Part 2

_Maybe Evelyn wouldn't exactly fall in his arms--her good training would blow the whistle on that one--but maybe she'd lean in his direction a little, especially when she saw that the stones were still all there. He reached out and put his finger to the buzzer._

As he waited, a qualm crossed his mind, the ghost of something he couldn't quite remember. There was a dim, fleeting glimpse of another world, a world made up of a counter, the face of a girl, a magazine.... But it wouldn't focus properly; his memory couldn't make the hurdle. The door opened and Evelyn Anders was standing before him.

_"Fleetwood," she said. She held her hand out to him and smiled. "Please come in, won't you?"_

_Maybe it was something in those cool blue eyes of hers, or maybe it was just that the harsh light over the door made her look pale; he got the idea that behind her gracious manner there was a sharp edge of nervousness. He got it stronger as she released her hand and made one of those small, miscellaneous gestures toward her hair._

_"Hello, Ev," he said. "I know it's not manners to just drop in like this, but I've got something to show you."_

_She didn't answer as she moved aside to let him in. He stepped into the hallway and waited for her to close the door. As she did so, he took in the jade green dinner gown and reflected that it was the kind of yardage that gave you the idea but let you think you'd gotten it all by yourself. Evelyn had class with a soft "a," but it wasn't stuffy, not on her._

_"My maid's off tonight," she said, putting her arm through his and leading him toward the living room. "You can talk freely."_

_She maneuvered him to the divan in front of the fireplace and managed it so that they sat down in graceful unison. She leaned back and suddenly the dinner dress had a neckline._ The qualm flipped again on the surface of Fleetwood's mind, like a minnow breaking the mirrored calm of a mountain pool. He edged away from Evelyn. She was saying something, but suddenly her voice had a senseless, clattering sound.

"What?" he said desperately. "What are you saying?"

_"... so I hope you have something nice to show me," she was saying as his senses suddenly cleared. "I could use a dash of something nice just now."_

_"Oh, yes," Fleetwood said and reached into his pocket. He took out the ivory box and held it out to her._

_"The case!" she said, and he noticed that her hand trembled as she took it. "Are they ... are the stones all right?"_

_"They're all there," Fleetwood said and waited for the touch, the glance that he had hoped would be his reward. "You may jump a little, though, when I tell you where I got them."_

_"Oh?" she murmured. Her gaze remained fixed on the box and its contents._

_"Mario," Fleetwood said. "He lifted them the night of the killing." He sat back and waited._

_There wasn't a touch or a glance. There wasn't even a flicker of surprise. He should have gotten it straight right there, but it wasn't until she turned and glanced back over her shoulder that he really tumbled. He jumped up, but Mario was already in the doorway. The gun in Mario's hand was only the companion piece to the cold ruthlessness in his eyes._

_Evelyn got up from the divan and faded back into the shadows beside the fireplace. She still had class, cowering there in the dimness, but you could sound the "a" through your nose._

_"So that's how things match up," Fleetwood said. He turned away from Mario and stared at Evelyn, a dumb move, the kind of thing a guy does when he finds out that the angel in his life got her halo from the local tinsmith. "You're wasting yourself, Ev," he said softly. "You didn't have to team up with a rotten slob like that, not a gal like you. It's like pitting platinum buttons on a suit of flannel drawers--"_

* * * * *

He stopped short and swung about. It was more than a qualm this time; it was a full-blown mental flip-flop. What the hell was he thinking about, turning his back on a guy with a loaded gun in his hand? Maybe it was romantic as the devil to stand around orating to a beautiful woman on manners and morals in the face of death and destruction but it certainly wasn't good sense. And now that he came to think of it, what in heaven's name was he doing in a preposterous situation like this anyway? Whatever was going on it certainly couldn't be allowed to go any further.

"Now, look, fella," he said soothingly, turning back to Mario, "let's cut out all this nonsense before someone gets hurt."

_Mario came toward him, his putty face impassive. Evelyn started from the shadows._

_"You're not going to kill him?" she cried. "Mario!"_

"No, Mario!" Fleetwood said with a feeling of complete madness. "No. You musn't get yourself worked up like this!"

