurry. He said the +connection was getting weaker and weaker, and he was afraid it +wouldn't hold out much longer."</p> + +<p>"The connection?" I broke in, puzzled.</p> + +<p>Mort looked on the verge of apoplexy. "The connection from where he +was calling to earth, the wise guy said!" he exploded. "If we could +only trace that call I'd break that no-good's neck!"</p> + +<p>Mike and Mort evidently took turns acting as sobering influence on +each other.</p> + +<p>"Now we don't wanta get too riled," Mike pointed out with surprising +sense. "The gag artist prob'ly wants we should get mad like this. +We'll forget 'em. I'll call for the morning line and the odd changes +for the first races."</p> + +<p>Mort drummed his fingers on the cigar showcase, cooling himself off. +Mike marched over to the telephone booth and wedged himself inside. +With one big red finger, he dialed a number rapidly after he took the +telephone from the hook. But he only half completed his dialing. It +broke off as he uttered a choking curse.</p> + +<p>"Listen you!" Mike suddenly bellowed, the echoes in the booth almost +knocking it over. "Get the hell offa this line! Howdja get on in the +first place?"</p> + +<p>Mort stopped drumming his fingers and glanced startledly at the booth. +Crimson began to return to his face.</p> + +<p>"What's up?" he shouted. He started toward the booth. I followed him. +We could hear Mike spluttering incoherently inside. Then there was an +ear-splitting racket as the big bookie smashed the receiver back into +the hook and turned purple faced toward us.</p> + +<p>"The gag artist!" he raged. "The same damn wise guy. The +Hitler-Mussolini smart aleck. He was waitin' on the line. He hadn't +hung up. He told me he hadda wait on the line, cause he didn't dare +break off the connection. He said it was too hard to make inna first +place. He said he hoped we didn't mind if he waited until we got Adolf +and Benito on the wire fer him!"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_b.jpg" alt="B" width="34" height="40" /></div> + +<p>y now Mort was spluttering, and this time neither partner seemed to +have a calming effect on the other. They were both raging, boiling +mad.</p> + +<p>"I'll call the cops!" Mike bellowed. "That's what I'll do!" He began +to pace up and down. "I'll have that guy electrocuted!"</p> + +<p>"I'm going out," Mort stormed, "and get the operator onna 'nother +phone. I'll report that so-and-so, and they'll trace him down through +the telephone company!"</p> + +<p>He started for the door. Mike grabbed his arm.</p> + +<p>"Waita minute!" he exclaimed. "We can't do that!"</p> + +<p>Mort tore his arm from his partner's grasp. "What's stopping us?" he +demanded.</p> + +<p>"The State's Attorney's office!" Mike groaned. "Maybe it's a trap set +by them skunks from the State's Attorney's office. Maybe it's the +start of their telephone tracing of bookmakers!"</p> + +<p>Sickly, Mort turned back. His face was still flushed, but three +fourths of his steam was gone.</p> + +<p>"Maybe you're right," he admitted. "And if so, what a helluva note +this is!"</p> + +<p>I couldn't hold back my curiosity any longer.</p> + +<p>"Look," I said. "I have an idea. If it's a joker, perhaps I can talk +him out of it better than you boys. You'll need that wire today, and +the joker might just be drunk and obstinate enough to hang on all day +long to spite you. Maybe he knows you won't dare report it. I'm not +steamed up; maybe I'll reason with him better because I'm not. You +want me to?"</p> + +<p>Mort and Mike gave me grateful glances.</p> + +<p>"You get ridda that wise guy," Mike said, "and we'll never ferget it!"</p> + +<p>"Go to it, chumly," Mort said, "and if you lose that louse, we'll make +it up to you!"</p> + +<p>I went over to the booth and, stepping inside, took the receiver from +the hook. I had a jovial, let's-be-friends opener all ready.</p> + +<p>"Hello, pal," I said amiably.</p> + +<p>The voice that came to my ears was distinctly unlike what I'd +expected. I don't quite know <i>how</i> or <i>why</i> it sounded so strange and +eerie, but it did. It was a man's voice, coming over the wire the way +long distance calls used to sound before they got transmission +technique down pat.</p> + +<p>"Hello there," said the voice. "Have they arrived yet?"</p> + +<p>It wasn't the voice of a drunk. And if it were that of a practical +joker, the poker-faced quality of it was perfect acting. It sounded +earnestly, eagerly serious.</p> + +<p>"You mean Adolf and Benito?" I asked. I was willing to play ball for a +few minutes if it brought results. Besides, I was curious.</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Why do you want to talk to them?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"<i>I</i> don't want to talk to them. My boss does," the voice answered.</p> + +<p>"Then put your boss on," I said. "I'll talk to him."</p> + +<p>"You are neither Hitler nor Mussolini," the voice replied. "He wishes +to speak only to them. He's very busy. Too busy to waste time in idle +conversation. Please fetch Hitler and Mussolini to the wire."