shoulder.
"All right, clear the way there!" the tallest musketeer roared. "Make way, in the King's name!" He and two of his men laid about them with the flats of their blades, opening a route to a waiting steamcar.
"Watch it, Mac," said the musketeer detailed to guard O'Leary. "Us police aren't what you'd call popular." He ducked as a ripe tomato whizzed past. "Can't say as I blame 'em much, the way his Majesty has got us putting the screws on lately. Everything that ain't compulsory is illegal."
"Sounds like a totalitarian regime," O'Leary commented. "Why don't you start a revolution?"
"You kidding? King Goruble's got a army that would—" he broke off. "Never mind that," he said. He looked at O'Leary curiously and edged closer.
"Say, is that the straight dope?" he said from the side of his mouth. "I mean about you being a sorcerer?"
O'Leary eyed the man. "You mean an intelligent fellow like you believes in magic?"
"Naw—but, well—they got you on a 902—that's a necromancy rap; o'course that's just a standard charge we use to hold suspicious characters for twenty-four hours. But I figure maybe where there's a frog there's a puddle—"
"Did you ever see anyone perform magic?" Lafayette demanded.
"No, but my wife's aunt's cousin claims he knew a fellow—"
"I'm no magician," Lafayette said. "As a matter of fact, I'm—but you wouldn't understand."
"Look, what I was wondering—well, my wife, she's kind of running to fat lately; stringy hair, no make-up; you know the routine. Only been married a year. Maybe you could give me something to slip into her martini to kind of like put the old zazzle back; warm her up a little, if you know what I mean . . ." He winked elaborately, and casually shoved an overeager spectator back into line.
"That's silly—" Lafayette started, then paused. Well, why not? Good practice. He squinted, pictured a popular movie starlet whose name he had forgotten, imagined her as married to the cop at his side, then pictured her hurrying along a street, attracted by the mob noise . . . The scene winked. O'Leary relaxed, feeling complacent. OK, now he could get back in command of the situation . . .
"Roy!" a girlish voice called above the clamor. "Oh, Roy!" The cop beside O'Leary jumped, looked around. A lovely girl with huge dark eyes and soft brown hair was pushing through the crowd.
"Gertrude! Is it you?" the cop bleated, a look of delighted astonishment spreading across his face.
"Oh, Roy! I was so worried!" The girl hurled herself at the cop, staggering him. His sword dropped. O'Leary retrieved it and handed it back.
"I heard there was a dangerous arrest, and you were on it, and I know how brave you are, and I was afraid—"
"Now, now, Gertrude, I'm in the pink. Everything's jake."
"You mean it was a false alarm? Oh, I'm so relieved."
"False alarm? Yeah—I mean . . ." The musketeer turned to blink at Lafayette. He swallowed hard. "Cripes!" he muttered. "This guy is the McCoy!" He thrust the girl aside. "Excuse me, baby!" He cupped a hand beside his mouth. "Hey, Sarge!"
The large musketeer loomed up beside him. "Yeah?"
"This guy—" the cop jerked a thumb at O'Leary. "He's the goods! I mean, he's a sorcerer, like they said!"
"You lose your marbles, Shorty? Get your pris'ner and let's move out!"
"But look at Gertrude!" He pointed. The big cop glanced, jumped, gaped. He swept his hat off, executed an elaborate bow.
"Holy Moses, Gertrude," he said, "you got a new hairdo or something?"
"Hairdo?" Shorty snorted. "She's lost fifty pounds o' lard, stacked what's left in the right places, developed a curl in her hair, and remembered how to smile! And he done it!" He pointed at O'Leary.
"Oh, it was nothing," Lafayette said modestly. "And now, if you fellows don't mind—"
Abruptly, steel rasped. Four sharp blades jumped out, poised, ringing O'Leary in. The sergeant mopped sweat from his forehead with his free hand.
