Is That What People Do? (18 page)

How elusive was the quest for quality! For ten dollars you could buy a pretty fair steak; for a hundred dollars you could get a really good Porterhouse; and for a thousand dollars you could buy a kilo of Kobe beef that had been massaged by the hands of consecrated virgins, together with a genius chef to prepare it. And it would be very good indeed. But not a thousand dollars good. The more you paid, the less progress you made toward that quintessence of beef that the angels eat when God throws his yearly banquet for the staff.

Or consider women. Silversmith had possessed some of the most intoxicating creatures that the planet could offer, both singly and in ensemble. But even this had turned out to be nothing worth writing a memoir about. His appetite had palled too quickly in the steady flood of piquantly costumed flesh that Maginnis had provided, and the electric touch of unknown female flesh had turned abrasive—the sandpaper of too many personalities (each one clutching her press clippings) against Silversmith’s increasingly reluctant hide.

He had run through the equivalent of several seraglios, and the individuals who comprised them were as dim in his memory now as the individual ice cream cones of his youth. He vaguely remembered a Miss Universe winner with the odor of the judge’s cigar still clinging to her crisp chestnut hair; and there had been the gum-chewing scuba instructress from Sea Isle, Georgia, in her exciting black rubber wet suit, blowing an inopportune pink sugary bubble at the moment of moments. But the rest of them had passed from his recollection in a comic strip of sweaty thighs and jiggling boobs, painted smiles, fake pouts, and stagey langours; and through it all the steady heaving rhythm of the world’s oldest gymnastic exercise.

The best of them had been his matched set of three Cambodian temple dancers—brown and bright-eyed creatures, all flashing eyes and floating black hair, sinuous frail limbs and small, hard breasts like persimmons. Not even they had diverted him for long. He had kept them around to play bridge with evenings, however.

He took another sip of seltzer and found that his glass was empty. Grumpily he got out of bed and crossed the room to the servant’s bell. His finger poised over it—

And just at that moment enlightenment came to him like a million-watt light bulb flashing in his head.

And he knew what he had to do.

It took Maginnis ten days to find Silversmith in a broken-down hotel on 10th Avenue and 41st Street in New York. Maginnis knocked once and walked in. It was a dingy room with tin-covered walls painted a poisonous green. The smell of hundreds of applications of insecticide mingled with the odor of thousands of generations of cockroaches. Silversmith was sitting on an iron cot covered with an olive blanket. He was doing a crossword puzzle. He gave Maginnis a cheerful nod.

“All right,” Maginnis said, “if you’re through slumming, I’ve got a load of stuff for you—wishes 43 and 44, plus as much of 45 as I could put together. Which of your houses do you want it delivered to?”

“I don’t want it,” Silversmith said.

“You don’t, huh?”

“No, I don’t.”

Maginnis lit a cigar. He puffed thoughtfully for a while, then said, “Is this Silversmith I see before me, the famous ascetic, the well-known stoic, the Taoist philosopher, the living Buddha? Non-attachment to worldly goods, that’s the new number, right, Silversmith? Believe me, baby, you’ll never bring it off. You’re going through a typical rich man’s freakout, which will last a few weeks or months, like they all do. But then comes the day when the brown rice tastes extra-nasty, and the burlap shirt scratches your eczema worse than usual. This is followed by some fast rationalizing, and the next thing you know you’re having Eggs Benedict at Sardi’s and telling your friends what a valuable experience it was.”

“You’re probably right,” Silversmith said.

“So why make me hang around all that time? You just took in too much fat city too quick, and you’ve got congestion of the synapses. You need a rest. Let me recommend a very nice exclusive resort I know on the south slope of Kilimanjaro—”

“No,” Silversmith said.

“Maybe something more spiritual? I know this guru—”

“No.”

“You are beginning to exasperate me,” Maginnis said. “In fact, you’re getting me sore. Silversmith,
what do you want?”

“I want to be happy,” Silversmith said. “But I realize now that I can’t be happy by owning things.”

“So you’re sticking to poverty?”

“No. I also can’t be happy by not owning things.”

“Well,” Maginnis said, “that seems to cover the field.”

“I think there is a third alternative,” Silversmith said. “But I don’t know what you’re going to think of it.”

“Yeah? What is it?”

