The Union Club Mysteries (17 page)

Jennings was the last to arrive and as he sat down, stretched his legs out in comfort and accepted his usual dry martini (with a pearl onion), he said, "There are eight million stories in the naked city."

"Hey," said Baranov, "what an idea for a TV series!"

"The only trouble is that we miss them all. I probably missed one on the way to the Union Club. I always walk here on nice days. Good constitutional, helps keep me fit. Not like you, tubby," he said, addressing me.

I was irritated. "You keep fit by aerating the brain into a neat specimen of vacuum. You don't even make sense when you talk."

From his high-winged armchair, Griswold stirred, and the soft burr of his snoring was interrupted by a soft murmur. I don't know what he said; something about a pot, I think, and possibly a kettle.

I said, "What did you miss, Jennings? Usually, you're observant enough to step in every pothole you encounter."

Jennings pretended to ignore me. "I passed a young couple arguing. The girl, not more than seventeen, I should judge, said in a whisper that I just caught, 'You shouldn't have let him see the shadow.' The boy, not more than twenty, said, 'It would have been dangerous, otherwise.'"

"So?" said Baranov.

"That's all I heard because I walked on. But then I got to thinking. What shadow? Why should he have seen it, whoever
he
was, and why would it have been dangerous, if he didn't see it? What was it all about?" "Who cares?" I said.

"I do," said Jennings. "There was something unusual there; some story of the naked city; and I'll never know what it was."

"Ask Griswold," I said. "He will reason it out and from those two short sentences build a tale of intrigue and derring-do. Go ahead. Ask him."

Jennings tried to look contemptuous at that, but I could see he was tempted. Griswold's odd capacity to see beneath the surface—

Jennings looked at the grizzled old sleeper and, as usual, when his name was mentioned, it turned out that, somehow, he wasn't sleeping deeply enough to miss it.

His scotch and soda moved to his lips. His eyes opened, he brushed at his luxuriant white mustache with the back of his left hand and he said, "I haven't the vaguest notion what all that talk about shadows was. Of course, I have in my time encountered odd little events that I could see deeply into—something where no crime of any sort seemed involved; only something odd."

"Like what?" I said, deliberately baiting him.

I have always seemed to attract confidences [said Griswold]. I suppose it is partly the dignity of my presence that allows people to feel an infinite trust in me, and partly the luminous intelligence that shines in my eyes and leads people to assume they can find wisdom on which they can confidently lean.

Whatever the case, people turn to me in trouble.

I know a man, for instance, who is a writer. If I were to mention his name, you would know him at once. Any literate American and, for that matter, any literate European, would recognize his name. That name is of the essence to the story and since it was told to me in confidence, I cannot possibly give it to you, even in the unlikely case that I thought I could rely on your secrecy. I will, therefore, call him Reuben Kelinsky, making certain that even the initials are not accurate.

Kelinsky is ordinarily a carefree individual. He has few of the stigmata of the writer. He is not harried by deadlines, nor soured by reviews, nor embittered by rejections, nor depressed by shrunken royalties, nor enraged by editorial obtuseness—to say nothing of the villainy of publishers, agents, copy editors and printers. He wrote in a facile manner, sold everything, made a good living and was a happy man.

Consider my astonishment, then, when once, while we were having lunch, he seemed distinctly distrait. He bit his lower lip, clenched his fist now and then, and kept muttering under his breath.

"What is it, my boy?" I asked in sympathy. "You seem upset."

"Upset?" he said. "I am enraged. I have been trying for three weeks to cool down and I can't seem to. It's gotten so bad, I'm taking cold showers in the morning, and it's no use. I'm so hot and bothered that I steam the cold water in no time at all."

"Tell me what happened."

"May I?" he said with a hopeful look in his eyes. "Maybe you can help me make sense out of it."

"Say on," I said.

He said, "I had obtained a very good set of Durant's
Story of Civilization
for a mere pittance and I was delighted. I had read each volume from the library as it came out, and I had always wanted a complete set. The only catch was that Volume 2,
The Life of Greece,
was missing.

