Alexander Key - Flight to the Lonesome Place.doc

Flight to the Lonesome Place by Alexander Key

1

RUN FOR YOUR LIFE

RONNIE BEGAN HIS PERFORMANCE at the Re­gency that evening with hardly a thought that it might be his last public appearance. His day had started badly, and he had been haunted since breakfast by the fear that something—something he didn't want to think about—was very wrong in his life. But at curtain time, as usual, all his worries vanished on the instant. Cur­tain time was a magical moment when everything un­pleasant ceased to exist. It was the time when he turned into a prince and stepped forth into a glittering world of smiling faces, all belonging to his friends.

              And they were his friends. They loved him. There was never any doubt of it, whether the city was Lon­don, New York, or any of a dozen other places. There wasn't the least doubt of it tonight in New Orleans when Jerry Dunn, the Regency's master of ceremonies, announced in the microphone, "Here he comes, folks! Get your questions ready. Ah, here he is, the wonder of the age—Ronnie Cleveland, the incredible Blue Boy!"

              The instant applause that greeted him was deafening. And the warmth of it washed away the last shreds of the day's darkness. He ran forth, a small, slender figure in blue—his shimmering blue suit was exactly the same color as his mop of curly blue hair—and cried happily, "Hello, everybody! Hello, hello! ... Thank you . .  Thank you…”

              He began on the piano, giving the suddenly breathless room a rollicking rendition of a favorite tune, then broke off in the middle of it and asked, "Questions? Questions? Who has a question I can't answer?" Smil­ing, he pointed to a tall paper cap on the piano. "Who'll make me wear the dunce cap?"

              Scores of well-dressed diners wanted to match wits with him, and Jerry Dunn hurried toward the nearest with the microphone. On the right a tiny girl, seated between a bronzed man with white hair, and a hand­some black-haired woman, stood up and waved her hand frantically, but the master of ceremonies did not see her. Ronnie could not help noticing her, for she was the only very young person in sight. There was something foreign about her, and she seemed entirely out of place among so many oldsters.

              Then his attention went to Jerry Dunn, who had stopped at a crowded table dominated by a plump, bald-headed man. It was an obviously wealthy group.

              "We're more interested in numbers," said the bald man. "We've heard the Blue Boy can handle them like a computer, and that he never forgets. So we have a little test for him. Each of us here has a list of num­bers, big ones. We'll take turns calling them out, one at a time. When we finish, we'd like to see if he can in­stantly give the total for each group of numbers, the total for all the groups, and then repeat every number and point out the person who called it."

              "Wow!" Jerry Dunn exclaimed. "What d'yuh think he is—a genius?" When the laughter had died. he glanced back at Ronnie and said, "That sounds like a rather tall order. How about it, Blue Boy?"

              Ronnie rolled his eyes and reached for the dunce cap. He started to put it on, then hesitated. It was the sort of test that, to his audience, must seem beyond the powers of any human being. But he had solved hun­dreds of problems that were far more complicated.

              “If I do it correctly," he called to the bald man, "how much will you donate to the state home for boys?"

              "Will a thousand dollars suit you?"

              "That won't go far in a state home," Ronnie re­minded him.

              There was a quick consultation at the table. Then the bald man said, "We'll make it ten thousand."

              "It's a deal!" Ronnie cried. "Let's have the numbers.”

              He astonished them all with the ease and speed by which he won the donation. The applause was tremen­dous. His nimble fingers raced over the piano keys for a minute, then again he asked for questions.

              Now Jerry Dunn became busy carrying the micro­phone from table to table. Questions poured forth:

              What's a trapezium? a quagga? a pyx? Could he name the owners of Bucephalus and Traveler, and tell how many years apart they lived? . .

              Ronnie had no trouble until the circling microphone reached the tiny girl who had been trying all the while to gain attention. He had decided she was Spanish, as was the dark-haired woman with her. Her almost doll-like smallness made it hard to guess her age.

              "I have several very important questions," she be­gan, in a high clear voice. "First-"

              "Just a moment, please," Jerry Dunn interrupted. It isn't often that we find young people like you at the Regency. Would you mind telling us your name and age, and a little about yourself?"

              "I am Ana María Rosalita Montoya de la Torre," she replied, her manner as grand as a duchess. "I am not very old, but a lady's age is a private matter, and you shouldn't ask about it. I am traveling with the Señora Bretón—she speaks no English, thank goodness—and the gentleman with us is Captain Anders, of the Christobal Colón, the ship we are sailing on early in the morn­ing, as soon as it is loaded. That is enough about me-"

              “Not quite," the master of ceremonies insisted. "You haven't told us where you are from, Ana María."

