Final Reckonings (60 page)
"Halt!" cried the taller of the two. "In the name of His Majesty."
"His Majesty?"
"Yes, His Majesty, you pesky rebel."
"What kind of a gag is this?" Sammy muttered.
"No gag," the Thinker whispered. "Professor Cobbett knew. We changed the past by coming here. The British occupy Philadelphia."
"Enough of your blabbing, sirrah," the soldier shouted. "Save your protests for General Burgoyne. When he enters the city today you and your fellow traitors can explain at a drumhead court-martial."
The Thinker paled. "Changed history," he whispered. "Burgoyne the victor. The Congress scattered. The four men we came upon in the back room weren't waiting for it to meet today. They've been trapped here without warning. They're prisoners. Which means we're prisoners, too!"
"Oh no we ain't!" Sammy drew out his heater and pulled the trigger. There was an almost inaudible click. He tried to fire again, but the Thinker slammed the door.
"What good is that?" he murmured. "The place is surrounded."
"Gun jammed," Sammy was grumbling. "Can't figure how —" Then he blinked. "Surrounded. And we're stuck, huh? Now what?"
"Obviously we get back in the machine and get out of here."
"But don't you have to wait until noon, anyway?"
"I'll worry about that. Let's get the boys. And hurry. Those soldiers may decide to come in after us at any time."
So they retreated to the rear room and they got the boys and explained. And in a surprisingly short time they were huddled in the time machine once more; huddled in the incongruous flummery of their Colonial costumes; huddled and trembling and perspiring as the Thinker hastily checked his data and then reached for the computer levers.
Reached and pressed.
Or tried to press.
"What's happening?" Sammy shouted, the echo of his voice almost deafening them in the cramped confines of the metal chamber.
"Nothing," the Thinker groaned. "Nothing's happening. That's just the trouble."
"It don't work?" Nunzio wailed.
"No. And Sammy's watch doesn't work, and your guns don't work, because all of the principles are wrong, altered the way everything is altered."
"Let me try!" Mush pawed at the levers, the buttons, the dials. Then they were all clawing and scrabbling at once, and still nothing happened.
The Thinker stopped them. "Might as well give up," he muttered. "Professor Cobbett was right. We've changed the past."
"But even in seventeen seventy-six, guns and watches and machinery worked, didn't they?" Sammy demanded.
"In our seventeen seventy-six," the Thinker said. "In our past. But this isn't our past any more. It's our present. And by making the past the present we've violated a fundamental law. Or tried to. Actually, fundamental laws can't be violated."
"But we came here."
"Yes. Here. But here isn't our past. It couldn't be. It would have to be somewhere else."
"Where else could it be?" Mush wanted to know.
"A place where modern mechanisms don't work, not having been perfected yet. A place where the British defeated the forces of the Revolution and captured the Founding Fathers. And that could only be in an alternate universe."
"Alternate universe?"
The Thinker was still trying to explain the concept of an alternate universe to them when the soldiers finally came in to drag them away.
He had time only for a final warning as the troops seized them. They were very rough about it.
"Remember, like Franklin said, we must all hang together," he whispered.
Even there the Thinker was wrong. They were hanged separately.
J
ERRY GIBSON WAS SITTING
at the bar when she came in. He turned to stare at her. Five minutes later he was still staring.
"Exquisite, isn't she?" said Sweet William. "So tall, so slender. She carries herself like a sword sheathed in white silk."
Sweet William talked like that when he was a little high, and Jerry was used to it. Besides, what he said was true. She was a luxurious hunk of fluff, with black hair and eyes to match, and the kind of figure that made you want to whistle, except that your throat went dry when you looked at her.
Only that wasn't what made Jerry stare. He was looking at her throat, and what was around it.
It wasn't exactly a necklace and it wasn't a pendant, because it was drawn up tightly—just a string of perfectly matched pearls.
But such pearls! Ten of them, almost the size of marbles. They shone brightly under the light, and so did Jerry's eyes. He did a little quick appraisal job. Say five banners apiece, at least, if they were perfect — and genuine. Nobody could touch them without breaking the string up, so the best he could get might be three for each. But three times ten still added up to thirty — thirty thousand dollars.
