“Kitten’s safe. I told her to hide. But this is crazy, Pete. They must be absolute, complete and teetotal nuts.”
“Any law says a cop has to be sane to be on the force?”
“What whirlwind, Sergeant?” the bazooka man was asking. Yancel started to tell him, forcefully, then deflated when he realized that no whirlwind was available.
“You wait,” he told him, and turned to Pappy. “You!” he yelled. “You chased away that whirlwind. Get it back here.”
Pete took out his notebook. “This is interesting, Yancel. Is it your professional opinion that a whirlwind can be ordered around like a trained dog? Is that the official position of the police department?”
“I- No comment! You button up, or I’ll run you in.”
“By all means. But you have that Buck-Rogers cannon pointed so that, after the shell passes through the whirlwind, if any, it should end up just about at the city hall. Is this a plot to assassinate Hizzoner?”
Yancel looked around suddenly, then let his gaze travel an imaginary trajectory.
“Hey, you lugs!” he shouted. “Point that thing the other way. You want to knock off the Mayor?”
“That’s better,” Pete told the Sergeant. “Now they have it trained on the First National Bank. I can’t wait.”
Yancel looked over the situation again. “Point it where it won’t hurt anybody,” he ordered. “Do I have to do all your thinking?”
“But, Sergeant-”
“Well?”
“You point it. We’ll fire it.”
Pete watched them. “Clarence,” he sighed, “you stick around and get a pic of them loading it back into the car. That will be in about five minutes. Pappy and I will be in the Happy Hour Bar-Grill. Get a nice picture, with Yancel’s features.”
“Natch,” said Clarence.
The next installment of OUR FAIR CITY featured three cuts and was headed “Police Declare War on Whirlwind.” Pete took a copy and set out for the parking lot, intending to show it to Pappy.
Pappy wasn’t there. Nor was Kitten. He looked around the neighborhood, poking his nose in lunchrooms and bars. No luck.
He headed back toward the Forum building, telling himself that Pappy might be shopping, or at a movie. He returned to his desk, made a couple of false starts on a column for the morrow, crumpled them up and went to the art department. “Hey! Clarence! Have you been down to the parking lot today?”
“Nah.”
“Pappy’s missing.”
“So what?”
“Well, come along. We got to find him.”
“Why?” But he came, lugging his camera.
The lot was still deserted, no Pappy, no Kitten-not even a stray breeze. Pete turned away. “Come on, Clarence-say, what are you shooting now?”
Clarence had his camera turned up toward the sky. “Not shooting,” said Clarence. “Light is no good.”
“What was it?”
“Whirlwind.”
“Huh? Kitten?”
“Maybe.”
“Here, Kitten-come, Kitten.” The whirlwind came back near him, spun faster, and picked up a piece of cardboard it had dropped. It whipped it around, then let him have it in the face.
“That’s not funny, Kitten,” Pete complained. “Where’s Pappy?”
The whirlwind sidled back toward him. He saw it reach again for the cardboard. “No, you don’t!” he yelped and reached for it, too.
The whirlwind beat him to it. It carried it up some hundred feet and sailed it back. The card caught him edgewise on the bridge of the nose. “Kitten!” Pete yelled. “Quit the horsing around.”
It was a printed notice, about six by eight inches. Evidently it had been tacked up; there were small tears at all four corners. It read: “THE RITZ-CLASSIC” and under that, “Room 2013, Single Occupancy $6.00, Double Occupancy $8.00.” There followed a printed list of the house rules.
Pete stared at it and frowned. Suddenly he chucked it back at the whirlwind. Kitten immediately tossed it back in his face.
“Come on, Clarence,” he said briskly. “We’re going to the Ritz-Classic-room 2013.”
“Natch,” said Clarence.
The Ritz-Classic was a colossal fleabag, favored by the bookie-and-madame set, three blocks away. Pete avoided the desk by using the basement entrance. The elevator boy looked at Clarence’s camera and said, “No, you don’t, Doc. No divorce cases in this hotel.”
“Relax,” Pete told him. “That’s not a real camera. We peddle marijuana-that’s the hay mow.”