“I want to join your team,” Silversmith said.

Maginnis sat down on the bed. “You want to join us?”

“Whoever you are,” Silversmith said, “I want to be a part of it.”

“What made you decide that?” Maginnis asked.

“I happened to notice that you were happier than I was. I don’t know what your racket is, Maginnis, and I have certain reservations about the organization I think you work for. But I really do want in.”

“Are you willing to give up all your remaining wishes and everything else, just for that?”

“Whatever it takes,” Silversmith said. “Just let me in.”

“Okay,” Maginnis said, “you’re in.”

“I really am? That’s great. Whose life do we mess up next?”

“Oh, we’re not
that
organization at all,” Maginnis said, grinning. “People sometimes do confuse the two of us, though I can’t imagine why. But be that as it may: you have just endowed us with all your worldly goods, Silversmith, and you have done so without expectation of reward, out of a simple desire to serve. We appreciate the gesture. Silversmith, welcome to heaven.”

A rosy cloud formed around them, and through it Silversmith could see a vast silver gate inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

“Hey!” he said, “you got me here on a deception! You tricked me, Maginnis, or whoever you are!”

“The other organization has been doing that sort of thing for so long,” Maginnis said, “we thought we really should give it a try.”

The pearly gates opened. Silversmith could see that a Chinese banquet had been set out, and there were girls, and some of the guests seemed to be smoking dope.

“Not that I’m complaining,” Silversmith said.

MEANWHILE, BACK AT THE BROMIDE

THE DESPERATE CHASE

This time it looked like the end for Arkady Varadin, formerly a magician, now a much-wanted criminal. Cool and resourceful in the face of danger, cunning and ruthless, dangerous as a puff adder, master of illusion and fanciful escapes, the thin-faced Varadin had overstepped himself this time.

After a spectacular escape from the Denning maximum-security penitentiary, any other man would have stayed out of sight. Not Varadin. Single-handed, he had held up a bank in the small town of Croesus, Maine. Escaping, he had shot and killed two guards who were foolish enough to reach for their guns. He had stolen a car and made off.

But then his luck turned. The FBI had been waiting for something like this. Within an hour they were on Varadin’s trail. Even then the master criminal might have escaped; but his stolen car ran out of gas.

Varadin abandoned the car and went into the mountains. Five FBI agents were close behind. At long range, Varadin plugged two of them with six shots from his revolver. He had no more ammunition. There were still three agents coming up the mountain, and a local guide was with them.

A bad break! Varadin hurried on. All he had now was $75,000 of bank money, and his escape kit. He tried to throw off his pursuers, leading them up mountains and doubling back through valleys.

But the Maine guide could not be deceived in his native woods. Inexorably the gap closed between the hunters and the hunted.

At last Varadin found himself on a dirt road. He followed it and came to a granite quarry. Beyond the quarry, cliffs tilted steeply into the boulder-strewn sea. To climb down was possible; but the FBI agents would pick him off before he reached the bottom.

He looked around. The quarry was strewn with gray granite boulders of all sizes and shapes. Varadin’s luck, his fantastic luck, was still with him. It was time for his final illusion.

He opened his escape kit and took out an industrial plastic that he had modified for his own use. His quick fingers constructed a framework of branches, lashing them together with his shoelaces. Over this he spread the plastic, rubbing dirt and granite dust into it. When he was done, he stepped back and surveyed his work.

Yes, it looked like any other large boulder, except for a hole in one side.

Varadin stepped in through this hole and, with his remaining plastic, sealed all but a tiny breathing hole. His concealment was complete. Now, with fatalistic calm, he waited to see if the trick would work.

In minutes the FBI men and the guide reached the quarry. They searched it thoroughly, then ran to the edge and looked over. At last they sat down on a large gray boulder.

“He must have jumped,” said the guide.

“I don’t believe it,” said the chief agent. “You don’t know Varadin.”

“Well, he ain’t here,” said the guide. “And he couldn’t have doubled back on us.”

The chief agent scowled and tried to think. He put a cigarette in his mouth and scratched a match on the boulder. The match wouldn’t light.

“That’s funny,” he said. “Either I’ve got wet matches or you’ve got soft boulders.”

The guide shrugged his shoulders.

The agent was about to say something else when an old panel truck with ten men in the back drove into the quarry.