And she was wearing other stuff, too: an emerald ring and a fancy gold bracelet with smaller emeralds set in it. No use figuring on them, though. Emeralds were out of style, and you just had to take whatever a fence would cough up for them.
But there was probably more stuff where this came from. Maybe Sweet William would know.
Sweet William knew, all right. He sat down at the bar next to Jerry and nodded. "Just got in yesterday." he murmured. "The Ranee."
'The what?"
"Ranee, old boy. Female of the species. Male title, Rajah. Only in this case there is no Rajah. Deceased. Suicide, last year—Rajah of Gwolapur. You must have read about it."
Jerry shook his head. How could he have read about it? They didn't print that kind of news in the Racing Form. But trust an operator like Sweet William to be up on such stuff. That was his specialty — moving in on rich widows, and rich women who wished they were widows.
They watched the Ranee of Gwolapur as she settled herself at a table. It was quite an interesting setup, because she had a lot of help. Two little characters in turbans were doing a brother act for her—pulling out the chair, taking the menu from the waiter and holding it so that she could look it over without unladylike haste.
"Her servants, huh?" Jerry asked.
Sweet William nodded. "Loaded," he said. And then, as his eyes narrowed, "Stacked, too. This might be interesting. I wonder if the oriental taste includes poetry?"
"I saw her first," Jerry said. "I got a right."
"The pearls?"
"What else?"
Sweet William put his head down and talked softly, so the bartender wouldn't hear. "Child's play," he said. "Crude, too. This calls for the delicate touch, old boy. Finesse."
Jerry scowled. "You got a one-track mind. You want to finesse everything in skirts. Me, I'll settle for the loot."
"You misunderstand. I'm thinking of the same thing. But we differ on ways and means."
"I'll handle the ways and means," Jerry told him. "I saw her first, remember? I'm gonna case this job good, find out if she keeps the stuff up in her room or puts it in the safe. Then—"
Sweet William dug his fingers into Jerry's arm and the two of them dummied up until the bartender passed down the line. Then he shook his head again.
"It would never do," he said. "Not here, old boy. Too plushy. There'd be a proper row. Suggestions in order? Deal me in. You know how I function. The subtle approach. I'll get the gumdrops for you. May take a bit longer, but no fuss. Clean. And we'll cut the cake two ways."
Jerry thought it over. Sweet William was right. Pulling off a caper in a big resort hotel was enough to make you sweat. With the fix in and the gambling wide open, the management kept its own stable of hoods. And they were on the lookout for loners like Jerry Gibson. They didn't like any funny business because it knocked their good name. So even if he got the pearls his way, he'd be certain to have the hoods on his tail as well as lots of law.
"Rough show, old boy," Sweet William said, like he was reading his mind.
Jerry bit his lip. It added up. Ten to one, the doll kept her ice stashed in the safe anyway, and he'd never get it there. He'd have to jump her or those flunkeys she kept around. Plenty rough, all right. But Sweet William would just move in and take over, without any trouble. He could do it, too; Jerry had seen him operate before. A real pussy-cat.
Jerry swallowed the rest of his drink. "All right," he said. "You got yourself a deal."
Sweet William started to smile, then stopped. Jerry saw that he was looking over at the table again.
"Perhaps not," Sweet William said. "We have company for dinner."
It was true. The Ranee wasn't alone any more. A tall, gray-haired man had just joined her. He was sitting across the table, smiling and talking, and from the way she smiled and talked back it looked as if neither of them worried much about using the same toothbrush.
In a minute the Ranee said something and the two flunkeys bowed and went away.
Jerry decided to do the same thing. He and Sweet William walked outside together.
"How dumb can you get?" Jerry asked. "It's crazy to figure a queen like that floating around without a jack in the pack. We'll have to do it my way after all."
"Cool's the word, old boy. Let me check on the gentleman first. Tomorrow morning, right off. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an engagement."
Jerry let him go. He knew what Sweet William meant by an engagement. He needed another fix. That was Sweet William's little problem — he was on the stuff. Once he'd told Jerry that if it wasn't for the fixes he'd be sitting pretty in Hollywood right now. And Jerry believed him. Sweet William wasn't a liar—just a hophead blackmail artist who lived off women. Jerry could trust him.
