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Voices of many loud-speakers, hollow yet rasping, spoke their ghost message through the vastness of Grand Central Station.

"Sir Henry Merrivale." Slight pause. "Sir Henry Merrivale.''Slight pause. "Please come to the station-master's office on the upper level near track thirty-six.''

And still the old man didn't show up.

Cy Norton, smoking a cigarette near the information desk, kept swivelling round and round with his eyes on a comparatively small crowd.

Eighteen years ago, when he was first sent to London as correspondent for the Echo, he had not been impressed—as few sensible people are—by St Paul's Cathedral. He had written that St. Paul's looked exactly like Grand Central Station with an acre of folding seats.

Now, as he stood in the main hall on the upper level, amid a marbly shuffle-shuffle of feet, the old memory returned. So many memories, both ugly and pleasant! And always, of course, the face of a certain girl...

"Sir Henry Merrivale! Sir Henry Merrivale! Please come to the Station-master's office on the upper level near track thirty-six."

Again it echoed and died under the mutter of the crowd.

Standing there in an old grey flannel suit he had bought before the war, his dark blue tie hanging out over the double-breasted jacket, Cy Norton might have been a difficult man to plaice. He was very good-natured, and looked it. He had a lean sardonic face, with fair hair as thick as it had ever been. He was over forty, and showed it.

Yet, despite the battering of time and war, Cy retained an enormous and youthful zest He had not even sworn very much, a few weeks ago, when they politely booted him out of his job.

"We fear," they had cabled from New York, "that he is losing his American point of view."

And who the hell, reflected Cy Norton, wouldn't tend to lose his "American point of view" in all those years? Was it possible—Cy tried not to fool himself—that he could see things from too many sides, from too many countries? Or that he was at last writing real journalism, instead of his earlier antics? Or, most of all, that...

"Mister!" cried a hoarse voice, accompanied by the noise of running and dodging feet. "Mister!"

A grimy-faced boy of twelve or so, whose aid Cy had enlisted with money and with the flattering promise that he should play Dick Tracy, cannoned straight into him.

"He ain't there," the boy confided, breathless yet with a conspiratorial look round him. "They've paged him five times, and they won't do it no more. But he ain't there!"

Cy Norton's heart sank.

"That's bad," he said. "I thought he'd be certain to go there. I was counting on it'"

"Howdja mean?"

"He couldn't resist that loud-speaker! If he heard it, he'd want to go and use it himself and talk to the whole station."

"Cripes!" said the boy. His eyes opened to white disks at the majesty of this conception. "What madeja think of that?"

"Because," admitted Cy, "it's exactly what I've often wanted to do myself, only I haven't the nerve. I mean, they wouldn't really let him recite the limerick about the young girl from Madras. But he'd try."

"Mister, we gotta find him!"

Cy's feverish eyes sought the illuminated clock over the information desk. It was twenty-five minutes to four.

"If he didn't hear the loud-speaker," Cy decided, "either he's left the station or else he's in one of the shops in all these arcades. Probably a bookshop."

"There's lots of bookstores in this place," yelled the boy. "Come on!"

Beckoning, he raced off in the direction of the Vanderbilt Avenue side. Cy Norton, remembering with pleasure that he had not put on a pound of weight in fifteen years, plunged after him.

Lighted arcades loomed up and were explored, amid a rainbow profusion of goods which would have dazed a Londoner and still dazed Cy. Their footsteps clattered and echoed on marble until the boy, doing a graceful skid-turn at a last arcade, pointed ahead.

Well down on the left was another chaste Doubleday bookshop. They did not find H.M. there. But Cy, as he glanced at the line of glass doors to the subway which cut off the end of the corridor, and seeing who was beyond those doors, uttered a grunt of triumph.

"Here," he said, pressing another dollar bill into the boy's hand. "That's all, Dick. We've done it!"

And he hurried through one of the glass doors.

The warm, stale, oily breath of the subway blew round him. On his right, eight turnstiles—with new metal separations, painted dull green, since the fare had been increased to ten cents—faced an iron-shod staircase leading down to the shuttle service between Grand Central and Times Square.

On his left, against a white-tile wall, was a big money-changing booth with a grill over its aperture. In the open space between turnstiles and money-changing booth, but well back beyond both of them, stood a very large and very old Gladstone bag stained with ancient travel labels. On the travelling bag, with his arms folded like Napoleon departing for St Helena, sat Sir Henry Merrivale.

Facing him, fists on hips, stood a policeman. Now there are those who maintain that if Cy Norton had intervened then and there, before anything had happened, all yet would have been well. But to these Cy has a firm reply.