_"Shut up!" Mario snapped. "Maybe you gave out the invitations, honey, but it's still my party."_

_"You said you wouldn't!" Evelyn said. "You promised, Mario!"_

"Yes, Mario," Fleetwood murmured worriedly, staring at the gun, "you promised."

_"How stupid can you broads get?" Mario sneered. "You think I'm going to let him talk?"_

_"No, Mario! No!"_

"She's right, Mario," Fleetwood said, nodding in vigorous accord. "You should listen to her. Besides I won't talk. I wouldn't even know what to say."

_"Turn around, Rover Boy," Mario said, motioning with his gun._

Fleetwood fully realized by now that he couldn't possibly make himself heard to them, but the situation demanded at least a try. He turned to Evelyn. "Talk to him," he urged. "Do something. Call the police!"

_"Mario!" Evelyn cried, and covered her face with, her hands. "Not here! Please don't do it here!" She began to cry hysterically._

_There was a pause, then a grunt from Mario that might have meant anything. A battalion of ants began to crawl up and down Fleetwood's spine. Mario's plodding footsteps sounded directly behind him. He tensed against whatever was about to happen. Then, in a rush, a small whirring sound descended swiftly behind his ear and his head split with pain. The floor opened into a black abyss in front of him and he plunged toward it headfirst._

* * * * *

In the same moment, the counter, the girl, the magazine, and the world that contained them became blindingly vivid and real. His mind suddenly cleared and he picked himself up from the floor in a mood of fretful indignation.

Of course he hadn't dropped into any black abyss of unconsciousness; he'd merely stumbled and fallen from sheer nervousness. And a damned thick bit of business it was too. It made you look like a fool. As a matter of fact, now that he had a moment to collect his thoughts, he'd had quite enough of this prosey nonsense and he was fully prepared to assert himself against it. He got up, brushed himself off with careful deliberation, and turned defiantly to his companions.

"Look, you two," he said firmly, "I'm sick and tired of this childish sketch, and it's about time you knew it. You can go on with all the melodramatic clap-trap you like, but for my part I'm...."

The rest of it jammed up tight in his throat.

The two were not listening; in fact they were no longer in any condition to listen, even if they wanted to. They stood frozen, transfixed in positions of action--and jarringly two-dimensional! They were precisely like life-sized cardboard cut-outs of themselves. They stood, supported by heaven only knew what means, staring at the spot where he had fallen.

But that wasn't the worst of it. They were incomplete representations of themselves into the bargain. Neither of them had mouths; the woman's face was simply a sketched outline, Mario's a drawing of an irregular lump of putty. Fleetwood stared at them; he didn't know what he had expected--perhaps that they would be transformed like himself. The last piece of the puzzle fell into place. He looked about.

The room had become a vague, unreal area in time, containing only a fireplace, a divan and two doorways. Looking on its clouded grey confines, he felt himself hovering crazily between fact and fancy. But this time he wasn't puzzled or frightened by the sensation. Turning, he forced himself to move against the room and away from it, out of the house. It was hard to make progress in a world where space and distance stretched and contracted in alternate convulsions, where substance did not exist upon which to gain a footing....

* * * * *

"Well for Pete's sake!" Kitty sputtered. "So you came back!"

Fleetwood glanced up and shook his head. She was gazing at him from across the counter.

"Uh-huh," he said vaguely.

"Well, you still owe me ten cents." She held out her hand. "The way you pop in and out of here like you were magic, I'm not taking any more chances. Pay up."

Fleetwood fished about in his pocket and, much to his own surprise, withdrew a coin. He held it out for Kitty's critical inspection.

"Four bits," she said. "I'll bring you your change." She went to the cash register and, after the necessary manipulations, returned with three smaller coins. "I had you figured for a deadbeat," she said. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay Kitty," Fleetwood said.

"Kitty?" she said, then shrugged. "Well, okay, I guess."

Fleetwood gazed at her absently, his mind on other things for a moment.

"What's the matter?" Kitty asked. "You look worried. You looked kind of dopey before, but now you look worried too."

"This Grant Dermitt," Fleetwood said. "What do you know about him?"

"Grant Dermitt?" Kitty said.

"The fellow who writes about me. You know."

"Oh, yeah. Grant Dermitt. What about him?"