"Well, you know how it is. I had lived without any of the volumes for decades, but now that I had ten of them, I simply couldn't live without the eleventh. What's more, I intended to read the entire set right through in order. I did not want to have to skip a volume and return to it, and it wouldn't take me too long to get through Volume 1, so I needed Volume 2 in a matter of a week or so. It graveled me, you know.

"I should have waited till I was back in New York where I have many bookstores that I deal with, each one of which would have been glad to help me out, but I was stuck in Washington for a few days and I just hated to have to wait. When I came across a large bookstore on my way to a luncheon appointment, I walked in on impulse. "I was in a hurry. I had the luncheon appointment and I was used to being in 'Kelinsky country,' so to speak, when I was in a bookstore, so I walked up to a desk and said to the woman behind it, rater brusquely, 'Where do you keep your sets of Will Durant's history series?' She gestured vaguely up a circular stairway. I ran up it and found myself drowning in Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky.

"I called down, 'Hey, I don't see Durant.'

"She gestured again, and I moved in the direction she indicated and came across shelves and shelves of him. There was
Caesar and Christ
and
Our Oriental Heritage
and
The Age of Reason Begins
and, in fact, about a dozen copies of every single volume in the set
except
Volume 2. I wasted considerable time looking, because I couldn't believe there wouldn't be even one
The Life of Greece.

"I ran down the circular staircase in utter frustration. I was already late for my appointment, but I was determined to get that volume. I went back to the desk and said, 'Where do I order a book?' She gestured again— she never once said anything to me, that miserable woman—and I dashed over to still another desk.

"'I want to order a book,' I said, gasping. All that frustrated running around wasn't doing me any good.

"The guy behind the desk looked at me stonily and didn't say a word. I repeated impatiently, 'I want to order a book. I want Durant's
The Life of Greece.'

"He made no move to get an order blank. In fact, he made no move at all. After a longish wait, he said, 'What's your name?'

"I said very distinctly, feeling that would get a little action out of him, you know, 'Reuben Kelinsky.'

"And he said, 'Spell it!'

"That did it. I felt I was in some sort of nightmare. I don't say that everyone in the world has heard of me. I don't say that I expect as many as one person out of ten, or out of a hundred, to be able to spell my name on hearing it, but I think I do have a right to expect someone in a
bookstore
to be able to spell my name. There were probably at least a dozen of my books in that bookstore at that very moment.

"There was a copy of
Books in Print
on his desk, the 'Authors' volume, 'A' through 'K.' I opened it to the end—I know exactly where my name is—and said
'There's
how to spell it.'

"And he said, 'I'm not here to be abused. I won't take your order.'

"What could I do but leave? I was fifteen minutes late to my luncheon. I was so enraged, I could scarcely eat and what I did eat gave me indigestion. And I did
not
have my book, either actually or on order. Of course, once I got back to New York, I obtained a copy of the book at once and I have a complete set now, but my rage has never stopped. I sent an angry letter to the store, but just got back a reply to the effect that I had been unruly and abusive, and I was to take my business elsewhere. And there's nothing I can do. I just can't understand it."

He sat there and brooded about it, then he said, "You know, this is the first time I've told the whole story, and now that I've told it, I feel much better. It's like lancing a boil."

"Absolutely. In fact, you might as well forget about it. If that's the worst thing that ever happens to you in your lifetime, you are the most fortunate man in the world."

"I know. But why on earth did he ask me to spell my name?"

I said, gently, "Well, Reuben, I only hear your side of the tale. Were you by any chance unruly and abusive?"

"No, I swear to you. I've told you exactly what happened, word for word, step by step. I didn't scream. I didn't yell names. I felt like it, but I didn't. I was in a hurry and I may have looked annoyed and impatient, but not one impolite word escaped me."

"Don't get angry," I said, "but I'm pursuing all possibilities. You pronounced your name correctly, I suppose?"

He
did
get angry. "Come, Griswold, are you entering into the conspiracy, too? Don't I know how to pronounce my own name? Of course, I pronounced it correctly. I went to great pains to do so, because I wanted him to know who I was and to get on the ball and get the book for me. But I was stupid. I should have waited till I was back in New York."

"In that case," I said, "I think we are possibly on the track of a criminal conspiracy and I will ask you to come with me and tell your story to a friend of mine in the government." But I suppose you three see what I'm driving at.