"The cop," he will point out, "wasn't on duty. He was a motorcycle cop, black leather leggings and all. Finally, he was in a good humour."

And so he was, when he first faced H.M.

"What’s the matter, Pop?" the policeman called jovially. "Haven't you got any money for your subway fare?"

H.M., bald head lowered and corporation outthrust, gave him a malignant look over the big spectacles.

"Sure I got money," he retorted, suddenly digging into his pocket and holding out a handful of change. On the tip of one finger was balanced a dime, on the tip of another a nickel.

"But for fifty years, burn me," added H.M., looking first at the dime and then at the nickel, "I've never understood why the little one is worth more than the big one."

"What's that?"

"Never you mind, son. I was just cogitatin'."

The policeman, who was young and a fine figure of a man in his uniform, strolled over and studied him.

"Say, Pop, who are you?"

"I'm the old man," said H.M., dropping the money back in his pocket and tapping himself impressively on the chest. "And I'm mad, too. I'm good and mad."

"No, but I mean: aren't you sort of English?"

"What d'ye mean, 'sort of English? I smackin' well am English!"

"But you talk like an American," objected the policeman, as though pursuing an elusive memory. "Wait a minute; I know! You talk like Winston Churchill. And he talks like an American. I've heard him on the radio. 'Course, in most ways," the policeman added carelessly, "he is an American."

H.M.'s face turned a rich, ripe purple.

"But look, Pop," the policeman continued in a persuasive tone, "why are you sitting here on your bags? And what are you so mad about, anyway?"

With a violent effort H.M. restrained himself. His voice, which at first seemed to come in a hoarse rumble from deep in the cellar, steadied itself. But he could not prevent himself from swelling up with a terrifying effect.

"I want to make a statement, son," he said.

"O.K.; make a statement!"

"I wish to state," said H.M., "that this subway, which you ought to call an Underground—that this subway, of all the subways in which I have ever travelled, is unquestionably the goddamnedest subway."

The policeman, though genuinely good-natured, was stung to the quick. Born in the Bronx and christened Aloysius John O'Casey, he felt his own temper rising.

"What’s the matter with this subway?" he demanded.

"Oh, my son!" groaned H.M., with a dismal wave of his hand. "I'm asking you, Pop: what's the matter with this subway?"

To Cy Norton, standing near the glass doors with his hat hiding his face to keep it straight, the policeman's question seemed justified. The rush hour had not yet come. Only a few persons hurried across, to a clank of turnstiles, and clattered downstairs. Near the money-changing booth lay a coil of rope left behind by workmen. Lights, red and white, winked in the cavern below; another train rumbled out

"I'm asking you, Pop: what's the matter with this subway?"

"I come in here," said H.M. "I put a dime in the slot beside that turnstile. I get into a train, as good as gold."

"All right so what?"

"The first station I get to," said H.M., "is called Times Square. Fine! I look out the window at the next station, and it says Grand Central. 'Lord love a duck,' thinks I, 'it must be confusin' as hell to have two stations with the same name.' The train goes hopperin' on, and burn my heavenly britches! if it ain't Times Square again. The next station is Grand Central."

Officer O'Casey spoke gently.

"Look, Pop. This is the shuttle! It only goes between here and Times Square!"

"That's what I mean," said H.M.

"Howdja mean-whatcha mean?"

"What in Esau's name is the good of a subway that only goes to one station?"

"But you can change for any place from there! It's a service, see? It's..." Officer O'Casey, swallowing hard, was seized with inspiration. "Listen, Pop," he pleaded. "Where do you want to go?"

"Washington, D.C."

"But you can't go to Washington by subway!"

H.M. extended his hand, palm upwards, in a lordly and insulting. gesture towards Officer O'Casey's subway.

"See what I mean?" he inquired.

"You're drunk. I ought to run you in," said the policeman, after a deadly pause.

"You see those turnstiles?" said H.M., leering up at him.

"I see 'em, all right! What about 'em?"

"I've just magicked em," said H.M. "I put the old voodoo spell on 'em." Then he advanced his unmentionable face. "What d'ye want to bet I can't walk through any of the turnstiles and never drop a dime in the slot?"

"Now look here, Pop!..."

"Ho!" said H.M. "You think I'm kiddin', hey?"

He rose to his feet, the tweed plus fours adding more of a barrel shape. Majestically preceded by his corporation, he approached the nearest turnstile. Then, gracefully holding both arms in the air like a ballet dancer, he just as gracefully maneuvered his corporation against the turnstile. It clanked, and he went through.

