Job: A Comedy of Justice (32 page)

“I see. Thanks.”

“A pleasure, Captain.”

Out on the street again, I grinned sheepishly at Margrethe. “Red carpet treatment. Closing at four. When the cat is away, the mice will play. Some heads will roll, I promise you. I can’t think of another cliché to fit the situation. Oh, yes, I can. Beggars can’t be choosers. Madam, would you like to sleep in the park tonight? Warm night, no rain expected. Chiggers and mosquitoes, no extra charge.”

We slept in Lincoln Park, on the golf course, on a green that was living velvet—alive with chiggers.

It was a good night’s sleep despite chiggers. We got up when the first early golfers showed up, and we got off the golf course with nothing worse than dirty looks. We made use of public washrooms in the park, and rejoined much neater, feeling fresher, me with a fresh shave, and both of us filled with free water for breakfast. On the whole I felt cheerful. It was too early to expect those self-appointed playboys at C.U.D. to show up, so, when we ran across a policeman, I asked the location of the public library, then I added, “By the way, where is the airport?”

“The what?”

“The dirigible flying field.”

The cop turned to Margrethe. “Lady, is he sick?”

I did feel sick a half hour later when I checked the directory in the building we had visited the afternoon before… I felt sick but unsurprised to find no Churches United for Decency among its tenants. But to make certain I walked up to the second floor. That suite was now occupied by an insurance firm.

“Well, dear, let’s go to the public library. Find out what kind of world we are in.”

“Yes, Alec.” She was looking cheerful. “Dearest, I’m sorry you are disappointed…but I am so relieved. I—I was frightened out of my wits at the thought of meeting your wife.”

“You won’t. Not ever. Promise. Uh, I’m sort of relieved, too. And hungry.”

We walked a few more steps. “Alec. Don’t be angry.”

“I’ll do no more than give you a fat lip. What is it?”

“I have five quarters. Good ones.”

“At this point I am supposed to say, ‘Daughter, were you a good girl in Philadelphy?’ Out with it. Whom did you kill? Much blood?”

“Yesterday. Those pinball games. Every time Harry won free games he gave me a quarter. ‘For luck,’ he said.”

I decided not to beat her. Of course they were not “good quarters” but they turned out to be good enough. Good enough, that is, to fit coin machines. We had passed a penny arcade; such places usually have coin-operated food dispensers and this one did. The prices were dreadfully high—fifty cents for a skimpy stale sandwich; twenty-five cents for a bare mouthful of chocolate. But it was better than some breakfasts we had had on the road. And we certainly did not steal, as the quarters from my world were real silver.

Then we went to the public library to find out what sort of world we must cope with now.

We found out quickly:

Marga’s world.

Margrethe was as elated as I had been the day before. She bubbled, she smiled, she looked sixteen. I looked around for a private place—back of book stacks or somewhere—where I could kiss her without worrying about a proctor. Then I remembered that this was Margrethe’s world where nobody cared…and grabbed her where she stood and bussed her properly.

And got scolded by a librarian.

No, not for what I had done, but because we had been somewhat noisy about it. Public kissing did not in itself disturb that library’s decorum. Hardly. I noticed, while I was promising to keep quiet and apologizing for the breach, a display rack by that librarian’s desk:

New Titles INSTRUCTIONAL PORNOGRAPHY—
Ages 6 to 12

Fifteen minutes later I was waving my thumb again on Highway 77 to Dallas.

Why Dallas? A law firm: O’Hara, Rigsbee, Crumpacker, and Rigsbee.

As soon as we were outside the library, Marga had started talking excitedly about how she could now end our troubles: her bank account in Copenhagen.

I said, “Wait a minute, darling. Where’s your checkbook? Where’s your identification?”

What it came to was that Margrethe could possibly draw on her assets in Denmark after several days at a highly optimistic best or after several weeks at a more probable estimate…and that even the longer period involved quite a bit of money up front for cablegrams. Telephone across the Atlantic? Marga did not think such a thing existed. (And even if it did, I thought it likely that cablegrams were cheaper and more certain.)

Even after all arrangements had been made, it was possible that actual payment might involve postal delivery from Europe—in a world that had no airmail.

So we headed for Dallas, I having assured Marga that, at the very worst, Alec Graham’s lawyers would advance Alec Graham enough money to get him (us) off the street, and, with luck, we would come at once into major assets.