              "I am called Ana María Rosalita, if you please," she said firmly. "And I am from Santo Domingo—though I am not going back, in spite of what some people think." Turning, she looked directly at Ronnie with cu­riously intent eyes that made him think of big black marbles. "Boy Blue, do you ever seek advice from—from hechiceras?"

              He blinked at her, and she hastened to add, "You speak Spanish, do you not, and know what one is?"

              “Sí, señorita," he replied, recalling his vocabulary. "It is a maker of spells, a sorceress.

not?"

              "And surely you believe in spells and magic, do you not?”

              Again he was startled. But he remembered his audi­ence, and smiled quickly and said, "Why, I couldn't possibly do without them. How do you think I'm able to answer all the crazy questions folks ask me? It takes lots of magic, believe me!"

              There was laughter, but his small questioner ignored it. Nor did she pay any attention to the Señora Bretón, who was tugging at her worriedly, trying to make her sit down.

              "If magic is part of your life," she said, "then I do not have to warn you. Your hechicera must have told you already. But please be careful, Boy Blue. Be very, very careful.”

              Ronnie thanked her in his best Spanish for her warn­ing, gave her a fine bow, then tried to forget her so he could get on with his performance. The applause helped, as it always did, and the final thunder of ap­plause when he finished was enough to assure him that he had put in a good evening. It was thunderous enough, in fact, to give him a heady feeling that stayed with him for some time after he reached his dressing room. He was not immediately aware that no guard was on duty to protect him.

              He changed from his blue silk suit to an ordinary brown one, drew a brown wig over his shock of blue curls, and put on a pair of heavy, horn-rimmed glasses. Thus disguised—it was mainly to escape the mobs of autograph hunters who hounded him everywhere—he slipped back through the hotel lobby to the elevators.  Several people glanced at him curiously, but no one immediately realized that the pale, thin features under the glasses belonged to a face that had become familiar in nearly every country on earth.

              It was not until he was in the elevator that he thought again of the tiny Spanish girl. He caught his breath, feeling delayed shock. Something was wrong, surely, and she had tried to warn him, but how had she known about it?

              Ronnie's heady feeling evaporated. His spirits sank as the elevator rose. By the time he stepped out at the tenth floor, all the vague fears that had haunted him earlier were back again, stronger than ever.

              Suddenly he wished he had help. But where could he find it? Who was the person he could talk to, and trust?

              He clenched his small hands and started unhappily down the long, empty corridor. The very emptiness of the place, at that moment, reminded him how alone and friendless he actually was. Being Ronnie Cleve­land, the Blue Boy, made up for a great deal. But it wasn't everything. Other kids had homes and families, and friends and relatives they could count on. He had only the Corporation. It practically owned him. And there wasn't a soul in the whole outfit he could look upon as a friend. Not even Gus Woolman, his manager or Peter Pushkin, his new tutor.

              He paused a moment, recalling now that there had been no one on guard duty at his dressing room. Sud­denly he wondered why not even Peter Pushkin had been there waiting for him. It didn't matter, really, ex­cept that Gus had made it clear that a tutor's duty, among other things, was to act as one of the personal bodyguards. The main one, actually.

              "What you gotta remember," Gus had told Peter, "is that Ronnie is a mighty valuable piece of property. You must never let him out of your sight. You're to travel with him, stay in the same hotel suite with him, eat every meal with him. Understand?"

              Peter Pushkin, a bushy-haired young college teacher with something too icy in his eyes for comfort, had nodded slowly while he fingered an atrocious red goa­tee. "I understand," he had said. "Naturally, someone should always be with him just to protect him from the public. That's obvious. But you sound as if there could be trouble from other sources. Are you afraid of kid­nappers? Do you think he's in danger?"

              “Aw, naw, nothing like that," Gus had replied, al­most too quickly. "Anyhow, he's got two regular bodyguards, so only a fool would bother the Blue Boy. But kooks are everywhere. Your job, besides teaching him, is to keep your eyes open. You gotta be sort of a big brother to him, see?"

              Cold-eyed Peter Pushkin wasn't quite the kind of big brother Ronnie had hoped for, but he had never been lucky with his tutors. And he was certain now that Gus hadn't told Peter the whole truth.