"You come back here!" yelled Officer O'Casey.

"Sure," said H.M., instantly returning through the turnstile and just as instantly going back through another one—still without benefit of any fare.

"Voodoo," he explained with a modest cough.

For a moment the policeman stared at him. Then Officer O'Casey charged at that turnstile like a bull at a gate. But it held him.

"Y'see, son?" H.M. inquired pityingly. "You can't do it unless you know the voodoo words. And I expect," he pointed, "that feller in the money-changing box is just about having high blood pressure, ain't he?"

It was true, as Officer O'Casey’s glance confirmed. The young man who gave change was gibbering behind the bars.

"What the hell's going on out there?" he screamed.

The great man was paying no attention.

"I keep telling you," he rumbled patiently, "that they're all magicked. You can't get through without payin' unless you know the voodoo words."

Officer O'Casey's colour changed again. The .38 police-positive revolver shook in its holster against his hip. But his flaming curiosity was stronger than his instinct for law and order.

"Listen, Pop," he said in a low voice. "I’ll bite. I know it's a gag. But what are these voodoo words?"

"'Hocus pocus,'" H.M. said instantly. "'Allagazam. Cold iron and Robin Goodfellow.' That's all."

"But I can't say that!" "Why not?"

"I don't know," admitted the policeman, with a red colour coming up his face from under the uniform collar, "But it sounds crazy. It sounds..."

Then his whole tone changed.

"'Hocus pocus!'" said the policeman, extending his finger at the turnstile."'Allagazam! Cold iron and Robin Hood!'" He charged at the turnstile, and went through so easily that he nearly pitched headlong down the stairs.

But neither Officer O'Casey nor Sir Henry Merrivale had anticipated what happened next

A thunderous wave of applause, hand-clapping rising above the cheers, swept through that sour cavern and echoed back from its walls. Officer O'Casey had forgotten the crowd which can assemble in an instant, as though "magicked," at the least sign of monkey business. They poured down through the arcade from Grand Central, and through the two other entrances to the shuttle.

Office O'Casey was as red as a beet But H.M., whose worst enemy could not have called him bashful, assumed a dignity like Napoleon at Austerlitz and bowed as low as his corporation would permit He also raced in and out of two more turnstiles before the policeman collared him.

"Keep back!" shouted Officer O'Casey to the crowd. "I'm warning you now: keep back!"

Officer O'Casey was wearing a gun. They kept back.

"Jake!" he yelled to the consumptive-looking youth who kept the change booth. Jake hurried out being careful to lock the door behind him.

"Now look, Jake! There's something wrong with these turnstiles!"

"I tell you," Jake replied passionately, "there ain't nothing wrong with them' turnstiles! People been using 'em all day! You seen it for yourself!"

"It's voodoo, that's all," said H.M.

"Pop, you be quiet Jake, there's a coil of rope over there against the tile wall." The policeman pointed to it "You tie one end of that rope to the bars of your window, and the other end to the iron post at the end turnstile over at that side. Nobody gets through until... get going!"

Officer O'Casey, supervising the lying of the rope, was slowly losing his mind.

"Looky here, son!" H.M. told him in consoling tones. "Let's face it! If you know the password, you can get a free ride in the subway. You don't even have to crawl over or climb under."

It was unfortunate that H.M.'s powerful voice carried these words, or a part of them, out over a boiling and swaying crowd. Scattered words rose and were audible above the crowd, like the spurts of small skyrockets.

"What are they doin', anyway?"

"Didn't you hear it? The subway's hoodooed."

"You get a free ride in the subway," a voice was heard clearly to say, "if you care to leap the turnstile or crawl under it."

An electric tremor ran through the crowd. Though a dozen hoots and catcalls greeted the remark, the news spread.

"I assure you, sir," cried the little man who was honestly repeating what he thought he heard,

"you get a free ride in the subway!"

"That's gospel truth!" shouted a travelling salesman who wanted to get out of the mob. "If s a psychological experiment."

"And all you've got to do is get the hell over the turnstile?"

"Yes!"

"Then what are we waiting for? Let's go!"

And the crowd, converging from two directions, crashed forward.

There are certain moments when the chronicler, accurate though he is compelled to be, would prefer to shudder and draw a veil. Besides, established facts here are meagre.

It was not a crowd; it was a tidal wave. As the rope broke, it yanked the grilled window out of the money booth with a clang like the gong for round one. Nobody could afterwards agree who started the fight, though interlocked bodies were rolling down the stairs from the first.

