The Umbrella Man and Other Stories (25 page)

The whole world knows that it is foreign to the nature of the American people to permit themselves to be insulted either in public or in private without rising up in righteous indignation
and demanding—nay, exacting—a just measure of retribution.

On the other hand, it is only natural that a citizen of your standing and reputation will not wish
personally
to become further involved in this sordid petty affair, or indeed to have any
direct
contact whatsoever with this vile person.

How then are you to obtain satisfaction?

The answer is simple,
VENGEANCE IS MINE INC
. will obtain it for you. We will undertake, on your behalf and in absolute confidence, to administer individual punishment to columnist...................., and in this regard we respectfully submit to you a choice of methods (together with prices) for your consideration:

This work executed by a professional.

If you desire to avail yourself of any of these offers, kindly reply to
VENGEANCE IS MINE INC
. at the address indicated upon the enclosed slip of paper. If it is practicable, you will be notified in advance of the place where the action will occur and of the time, so that you may, if you wish, watch the proceedings in person from a safe and anonymous distance.

No payment need be made until after your order has been satisfactorily executed, when an account will be rendered in the usual manner.

*   *   *

George Karnoffsky had done a beautiful job of printing.

“Claude,” he said, “you like?”

“It’s marvellous.”

“It’s the best I could do for you. It’s like in the war when I would see soldiers going off perhaps to get killed and all the time I would want to be giving them things and doing things for them.” He was beginning to laugh again, so I said, “We’d better be going now. Have you got large envelopes for these cards?”

“Everything is here. And you can pay me when the money starts coming in.” That seemed to set him off worse than ever and he collapsed into his chair, giggling like a fool. George and I hurried out of the shop into the street, into the cold snow-falling afternoon.

We almost ran the distance back to our room and on the way up I borrowed a Manhattan telephone directory from the public telephone in the hall. We found “Womberg, William S.,” without any trouble and while I read out the address—somewhere up in the East Nineties—George wrote it on one of the envelopes.

“Gimple, Mrs. Ella H.,” was also in the book and we addressed an envelope to her as well. “We’ll just send to Womberg and Gimple today,” I said. “We haven’t really got started yet. Tomorrow we’ll send a dozen.”

“We’d better catch the next post,” George said.

“We’ll deliver them by hand,” I said. “Now, at once. The sooner they get them the better. Tomorrow might be too late. They won’t
be half so angry tomorrow as they are today. People are apt to cool off through the night. See here,” I said, “you go ahead and deliver those two cards right away. While you’re doing that I’m going to snoop around the town and try to find out something about the habits of Lionel Pantaloon. See you back here later in the evening . . . ”

At about nine o’clock that evening I returned and found George lying on his bed smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee.

“I delivered them both,” he said. “Just slipped them through the letter-boxes and rang the bells and beat it up the street. Womberg had a huge house, a huge white house. How did you get on?”

“I went to see a man I know who works in the sports section of the
Daily Mirror.
He told me all.”

“What did he tell you?”

“He said Pantaloon’s movements are more or less routine. He operates at night, but wherever he goes earlier in the evening, he
always
—and this is the important point—he
always
finishes up at the Penguin Club. He gets there round about midnight and stays until two or two-thirty. That’s when his legmen bring him all the dope.”

“That’s all we want to know,” George said happily.

“It’s too easy.”

“Money for old rope.”