              But why? Where was the danger? When had it started?

              Suddenly he realized that all the wrongness in his life had really begun back at the reformatory, on the day Gus had discovered him.

              Sharply in his mind rose a vision of the hated place, so jammed with boys that half of them had to sleep on the floor. He didn't belong in the reformatory, for his only crime was being homeless. But there had been no other spot to put him. Gus had said, "I can use your memory, so I'll get you out of this hole. But you gotta do exactly as we tell you. That clear?"

              Getting out and going to live in big Gus Woolman's plush apartment, was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to him. And all he had to do in pay­ment was memorize the accounts Gus and his partner gave him. There was nothing to it.

              He might still be acting as their secret bookkeeper if Gus hadn't discovered he had other abilities. There was the piano, which he speedily learned to play by listening to records, and following that was the excite­ment in school when it was found he could solve intri­cate mathematical problems in less time than a ma­chine.

              The astounded Gus had said, "It's time we dropped those accounts. They're playing out anyway. The kid gives me a new idea. Put him in a blue suit, give those cottony curls a blue rinse to doll 'im up, then try 'im out with his brains and music at one of the clubs. If he goes, we'll hire a writer and a coach, and hit the big spots. What d'you say, Wally?"

              Wally Gramm, a thin, quiet man, had nodded slowly.  “He'll make it. He's one in a billion. But just to play it safe, let's have papers drawn up, and form a company to handle him."

              "Yeah," said Gus. "We gotta protect our invest­ment."

              Their investment, Ronnie knew, had been protected beyond their wildest dreams. Nor did they ever again bother with anything requiring memorized records. To the Corporation, the Blue Boy was worth a hundred times as much.

              But the old accounts weren't forgotten. Though his manager never mentioned them, certain names were beginning to come up in the news these days, and the big man would seem to freeze whenever he heard them. Then there was that curious matter of the extra money. The other day, when no one was watching, Gus had slipped a heavy sealed envelope into his hand, and said quietly, "Tuck that in the bottom of your zipper bag, and don't say anything about it. You may never need it, but it's a smart thing to have a little extra cash around."

              As he thought of it now, Ronnie shook his head and stopped abruptly a few feet from the door of his suite. Why, really, had Gus given him the money? It didn't quite make sense. He already had a big allowance, more than he could spend. Anyhow, Gus had always seen to it that the Corporation paid for whatever he wanted.

              But he had been given extra cash. A great deal, from the feel of the envelope.

              Why?

              Ronnie shivered, and moved slowly to his door. With the key in his hand he hesitated, strangely uneasy about entering. All at once he wished he could be down again in the crowded lobby. With people around him he wouldn't feel so—so uneasy. But when he glanced over his shoulder at the distant area of the elevators, he knew he couldn't force himself to go back. Not through that long stretch of empty corridor, where he had just been.

              He heard an elevator door open, and saw two men step out. At the same moment he was aware of the faint ringing of one of the telephones in his suite. Why didn't Peter Pushkin answer it, or a guard?

              Suddenly, swiftly, he unlocked the door, entered the suite's drawing room, and thrust the door closed be­hind him. "Peter?" he called, "Joe? Hank?" Then, in rising uneasiness, "Hey, where's everybody?"

              No one answered. The only sound was the steady ringing of the telephone over in his bedroom. He ran to it and snatched up the receiver. “Hello?”

              "Ronnie. Thank God you answered…” The voice, hoarse and gasping, belonged to Gus Woolman, but it was barely recognizable. Gus had been away all day. "Ronnie, get your bag and get out of there, fast-"

              "L-leave here?" he stammered, not immediately comprehending. "But—but where do I go?"

              "Anywhere," Gus said hoarsely. "Just get going … and don't tell Peter or a soul. . . . You gotta get out of there before you're caught. That bunch will kill you… They'll be there in minutes. . . . Hurry. . .”

              There was a muffled sound, a gasp, then silence.             

              Ronnie stood frozen, staring at the dead receiver. He was aroused from his trance by an impatient knocking on the outer door. His heart contracted as if a cold hand had clutched it. That couldn't be Peter or one of the guards outside. They would have let themselves in without knocking. And there had been no one in the hall but the men who had stepped from the elevator. Strangers…

              A key scraped softly in the lock. It rattled faintly, was withdrawn, then again came the faint scrape and rattle as if another key were being tried. In sudden hor­ror Ronnie remembered that he had not taken time to put the safety chain in place when he entered.

