Following his own recommendation, he tipped up one of the bottles and drank a deep draught, then calmly proceeded to douse himself from head to foot with the remainder.
She made a little grimace, then tried it. "Thank you," she said, setting the bottle down. "I didn't think it was possible anybody could like the stuff except in a magazine ad. Now tell me, where are all the other people and what do we do?"
"Do?" queried Ben. "Find 'em. How? Ask Mr. Foster. Anybody else in your neck of the woods?"
She shook her head. Murray noticed that the joints of her neck rattled. "Paulson—that's my maid—was the only other person in our apartment, and she seems to be even more solid-iron in the head than usual—like this lot." She swung her hand round in an expressive gesture toward the image of a policeman which was directing two similar images to pause at the curb.
"How about a bonfire?" suggested Murray. "That's the way the Indians or South Africans or somebody, attract attention."
"What could we burn?" asked Ben. "... A building, of course. Why not? Property doesn't mean anything any more with all the property owners dead."
"I know," said Gloria Rutherford, falling into the spirit of his suggestion. "The old Metropolitan Opera. That eyesore has worried me for the last five years."
The suggestion was endorsed with enthusiasm. They climbed into the taxi and twenty minutes later were hilariously kindling a blaze in the back-stage section of the old building, running out of it with childish delight to watch the pillar of smoke grow and spread as the flames caught the timbers, long dry with age.
Murray sighed as they sat on the curb across the street. "This is the only time I've ever been as close as I wanted to be to a big fire," he complained, "and now there isn't even a policeman around for me to make faces at. But such is life!"
"What if it sets fire to the whole city?" inquired Gloria practically.