Molly felt on top of the world, confident that everyone had seen what she had wanted them to see.
One person alone slipped through her net. One small boy in the audience had not been hypnotized, simply because he had not been watching or listening. He had been reading a comic with a flashlight and was too absorbed in Superman to look up at Molly’s eyes. So later, when he put down his comic, he was the only one who saw Molly’s true talent.
“Mom, she wasn’t that good,” he said as they left the theater. “I mean, we got kids at school better than her.”
But his mother had been smitten. “How can you say that, Bobby? She was fabulous. Beautiful. And you, Bobby, will remember this night for the rest of your life. Tonight you saw a star being born.”
Bobby and his mother argued about the show all the way home, and finally she came to the sad conclusion that her son needed either a hearing aid and glasses or a trip to see an analyst.
Nockman had avoided the show. He hadn’t wanted to risk being inside the theater, in case he was forced to take off his antihypnotism glasses. And anyway, for his plan to work he needed to be outside the stage door when the show ended.
It had begun to rain. Nockman stood in his sheepskin coat, hidden in the shadow of a wall, a few feet from the stage door. His bald pate and greasy mane of hair were splashed with the shower. Raindrops trickled down his neck and off the end of his nose.
Just after ten thirty, hordes of people began to crowd around the stage door hoping for autographs. Twenty minutes later the doors opened, and there stood Molly Moon smiling and waving, with a burly bodyguard on each side of her.
The shouts and cheers from her fans perfectly distracted Molly.
Petula stepped out in the rain and away from the crowd to get a breath-of fresh air. She sniffed at a lamppost and had a welcome pee. Then an interesting sheepskin smell hit her nose. She trotted toward it to investigate. And as soon as she’d stepped out of the light, a strong, gloved hand picked her up and covered her in a cloth, while another hand clamped her mouth shut. Petula found herself under the arm of a small, fat, smelly man who was walking briskly away down a side street. She wriggled and struggled, but she couldn’t escape his grip. Poor Petula was terrified as she heard, felt, and smelled Molly getting farther and farther away.
Nockman opened the back of his white van and bundled Petula into a cage inside. Before she’d had time to get her bearings, he’d shut the cage door and the van door, too. Then he jumped into the front seat, started the engine, and was away.
Twenty-one
After Molly had signed what felt like a thousand autographs, she whistled for Petula. When Petula didn’t come, she assumed that she’d slipped inside, away from the noisy, jostling crowd. But Petula wasn’t inside either. Molly checked all Petula’s favorite places: the cushion under the dressing table where she kept her stones; the pile of rags under the props table; the space under the blue corduroy chair. Then she checked the bathrooms, the stage, and even the Martians’ dressing room. But Petula was nowhere.
Soon the rest of the cast was helping too. They looked in cupboards, behind curtains, and in wardrobes. She wasn’t in the theater foyer or the ticket booth or in the bar. Petula was well and truly lost. Molly’s heart gave an almighty lurch as she imagined the worst. The stage - door man looked in the gutters of all the adjoining streets to see if Petula had been hit by a car. After that they could only come to the conclusion that Petula had been stolen.
Molly was distraught. Who could have taken her? She shuddered as she imagined poor Petula in some strange house, lonely and frightened.
“I tell you what,” Barry Bragg tried to assure her, “the person who took her, took her because they liked her, and they wouldn’t treat her bad if they liked her.” Inside he was already thinking about all the extra publicity the show would get from Petula being stolen. “You know what we should do? We should put out an S.O.S. interview on TV. Someone will see her. I mean, people notice when their neighbors get new pets. Someone will report her.”
The police arrived. Molly spoke to the sergeant privately and, using her powers, persuaded him that finding Petula was one of the most important missions of his life. The sergeant radioed his superintendent and twenty policemen and -women were enlisted to search for the missing pug.
In the early hours of the morning Molly arrived at the Sunshine Studios, where she was powdered and put in front of bright lights and cameras for an interview. Charlie Chat sat opposite her, still in his party clothes, since the producer of the show had called him in from a nightclub.