"That's what I want to know," Fleetwood said. "What about him?"

"I don't know why I enjoy talking to you," Kitty said. "It never gets us anywhere. What do you want to know about this Grant Dermitt? Not that I can tell you anyway."

"I want to see him," Fleetwood said. "I have to get in touch with him."

"Why don't you call him up on the telephone? He lives somewhere here in town. I heard at the Towers. What do you have to see him about?"

"I really don't know," Fleetwood said, "not for sure."

"You're funny," Kitty said.

"Yeah, I guess I am," Fleetwood reflected. He left the counter and crossed to the phone booths. Picking up the directory he turned to the T's. He looked back at Kitty.

"You can bring me some coffee, if you want."

"Okay," she nodded and departed in the direction of the urns.

* * * * *

Finding the listing for the Towers, Fleetwood turned to the telephone and reached toward it. Then he checked himself. He left the booth and returned to the counter where Kitty and the coffee were waiting for him.

"Find your number?" Kitty asked.

"Uh-huh." He nodded and stared down into the brown liquid in the cup. "Yeah."

"Aren't you going to call?"

"Yeah. Only all of a sudden I feel funny about it. It's something I've got to do, only I don't know just how to do it, to make it come out right. It's awfully important." He looked up at her quite suddenly. "Do you like me, Kitty?"

She smiled with slow confusion. "Sure. I like lots of people."

"No," Fleetwood said, shaking his head. "That's not what I mean. Do you _like_ me?"

Her gaze moved thoughtfully over his face. "You're funny, like I said," she murmured. "You act--well, kind of daffy. And your ears stick out. But...." She nodded with sudden decision. "Sure, I like you, Fleetwood. I like you fine."

Fleetwood grinned at her and realized by the strangeness of it that he was enjoying the sensation for the first time in his life. It was nice to grin at someone. And all at once he knew quite certainly what he had to do--and that it was the right thing to do. He spun around on the stool and started away. Then he stopped and turned back for a moment.

"I like you too, Kitty," he said and went into the phone booth.

"Well, for Pete's sake!" Kitty said and turned and looked at herself unbelievingly in the mirror behind the register. "Gee whiz!"

The Towers was apparently the sort of establishment which believes in bending every effort to prevent the telephone and the English language from going any further than they have to as a means of communication.

"And who shall I say is calling?" the supercilious voice of the Towers enquired.

"Fleetwood Cassidy," Fleetwood told the Towers. "_Mr._ Fleetwood Cassidy."

"Very well, Mr. Cassidy, just one mo.... Did you say _Fleetwood_ Cassidy?"

"I did," Fleetwood said. "And tell Mr. Dermitt it's a matter of life and death."

"I see," the Towers mused with modulated forebearance, "it's a little joke, eh? Who shall we say is _really_ calling?"

"Never mind," Fleetwood said. "Just say it's a friend on a matter of extreme urgency. Snap into it."

"Oh, very well," the Towers said, plainly piqued, "if you insist."

* * * * *

A silence followed, punctuated by several non-committal clicks and an intermittent buzzing. Finally the voice of the Towers resumed.

"Mr. Dermitt will speak to you, sir," it announced regretfully. "Please hold on while he changes instruments."

There was a final click and the voice of the Towers was supplanted by the voice of Grant Dermitt. It expressed an even blend of harassment and vexation.

"Now, look here, Paul," it said, getting right down to brass tacks, "this isn't the time for you to be calling up with your bum jokes, telling the clerk you're Fleetwood Cassidy. I'm in a jam with this yarn and I haven't got time to be cute. Now, what's on your mind?"

"I don't know Paul," Fleetwood said, "so I'm in no position to speak for him. But I'll be very happy to tell you what's on my mind. And that's plenty. In fact I'm only calling to warn you I'm on my way over to tell you about it right now."

"What?" Grant Dermitt said. "Who is this anyway?"

"Fleetwood Cassidy," Fleetwood said, "that's who. And don't tell me I can't be, because I am."

"Now, just a minute," Grant Dermitt broke in. "Whoever you are, you've got a lousy sense of humor. And if you've got anything important to say, which I dismiss as a serious possibility, you'd better get on with it before I hang up, which I am just about to do."