(Or they might fail to recognize me as Alec Graham and prove that I was not he—by fingerprints, by signature, by something—and thereby lay the ghost of “Alec Graham” in Margrethe’s sweet but addled mind. But I did not mention this to Margrethe.)

It is two hundred miles from Oklahoma City to Dallas; we arrived there at 2 p.m., having picked up a ride at the intersection of 66 and 77, and kept it clear into the Texas metropolis. We were dropped where 77 crosses 80 at the Trinity River, and we walked to the Smith Building; it took us half an hour.

The receptionist in suite 7000 looked like something out of the sort of stage show that C.U.D has spent much time and money to suppress. She was dressed but not very much, and her makeup was what Marga calls “high style.” She was nubile and pretty and, with my newly learned toleration, I simply enjoyed the sinful sight. She smiled and said, “May I help you?”

“This is a fine day for golf. Which of the partners is still in the office?”

“Only Mr. Crumpacker, I’m afraid.”

“He’s the one I want to see.”

“And whom shall I say is calling?”

(First hurdle—I missed it. Or did she?) “Don’t you recognize me?”

“I’m sorry. Should I?”

“How long have you been working here?”

“Just over three months.”

“That accounts for it. Tell Crumpacker that Alec Graham is here.”

I could not hear what Crumpacker said to her but I was watching her eyes; I think they widened—I feel sure of it. But ail she said was, “Mr. Crumpacker will see you.” Then she turned to Margrethe. “May I offer you a magazine while you wait? And would you like a reefer?”

I said, “She’s coming with me.”

“But—”

“Come along, Marga.” I headed quickly for the inner offices.

Crumpacker’s door was easy to find; it was the one with the squawking issuing from it. This shut off as I opened the door and held it for Margrethe. As I followed her in, he was saying, “Miss, you’ll have to wait outside!”

“No,” I denied, as I closed the door behind me. “Mrs. Graham stays.”

He looked startled. “Mrs. Graham?”

“Surprised you, didn’t I? Got married since I saw you last. Darling, this is Sam Crumpacker, one of my attorneys.” (I had picked his first name off his door.)

“How do you do, Mr. Crumpacker?”

“Uh, glad to meet you, Mrs. Graham. Congratulations. Congratulations to you, Alec—you always could pick ’em.”

I said, “Thanks. Sit down, Marga.”

“Just a moment, folks! Mrs. Graham can’t stay—really she can’t! You know that.”

“I know no such thing. This time I’m going to have a witness.” No, I did not know that he was crooked. But I had learned long ago, in dealing with legislators, that anyone who tries to keep you from having a witness is bad news. So C.U.D. always had witnesses and always stayed within the law; it was cheaper that way.

Marga was seated; I sat down beside her. Crumpacker had jumped up when we came in; he remained standing. His mouth worked nervously. “I ought to call the Federal prosecutor.”

“Do that,” I agreed. “Pick up the phone there and call him. Let’s
both
of us go see him. Let’s tell him
everything.
With witnesses. Let’s call in the press. All of the press, not just the tame cats.”

(What did I know? Nothing. But when it’s necessary to bluff, always bluff big. I was scared. This rat could turn and fight like a cornered mouse—a rabid one.)

“I should.”

“Do it, do it! Let’s name names, and tell who did what and who got paid. I want to get
everything
out into the open…before somebody slips cyanide into my soup.”

“Don’t talk that way.”

“Who has a better right? Who pushed me overboard?
Who?
”

“Don’t look at me!”

“No, Sammie, I don’t think you did it; you weren’t there. But it could be your godson. Eh?” Then I smiled my biggest right-hand-of-fellowship smile. “Just joking, Sam. My old friend would not want me dead. But you can tell me some things and help me out. Sam, it’s not convenient to be dumped way off on the other side of the world—so you owe me.” (No, I still knew nothing…nothing save the evident fact that here was a man with a guilty conscience—so crowd him.)

“Alec, let’s not do anything hasty.”

“I’m in no hurry. But I’ve got to have explanations. And money.”

“Alec, I tell you on my word of honor all I know about what happened to you is that this squarehead ship came into Portland and you ain’t aboard. And I have to go all the way to Oregon f’ God’s sake to witness them breaking into your strong-box. And there’s only a hundred thousand in it; the rest is missing. Who got it, Alec? Who got to you?”