Molly found it difficult to concentrate and produce her hypnotic gaze, as she was upset and distracted by thoughts of Petula. But then she realized that she was doing this for Petula, and she tried her hardest to make herself utterly charming.
At breakfast time that Sunday, New Yorkers eating their breakfasts of granola, pancakes, and hash browns watched Molly’s interview with Charlie Chat.
“It’s so sad,” said the already infatuated Charlie to Molly, “that a night as glorious as last night should be marred by this catastrophe. That your dog, who I understand was truly marvelous in the show, should just disappear.” Charlie’s gravelly voice dropped to a supersympathetic tone. “And, Molly, you believe that Petula has been stolen, or kidnaped?”
All over the east coast of America, viewers watched the new child star and listened to her plea for help.
“If anyone out there thinks they’ve seen a pug dog that looks like this …” Molly held up a picture of Petula in her space suit. “If you can imagine her without the space suit on … er … this is the only picture I have of her…. It’s from the show…. She likes chewing stones…. If anyone out there thinks they know of her whereabouts, please could they get in touch with the Manhattan Theater. There’s a reward of twenty thousand dollars for anyone who’ll give me information that will lead to her. You see, I’ve known Petula since I was very young. Her mother abandoned her when she was a puppy, so I can’t desert her now. To be deserted twice in one life is too much. Anyway, she’s very special to me. She’s my best friend, although …” All at once Molly thought of Rocky somewhere in New York, and she wondered whether he ever watched breakfast TV. “… although I do have a human best friend, too, and if he’s watching, I’d like to say hello to Rocky Scarlet and I’d love to see him soon. But mainly this message is for Petula, because she’s lost, and maybe in danger. So please help if you can.”
People watching their screens felt incredibly sorry for Molly. She conveyed hypnotic charm over the airwaves, and viewers found themselves drawn to her. She wasn’t wonderful looking or anything, but there was definitely something about her. Millions of Americans went about their day with Molly on their minds, alert to any dog’s bark and on the lookout for a black pug.
Throughout the day Molly’s broadcast was replayed regularly on television, and no pug in the city was safe as well-meaning, reward-seeking Petula rescuers snatched dogs from their real owners and took them to police stations. The stations were chaotic, awash with barking pug dogs and people squabbling. Owners quarreled with Petula rescuers, and rescuers argued with police. The New York police investigated every dog and every report, but none of the pugs was Petula.
There was nothing for Molly to do after her interview but go back to the hotel. It was Sunday, so there was no evening show and it was very lonely in her suite without Petula. Molly thought of all the adventures they’d been through. She felt utterly miserable as she thought of Petula’s soft, velvety ears, which she longed to stroke. For the fiftieth time she hated herself for losing sight of Petula, for being vain and wanting to sign autographs. And then the phone rang.
“Hello?” Molly said hopefully.
“I’ve got your dog,” came a heavy voice down the line.
“What …? Where …? Oh, thank you! Is she all right?” gasped Molly in relief.
“Listen to me,” said the cold voice of Nockman. “If you want her back, you’ll do as I say. Fi
rst thing is you say nothing on the phone now. If you say anything, I’ll disconnect.” He guessed Molly might try to hypnotize him with her voice, and he didn’t want to risk that. “You just say okay … okay?” he ordered.
“Okay,” Molly whispered. She was scared and shocked. This person was a lunatic. She didn’t want to displease him.
The voice continued. “If you don’t do exactly as I say, I’ll kill the dog, is that understood?”
Molly went cold. “Okay,” she said again. The word kill began to echo like a loud alarm bell in her head, and Molly’s hand started to shake so much that the phone banged against her cheek as she held it.
“All right,” said the man, “I’ll meet you at the bandshell in Central Park at six thirty. Come alone. I won’t be bringing the dog, but I will bring her collar so you know I’m for real. If you bring anyone with you, or if you get the cops involved, I’m tellin’ you, the dog dies. Okay?”
