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Authors: Charles Williams
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a minute, let’s don’t get excited—”
Moffatt grinned evilly. “Aw, come on, let me sweeten your drink for you, Lawrence baby.”
He ripped the telegraph forms to shreds, wadded them, and shoved them into Colby’s glass. One strip still dangled over the side. He lifted it between thumb and forefinger, dropped it in, and poked it down carefully into the whiskey and ice.
“Now, look—!” Colby protested.
“And I’ll tell you about the Chronicle? Moffatt rasped. “Sabine Manning and your friend Dewy-Eyes wouldn’t get two lines back in the truss ads if they jumped off the Eiffel Tower with Mao Tse-tung. See you around, Lawrence baby.”
He went out. Martine and Colby looked at each other, and she closed one eye in a solemn wink.
“I knew I should have had my silicone injection,” Elkins said. “He didn’t ask me to dance.”
* * *
They paid off Elkins and returned the wolfhounds to the Boulevard Raspail. It was three-ten P.M. when they entered the office on the second floor of the house at 7 Rue des Feuilles Mortes. Dudley was on the phone, talking to his stockbroker in New York. He covered the mouthpiece and looked up with the expression of a prisoner watching the jury file in. Martine held up circled thumb and forefinger. He closed his eyes for a second, sighed, and spoke into the telephone again, a man running eternally across a river in desperate leaps from one sinking ice-floe to the next.
“. . . all right, sell that fifty shares of DuPont and one hundred of Eastern Airlines, and deposit the proceeds to her account at Chase Manhattan. She seems to like the color of their checks this week, or she’s used up the Irving Trust checkbook—”
He sat at a big desk with his back to the nylon-curtained window, a man around fifty with a bony, almost cadaverous face and small glinting eyes the color of topaz. The corner of his mouth twitched as he talked, and he had a nervous habit of running a forefinger inside the collar of his shirt while he thrust out his jaw and craned his neck as though he were choking. He abandoned this long enough to wave for them to sit down, and then grabbed up a cigar from the ashtray in front of him. He puffed furiously three or four times, throwing up a screen of smoke like a beleaguered cuttlefish fleeing its enemies.
Colby looked curiously around the room. Besides the desk it contained several steel filing cabinets, an armchair, and a long deal table piled with unopened mail. On the floor in a corner at the back of the room there were two large cardboard boxes also filled with letters. There was another doorway opposite the one at which they had come in, and through it he could see another, smaller desk and the shattered remains of two chairs lying on the rug.
Martine sat down in the armchair, draping the mink across the back. Colby shoved some of the mail aside and perched on the corner of the table. Dudley was still barking into the telephone. On the desk in front of him were several cablegrams, some opened letters, a bundle of canceled checks three or four inches thick held together by rubber bands, an open ledger, and two stacks of what looked like typing paper held down by onyx paperweights. One was quite small, but the other appeared to be several hundred sheets. Colby looked at it with interest, turned, and met Martine’s eyes. She nodded. This was the famous manuscript.
“. . . all right, cable me the exact amount of the deposit G’bye.” Dudley hung up. He ground a palm across his face, picked up one of the cablegrams in a hand that trembled slightly, and muttered, “. . . three thousand . . . one thousand eight hundred . . . seven hundred . . . Mother of God. . . .”
Then in a continuation of the same gesture, he threw down the cablegram and stood up. “You really got rid of him? How did you do it? And you’re Crosby?”
“Mr. Colby,” Martine corrected. “Mr. Dudley.”
“Yeah, yeah, sure, I mean Colby.” He held out his hand. “But how’d
Moffatt grinned evilly. “Aw, come on, let me sweeten your drink for you, Lawrence baby.”
He ripped the telegraph forms to shreds, wadded them, and shoved them into Colby’s glass. One strip still dangled over the side. He lifted it between thumb and forefinger, dropped it in, and poked it down carefully into the whiskey and ice.
“Now, look—!” Colby protested.
“And I’ll tell you about the Chronicle? Moffatt rasped. “Sabine Manning and your friend Dewy-Eyes wouldn’t get two lines back in the truss ads if they jumped off the Eiffel Tower with Mao Tse-tung. See you around, Lawrence baby.”
He went out. Martine and Colby looked at each other, and she closed one eye in a solemn wink.
“I knew I should have had my silicone injection,” Elkins said. “He didn’t ask me to dance.”
* * *
They paid off Elkins and returned the wolfhounds to the Boulevard Raspail. It was three-ten P.M. when they entered the office on the second floor of the house at 7 Rue des Feuilles Mortes. Dudley was on the phone, talking to his stockbroker in New York. He covered the mouthpiece and looked up with the expression of a prisoner watching the jury file in. Martine held up circled thumb and forefinger. He closed his eyes for a second, sighed, and spoke into the telephone again, a man running eternally across a river in desperate leaps from one sinking ice-floe to the next.
“. . . all right, sell that fifty shares of DuPont and one hundred of Eastern Airlines, and deposit the proceeds to her account at Chase Manhattan. She seems to like the color of their checks this week, or she’s used up the Irving Trust checkbook—”
He sat at a big desk with his back to the nylon-curtained window, a man around fifty with a bony, almost cadaverous face and small glinting eyes the color of topaz. The corner of his mouth twitched as he talked, and he had a nervous habit of running a forefinger inside the collar of his shirt while he thrust out his jaw and craned his neck as though he were choking. He abandoned this long enough to wave for them to sit down, and then grabbed up a cigar from the ashtray in front of him. He puffed furiously three or four times, throwing up a screen of smoke like a beleaguered cuttlefish fleeing its enemies.
Colby looked curiously around the room. Besides the desk it contained several steel filing cabinets, an armchair, and a long deal table piled with unopened mail. On the floor in a corner at the back of the room there were two large cardboard boxes also filled with letters. There was another doorway opposite the one at which they had come in, and through it he could see another, smaller desk and the shattered remains of two chairs lying on the rug.
Martine sat down in the armchair, draping the mink across the back. Colby shoved some of the mail aside and perched on the corner of the table. Dudley was still barking into the telephone. On the desk in front of him were several cablegrams, some opened letters, a bundle of canceled checks three or four inches thick held together by rubber bands, an open ledger, and two stacks of what looked like typing paper held down by onyx paperweights. One was quite small, but the other appeared to be several hundred sheets. Colby looked at it with interest, turned, and met Martine’s eyes. She nodded. This was the famous manuscript.
“. . . all right, cable me the exact amount of the deposit G’bye.” Dudley hung up. He ground a palm across his face, picked up one of the cablegrams in a hand that trembled slightly, and muttered, “. . . three thousand . . . one thousand eight hundred . . . seven hundred . . . Mother of God. . . .”
Then in a continuation of the same gesture, he threw down the cablegram and stood up. “You really got rid of him? How did you do it? And you’re Crosby?”
“Mr. Colby,” Martine corrected. “Mr. Dudley.”
“Yeah, yeah, sure, I mean Colby.” He held out his hand. “But how’d
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