by CLEE GARSON
Mort and Mike got strange calls on this phone; they didn't
come through Central!
* * * * *
[Illustration: He had a strange husky voice that made queer chills go
up and down your spine]
There 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.
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.
The sign reads:
"CLOSED FOR THE DURATION
Due to our having
Entered The Armed
Forces of the U. S.
GOD BLESS AMERICA
Mort & Mike"
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.
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 _voluntarily_ enlisted.
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.
"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.
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.
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.
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....
* * * * *
On 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.
Mike Harrigan was the only one behind the counter, and I was the only
one on the customer side.
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.
"What's eating you, Mike?" I finally demanded. "That ulcer getting
well in spite of you?"
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.
"That State's Attorney!" Mike snorted indignantly. "He's gonna go too
far pretty damn soon!"
"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?"
"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.
"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?"
"You never can tell," Mike predicted gloomily. "They might nail us
all," he snapped his big fingers, "like that."
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.
"Maybe," I suggested cheerfully, taking my eyes from the telephone
booth, "they'll snatch out your phone on you. Then where'll you be?"
Mike smacked his open palm against his broad brow.
"My God," he exclaimed, "don't say no such things!"
I gulped the rest of my coke, lit another cigarette, shrugged
cheerfully, and started for the door. I turned before leaving.
"Cheer up," I said. "This will probably blow over. And if it doesn't,
there's always the army."
* * * * *
Mike 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.
"Good morning, good morning, chumly!" Mort exclaimed cheerfully when
we had untangled ourselves. "What's new with you?"
Mort is short, slightly on the plump side, with straight, dark hair, a
round, beaming face, and a penchant for flamboyantly colored sport
shirts.
"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."
Mort frowned.
"Whatcha mean? What's on the fire now? I didn't read the morning rags
yet."
Briefly, I told him about the news story which had excited his
partner. He nodded, thought a moment, then grinned.
"They can't do that," he said. "It's illegal."
"Tell Mike, if that's so," I said. "He's working himself into a boil."
Mort hadn't heard me. He was frowning thoughtfully again.
"Or can they?" he wondered aloud. "Where's that news story?"
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.
"I'd like to get my hands on that guy, the wisenheimer!" he growled.
"Hah! Practical jokes, eh?"
Again I stopped at the door.
"What's wrong this time?" I demanded. "Or is it still the State's
Attorney you're frothing about?"
"Some guy," Mike thundered explosively, "just called to say he wanted
to talk to Hitler and Mussolini. Wise guy, hah, the louse!"
"Hitler and Mussolini?" I demanded. "Who was it?"
"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.
Mort had put down the newspaper and had been listening to Mike's
explosion.
"Don't bust your buttons, Mike," Mort advised. "It's probably just one
of our customers having a gag."
"Bum gag, I say. If they wanta gag whyn't they gag funny?" Mike
snorted angrily. "Talk to Hitler and Mussolini, eh? Huh!"
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.
"Hold it, chumly," Mort said. "I'll answer this one. If it's the joker
again I can handle him better than you can."
* * * * *
Mort walked nonchalantly over to the booth, took down the receiver,
and turned to wink again at me.
"Hello," Mort said.
Obviously the voice on the other end of the wire said something. Mort
grinned.
"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?"
Mort put the receiver back on the hook and turned back to us, stepping
out of the booth.
"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."
Mike was glaring. "Gabby, eh? Gabby, Gabby, Gabby," he scratched his
red head frowningly. "Who do I know named Gabby?"
"Skip it," Mort advised smilingly. "It wouldn't be the right monicker,
anyway."
Mike muttered dourly, moving back behind the counter. Suddenly he
stopped.
"You see the morning paper?" he asked his partner in sudden
recollection. "You see about that louse State's Att--"
"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."
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.
"You think so? That's what I thought." He turned to me. "Isn't that
what I thought?" he demanded.
"Did you call for the morning line check on the tracks yet?" Mort
asked, changing the subject.
Mike shook his head. "I was waiting for a few phone bets to come in,
first," he said.
"How many come in so far?" Mort asked.
Mike suddenly looked at his wrist watch and swore. "None!" he
exclaimed. "None and it's already after ten!"
Mort looked alarmed. "You mean the phone ain't rang with a bet since
you been down?"
"Only time the phone rung was with that practical joker, twicet. You
heard 'em," Mike declared.
"But by this time we generally have a couple dozen bets in from the
phones!" Mort exclaimed. "This is bad. Whatcha think goes?"
"Goes?" Mike exclaimed indignantly. "How should I know what goes?"
Mort suddenly clapped his palm to his brow. "Maybe it's got somethin'
to do with that news story!"
"About the State's Attorney gonna check the phone lists?" Mike
demanded.
"Yeah."
Mike thought this over. "No," he decided. "Couldn't be. Not so soon,
yet. Tomorrow, maybe, but not so soon."
Mort calmed down a little. "You're right there," he said. "It wouldn't
be so soon."
"Maybe this is a bad day," I broke in. "Maybe your customers just
aren't betting this morning."
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.
Mike was as sorely troubled as Mort.
"We got at least couple dozen bets acrosst the counter already this
morning," he said. "But no phone bets."
"Maybe the damn thing is _actually_ out of order," Mort groaned,
glancing at the telephone.
"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."
"You're right. I forgot those calls," Mort acknowledged.
* * * * *
And at that moment the telephone rang again. Mort looked at Mike. Mike
looked at Mort. Both wet their lips.
"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."
He crossed to the telephone booth, jerked the receiver from the hook,
and bellowed into the mouthpiece.
"Hello!"
There was a brief pause in which someone said something to him from
the other end of the wire.
"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.
"Same guy?" Mike demanded, his veins bulging in his thick, freckled
neck.
"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."
"The connection?" I broke in, puzzled.
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!"
Mike and Mort evidently took turns acting as sobering influence on
each other.
"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."
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.
"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?"
Mort stopped drumming his fingers and glanced startledly at the booth.
Crimson began to return to his face.
"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.
"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!"
* * * * *
By now Mort was spluttering, and this time neither partner seemed to
have a calming effect on the other. They were both raging, boiling
mad.
"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!"
"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!"
He started for the door. Mike grabbed his arm.
"Waita minute!" he exclaimed. "We can't do that!"
Mort tore his arm from his partner's grasp. "What's stopping us?" he
demanded.
"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!"
Sickly, Mort turned back. His face was still flushed, but three
fourths of his steam was gone.
"Maybe you're right," he admitted. "And if so, what a helluva note
this is!"