"No, we don't," I said stolidly.

"What? Not one of you?" said Griswold.

"Not one," I said, and neither of the other two denied it.

"In that case, you'll never get any of the tales of the naked city," said Griswold with contempt. "Look, why should the man behind the counter ask Kelinsky to spell a name he obviously knew how to spell?

"One possibility, and it had to be investigated, was that it was a password of some kind. People who don't know each other, but must trust each other in matters involving great risk,
must
have a system of recognizing each other in a foolproof manner. And the passwords used must not be so out of the ordinary as to alert anyone overhearing the exchange.

"If the bookstore was being used for some criminal operation and you, for instance, want to make sure you don't pass information to the wrong person and don't like to ask right out who the right person is, here is the tactic you might use. You ask for a particular book, and when the clerk asks your name, you announce it to be that of a well-known writer: Mark Twain, Saul Bellow, Herman Melville, or, if you wish, Reuben Kelinsky.

"If the clerk is legitimate, he knows how to spell the name and takes your order; or, if it is a living author, he asks you for your autograph and then takes your order; or he may express doubt and say you're kidding. If the clerk is engaged in criminal activities, he says, 'Spell it,' a totally ridiculous request.

"And he knows that you're a fellow criminal, if you don't act surprised at his not knowing how to spell a name he obviously should know how to spell. If you calmly spell the name, then both of you can do business. But when you grabbed 'Authors in Print,' he knew that he had the real author and in a panic, he accused you of abusive behavior and got rid of you."

Griswold spread his arms and said, "See!"

Jennings said, with something like awe, "And I suppose you did investigate the place and uncovered some kind of racket."

"Well," said Griswold, "there was a drug-smuggling operation being tracked down in Washington at the time, and I thought that this might be it, but it wasn't. The truth was that the clerk in the bookstore was no admirer of Kelinsky, and had recognized him, and had decided to have a little harmless fun at his expense, and he had succeeded.—But Kelinsky is happy now, because naturally our investigation was no fun for the clerk, even though we did clear him in the end. He'll be careful with his practical jokes next time.

"And see here, I've never claimed to be right every single time."

To Contents

It was a beautiful day outside: calm, mild and clear. The distant trees of the park could just be made out in the fading twilight and the lights in the Union Club library were taking on the golden hue that produced a warm glow within us as well. Griswold's soft, rhythmic snore was the touch that made it all seem exactly as it should be.

I speculated idly if I could make matters totally perfect by tipping the scotch and soda in Griswold's hand, and soaking his trouser leg, but common sense told me he'd wake up if I moved a fraction of an inch toward him.

For all I knew, Baranov and Jennings were having the same thought.

I said, "Do either of you ever wonder why we have to spend enormous sums on a police force when Griswold solves all crimes without budging from his chair?"

"Ah," said Jennings, "but we have only Griswold's side of it. I wonder what the police would have to say • about it if we asked them."

Griswold stirred in his high-winged armchair and stabbed us with a sudden glare from one ice-blue eye. "They would say nothing at all," he muttered in his deep voice, "for I have consulted them frequently in cases where that seemed advisable."

"Oh, you did?" I said triumphantly. "You admit, then, that you can't do everything yourself?"

"I never claimed anything else," said Griswold with hauteur, "but I generally prove more useful to them than vice versa. There's a particular case in point that took place not many years ago, but I'm sure you wouldn't want to hear about it."

"Actually," said Baranov, "we wouldn't, but how do we stop you?"

"Well," said Griswold, "since you insist, I'll tell you about it."

Word gets around, of course [said Griswold], that I am a court of last resort. When things seem hopeless, therefore, and people are ashamed of going to the police and can't afford a private detective, they sometimes turn to me.

Through a chain of intermediaries too long to burden you with, I found myself consulted by a Mrs. Harkness, who sat opposite me, face blotched with tears and fingers twisting her handkerchief.

It was a matter of her daughter, with whom she had not been in contact for over a year.

"Why do you come to me
now,
Mrs. Harkness?" I asked.