</p> + +<p>"Who are you?" I demanded.</p> + +<p>"I have already covered that ground with the other parties I spoke to +before you," the voice said. "Please hurry and bring Adolf and Benito +to the phone. This connection is getting progressively worse. It can't +last much longer. We spent several years getting it through, you +know."</p> + +<p>"Did you now?" I asked politely.</p> + +<p>"Yes we did," the voice answered stiffly. Then, annoyed: "<i>Must</i> you +waste this precious time? Please bring Hitler and Mussolini to the +telephone as quickly as possible."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_t.jpg" alt="T" width="31" height="40" /></div> +<p>here was a fuzzy crackling over the wire. Like a ship-to-shore +connection.</p> + +<p>"Listen, pal," I said. "This joke is costing a couple of guys some +lucrative trade. You are tying up a telephone they need badly in their +business, or didn't you know that?"</p> + +<p>"That can't be helped," the voice said stiffly.</p> + +<p>"Be a good sport and get off the wire," I said.</p> + +<p>"I have no intention of doing that until my boss has talked to Hitler +and Mussolini," the voice said coldly. I knew a positive statement +when I heard one. I hung up, clambered out of the booth, spread my +hands expressively to Mike and Mort who stood there eagerly waiting +for some good word.</p> + +<p>"No soap," I said. "I don't think you got a joker on there, and I'd +swear you haven't got a drunk."</p> + +<p>"What have we got, then," Mike demanded. "A smart copper waiting to +trap us?"</p> + +<p>I shook my head. "I think you got a loony," I said. "But don't quote +me." I started toward the door. "I got work to do, gents, but I'll +look in again a little later. Hope you get rid of your pest."</p> + +<p>"We'd better," Mike moaned dismally.</p> + +<p>"Brother," Mort declared, pulling his hair and making a sincerely +distraught face, "you're not kidding!"</p> + +<p>I looked at the telephone booth and shook my head. "Somebody is," I +told them....</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_f.jpg" alt="F" width="33" height="40" /></div> +<p>or perhaps three hours I was able to concentrate on my work, with the +telephone booth distraction cropping up only about every fifteen +minutes or so to give me the fidgets.</p> + +<p>At the end of that time, a little before two o'clock, I finally +covered up my reproachful typewriter and, on the excuse that I wanted +a coke, left the office to go down and see how the boys were doing +with the determined loony on their telephone.</p> + +<p>The "cigar store" was crowded with the usual early-afternoon +hang-arounders when I walked in. Mort and Mike, each behind a dice +board, were accommodating trusting suckers who had somehow gotten the +mistaken idea that Hooligan was a game you beat every other time.</p> + +<p>Mike, looking up, noticed my entrance first. He signaled to me, +muttered an excuse to the dice roller at his board, and came quickly +around the counter. He took me by the arm and steered me out into the +building lobby.</p> + +<p>"Listen, pal," he half-whispered, "fer gawdsakes don't say anything +about the jerk on the telephone. Mort and me ain't told anyone, fer +fear of the ribbing we'd get, plus the kick in the pants it would give +our regular betting business over the counter."</p> + +<p>"You mean the guy's still on the telephone?" I demanded.</p> + +<p>Mike nodded a little sickly. "We can't get him off. And since we ain't +letting on to no one about the phone being fritzed that way, every +time he rings, we pretend we're getting an odd change, or some +scratches or result. Mort an' me have been running our legs off, using +a telephone next door to get our prices and results and such dope from +the syndicate. But don't let on. We ain't told no one!"</p> + +<p>"Okay," I promised. "I'll keep mum. But who in the hell do you suppose +it is?"</p> + +<p>Mike lowered his voice even more, looking furtively around the +building lobby.</p> + +<p>"Confidentially, although we don't dare draw attention to our joint +since the State's Attorney is telephone prowling, Mort and me decided +you was right. It must be a loony. All we can do is wait until he gets +tired and gets off."</p> + +<p>I nodded. "That's about all you can do," I agreed. "Does he still want +to talk to Hitler and Mussolini?"</p> + +<p>Mike nodded disgustedly. "Worse than ever. Calling every twenty +minutes now. Mort and me is going crazy answering them calls and +pretending they ain't nothing but syndicate results."</p> + +<p>"I don't blame you," I said. "I would, too." Mike went back into the +store and behind the dice board. I took a coke out of the cooler and +uncapped it on the side of the machine.</p> + +<p>Mort sent me a message in his glance, and I nodded reassuringly to +him.</p> + +<p>"I don't know anything," I said.</p> + +<p>Mort grinned a sick, grateful sort of grin, and went back to the task +of taking quarters from his customers. Taking my time with my +cigarette, I finished my coke. Then the telephone rang, as I'd been +waiting for it to do.