One Of Our Dinosaurs Is Missing (20 page)

“I’ve been thinking it over,” he confided. “Those dames don’t react like normal people. They’re nuts. We’ll have to try a different approach.”

“I guess we ought to, too,” said Adam. “Last time we tried everything but rubber hoses. They’re a strange bunch, all right. I haven’t found out much about them so far, but the British Embassy are getting background details from England. We might get a lead eventually through Porcello. He made a hit with the nurse who’s allergic to men. Seems he’s the first man she’s ever met who didn’t make her sneeze.”

Jumbo Hooligan looked sideways out of the window, and watched the red tugs working in the river before he replied.

“I still think we might be able to make a deal with them. Maybe I should try again. Get me the crazy broad I didn’t interview. She’s the oldest. Maybe she’s the leader.”

Adam pushed a small, decorated box towards Hooligan.

“By the way, here are some more chocolates, Jumbo. We’ve cleared this one. It’s okay--from Petrov, this time. That makes fifteen boxes you’ve had.” “Fourteen,” corrected Hooligan. “And if I ever lay hands on that bloody Lui Ho, I’ll stuff his laxative- laced ginger up his Chinese fanny.”

Emily stationed herself just beyond Hooligan’s plastered foot. He smiled at her. With the plaster on his nose he reminded her of one of Hettie’s teddy-bears. She half curtsied.

“Sorry to hear about your inconvenience, sir.”

“Hurumph,” replied Hooligan. His foot and nose continued to ache. “I want to talk about this damn dinosaur.” He tried to keep his voice soft, his tone reasonable. “Look, lady. The time has come for you and me to have a little chat. We know you knocked it off.” He noticed Emily’s look of horror. “All right, don’t get touchy. We’ve got all the proof we need to get a conviction--and I ain’t kidding. We’ve had you followed every minute of the day, for some time now. We know all about every one of you ... Don’t interrupt me, lady. D’you know I can get you sent down for life? Get me? LIFE? So, we make a deal. You tell us where the old brontosaurus is, and I’ll try to be nice and easy with you. Now, I’m a reasonable guy . .”

Emily broke in. “Oh, dear me. How embarrassing for you, Mr. Hooligan! Do you REALLY believe I could steal a dinosaur from a museum? After all, it’s such a big thing, isn’t it? I do have an idea, though. Perhaps I can help you.”

Jumbo Hooligan strained forward as far as his leg harness would permit. Emily bent over him and whispered. A despairing groan escaped from Hooligan. He sank back against the pillow. “All nuts. Nuts. Completely nuts,” he gasped, banging himself on his forehead with the palm of his hand.

“No,
really
. I mean it,” continued Emily, confidentially. “My friend lost her canary. And within two hours of advertising in the
New York Times
, she had a lot of people telephoning her wanting to sell her a replacement. Perhaps you can get a dinosaur that way. I don’t suppose the museum people would spot the difference. After all, a dinosaur’s just a dinosaur.”

Jumbo Hooligan jerked himself upright in the bed, swore as his ankle gave him a painful reminder of its condition, and fell backward on to the pillow.

“Right,” he hissed. “I’ve tried to be generous. Now I’ll tell you something. I’m going to re-open Alcatraz for you. You’ll all spend the rest of your lives inside. In solitary. And when you do get out, then we’ll deport you--in boxes.”

“That
will
be nice!” said Emily. She picked up her handbag, twitched her pince-nez back into position, and smiled again. “Do have a nice
long
holiday, Mr. Hooligan.”

Something stirred amongst the stocks and shares. They rose and fell rapidly. Billie Big Canoe opened a dew- heavy eyelid and squinted down the bristles of his chin towards the financial section of the
New York Times
that had kept him warm throughout the night.

Maritime Motors seemed to be reaching a peak. He was a little worried about Amalgamated Faucets, whose market price had remained static for the past month. He inhaled deeply--not that he needed the extra air. It simply enabled him to read the remainder of the column without bringing his hands out into the morning freshness.

Billie Big Canoe was a financial expert. He spent more time studying the stock market than looking for work. After a few minutes of careful reading he pulled a tatty notebook from his pocket. More fumblings produced a tooth-marked pencil stub. He flicked through the pages, crossed out a few figures, and made a quick mental calculation.

Since March he had made financial gains of over a million dollars. If he’d had the initial thousand dollars for the original investment, he would now have been a millionaire. As it was, Billie Big Canoe didn’t have the price of a hamburger.