“Okay.” Molly stared at the wall, hardly able to believe that this nightmare was happening. “Okay.”
“I’ll make my demands. If you agree, the dog returns. Okay?”
“Okay,” Molly repeated, although she was in such a daze that she hardly knew what she was agreeing to. The line went dead. Of all the cruel people Molly had known in her life, none was as sinister or as threatening as this unknown voice. She felt like a fool. She should have been wiser and more prepared for something like this. After all, this was New York City, and under its belly lived all sorts of dangerous and revolting creatures. Molly’s spine prickled as she realized that she was about to meet one of them.
Then she pulled herself together. What was she worrying about? She was a hypnotist. She’d be safe—wouldn’t she? Doubts gushed through her as she remembered Davina’s resistance. But, she reasoned, this man was a desperado. If he had Davina’s charm, he wouldn’t be kidnaping dogs.
Molly looked at her bedside clock. It was already five forty-five. Central Park wasn’t far away, but how should she get there? Quickly she opened her window, peered over the ledge, and saw to her dismay that down below there were four photographers hanging about.
Molly thought fast. She rummaged in the bottom of one of the closets and found her jeans, a gray sweater, and her scruffy old jacket, which, luckily, she hadn’t thrown away. Putting them all on, she looked much less conspicuous. Then, with a wad of money in one pocket and her pendulum in the other, she left the hotel room and quietly made her way to the laundry room at the end of the corridor. She had seen the chambermaids taking armfuls of bed linen in there and throwing them down a laundry chute. She’d have to risk it….
It was a fast, dark ride to the basement of the hotel, and Molly landed in a pile of dirty laundry. She peeled a smelly pillowcase off her head and looked about. With no one in sight it was easy to make a break for the service entrance. Outside she found a deliveryman’s bicycle and climbed on it, but since she was a bundle of nerves, and it was too big for her, she fell off twice and scraped her ankle on the bicycle chain before she finally managed to balance herself. Then she was pedaling uptown, her curly brown hair blowing in the wind and her expression one of anxious determination. As the asphalt passed beneath the wheels of the bicycle, Molly was persuading herself that there was no need to be afraid, that this man would simply be another of her victims. As she crossed Madison Avenue, she told herself that she must be strong, and then, soon, she’d see Petula again. As she cycled up Fifth Avenue beside Central Park, she tried to feel excited. But when she got to the Park entrance, her apprehension returned. With a shaky finger, she followed the paths on the Park map to the bandshell.
The Park looked beautiful. The moon had emerged from behind the clouds, throwing its light upon the giant, leafless trees. A clammy mist seeped over the ground and swirled around Molly’s ankles. Taking care to look about her often, so that no one could spring on her from behind, Molly cycled steadily into the center of the Park. Brave as she tried to be, every snapping twig, every rustling in the bushes, made her heart pound. Occasionally a jogger or a Rollerblader shot by, but for the most part Molly was alone in the darkness. When she got to the bandshell, no one was in sight. She propped the bike up, climbed the bandshell stairs, and stood on its icy platform. A clock broke the silence, chiming half past six. It began to rain. Molly waited and waited, trying to compose herself. Her heart thumped so loudly that she felt it might burst through her ribs. Suddenly a small, round figure that she recognized appeared, darting from bush to bush. Then, looking up, it hurried up the path toward her.
Twenty-two
The man began to climb the bandshell steps. The anticipation and fear were too much for Molly, and her teeth began to chatter. She clenched them shut, only to find that her head was shaking. A chill December gust blew the smell of the man toward her. It was a foul smell of hamburger fat, sweat, and old tobacco, and it made Molly feel sick. As the man came up the steps, Molly saw that he was wearing headphones and strange dark glasses with a spiral pattern in the middle of them. In one hand he was holding a briefcase, and in the other a microphone. This was wired up to a machine of some sort on his belt, which was in turn attached to the earphones. He was clad in a sheepskin coat, and he was, Molly decided, definitely very, very weird. But, nervous as he made her feel, Molly concentrated on bringing her eyes up to hypnotic peak. As he stepped onto the bandshell, she looked up at him with her eyes on full glare.