"Okay," Fleetwood said. "I'll run over the facts, touching lightly on the high spots. We'll shoot in the details later when I see you. My name is Fleetwood Cassidy. I'm six feet tall, have red hair, grey-green eyes and ears that noticeably protrude. I've been going through a lot of damnfool nonsense for quite some time because of you and I'm fed up to the teeth with it. I'd like to see you in order to turn in my resignation in person, but if you prefer, I'll be just as pleased to send it to you through the mails. If you don't believe...."

"You're crazy," Dermitt interrupted. "I'm hanging up."

"Just a minute," Fleetwood said firmly. "There's more and it gets more interesting as it goes along. I've just come from being deceived by a woman named Evelyn who has class, alternately pronounced with a hard and soft 'a', slugged behind the ear by a putty-faced gunman named Mario and pitched headfirst into a black abyss. But I decided the whole sequence was too corny, so I got up off the floor, dusted myself off and called you up just to say hello. Does any of that ring a bell with you, Dermitt?"

"What!" Dermitt yelped. "How do you know about all that? You couldn't.... Why, I just this minute.... Who _are_ you?"

"Fleetwood Cassidy," Fleetwood said blandly. "Do I come over and see you?"

There was a sputtering sound at the other end of the line, then a wash of confused silence.

"Do I?" Fleetwood persisted.

"Y-yes," Dermitt said in a greatly reduced tone of voice. "I guess so." There was another beat of silence, then a spate of false laughter. "Of course I still think this is all just a gag."

"Sure," Fleetwood said, "you'll be sick with laughter."

* * * * *

Grant Dermitt lived on the ninth floor of the Towers, where, as Fleetwood observed, the swank began in the foyer and increased, from floor to floor, as you went up. The brocaded elevator attendant glided in for a smooth landing, slid back the doors and confided in muted tones that Mr. Dermitt's digs lay due north and could best be reached by taking a steady heading in that direction. Fleetwood nodded with thanks and proceeded on schedule and according to plan.

He presented himself at the door marked 9-B and pressed the buzzer, not, however without a pause first for a deep meditative breath. There was no question in his mind that his next step, the one that would take him across Mr. Grant Dermitt's door-sill, would be the most decisive in his entire life. He poised himself, therefore, in an appropriate attitude of semi-military vigilance and waited for the encounter to take place.

There was hardly any lapse between the sound of the buzzer inside the apartment and the echo of rapidly approaching footsteps. The footsteps, however, for all their orderly progression, stopped abruptly just short of the inner side of the door. In the pause that followed, Fleetwood reflected with understanding sympathy that he was not alone in the need to brace himself against the impending interview, and he found courage in this fact. Then the door opened and zero hour had arrived.

Never had Fleetwood seen a larger, blacker pair of spectacles, nor indeed had he even suspected that there was such a pair in existence. In fact it was not until he had recovered from the shock of these spectacular glasses that he was able to give their wearer so much as a thought. It was only then that he came to the decision that perhaps it wasn't so much that the glasses were large but that Grant Dermitt was small.

Dermitt could not have been over five and a half feet tall, and his head was large and flat on top so as to give him an odd, hammered-down appearance. Though he was obviously somewhere in the mid-thirties, his face had retained the alarming pinkness of adolescence. Through his glasses he peered up at Fleetwood with a sort of thoughtful horror.

"Oof!" he said by way of greeting. "Uhhhh!"

Fleetwood understood perfectly; it was probably quite a shock to the little fellow. He nodded in affable reply and filtered through the door into the entry.

As his host finally managed to rattle the door into a closed position, he made his way into the living room which was straight ahead. A wall of glass, to the left, afforded an unbroken and dramatic view of the city. The furniture was functionally modern, and to the right was a sort of alcove containing a desk, typewriter and three file cabinets. The over-all effect was very glittering, very urbane.

"You've got a nice lay-out here," Fleetwood commented chattily.

* * * * *

Quivering visibly in the doorway, his host, however, was in no frame of mind for conversational hanky-panky about interior decoration.

"You...!" he erupted. "You _are_!"

"Of course," Fleetwood nodded. "I told you I was, didn't I?"

"But you can't be!"

"I had a hunch you were going to say that," Fleetwood said.