There was a full bottle of blended whisky in the cupboard and George fetched it out. For the next two hours we sat upon our beds drinking the whisky and making wonderful and complicated plans for the development of our organization. By eleven o’clock we were employing a staff of fifty, including twelve famous pugilists, and our offices were in Rockefeller Center. Towards midnight we had
obtained control over all columnists and were dictating their daily columns to them by telephone from our headquarters, taking care to insult and infuriate at least twenty rich persons in one part of the country or another every day. We were immensely wealthy and George had a British Bentley, I had five Cadillacs. George kept practising telephone talks with Lionel Pantaloon. “That you, Pantaloon?” “Yes, sir.” “Well, listen here. I think your column stinks today. It’s lousy.” “I’m very sorry, sir. I’ll try to do better tomorrow.” “Damn right you’ll do better, Pantaloon. Matter of fact we’ve been thinking about getting someone else to take over.” “But please, please sir, just give me another chance.” “OK, Pantaloon, but this is the last. And by the way, the boys are putting a rattlesnake in your car tonight, on behalf of Mr. Hiram C. King, the soap manufacturer. Mr. King will be watching from across the street so don’t forget to act scared when you see it.” “Yes, sir, of course, sir. I won’t forget, sir . . . ”

When we finally went to bed and the light was out, I could still hear George giving hell to Pantaloon on the telephone.

The next morning we were both woken up by the church clock on the corner striking nine. George got up and went to the door to get the papers and when he came back he was holding a letter in his hand.

“Open it!” I said.

He opened it and carefully unfolded a single sheet of thin notepaper.

“Read it!” I shouted.

He began to read it aloud, his voice low and serious at first but rising gradually to a high, almost hysterical shout of triumph as the full meaning of the letter was revealed to him. It said:

“Your methods appear curiously unorthodox. At the same time anything you do to that scoundrel has my approval. So go ahead. Start with Item 1, and if you are successful I’ll be only too glad to give you an order to work right on through the list. Send the bill to me. William S. Womberg.”

I recollect that in the excitement of the moment we did a kind of dance around the room in our pyjamas, praising Mr. Womberg in loud voices and shouting that we were rich. George turned somersaults on his bed and it is possible that I did the same.

“When shall we do it?” he said. “Tonight?”

I paused before replying. I refused to be rushed. The pages of history are filled with the names of great men who have come to grief by permitting themselves to make hasty decisions in the excitement of a moment. I put on my dressing gown, lit a cigarette and began to pace up and down the room. “There is no hurry,” I said. “Womberg’s order can be dealt with in due course. But first of all we must send out today’s cards.”

I dressed quickly, we went out to the newsstand across the street, bought one copy of every daily paper there was and returned to our room. The next two hours was spent in reading the columnists’ columns, and in the end we had a list of eleven people—eight men and three women—all of whom had been insulted in one way or another by one of the columnists that morning. Things were going well. We were working smoothly. It took us only another half hour to look up the addresses of the insulted ones—two we couldn’t find—and to address the envelopes.

In the afternoon we delivered them, and at about six in the evening we got back to our room, tired but triumphant. We made coffee and we fried hamburgers and we had supper in bed.
Then we re-read Womberg’s letter aloud to each other many many times.

“What’s he doing he’s giving us an order for six thousand one hundred dollars,” George said. “Items 1 to 5 inclusive.”

“It’s not a bad beginning. Not bad for the first day. Six thousand a day works out at . . . let me see . . . it’s nearly two million dollars a year, not counting Sundays. A million each. It’s more than Betty Grable.”

“We are very wealthy people,” George said. He smiled, a slow and wondrous smile of pure contentment.

“In a day or two we will move to a suite of rooms at the St. Regis.”

“I think the Waldorf,” George said.

“All right, the Waldorf. And later on we might as well take a house.”

“One like Womberg’s?”

“All right. One like Womberg’s. But first,” I said, “we have work to do. Tomorrow we shall deal with Pantaloon. We will catch him as he comes out of the Penguin Club. At two-thirty
A.M.
we will be waiting for him, and when he comes out into the street you will step forward and punch him once, hard, right upon the point of the nose as per contract.”

“It will be a pleasure,” George said. “It will be a real pleasure. But how do we get away? Do we run?”

“We shall hire a car for an hour. We have just enough money left for that, and I shall be sitting at the wheel with the engine running, not ten yards away, and the door will be open and when
you’ve punched him you’ll just jump back into the car and we’ll be gone.”