“How’s the market today?” asked Herman’s voice from the next bench. A strange couple, Billie and Herman. They had little in common, although they had travelled together for nearly twenty years. Their interests were divided, as a result of sharing the same bedclothes. Every day they searched for a copy of the
New York Times
, and every evening, they split it. Billie took the financial and news pages, and had become a stock market expert. Herman preferred the sports and social columns. He knew all the socialites by sight and name, their comings and goings, intrigues and scandals.

Billie answered out of courtesy. “Market’s good. The dollar’s up. How’s the rest of the world managing?” Herman peered down over his chest. “Nothing much. I see that Hazel Willingboddy has screwed off to Italy again with that new gigolo friend of hers.”

“Uh huh,” grunted Billie Big Canoe. He found the antics of Herman’s socialites boring.

He stood up, crumpled his newspaper into a ball and tossed it behind the bench. Then he stretched and rubbed some life back into his arms and legs.

Herman’s shirt front heaved, and a glistening, scaled coil popped into view. Euclid, his pet python, was trying to force its way down the dark leg tunnel of Herman’s old jeans. Herman tugged--the snake won. He let go of its tail and the snake emerged by the side of a grubby ankle. Herman caught the python, wrapped it around his neck, and stood up.

“I got him,” he smiled to Billie Big Canoe. “He’s only making trouble ’cause he knows it’s coming toward winter. He wants to find somewhere hot.”

“Why the hell you got to have a snake as a pet? A dog, yes ... but, for God’s sake, a python! Doesn’t do anything, except make a dam nuisance of itself.”

“Well, it ain’t got fleas, either.” Herman stroked Euclid’s sleek head. “And I didn’t choose it anyway. It got given me.”

Herman was the world’s most unsuccessful bum. Euclid was a scaly reminder of his luck. Herman had knocked at a tidy suburban house. The woman had smiled at his “got anything you don’t want, lady?” She’d returned to the door a few minutes later with a bag, and handed it to him. Herman heard the door being locked, then he’d seen the bag move. It had taken a lot of courage to look inside, even more to handle the snake. He’d intended to sell it, but then decided to keep it as a pet. Now it lived around his neck during the daytime, and under his clothes at night. Herman was the only friend it’d ever had.

“Put it away, I said, and let’s go see Albie for some coffee.”

They plodded into the city. It was still too early in the day for the morning rush of commuting New Yorkers. Herman spotted a lone, well-dressed man, document case under his arm, striding along the avenue toward them. He intercepted him.

“Say, mister. You got change for a five thousand dollar bill?”

The man shook his head.

“You spare us the price of a coffee? Just till the Chase Manhattan opens?”

The man felt his loose change, found a coin and tossed it to Herman. Herman beamed a toothy smile. The man grinned back--it was that sort of a bright morning.

They drifted to a broken-down timber shack on the edge of a building lot, and stayed till gone noon, swigging coffee with Albie, a renegade hobo now working as a site guard. They smoked the last of the cigarettes they had bought with the money they got from the man with the briefcase. Then they ambled slowly downtown. At the comer of Fifth Avenue and 42nd Street, a voice, harsh with Brooklynese, stopped them.

“Goddam me,” exclaimed the cop. “You two bums still cluttering my beat? Why don’t ya head south with the boids? New York’s gonna be tough this winter.”

“We been thinking about it, Joe,” said Billie.

The cop looked them over.

“Say, youse guys eaten, yet?”

“Nope,” replied Herman. “We just had coffee.”

“Here, then.” The cop put his hand inside his tunic. “Have these. My Nellie always gives me blutwurst. Can’t stand it any longer,” he lied, and tossed them the flattened package he’d been looking forward to having for his own lunch.

“Now, on your way!” he added, eyeing Billie and Herman with exaggerated and theatrical anger. “Scram offa my beat. And don’t lemme see youse around again till next spring. ’Cus if I do, I’m gonna shoot ya.”

The three of them laughed. It was a laughing afternoon.

By early evening, the two hobos had reached the edge of the East River. An autumnal haze blurred the lights from across the river and dusted the scene blue-grey.

Herman nudged his friend. “Whatsay we head over to Welfare Island and find a place to bed down? The old buildings there should be warm.”

“That’s good, by me,” said Billie. He thought of the damp of the previous night. “Fall’s coming fast. Coupla weeks and we’ll do like Joe said, and head south.”

