From the Improvement Era, June 1939 –

Five Minute Hero – A Short Short Story

By Anna P. Redd

Officer Zebulon Smith — “Zeb” to the force — had just finished his vacation — one long month of it! The only investigating he had done was in trout holes under the willows. The only sleuthing was after a hare. True, the gun was along. He had to have that — just in case.

“Be going on duty this time tomorrow night,” Officer Smith thought, stretching himself out on the hotel bed. “Kinda itchin’ for some excitement.” He thumbed a much-read newspaper. “Looked like Mack’d been getting plenty of it. Gave that kidnap gang a pretty tough chase. Golly, I’d like to have been there to help old Mack. Tough luck the gang got away. Snatchin’s a dirty business.” Zeb’s thoughts trailed off. The paper fell unheeded to the floor. While still in the comfortably detached feeling that precedes sleep, a vague disturbance penetrated his consciousness.

Zeb’s eyes popped open. His trained ears began to register a soft thud, thud, in the adjoining room, like the tap of a cane in the hands of a decrepit old man. A thin, wavery voice accompanied the tapping.

“Oh, my dear, you’re not going out? What!” The voice grated on Zeb’s nerves. He listened for an answer. “What, no answer?” resumed the voice petulantly. “I like to be answered you know!”

“Yes, dear. I know you do.”

Zeb sat straight up in bed. The answering voice was like none he had ever heard before. It was a girl’s voice, low and musical. Zeb strained his ears to catch every syllable.

“It — it’s pretty warm in here,” the heavenly voice went on, “I thought I’d take a walk along the lake shore.”

His daughter, Zeb decided. Tied to a gouty, whining old father. What a life! If she didn’t get to take a turn by the lake he’d punch the old snozzle’s head — or kick his big toe.

Zeb grinned with relish at the picture this conjured up.

“The lake! What!” the old voice shouted. “Down by the lake! That’s where I saw you with that young soldier!”

The way he shouted made Zeb grit his teeth. It was like sharp steel scraping over a piece of glass.

That lovely young thing! Just how he knew she was lovely Zeb didn’t know. Her voice! It sent shivers of delight along his spine. It was too beautiful to be real.

“I’m so sorry, dear,” came the answer low and musical as before. “Please don’t excite yourself. See, I’ll hold your hand.”

A terrified scream shattered Zeb’s complacency. “The old dragon’s hurting her — blamed old reprobate!” Zeb hissed and sprang from the bed. His gun came into play, precipitated by the rasping voice from behind the partition.

“Don’t fawn on me,” it was shouting; “don’t I know you hate me? It’s my money you want. Not me, what? Not me! I could — ” The old voice died in a hiss. What he could have done was never finished, for at that instant Zeb, Officer Zebulon Smith, had gone on duty. He felt along the partition wall. Thank heaven there was a door there. He tried the knob, found it locked, put his shoulders against the panel and shouted, “Open! Open this door or I’ll break it open!”

Silence. Silence worse than the screams of the moment before. The girl could be dying while he, an officer, stood there arguing. With the destructive force of an elephant Zeb’s shoulders drove into the door.

It splintered and gave way. Zeb sprawled into the room, his gun leveled. He was confronted by a tall iron stove and — the inscrutable eyes of a pale young man, seated in a chair, his left leg, bandaged and splintered, supported by another chair in front of him. Zeb was floored. Where was the old man? Where was the girl? Without lowering his gun he surveyed the room swiftly. No one had left it. He was sure of that. Then where were they?

“Hands up , mister, and don’t turn!” came a cold command in the lovely voice that had brought Zeb into action. His muscles stiffened. A trap! His steel gaze took in the bandaged leg of the pale young man before him. Harmless as he looked he was trying to conceal something. Was it a weapon? Something in Zeb’s mind clicked: The paper — Mack — the kidnap gang! He’d stumbled into them. Paper said Mack got one of them in the knee!

Zeb’s mind was working with its old precision. He’d trip the girl back there. With her down he’d make short work of the rest of them! His leg crooked backward, the leg it came in contact with didn’t budge. It was a stove leg. But officer Smith went down, hands up, fumbling for his gun which lay ten feet out of his reach. As he fell he lunged out for the weapon his opponent was concealing. Weapons were dangerous on criminals.

Almost before he struck the floor Zeb jerked himself to his feet, expecting to look into the bore of a gun, for the thing he clutched in his hand was not the weapon he had grabbed for as he fell. It was a book. Instead of confronting a gun he was met by a laugh, a laugh that didn’t run true to form. It was not triumphant, not cynical, just plain enjoyment.

“Well, I’ll be ,” Zeb exploded. And then because the laughing young man was looking at the book Zeb still clutched, Zeb looked at it too. “Why you — you’re — ” he began foolishly.

“Thank you, sir, you saved my life,” came in dulcet tones from behind him. The book fell to the floor. It took all the will power Zeb had to keep from wheeling toward that voice. His face was as red as the cover of the book he had let fall. He grinned sheepishly at the young man; more sheepishly down at the book. Its title leered up at him: Ventriloquism — Its Uses on Stage and in Drawing Room.