"Oh, my word!" Grant Dermitt made his way to the nearest chair and plumped himself down into it. "My word!" he repeated. He stared at Fleetwood lengthily, plainly engaged in an inward struggle with his own senses. "But it's only a resemblance," he said finally. "That's all it _could_ be, just a fantastic coincidence." His gaze entreated Fleetwood. "Isn't it?"

Fleetwood shook his head and settled himself comfortably into the chair opposite. "Shall I tell you the plot of your present story?" he drawled. "Or would the experience be too painful?"

"Oh, dear!" Grant Dermitt said, making a small random gesture with his hand. "There is that, too, isn't there? No one could have known those things you told me on the telephone...."

"No one but me," Fleetwood said. "And who would know them better?"

"I simply don't know what to make of it," Dermitt moaned. "It's too crazy to believe, but...." He looked up at Fleetwood. "When did this happen?"

Fleetwood told him of the qualms, the spells, the small awakenings which had culminated in the final, major one that evening.

"I see," Dermitt said when he had finished. "In a way it begins to make sense. It checks with all the trouble you've been giving me lately."

"I've been giving _you_ trouble!" Fleetwood said self-righteously. "What about the trouble you've been giving me? And not just lately. To date, under your gentle auspices, I have sustained twelve broken noses, seventeen crushed ribs, nine bullet wounds in the shoulders--five right, four left--three skull fractures and a sprained thumb. As for the black eyes, superficial lacerations, burns and random bruises, we'll just pass those by as too numerous and picayune to inventory at this time. However--and I wish to make this abundantly clear--I'm stuffed to the glottis with the whole muggy business. In fact, to be perfectly honest with you, Dermitt, my nerves won't stand any more of it. You can't imagine how it shakes me to face a loaded gun anymore, let alone turn my back on one, as you had me do this evening. If I should ever have to repeat such a performance I wouldn't be a bit surprised if I broke down and had a severe attack of the vapors. You may call me a sissy if you like, but the wear and tear on my nervous system is beginning to tell in my emotional reactions and I don't want any more of it."

"Yes," Dermitt said, momentarily overwhelmed. "I suppose I have been a little rough on you, but I...."

* * * * *

"Exactly," Fleetwood cut in. "And never a hint of any sort of compensation or old age retirement. Not that that's the main consideration. If you had made me into one of those gentleman, garden-party type detectives, that would be an entirely different matter. Those boys go to all the best places, rub elbows with the cream of society and live off the fat of the land. They have a chance to improve themselves socially and prosper in the bargain. But this other routine, this rowdyism and mucking about with the absolute scum of the earth--well, let me tell you, it takes it out of a man and puts nothing back in return. So you'll understand when I say I'm quitting and getting out."

"Quitting!" Dermitt half rose from his chair, his eyes large enough to almost fill the circles of his enormous glasses. "Do you mean you actually intend--"

"I do," Fleetwood nodded emphatically. "Now that I have the chance to get out of the thing and take up a real life for myself I mean to do so. I felt it was only fair, though, to look you up first and explain my reasons."

"But you can't!" Dermitt squeaked. "You're just a fictional character! You can't do that to me!" He swallowed excitedly, held out a hand of supplication. "I didn't mean to be so hard on you, Cassidy. Believe me, if I had only known...."

"I know," Fleetwood said. "And I don't bear any grudges. As far as that goes I'm exceedingly grateful to you in a way. After all, if it weren't for you I might never have seen the light of day at all. In fact, if you don't mind, there are moments when I'm somewhat inclined to regard you in much the same way as a son might regard his father."

"Oh, my God, no!" Dermitt exploded, leaving his chair entirely. "This is madness! It can't be happening, it simply can't!" He whirled about suddenly and fixed Fleetwood with an anguished eye. "Who sent you here to do this to me?"

"No one," Fleetwood said. "I just came. You've got to believe...."

"This is a gag--a trick!"

"Oh, hell," Fleetwood sighed dejectedly, "now we're right back where we started."

"You'd better tell me who sent you," Dermitt said shakenly. "You've got to, because I can't stand any more of it!"

"My view exactly," Fleetwood put in gently.

"I'll go crazy! I'll go to pieces right here in front of you! I'll shatter like a crystal! Would you like that?"