And he would, until tomorrow.
Meanwhile, there might be some action at the tables.
There was, too. Jerry had a good night and he went to bed happy. Funny thing, he kept dreaming about the Ranee. Not about the pearls, but about the dame herself. In the dream she wasn't even wearing pearls.
It was a good dream, and when Jerry woke up he found himself envying Sweet William. Or the gray-haired gent who had already moved in.
He got up early, before lunch, and was just going to phone Sweet William's room when the character knocked on the door. He was all togged out in gray flannels and he looked great.
"Good morning, merry sunshine," he said.
"What's so good about it?" Jerry wanted to know. "You been checking up on the Ranee's boyfriend, is that it?"
Sweet William nodded. "Precisely," he said. "No trouble at all. Sylvan Lemo. Formerly of Athens. Shipping interests. Here on a sabbatical, as it were. As nearly as I can determine, he spent part of it in the Ranee's suite last night."
"So what's so good about that you should hold up an applause card?" "Farewell appearance, old boy. The gentleman checked out at midnight. Bag and baggage. In fact, he did a bunk."
"Bunk?"
"Didn't pay his bill."
"Hey!" Jerry stood up. "You think he maybe got to her first? Maybe it was a phony name, and he had the same idea — "
Sweet William put his hand on Jerry's shoulder. "He didn't get the pearls, if that's what's worrying you. She's still wearing them this morning."
"How do you know?"
Sweet William grinned like a skunk eating bumblebees. "I saw them when we had breakfast together."
"Brother! You're not handing me a line — "
"Quite the contrary. She is the recipient. I happened to bump into her in the lobby and strike up an acquaintance. By the way, she speaks English beautifully. Does everything beautifully." Sweet William backed toward the door.
"Hey, where you going?"
"I've a luncheon engagement with the Ranee."
"You sure move fast."
"That's the specialty of the house."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Nothing, old boy. Absolutely nothing." Sweet William was serious now. "You understand the situation. From now on I don't know you. We don't speak to one another, or call one another."
"But — "
"I'll see to it that you get a progress report. And it won't take long. Trust me. This is the best way." Jerry nodded.
But when Sweet William left, he went over and sailed a pillow across the room. Hell of a note. He was going to have to sweat it out alone while Sweet William had all the kicks. Did he understand the situation, like Sweet William said? Damned right he did — meaning, Sweet William couldn't afford to let a babe like this Ranee think he knew a ratty-faced little scrut like Jerry. It might queer the act.
A beautiful doll like the Ranee didn't have anything to do with ratty-faced little scruts, or even people who associated with them. In her book, he stunk.
"All right," Jerry told himself. "All right. Take it easy."
Or rather, sit tight, and let Sweet William take it easy. And when he took it, they'd cut up the loot and then there'd be plenty of moola. Enough moola so that Jerry could go out and buy himself a doll — a tall, ritzy-looking doll with black hair like the Ranee who would think him the playboy type. Or at least, she'd pretend she thought so, as long as the moola held out.
But damn it —
Jerry got hold of himself and went down to the bar. Two drinks later he was ready for the track. Going out he saw Sweet William coming in, steering the Ranee by the arm. She wasn't wearing the pearls now, but the two stooges were right behind her.
Jerry stared, but nobody stared back. Sweet William didn't even notice him. He was busy talking to the Ranee, and she was looking up at him and smiling and showing her teeth, and they were almost as good as the pearls. Jerry wondered what it would be like to feel those teeth digging into a guy's shoulder and —
The hell with it. He went out to the track.
He stayed in the bar out there after the last beetle crawled in, and met a couple of dealers he knew from K.C. They went out to eat and ended up in a joint on the highway. Highway was right: Jerry was plenty high when they finally poured him into the hotel about two a.m.
He flopped right on the bed without shedding his threads, and sort of passed out. But he dreamed about the Ranee, and her teeth and her eyes and her white arms reaching —
Jerry woke up at noon and it was rugged. A shower helped. He went downstairs, hoping to bump into Sweet William, but no dice.