“Welcome …” she said slowly, intent on putting this nasty rat into a very deep trance. But instead of being stopped in his tracks, the man took another step toward Molly and pointed his microphone at her.
“I’m afraid, Miss Moon, your hypnotic eyes will not work on me, since I am wearing antihypnotism glasses designed by Dr. Mesmer himself. As for your hypnotic voice, I am not hearing it. This device is processing what you say and scrambling your tone…. Through this you sound like an alien from outer space.”
Molly was stunned. Then she saw the golden scorpion that hung round the kidnaper’s neck. Its diamond eye flashed in the moonlight, and at once she recognized the ugly face of the professor from Briersville Library.
At this point, peculiarly enough, Molly’s fears fell away. She actually felt relieved to see the professor, since she’d been expecting a terrifying maniac kidnaper instead. And Molly felt strangely comforted to see someone who knew Briersville. It was almost like seeing an old friend. But then her mind flashed back to the Briersville Library. She saw, horribly clearly, the professor shouting at the librarian. He was demanding a book she had lost. A book by Dr. Logan. The book Molly had stolen. Molly looked at the professor’s extraordinary gear. Within the time it takes to net a slow butterfly, she realized that she was in deep trouble.
“Let’s get straight to the point,” the professor began. “I know your tricks, Molly Moon. Or should I say The Cuckoo? I know exactly how you operate. I know where you come from and what you’ve done. That hypnotism book you found was mine. I paid for it. It was my property. I’ve known about Logan’s Hypnotism since before you were in diapers.”
From behind his squirly spectacles, Nockman was actually starstruck by Molly. Everyone else was starstruck by her because they’d been hypnotized, but Nockman actually was. Molly, he thought, had the makings of a great criminal herself, and it was a pleasure for him to meet her. So, since he felt they were very alike, he spoke in a more gentle tone.
“As you see, I’ve been very annoyed by you, Miss Moon. It has been extremely tiresome, although entertaining sometimes, to have had to chase you around. It has pushed my patience to the limit. I think you’ll understand when I say that I expect something in recompense for my … inconvenience.”
Molly’s heart thumped. This was extremely unnerving. She wished someone else would come by, and she looked about for help. Nockman said immediately, “If you want to see your dog again, you can’t think of getting anyone else involved. You do want to see your dog again, don’t you?”
Molly nodded unhappily.
Nockman
reached into his pocket. “Here,” he said, chucking a red leather strap into Molly’s lap, “is her collar.”
Molly bit her lip.
“Now,” he continued, “this is all going to be very painless, I promise you. In fact, you may even enjoy what I am going to ask of you, Molly Moon. But I warn you, once again, you must do as I ask. Because if you don’t, I assure you, you won’t see your pug again, and there will be many, many more people in New York who’ll learn about your little secret. Let me put it like this … I’m sure a lot of people would be very upset if they knew how you’d deliberately cheated your way to the top. In fact, in a court of law you could be convicted of fraud. Of course, someone of your age wouldn’t go to jail, just a youth facility, but I’ve heard that those institutions aren’t very comfortable places, much worse than bad orphanages.” Nockman smiled with a sinister glint in his eye.
“B-but Petula,” Molly stuttered, “is she okay?”
“We’ll come to her.”
“What do you want?” Molly burst out. “Money? I’ve got loads. Just tell me.”
“Money?” Professor Nockman chuckled. “In an indirect way, yes, I do want money. There is a matter,” he said, opening his briefcase, “yes, there is a little matter that requires your cooperation.” Nockman took a large envelope out of his case and, with a gloved hand, passed it to Molly. “This envelope contains all you need to know in order to help me. I want to borrow your skills … just for a day…. It’s a small favor, in return for the good fortune that my hypnotism book has brought you.”