"I'm warning you, mister, don't try nothing! I'll have
"All right, clear the way there!" the tallest musketeer roared. "Make way, in the King's name!" He and two of his men laid about them with the flats of their blades, opening a route to a waiting steamcar.
"Watch it, Mac," said the musketeer detailed to guard O'Leary. "Us police aren't what you'd call popular." He ducked as a ripe tomato whizzed past. "Can't say as I blame 'em much, the way his Majesty has got us putting the screws on lately. Everything that ain't compulsory is illegal."
"Sounds like a totalitarian regime," O'Leary commented. "Why don't you start a revolution?"
"You kidding? King Goruble's got a army that would—" he broke off. "Never mind that," he said. He looked at O'Leary curiously and edged closer.
"Say, is that the straight dope?" he said from the side of his mouth. "I mean about you being a sorcerer?"
O'Leary eyed the man. "You mean an intelligent fellow like you believes in magic?"
"Naw—but, well—they got you on a 902—that's a necromancy rap; o'course that's just a standard charge we use to hold suspicious characters for twenty-four hours. But I figure maybe where there's a frog there's a puddle—"
"Did you ever see anyone perform magic?" Lafayette demanded.
"No, but my wife's aunt's cousin claims he knew a fellow—"
"I'm no magician," Lafayette said. "As a matter of fact, I'm—but you wouldn't understand."
"Look, what I was wondering—well, my wife, she's kind of running to fat lately; stringy hair, no make-up; you know the routine. Only been married a year. Maybe you could give me something to slip into her martini to kind of like put the old zazzle back; warm her up a little, if you know what I mean . . ." He winked elaborately, and casually shoved an overeager spectator back into line.
"That's silly—" Lafayette started, then paused. Well, why not? Good practice. He squinted, pictured a popular movie starlet whose name he had forgotten, imagined her as married to the cop at his side, then pictured her hurrying along a street, attracted by the mob noise . . . The scene winked. O'Leary relaxed, feeling complacent. OK, now he could get back in command of the situation . . .
"Roy!" a girlish voice called above the clamor. "Oh, Roy!" The cop beside O'Leary jumped, looked around. A lovely girl with huge dark eyes and soft brown hair was pushing through the crowd.
"Gertrude! Is it you?" the cop bleated, a look of delighted astonishment spreading across his face.
"Oh, Roy! I was so worried!" The girl hurled herself at the cop, staggering him. His sword dropped. O'Leary retrieved it and handed it back.
"I heard there was a dangerous arrest, and you were on it, and I know how brave you are, and I was afraid—"
"Now, now, Gertrude, I'm in the pink. Everything's jake."
"You mean it was a false alarm? Oh, I'm so relieved."
"False alarm? Yeah—I mean . . ." The musketeer turned to blink at Lafayette. He swallowed hard. "Cripes!" he muttered. "This guy is the McCoy!" He thrust the girl aside. "Excuse me, baby!" He cupped a hand beside his mouth. "Hey, Sarge!"
The large musketeer loomed up beside him. "Yeah?"
"This guy—" the cop jerked a thumb at O'Leary. "He's the goods! I mean, he's a sorcerer, like they said!"
"You lose your marbles, Shorty? Get your pris'ner and let's move out!"
"But look at Gertrude!" He pointed. The big cop glanced, jumped, gaped. He swept his hat off, executed an elaborate bow.
"Holy Moses, Gertrude," he said, "you got a new hairdo or something?"
"Hairdo?" Shorty snorted. "She's lost fifty pounds o' lard, stacked what's left in the right places, developed a curl in her hair, and remembered how to smile! And he done it!" He pointed at O'Leary.
"Oh, it was nothing," Lafayette said modestly. "And now, if you fellows don't mind—"
Abruptly, steel rasped. Four sharp blades jumped out, poised, ringing O'Leary in. The sergeant mopped sweat from his forehead with his free hand.
"I'm warning you, mister, don't try nothing! I'll have
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