"I didn't realize she was gone. She had left for Europe, you see—"

"How old was she?" I asked at once. Mrs. Harkness was a short and dumpy woman who was clearly in middle life.

"She was twenty-eight, sir," she said. "Well, she's over twenty-nine now. Thirty, next month—if she's still alive." Mrs. Harkness was suddenly too far gone to continue, and I waited.

"As I said," she finally went on, "she was twenty-eight when I last saw her, quite the grown woman, supporting herself very well as a medical artist. She had been living on her own for five years, and she was planning to go to Europe, she told me, partly on business and partly for the joy of travel. She warned me she might not have a chance to write to me.

"I understood, of course. She never was much for writing or communicating, but she was very self-sufficient, and quite able to take care of herself—financially and every other way. I didn't think I had any reason to worry.

"However, she said she wouldn't be away more than two or three months, and when over a year passed, and I hadn't heard from her, I wrote to her address in Philadelphia, where she made her home, and the letter came back. I called the apartment complex in which she lived, and it turned out she had not sublet her apartment, but had moved out and placed her furnishings in storage. I went to Philadelphia and located the storage people. She had never reclaimed the furniture, and the bill amounted to quite a sum.

"I became very panicky. I felt she was still in Europe, and I checked various airlines in the hope of finding some starting thread that would help me track her down, but there was no record of her having taken any of them. I don't think she ever went to Europe after all; either it wasn't her plan from the start, or something stopped her. She has simply disappeared off the face of the earth."

I said, "That's harder to do than you think, ma'am. Can you think of any reason she might have
wanted
to disappear?"

"No," said Mrs. Harkness sharply.

"Was she married?"

"No, but she did have a couple of young men in her life. After all, she was a good-looking woman—five inches taller than I am and slim. She took after her father's side."

"Might she have been pregnant?"

Mrs. Harkness nearly snorted. "Of course not. She was a very methodical and systematic person. Even before she went off to live by herself, she was on the pill
and
owned a diaphragm. She was not one to take chances."

"Accidents happen even to people who don't take chances—"

Mrs. Harkness said sharply, "Then, if she didn't want a baby, she would have had an abortion. This is not fifty years ago. Neither pregnancy nor illegitimacy is much worried about these days. They certainly offer no reason to disappear."

"True enough, ma'am," I admitted. "Please forgive an elderly man for being behind the times.—Let me ask you, then, to describe your daughter to me. Tell me about her habits, her schooling, anything that might give me any way of identifying her—even the name of her dentists and doctors, if you know them, and even if they treated her years ago."

Her tears began to flow again. "You think she's dead?"

"Not at all," I said as gently as possible. "I merely want as much information as I can get in order to cover all eventualities. For instance, I would like several photographs, if you have them."

It took her quite awhile to give me enough information, and then I let her go.

And I went to the police. I had to. They had files of disappearances and, what's more, had it all computerized.

The head of Missing Persons owed me a favor. Several, in fact. That didn't mean he enjoyed taking time out to help me, but he did it anyway.

"Philadelphia," he said, "and about March of last year. Five feet eight inches tall—" He muttered other facets of the description as he punched the computer keyboard. It took him less than a minute. He looked up and said, "Nothing!"

"How can that be?" I said. "She's a person. She's corporeal. She existed."

The lieutenant grunted. "Disappearance by itself doesn't mean a thing. They don't get into our records unless someone
reports
them missing. The parents never did till they came to you. There were no other relatives to do so, apparently, and no lover or friend who was close enough to notice she was gone—or to care."

I said, "How about unsolved murders? Any appearances of an unidentified body at the time she disappeared?"

"Not likely," said Delaney. "These days it's pretty hard for a body to be unidentified unless it is hacked up and key portions are hidden or destroyed. But I'll check." And after a while he said, "Only one who could even vaguely qualify and she was black. I gather the one you're interested in isn't black."

"No."

"My guess, then, is that she did go to Europe. The mother's checking of the airlines means nothing. The daughter may have gone under an assumed name, for instance, and she may still be there, or she may have died there—and, in either case, she is certainly out of our jurisdiction. Maybe the Philadelphia police—"

I interrupted. "Why on earth should she leave under an assumed name?"

