In the last episode of Special Delivery, Rocky was being held at gunpoint by Jesse Weller, a con woman and wife to wealthy Frank Weller, at her mountainside mansion. Il Pollice Nero, the valuable statue with a black thumb made of radioactive material, sits in a glass case in the Weller's living room. Suddenly, the room shakes and Jesse loses control of her gun. The following takes place after the gun hit the floor:
Jesse Weller hit the floor. Whatever it was that shook the house placed her gun ten feet away from her and only four feet from me. I dove at it but she didn't move, just lay there, watching me. A smile crossed her lips, as if to say it was going to take more than a gun to do anything about her. She was right about that: here I was in her house, holding her gun. A few well-twisted words from her and I'd be history, and I knew Jesse could pull a noun to taffy if given a free chance.
A distant rumble. Then footsteps from the hall. Frank Weller appeared at full gallop, half-dressed in a silk dress shirt over a pair of jockey shorts. He nearly tripped over an upset end table and slid down on his knees before his wife. It might have made for a tender scene if he hadn't just left his mistress. Jesse just lay there, a tigress lying in wait. She was no fool. Despite all he had done, she knew Frank would always be her ally, would always come to her side, would always bow down and worship her if she just opened her mouth to speak. He kissed her hand reverently and tried to rouse her. And there I stood, holding a gun, feeling like a heel even though I knew better.
Frank turned to me, his eyes pleading. “She needs help.”
I glanced over at the telephone, sitting on the floor with its receiver off the hook. Jesse didn't need any help, I knew it just by the look in her eyes. Somebody else needed help more than her: that girl in the next room was slated for the chop the moment Frank's hatchet man Rollo got the orders. Maybe she wasn't a saint but that didn't matter. The real story needed to be told if she had any chance, and I was just the boy to tell it.
I took a step toward the telephone and that rumble returned, a low, animal growl at first, growing in strength. Another thump at the wall like the first, lesser in force but more sustained. The floor creaked and groaned as if it was being pulled apart. This time I caught myself before I hit the ground, not that it would do me any good. If that sound was what I thought it was, chances are, none of use were going to come out of this alive.
Landslide.
“Get her on her feet!” I barked at Weller, but he was too busy tending to his wife to pay attention to the impending danger outside. He never turned from her, and as it turned out, it was his undoing.
The room leaned from the weight of the mud and rocks, and so was the statue in the glass case. It wobbled forward, and then back, gathering its force for its return trip, and when it fell, it shattered the glass and emerged on the other side. The statue's weight kept it from going anywhere, but at that point it really didn't matter. A small, seemingly insignificant portion of it had broken free of its marble prison and rolled across the floor, landing gently against the back of Frank Weller. I doubt he even noticed it.
It was black, carved by skilled hands to represent a woman's thumb.
Can Rocky escape before the landslide destroys the Weller mansion? Find out next week in The Adventures of Rocky Stone!
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