“It is perfect. I shall punch him very hard.” George paused. He clenched his right fist and examined his knuckles. Then he smiled again and he said slowly, “This nose of his, is it not possible that it will afterwards be so much blunted that it will no longer poke well into other people’s business?”

“It is quite possible,” I answered, and with that happy thought in our minds we switched out the lights and went early to sleep.

The next morning I was woken by a shout and I sat up and saw George standing at the foot of my bed in his pyjamas, waving his arms. “Look!” he shouted, “there are four! There are four!” I looked, and indeed there were four letters in his hand.

“Open them. Quickly, open them.”

The first one he read aloud:
“‘Dear Vengeance Is Mine Inc., That’s the best proposition I’ve had in years. Go right ahead and give Mr. Jacob Swinski the rattlesnake treatment (Item 4). But I’ll be glad to pay double if you’ll forget to extract the poison from its fangs. Yours Gertrude Porter-Vandervelt. P.S. You’d better insure the snake. That guy’s bite carries more poison than the rattler’s.’”

George read the second one aloud:
“‘My cheque for $500 is made out and lies before me on my desk. The moment I receive proof that you have punched Lionel Pantaloon hard on the nose, it will be posted to you, I should prefer a fracture, if possible. Yours etc. Wilbur H. Gollogly.’”

George read the third one aloud:
“‘In my present frame of mind and against my better judgement, I am tempted to reply to your card and to request that you deposit that scoundrel Walter Kennedy upon Fifth Avenue
dressed only in his underwear. I make the proviso that there shall be snow on the ground at the time and that the temperature shall be sub-zero. H. Gresham.’”

The fourth one he also read aloud:
“‘A good hard sock on the nose for Pantaloon is worth five hundred of mine or anybody else’s money. I should like to watch. Yours sincerely, Claudia Calthorpe Hines.’”

George laid the letters down gently, carefully upon the bed. For a while there was silence. We stared at each other, too astonished, too happy to speak. I began to calculate the value of those four orders in terms of money.

“That’s five thousand dollars’ worth,” I said softly.

Upon George’s face there was a huge bright grin. “Claude,” he said, “should we not move now to the Waldorf?”

“Soon,” I answered, “but at the moment we have no time for moving. We have not even time to send out fresh cards today. We must start to execute the orders we have in hand. We are overwhelmed with work.”

“Should we not engage extra staff and enlarge our organization?”

“Later,” I said. “Even for that there is no time today. Just think what we have to do. We have to put a rattlesnake in Jacob Swinski’s car . . . we have to dump Walter Kennedy on Fifth Avenue in his underpants . . . we have to punch Pantaloon on the nose . . . let me see . . . yes, for three different people we have to punch Pantaloon . . . ”

I stopped. I closed my eyes. I sat still. Again I became conscious of a small clear stream of inspiration flowing into the tissues of my brain. “I have it!” I shouted. “I have it! I have it! Three birds with one stone! Three customers with one punch!”

“How?”

“Don’t you see? We only need to punch Pantaloon once and each of the three customers . . . Womberg, Gollogly and Claudia Hines . . . will think it’s being done specially for him or her.”

“Say it again.” I said it again.

“It’s brilliant.”

“It’s common sense. And the same principle will apply to the others. The rattlesnake treatment and the others can wait until we have more orders. Perhaps in a few days we will have ten orders for rattlesnakes in Swinski’s car. Then we will do them all in one go.”

“It’s wonderful.”

“This evening then,” I said, “we will handle Pantaloon. But first we must hire a car. Also we must send telegrams, one to Womberg, one to Gollogly and one to Claudia Hines, telling them where and when the punching will take place.”

We dressed rapidly and went out.

In a dirty silent little garage down on East 9th Street we managed to hire a car, a 1934 Chevrolet, eight dollars for the evening. We then sent three telegrams, each one identical and cunningly worded to conceal its true meaning from inquisitive people:
“Hope to see you outside Penguin Club two-thirty
A.M.
Regards V.I.Mine.”