</p> + +<p>Mort dashed to the booth, closed the door as he entered, and for +several flushed minutes appeared to be talking into the phone and +writing something on a scratch pad. But I knew it was an act from the +pained expression on his face. I knew that the loony was babbling away +again and that Mort was having to listen for the sake of the pose.</p> + +<p>When at last he hung up, he emerged mopping his face with a gaily +colored handkerchief. The look he shot me was confirmation enough that +the loony was still on the wire.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_u.jpg" alt="U" width="34" height="40" /></div> +<p>nable to feel too sorry for the boys, I concealed a grin behind a +yawn, nodded to them both, and left the place. Upstairs once more in +my office I got back into a rather muggy stream of work on which I +found difficulty concentrating.</p> + +<p>For some reason I couldn't at first explain to myself, I kept thinking +about the telephone loony of Mike and Mort's. Not because of the +ironically ridiculous turmoil it threw them into, but for some other +reason far more subtle, but which I was unable to put my finger on.</p> + +<p>The thing amused me, puzzled me, and yet, somehow was beginning to +trouble me. Not through any great sympathy for Mike or Mort, of +course. It will be a cold day when my heart bleeds for bookmakers. But +something or other <i>was</i> growing more and more bothersome. I thought +about it a while, then shoved it out of my mind and got back to work.</p> + +<p>I was able to grind along for a couple of hours without having it come +back into my mind. And when it popped up again, I shoved it away once +more just as quickly. I had to get that work out, and I knew I +wouldn't if I stewed any longer over the telephone loony who was quite +probably still playing hob with Mike and Mort at that moment.</p> + +<p>It was a little after five o'clock, five-fifteen, to be exact, +when—work or no work—the thing hit me. Bang! Like that I knew what'd +been in the back of my mind.</p> + +<p>How in the name of blazes had the telephone loony been able to stay on +that wire so indefinitely? Why hadn't the operator broken in to end +the connection each time Mort or Mike hung up? It seemed logical that +she would have done so. The loony couldn't have just held onto the +telephone and been right on tap the moment Mort or Mike picked up the +hook. The loony could have called them, of course, but it would have +been impossible for him to be on hand every time they picked up the +telephone when it hadn't been ringing!</p> + +<p>I left my typewriter, not even bothering to remove the page in it, and +hurried out of the office. Downstairs I found the "cigar store" +completely deserted except for Mike and Mort. The day's races were +over, and dice customers who were willing enough to roll cubes in +office time, had headed homeward.</p> + +<p>"Brother," Mort greeted me, "you were right and how!"</p> + +<p>"About the loony—" I began.</p> + +<p>"That's right," Mort said. "He was as loony a loony as I've ever heard +of. We finally got rid of him."</p> + +<p>"Got rid of him?" I blurted the question.</p> + +<p>"Yeah," Mort nodded. "And I hope for good. He just faded off, about +half an hour after his voice began to get dimmer and dimmer, and that +was that."</p> + +<p>"But—" I began.</p> + +<p>"And wait'll you hear who that bug thought he was."</p> + +<p>"Gabby who?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"Gabby, nuts. I messed it up the first time. He thought he was +Gabriel, the <i>Angel</i> Gabriel, no less!" Mort exclaimed, tapping the +side of his head.</p> + +<p>"The Angel Gabriel?" I echoed.</p> + +<p>Mort nodded. "And guess who he was calling for?"</p> + +<p>"Don't tell me," I said.</p> + +<p>"That's right," Mort declared. "He said he was God's secretary, +Gabriel, calling from Heaven for his boss. He said his boss wanted to +talk to Hitler and Mussolini!"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_i.jpg" alt="I" width="16" height="40" /></div> +<p> blinked. "And what was God going to tell those lice?"</p> + +<p>"To take it on the lam, or else!" Mike broke in.</p> + +<p>"No fooling?"</p> + +<p>"So help me!" Mort swore. "What a loony. He went on to say—this fake +Angel Gabriel—that his boss just wanted to tell those two jerks, +Adolf and Benito, that enough was enough and they were dead ducks for +sure."</p> + +<p>"What made this Gabriel from the nut house get so confidential all of +a sudden?" I demanded. "He wouldn't tell his business at all at +first."</p> + +<p>"This'll kill you," Mort said. "The connection, like I say, kept +getting fainter and fainter, and our goofy Gabriel said it was fading +off and that we'd have to hand the message on to Hitler and Mussolini +for his boss, if we couldn't bring the two jerks to the phone to hear +it in person."</p> + +<p>"Did he bother to explain," I asked, "why he didn't call Adolf and +Benito directly, if his boss wanted to tell them off?"