"She might have been involved in something criminal, or—" Then he stopped and said, "Oh, boy!"

"What now?"

"We had an appearance in this city at the time of your gal's disappearance. Right height, slim—"

"Where is she? Who is she?"

"I don't know.
She
just disappeared, too."

I brought out the photographs again. "Is this she?"

He looked at them briefly. "Can't say. She avoided notice. She wore a wig, dark glasses, muffling clothes. It's possible she was a member of a terrorist gang. We were about to close in, when she disappeared."

"There's no indication," I said, "that the young woman I'm looking for had any political or social interests that would lead to terrorist activity."

The lieutenant snorted. "All you have is what her mother told you, and her mother has known nothing about her for years now."

"How much do
you
know?"

He wasn't listening. His lips had gone thin and he said, half to himself, "The FBI is moving in, after our force had done the work. If we can pull it off, before they can—"

"Well," I said impatiently, "what do you know?"

He concentrated on me again, with an effort. "We've gone through her quarters thoroughly. We weren't in time to get her, but when we know all the objects with which a person surrounds herself, we can't help but know a great deal about the person.

"For instance, we have a picture here of a woman who was intensely feminine. She had an imposing battery of makeup, from hair tint to toenail polish. Would you believe she had separate polish for fingers and toes?"

I said dryly, "Perhaps all that is not so much a matter of femininity as paraphernalia for disguise."

"She had flowered toilet paper."

"What?"

"Toilet paper with floral designs on each sheet. Is that for disguise? Or is it just feminine? She was methodical, too. She had an ample supply of everything. Nothing without reserves."

"But she left without taking anything. Why was that?"

"Desperation," said the lieutenant grimly. "She left only an hour before we arrived. There must have been a leak, and when we locate the leaker, he will set records for regrets.—But for now, we will have to get your Mrs. Harkness to make an identification."

"From what?" I asked. "From your list of belongings?"

"Certainly. According to you, Mrs. Harkness described her daughter as feminine and methodical. That fits. She can tell us if her daughter ever used floral toilet paper or toenail polish. She can tell us if the shade of lipstick and the brand of panty hose were the shade and the brand her daughter would wear. If she gives the right answers, I may have a name, a face, and medical records to apply to the terrorist, and that will put me neatly one up on the FBI."

I was looking over the list of belongings—-clothes of all sorts, cosmetics, knickknacks, towels, shampoos, soap, canned food, cutlery, drugstore items for headaches and minor infections, combs, cotton-tipped swabs, mouthwash, pills of various legitimate sorts, foods of various kinds in the refrigerator, books listed by name and title. Clearly, nothing had been omitted. Kitchen matches and toothpicks and dental floss. Some bottles of wine but no smoking paraphernalia, incidentally—but then, young Miss Harkness did not smoke, according to her mother.

I put down the list and said, "Lieutenant, let me stop you from embarrassing yourself—perhaps fatally—vis-avis the FBI. Your alleged terrorist is not my client's daughter." "Oh? You can tell that from the list of belongings?" "Exactly! We are talking of two different women." I was right, of course. Using my information, the lieutenant put the FBI on the right track, instead of the wrong, and was commended rather than laughed at. I may have consulted the police, you see, but they just ended up owing me one more. They caught the terrorist in three days and she was
not
Miss Harkness.

Griswold took a brisk swig at his scotch and soda, and then mopped his mustache with a handkerchief that was, perhaps, a shade less white than the mustache. He looked smug.

Jennings said, "Come on, Griswold. We make nothing of this, as you well know."

"Indeed?" said Griswold with affected surprise. "I told you, I believe, that Mrs. Harkness's daughter was not yet thirty, and was sexually active? Did I not also rattle off many things on the list of possessions of the terrorist and was there not an important omission?"

"What omission?" demanded Jennings.

"The terrorist seemed both feminine and methodical, yet there was not included in the list of contents of her apartment anything in the way of tampons or sanitary napkins. No woman not quite thirty with Miss Harkness's methodical character could conceivably be without an ample supply. That the terrorist lacked any at all was proof enough that she was probably past the menopause, and over fifty—and so she proved to be."

I said, "Well, then, what was the story on Miss Harkness? Did you find her?"