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Page 90
And indeed, if there were a grain of truth in his suspicions, formless
though in a measure they remained, he had not an instant to lose.
But on the way to the Bizarre from Peter Kenny's rooms, some freak of
a mind superficially preoccupied had caused him to remark, on the
south side of Forty-third Street, immediately east of Sixth Avenue, a
long rank of buildings which an utilitarian age had humbled from their
once proud estate of private stables to the lowlier degree of quarters
for motor vehicles both public and private.
Of these one building boasted the blazing electric announcement: "_ALL
NIGHT GARAGE_."
Into this last P. Sybarite pelted at the top of his speed and pulled
up puffing, to stare nervously round a place gloomy, cavernous, and
pungent with fragrance of oil, rubber, and gasoline. Here and there
lonely electric bulbs made visible somnolent ranks of motor-cars. Out
of the shadows behind him, presently, came a voice drawling:
"You certainly do take on like you'd lost a power of trouble."
P. Sybarite whirled round as if stung. The speaker occupied a chair
tilted back against the wall, his feet on the rungs, a cigarette
smouldering between his lips in open contempt of the regulations of
the Fire Department and all other admonitions of ordinary
common-sense.
"What can I do for you?" he resumed, nothing about him stirring save
eyes that twinkled as they travelled from head to foot of the odd and
striking figure P. Sybarite presented as _Beelzebub, Knight Errant_.
"Taxi!" the little man panted vociferously.
The other yawned and stretched. "It can't be done," he admitted
fairly. "They ain't no such animal on the premises."
With a gesture P. Sybarite singled out the nearest car.
"What's that?" he demanded angrily.
Shading his eyes, the man examined it with growing wonder which
presently found expression: "As I live, it's an autymobeel!"
"Damn your sense of humour!" stormed P. Sybarite. "What's the matter
with that car?"
"As man to man--nothing."
"Why can't I have it?"
"Ten dollars an hour--"
"I'll take it."
"But you _asked_ for a taxi," grumbled the man, rising to press a
button. Whereupon a bell shrilled somewhere in the dark backwards of
the establishment. "Deposit...?" he suggested, turning back.
P. Sybarite disbursed a golden double-eagle; and to the operator who,
roused by the bell, presently drifted out of the shadows, gaping and
rubbing his eyes, he promised a liberal tip for haste.
In two minutes he was rolling out of the garage, ensconced in the body
of a luxurious and high-powered touring machine which he strongly
suspected to be somebody's private car lawlessly farmed out while its
owner slept.
The twilight was now stronger, if still dull and as cold as the air it
coloured, rendering P. Sybarite grateful for Peter Kenny's inverness
as the car surged spiritedly up the deserted avenue, its disdain for
speed regulations ignored by the string of yawning peg-post
cops--almost the only human beings in sight.
Town was indeed deep sunk in lethargy at that small hour; the
traditional milk-wagon itself seemed to have been caught napping. With
one consent residence and shop and sky-scraping hotel blinked
apathetically at the flying car; then once more turned and slept. Even
the Bizarre had forgotten P. Sybarite--showed at least no sign of
recognition as he scurried past.
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