</p> + +<p>"So help me," Mort declared, "he did. He said that with the war all +over our globe like it is, there was a lot of space interference +everywhere preventin' communication. He said he couldn't be choosy, +and had to use any wire he could get through to. It happened to be +ours. Can you beat it?"</p> + +<p>I shook my head slowly. "No," I said, "I can't. But what trick could +he have used to stay on the phone indefinitely, connected right to +your wire, even after you hung up on him each time?" And then, +briefly, I explained the rest of my puzzle over that little item.</p> + +<p>"If you can figure that out," I concluded, "we'll have to admit that, +loony or not, he was nothing less than a mad genius."</p> + +<p>Mort shrugged. "I'm no telephone man," he said, "but there must be +some explana—" His sentence stopped abruptly, and he and Mike seemed +to be looking over my shoulder.</p> + +<p>I turned, to see an overall clad chap carrying a canvas toolbag just +stepping through the door. He smiled cheerfully at the three of us.</p> + +<p>"I'm the man from the telephone company," he said amiably. "I got here +a little earlier today, missed you last night. Had to have the night +elevator operator let me into your store. Hope you weren't too +inconvenienced today."</p> + +<p>"What's it all about?" Mort demanded. "What do you mean? You know +about the loony?"</p> + +<p>The telephone man had stopped by the booth. He was opening his tool +bag. He looked up.</p> + +<p>"Loony? No, I'm sorry, I don't know anything about any loony."</p> + +<p>"Who called himself the Angel Gabriel?" Mike broke in.</p> + +<p>The telephone man smiled up at us in genial bewilderment.</p> + +<p>"I'm sorry, gentlemen," he said, "I don't quite get the drift of all +this. All I know is that I was in here last night to disconnect your +telephone temporarily, and I'm back again tonight to return it to +service. I saw your "Out of Order" sign there, so I thought you'd +expected me and knew all about it."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_m.jpg" alt="M" width="42" height="40" /></div> +<p>ort stepped forward. His face a curious picture of bewilderment and +disbelief, he asked:</p> + +<p>"Wait a minute! You mean to say this telephone hasn't been connected +all day today?"</p> + +<p>The telephone man nodded. "That's right. But I'm putting it back in +order now."</p> + +<p>"We got calls over that phone today!" Mike asserted vigorously. "It +couldn't have been disconnected."</p> + +<p>The telephone man chuckled. "Good joke. You couldn't have received a +call over this telephone. It would have been utterly impossible. It +was completely disconnected." He went on tool sorting.</p> + +<p>Mike was looking at Mort. Mort was looking at the telephone man. I was +looking at all three, and the telephone man was unconcernedly taking +out wires from his bag.</p> + +<p>"You—you aren't kidding?" Mort's voice came choked. "This was really +disconnected?"</p> + +<p>The telephone man shoved the booth a little to one side, grabbed some +wires then visible beneath the booth, and pulled them forth. They were +all neatly severed, with the ends taped.</p> + +<p>Mike and Mort were staring at the severed ends of the wires, then at +one another.</p> + +<p>"Mike," said Mort, "I think it is a good idea we should get drunk."</p> + +<p>"My old lady," said Mike, "used to believe in this sort of stuff. +Maybe she wasn't such a dope."</p> + +<p>Mort nodded. "My old man, too."</p> + +<p>Neither said a word to me. Neither spoke to the telephone man. They +just walked out, arm in arm, never looking back once, even at the cash +register.</p> + +<p>I understand they got drunk that night. But I understand Mike kept his +ulcer carefully under the explosive line, so that he passed the +enlistment exams the following morning. Mort left his medical +statements home, and of course a direct exam showed him nicely suited +for the army. They were inducted by noon that day, and on their way to +camp by dinner time.</p> + +<p>They left that sign on the door. The sign that puzzled so very many +people, even to the "God Bless America" on it. For Mike and Mort were +as little known for their religious leanings as they'd been for their +patriotic urgings.</p> + +<p>Relatives of the two, I am told, disposed of the store's stock and +equipment. Mort didn't discuss any of that in the short note he left +for me before leaving with Mike.</p> + +<div class="blockquot1"><p>"Dear Chum:</p> + +<p>Of course when you get a message like we got, and are told +to pass it along personally to the two jerks it was intended +for, there's nothing else you can do. We'll see that it gets +to Adolf and Benito—for Gabriel's boss.</p></div> + +<p class="p1">Mort & Mike."</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Direct Wire, by Clee Garson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DIRECT WIRE *** + +***** This file should be named 32672-h.htm or 32672-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/2/6/7/32672/ + +Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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