              All at once he hurled himself at the bedroom door, closed it and locked it. He ran to the closet, snatched up the small zipper bag containing Gus Woolman’s en­velope, and sped with it to the side door opening di­rectly into the corridor. With his hand on the knob he paused a moment, listening. Now he could hear sounds in the drawing room behind him.

              They had gotten in already.

              Trembling, he managed to ease his corridor door open. Making sure that the way was clear, he tiptoed out and turned right toward the stairway. Panic caught up with him as he started downward, and he began racing madly for the safety of the street, nine stories below.

2

DESTINATION UNKNOWN

              AT THE FINAL TURN of the stairway, with the an­gle of the lobby in sight, Ronnie stopped and clung to the banister, gasping for breath. In his entire descent from the tenth floor he had seen no one, not even a maid or a cleaning woman. But that was to be expected at this hour. The fact that he had heard nothing behind him was not reassuring. The stairs were thickly car­peted. Even now the men could be running to overtake him, only a floor or two away.

              If they were after him, he had only seconds to spare. Somehow he must get through the lobby unnoticed, and lose himself on the street.

              As he started down the last few steps, he was shaken by the thought that a third man might have been sta­tioned in the lobby to watch for him. In that case his wig and glasses wouldn't help a bit. If he were the only young person around, he would be spotted immedi­ately.

              At the edge of the lobby he paused just long enough to give the place a searching glance, then turned left toward the side entrance. He tried to walk naturally and control his ragged breathing, but so many people seemed to be looking at him that it was almost impos­sible not to break into a mad dash for the street. A few paces from the entrance a man stepped in his path as if to stop him, and he bolted.

              Outside, in the warm New Orleans night, Ronnie continued to run as far as the corner, even though he was not followed. The man, he realized, probably hadn't even seen him, but had merely stepped forward to greet a friend.

              For a while he drifted with the crowd, too shaken by what had happened to be more than vaguely aware that he was somewhere in that area known as the French Quarter. His mind was in a daze; it was impos­sible to think what to do. Never in his life, not even in those hungry days in the ghetto, before the reforma­tory, had he felt so completely lost.

              If there was just some place to go, someone he could talk to. . .

              His nostrils caught the odors of food coming from an all-night restaurant on his left. He stopped, uncertain. He didn't feel hungry, but it was nearly midnight, the time when he usually ate his evening meal. If he went in and ordered something, it would at least give him a chance to sit down a while. Then maybe he could fig­ure things out.

              Entering, he found a seat at the crowded counter. He started to order a hamburger, but decided upon a full dinner instead. The dinner would give him more time. While he waited for it, he glanced up and saw his pale, thin face staring back at him from the mirror flanking the coffee urn. His heavy glasses gave him a goggle-eyed look like a scared chipmunk. A telltale wisp of blue under one ear caught his attention. He was hastily tucking it out of sight when he heard his name mentioned.

              Ronnie almost jumped from his seat, then he real­ized that the man on his right was talking about him to the waitress.

              "Think he's really as smart as they say?" the man was asking her.

              "Of course he is. Didn't you ever see him on TV?"

              “Yeah, but there must be a trick somewhere. No kid that young—he can't be more than twelve—"

              “I’ve heard he's fourteen," said a man farther down the counter "But he's small for his age. The only tricky thing about him is that blue hair. I understand it's really white."

              “I don't care what color his hair is," the waitress put in He's got every right to wear it purple if he wants to. Any boy smart enough to do the things he can do, and earn a million dollars a year—"

              "He earned twice that in his last movie," interrupted the second man. “A friend of mine knows a girl who used to room with one of the Blue Boy's secretaries. Did you know that it takes fifteen secretaries just to an­swer his fan mail?"

              "No!”

              "It's a fact."

              Ronnie was grateful when the waitress left to take an order, and the talk about him died. She returned pres­ently, bringing his dinner, and said kindly, “You look kinda lost. Your folks away or something?”

              He nodded, unable to speak, and she said, "That's all right. Just be glad you've got folks. Me, I didn't have nobody but a good-for-nothing uncle."

              At the moment he would have been willing to settle for any kind of relative, even if the kinship offered only temporary shelter. Still, he thought, the police could give him that.

              While he picked at his food he considered going to the police, then decided not to—except, of course, as a last resort. Going to them wouldn't solv...