It is unquestioned that somebody dived through the open cash window and began to scoop up money. But all that could be seen of him was the seat of a pair of blue denim trousers, at which some old lady was savagely walloping with an umbrella. Officer O'Casey, swept backwards, tripped over H.M.'s bag and lay stunned. Sir Henry Merrivale (to quote his own words) was merely standing there, as good as gold, not bothering anybody.

What happened was that a sinewy hand, appearing out of the crush, gripped his arm. Under a squashed felt hat appeared the green

eyes of Cy Norton. "Come on!" said Cy.

"Well, lord love a duck!" thundered H.M., above the racket and din. "Son, I didn't even know you were here!"

"Within ten minutes," said Cy, "I can tell you where you’ll be. You'll be in the can, sir; and you'll stay for thirty days."

"I've got a travelling bag back there," protested the injured one, who was being hauled forwards. "I got a very valuable cap, too."

"We can get them later. Forward towards the arcade!"

And the double battering-ram, both heads down, plunged for the arcade.

When they emerged into it, another crowd - mere spectators—fortunately had assembled. It was easy to mingle innocently with it. But Cy, when he saw two more policemen hurrying towards the centre of riot, thought it best to drag H.M. into an adjacent drugstore with a convenient exit.

It was peaceful in the drugstore, despite a crowded soda fountain. Cy, restraining a natural sympathy, quieted the great man.

"Listen!" he urged. "Your valuable papers: passport, letter of credit, the rest of it—have you got them on you?"

H.M. significantly tapped his breast pocket

"Good! Then there's only the question of your suitcase. Do you know anybody who's influential in this town?"

H.M. reflected.

"I know the District Attorney, son. Bloke by the name of Gilbert Byles. He wrote me a letter before I left home. It began, d'ye see, with: 'How are you, you old s.o.b.?' So I knew, American style, it was friendly."

Cy Norton uttered a sigh of relief.

"Then you'll probably get out of this business," he said, "without any trouble. Ill just have to risk coming back and getting your suitcase later. In the meantime, before they send out a police alarm, I've got to get you to Maralarch instead of Washington. I've..."

Abruptly Cy stopped.

Facing them from a little distance ahead, with a hesitant look, was a slender girl in a sleeveless white silk frock. Her face wore a faint golden tan which heightened the intensity of her blue eyes and partly open mouth. Her hair, a natural gold and worn in a long page-boy, gleamed under lights and humming fans.

For a second Cy Norton was more than taken aback. He was shocked to the heart at her resemblance to... And here Cy shut up the thought in his mind. It wasn't a close resemblance. But it was there.

The girl, for her part, was looking at H.M. after the fashion of one who considers a carefully memorized description.

"I—I beg your pardon." She took a step forward. "Are you by any chance Sir Henry Merrivale?"

H.M. coughed and gave her a modest bow.

"Burn me, but you're a nice-lookin' wench!" he said in frank admiration. The girl, though she did not move, seemed to reel. "This country," added H.M., "Is full of nice-lookin' wenches, though half of 'em are so spoiled they ought to be walloped. You oughtn't to be walloped."

The girl seemed to restrain a wild desire to laugh in his face.

"Thanks awfully," she murmured. "I’m Jean Manning. My father sent me here to look for you, because Mr. Davis had to go back to his office." Her eyes grew concerned. "For some mysterious reason, he seemed to think you'd be in trouble. Are you in trouble? I've got a car here."

"You've got a car?" demanded Cy.

"Yes!"

"Where is it? I mean, can we get at it quickly?"

"I know a good deal about this station," said Jean in a curious tone. Then her tone changed at the urgency of Cy's manner. "For one thing, I know a passage off the mezzanine that'll take us out of here as far as Forty-sixth Street and Park Avenue."

"Then we'd better get started for Maralarch, Miss Manning. I'm sorry, but it's serious. If they send out a police alarm..."

"Police alarm?" cried Jean.

"Yes... Oh, no, you don't!" said Cy, seizing H.M.'s coattail just as the latter, his eyes fixed greedily on the soda fountain, was about to get away. "I’ll deliver you out there if it kills me. And you'll answer some questions on the way!"

"Oh, my son!" groaned H.M. "We're safe now. There's no possibility..."

Then, as though warned by telepathic instinct, his big bald head swung round.

Through the glass door of the drugstore, mouthing like an avatar of vengeance, peered the face of Officer O'Casey.

"Out the other entrance," shouted Cy Norton. "Run!"

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