Part 3 (1/2)

”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?”

”That can't be helped,” the voice said stiffly.

”Be a good sport and get off the wire,” I said.

”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.

”No soap,” I said. ”I don't think you got a joker on there, and I'd swear you haven't got a drunk.”

”What have we got, then,” Mike demanded. ”A smart copper waiting to trap us?”

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.”

”We'd better,” Mike moaned dismally.

”Brother,” Mort declared, pulling his hair and making a sincerely distraught face, ”you're not kidding!”

I looked at the telephone booth and shook my head. ”Somebody is,” I told them....

For 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.

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 c.o.ke, left the office to go down and see how the boys were doing with the determined loony on their telephone.

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.

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.

”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.”

”You mean the guy's still on the telephone?” I demanded.

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!”

”Okay,” I promised. ”I'll keep mum. But who in the h.e.l.l do you suppose it is?”

Mike lowered his voice even more, looking furtively around the building lobby.

”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.”

I nodded. ”That's about all you can do,” I agreed. ”Does he still want to talk to Hitler and Mussolini?”

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.”

”I don't blame you,” I said. ”I would, too.” Mike went back into the store and behind the dice board. I took a c.o.ke out of the cooler and uncapped it on the side of the machine.

Mort sent me a message in his glance, and I nodded rea.s.suringly to him.

”I don't know anything,” I said.