It was almost dark by the time they’d strolled over the Queensboro Bridge and made their way down on to the Island. They avoided the main paths and the porters and guards around the hospitals, and followed the riverside towards the derelict buildings. Billie eyed them, professionally. The first ones he rejected as too damp, drafty or uncomfortable, but he stopped in front of one which seemed to be in a habitable state.

“Here,” he said, and nodded towards the door. It was jammed. He barged it with his shoulder. It opened. Inside it was already dark. He trudged in. There was a heavy clump. “Take it easy,” he called back. “This place is full of lumber.”

Herman followed him. There was the sound of a striking match. Billie Big Canoe held the flickering splinter of waxed cardboard above his head.

“Jesus! Bones! This must be the mortuary we’re in.” The match died. He struck another.

“These ain’t people bones,” said Herman. “These are too big. These are animal bones. Hey, I bet these is elephant bones. Maybe this is one of those elephant graveyards yuh read about. You know, where they come to die ...”

“You’re nuts. You think sick elephants is going to swim the Atlantic, just so’s they can die on Welfare Island? Maybe some film company left them here. Maybe they’re something the students used when this was a proper hospital. Maybe even someone left them to the laboratories in their will.”

“Hold Euclid, while I get out the candle, will ya?” Herman unwound his pet and dangled him at Billie.

Billie stretched out his hand and waved it around until he felt the snake. It was even more unpleasant in the semidarkness.

“Hurry up,” he groaned. “This damn thing’s cut off my circulation.”

Herman searched through the few belongings in his ex-army rucksack and produced a bent stick of tallow. He lit it.

They looked around. Billie found himself a tattered mattress that was disintegrating in the hallway. He pulled it over and kicked it into a rough bed shape.

“What we got for supper?” asked Herman. “I was fancying a steak, fried, but rare. And two eggs and tomatoes and mushrooms, and maybe even some wine-- at a table with a clean cloth on it.”

“Well, we got half a blutwurst sandwich left and two apples.”

“Joe the cop was right,” said Herman. “That blutwurst’s lousy.”

“You ain’t got no gratitude.” Billie tossed him an apple and part of the half-sandwich.

“You know, pal,” Herman sighed between mouthfuls, “I’ve been thinking. That Hazel Willingboddy . .. a dame like that. She’s got everything ... I mean that That Hazel Willingboddy’s got the lot. Jet-set. Money. Big hotels. Clothes. You know, I never seen a picture of her wearing the same clothes twice. I bet she changes her pants every day.”

“Nuts,” snapped Billie. “What for you’re always on about that broad? I hear that dame’s name twenty times a week.” He dragged over one of the bones and settled back, in almost armchair comfort, to read his newspaper. The candle glimmered, its yellow glow adding an antique varnish to the men’s skins.

“Hey,” he said, suddenly excited. “These bones, Herman. These bones, are they stone or bone?”

“Whatdya mean, is they stone or bone? What do you think they’ll be, marshmallow?”

“No, jerk. I’m serious. Have a feel of one of them bones.”

“Now who’s nuts?”

“Give it a dig with your blade.”

Herman pulled out his old knife and tried scratching the nearest bone. He looked surprised.

“It is stone ... These ain’t bone bones at all. They’re concrete. Must be part of a statue. Maybe we can sell them. Billie, you’re a genius! Maybe we can sell them to a collector, maybe an antique shop.”

“We can do better than that, buddy.” Billie jumped to his feet and pushed the paper in front of his partner’s face. “Throw a look at that bit on the right. If I ain’t wrong, it’s
these
bones they’re yakking about. It says dinosaur bones. And there’s a reward. Says the museum’ll pay 10,000 dollars. And
we’ve
got ’em here. Jeez, ten grand!”

“They’ll think we stole ’em,” warned Herman. “The cops will toss us inside. You can stake your life we won’t get a reward. They don’t give rewards to bums.”

“Nope. This is legit. It’s a museum. They’ll pay us a reward.”

“How we let ’em know it was us who found the bones? If we leave here, maybe someone else’ll find them.”

“We gotta telephone them. I gotta telephone them and you gotta stay here on guard.”

“It’s night time,” said Herman. “Nobody important’s going to be at the museum at night. And we don’t have a dime between us--for the telephone.”

“Oh, Jesus,” groaned Billie. “We got ten grand sitting waiting for us. And all we need to get it into our hands is a goddammed dime. Okay, we sit here until it gets morning, then I go see ’em.”