He had his eyes on me; I hope my face didn’t show anything. But he had hulled me. Was this true? This shyster would lie as easily as he talked. Had my friend the purser, or the purser and the captain in cahoots, looted that lockbox?

As a working hypothesis, always prefer the simpler explanation. This man was more likely to lie than the purser was to steal. And it was likely—no, certain—that the captain would have to be present before the purser would force his way into the lockbox of a missing passenger. If these two responsible officers, with careers and reputations to lose, nevertheless combined to steal, why would they leave a hundred thousand behind? Why not take it all and be blandly ignorant about the contents of my lockbox?—as indeed they should be. Something fishy here.

“What are you implying was missing?”

“Huh?” He glanced at Margrethe. “Uh—Well, damn it, there should have been nine hundred grand more. The money you didn’t pass over in Tahiti.”

“Who says I didn’t?”

“What? Alec, don’t make things worse. Mr. Z. says so. You tried to drown his bagman.”

I looked at him and laughed. “You mean those tropical gangsters? They tried to get the boodle without identifying themselves and without giving receipts. I told them an emphatic no—so the clever boy had his muscle throw me into the pool. Hmm—Sam, I see it now. Find out who came aboard the
Konge Knut
in Papeete.”

“Why?”

“That’s your man. He not only got the boodle; he pushed me overboard. When you know, don’t bother to try to get him extradited, just tell me his name. I’ll arrange the rest myself. Personally.”

“Damn it, we want that million dollars.”

“Do you think you can get it? It wound up in Mr. Z.’s hands…but you got no receipt. And I got a lot of grief from asking for a receipt. Don’t be silly, Sam; the nine hundred thousand is gone. But not my fee. So pass over that hundred grand. Now.”

“
What?
The Federal prosecutor in Portland kept that, impounded it as evidence.”

“Sam, Sam boy, don’t try to teach your grandmother how to steal sheep. As evidence for
what?
Who is charged? Who is indicted? What crime is alleged? Am I charged with stealing something out of my own lockbox? What crime?”

“‘What crime?’ Somebody stole that nine hundred grand, that’s what!”

“Really? Who’s the complainant? Who asserts that there ever was nine hundred thousand in that lockbox? I certainly never told anyone that—so
who says?
Pick up that phone, Sam; call the Federal prosecutor in Portland. Ask him why he held that money—on whose complaint? Let’s get to the bottom of this. Pick it up, Sam. If that Federal clown has my money, I want to shake it loose from him.”

“You’re almighty anxious to talk to prosecutors! Strange talk from
you.
”

“Maybe I’ve had an acute attack of honesty. Sam, your unwillingness to call Portland tells me all I need to know. You were called out there to act on my behalf, as my attorney. American passenger lost overboard, ship of foreign registry, you betcha they get hold of the passenger’s attorney to inventory his assets. Then they pass it all over to his attorney and he gives a receipt for it. Sam, what did you do with my clothes?”

“Eh? Gave ’em to the Red Cross: Of course.”

“You did, eh?”

“After the prosecutor released em, I mean.”

“Interesting. The Federal attorney keeps the money, although no one has complained that any money is missing…but lets the clothes out of his hands
when the only probable crime is murder.
”

“
Huh?
”

“Me, I mean. Who pushed me and who hired him to? Sam, we both know where the money is.” I stood up, pointed. “In that safe. That’s where it logically has to be. You wouldn’t bank it; there would be a record. You wouldn’t hide it at home; your wife might find it. And you certainly didn’t split with your partners. Sam, open it. I want to see whether there is a hundred thousand in there…or a million.”

“You’re out of your mind!”

“Call the Federal prosecutor. Let him be our witness.”

I had him so angry he couldn’t talk. His hands trembled. It isn’t safe to get a little man too angry—and I topped him by six inches, weight and other measurements to match. He wouldn’t attack me himself—he was a lawyer—but I would need to be careful going through doorways, and such.

Time to try to cool him—“Sam, Sam, don’t take it so seriously. You were leaning on me pretty heavily…so I leaned back. The good Lord alone knows why prosecutors do anything—the gonif most likely has stolen it by now…in the belief that I am dead and will never complain. So I’ll go to Portland and lean on him, hard.”