“Catch him yet?” the driver asked.

“Nope,” the agent said. “I guess he must have gone over the edge.”

“Good riddance,” the truck driver said. “In that case, if you gents don’t mind—”

The FBI agent shrugged his shoulders.

“Okay, I guess we can write him off.” He stood up, and the guide and the other agents followed him out of the quarry. “All right, boys,” the driver said. “Let’s go to work.” The men scrambled out of the truck, which was marked EASTERN MAINE GRAVEL CORPORATION.

“Ted,” the driver said, “you might as well plant your first charges under that big boulder the G-man was sitting on.”

THE DISGUISED AGENT

James Hadley, the famous Secret Service agent, was caught. On his way to the Istanbul airport, his enemies had pursued him into a cul-de-sac near the Golden Horn. They had dragged him into a long black limousine driven by an oily, scarfaced Greek. Car and chauffeur waited outside while Hadley’s captors took him upstairs to a disreputable room in Istanbul’s Armenian sector, not far from the Rue Chaffre.

It was the worst spot the famous agent had ever been in. He was strapped to a heavy chair. Standing in front of him was Anton Lupescu, the sadistic head of the Rumanian secret police and implacable foe of Western forces. On either side of Lupescu stood Chang, Lupescu’s impassive manservant, and Madam Oui, the cold, beautiful Eurasian.

“Pig of an American,” sneered Lupescu, “will you tell us where you have hidden the plans for America’s new high-orbiting submolecular three-stage fusion-conversion unit?”

Hadley merely smiled beneath his gag.

“My friend,” Lupescu said softly, “there is pain that no man can bear. Why not save yourself the annoyance?”

Hadley’s gray eyes were amused. He did not answer.

“Bring the torture instruments,” Lupescu said, sneering. “We will make the capitalist dog speak.”

Chang and Madam Oui left the room. Quickly Lupescu unstrapped Hadley.

“We must hurry, old man,” Lupescu said. “They’ll be back in a shake.”

“I don’t understand,” Hadley said. “You are—”

“British Agent 432 at your service,” Lupescu said, bowing, a twinkle in his eyes. “Couldn’t reveal myself with Chang and Madam Oui mucking about. Now get those plans back to Washington, old fellow. Here’s a gun. You might need it.”

Hadley took the heavy, silenced automatic, snapped off the safety, and shot Lupescu through the heart.

“Your loyalty to the People’s Government,” Hadley said in perfect Russian, “has long been suspect. Now we know. The Kremlin will be amused.”

Hadley stepped over the corpse and opened the door. Standing in front of him was Chang.

“Dog!” Chang snarled, lifting a heavy, silenced automatic.

“Wait!” Hadley cried. “You don’t understand—”

Chang fired once. Hadley slumped to the floor.

Quickly Chang stripped off his oriental disguise, revealing himself as the true Anton Lupescu. Madam Oui came back into the room and gasped.

“Do not be alarmed, little one,” Lupescu said. “The impostor who called himself Hadley was actually Chang, a Chinese spy.”

“But who was the other Lupescu?” Madam Oui asked.

“Obviously,” Lupescu said, “he was the true James Hadley. Now where could those plans be?”

A careful search revealed a wart on the right arm of the corpse of the man who had claimed to be James Hadley. The wart was artificial. Under it were the precious microfilm plans.

“The Kremlin will reward us,” Lupescu said. “Now we—”

He stopped. Madam Oui had picked up a heavy, silenced automatic. “Dog!” she hissed, and shot Lupescu through the heart.

Swiftly Madam Oui stripped off her disguise, revealing beneath it the person of the true James Hadley, American secret agent.

Hadley hurried down to the street. The black limousine was still waiting, and the scarfaced Greek had drawn a gun.

“Well?” the Greek asked.

“I have them,” said Hadley. “You did your work well, Chang.”

“Nothing to it,” said the chauffeur, stripping off his disguise and revealing the face of the wily Chinese Nationalist detective. “We had better hurry to the airport, eh, old boy?”

“Quite,” said James Hadley.

The powerful black car sped into the darkness. In a corner of the car, something moved and clutched Hadley’s arm.
 

It was the true Madam Oui.
 

“Oh, Jimmy,” she said, “is it all over, at last?”