The Unpleasant Profession Of Jonathan Hoag And Other Stories

by Robert A. Heinlein

  "No, he might not take a bus. Come on."

  They had no difficulty in following him; he was heading down the street at a brisk, but not a difficult, pace. When he came to the bus stop where he had gotten on the day before, he purchased a paper and sat down on the bench. Randall and Cynthia passed behind him and took shelter in a shop entrance.

  When the bus came he went up to the second deck as before; they got on and remained on the lower level. "Looks like he was going right where he went yesterday," Randall commented. "We’ll get him today, kid."

  She did not answer.

  When the bus approached the stop near the Acme Building they were ready and waiting—but Hoag failed to come down the steps. The bus started up again with a jerk; they sat back down. "What do you suppose he is up to?" Randall fretted. "Do you suppose he saw us?"

  "Maybe he gave us the slip," Cynthia suggested hopefully.

  "How? By jumping off the top of the bus? Hm-m-m!"

  "Not quite, but you’re close. If another bus pulled alongside us at a stop light, he could have done it by stepping across, over the railing. I saw a man do that once. If you do it toward the rear, you stand a good chance of getting away with it entirely."

  He considered the matter. "I’m pretty sure no bus has pulled up by us. Still, he could do it to the top of a truck, too, though Lord knows how he would get off again." He fidgeted. "Tell you what— I’m going back to the stairs and sneak a look."

  "And meet him coming down? Be your age, Brain."

  He subsided; the bus went on a few blocks. "Coming to our own corner," he remarked.

  She nodded, naturally having noticed as soon as he did that they were approaching the corner nearest the building in which their own office was located. She took out her compact and powdered her nose, a routine she had followed eight times since getting on the bus. The little mirror made a handy periscope whereby to watch the passengers getting off the rear of the bus. "There he is, Teddy!"

  Randall was up out of his seat at once and hurrying down the aisle, waving at the conductor. The conductor looked annoyed but signaled the driver not to start. "Why don’t you watch the streets?" he asked.

  "Sorry, buddy. I’m a stranger here myself. Come on, Cyn."

  Their man was just turning into the door of the building housing their own office. Randall stopped. "Something screwy about this, kid."

  "What do we do?"

  "Follow him," he decided.

  They hurried on; he was not in the lobby. The Midway-Copton is not a large building, nor swank—else they could not have rented there. It has but two elevators. One was down and empty; the other, by the indicator, had just started up.

  Randall stepped up to the open car, but did not enter. "Jimmie," he said, "how many passengers in that other car?"

  "Two," the elevator pilot answered.

  "Sure?"

  "Yeah. I was breezin’ with Bert when he closed the door. Mr. Harrison and another bird. Why?"

  Randall passed him a quarter. "Never mind," he said, his eyes on the slowly turning arrow of the indicator. "What floor does Mr. Harrison go to?"

  "Seven." The arrow had just stopped at seven.

  "Swell." The arrow started up again, moved slowly past eight and nine, stopped at ten. Randall hustled Cynthia into the car. "Our floor, Jimmie," he snapped, "and step on it!"

  An "up" signal flashed from the fourth floor; Jimmie reached for his controls; Randall grabbed his arm. "Skip it this time, Jim."

  The operator shrugged and complied with the request.

  The corridor facing the elevators on the tenth floor was empty. Randall saw this at once and turned to Cynthia. "Give a quick gander down the other wing, Cyn," he said, and headed to the right, in the direction of their office.

  Cynthia did so, with no particular apprehension. She was sure in her own mind that, having come this far, Hoag was certainly heading for their office. But she was in the habit of taking direction from Teddy when they were actually doing something; if he wanted the other corridor looked at, she would obey, of course. he floor plan was in the shape of a capital H, with the elevators located centrally on the cross bar. She turned to the left to reach the other wing, then glanced to the left—no one in that alley. She turned around and faced the other way—no one down there. It occurred to her that just possibly Hoag could have stepped out on the fire escape; as a matter of fact the fire escape was in the direction she had first looked, toward the rear of the building—but habit played a trick on her; she was used to the other wing in which their office was located, in which, naturally, everything was swapped right for left from the way in which it was laid out in this wing.

  She had taken three or four steps toward the end of the corridor facing the street when she realized her mistake—the open window certainly had no fire escape beyond it. With a little exclamation of impatience at her own stupidity she turned back.

  Hoag was standing just behind her.

  She gave a most unprofessional squeak.

  Hoag smiled with his lips. "Ah, Mrs. Randall!"

  She said nothing—she could think of nothing to say. There was a .32 pistol in her handbag; she felt a wild desire to snatch it out and fire. On two occasions, at a time when she was working as a decoy for the narcotics squad, she had been commended officially for her calm courage in a dangerous pinch—she felt no such calm now.

  He took a step toward her. "You wanted to see me, did you not?"

  She gave way a step. "No," she said breathlessly. "No!"

  "Ah, but you did. You expected to find me at your office, but I chose to meet you—here!"

  The corridor was deserted; she could not even hear a sound of typing or conversation from any of the offices around them. The glazed doors stared sightlessly; the only sounds, other than their own sparse words, were the street noises ten stories below, muted, remote and unhelpful.

  He came closer. "You wanted to take my fingerprints, didn’t you? You wanted to check them— find out things about me. You and your meddlesome husband."

  "Get away from me!"

  He continued to smile. "Come, now. You wanted my fingerprints—you shall have them." He raised his arms toward her and spread his fingers, reaching. She backed away from the clutching hands. He no longer seemed small; he seemed taller, and broader—bigger than Teddy. His eyes stared down at her.

  Her heel struck something behind her; she knew that she had backed to the very end of the passage—dead end.

  His hands came closer. "Teddy!" she screamed. "Oh, Teddy!"

  Teddy was bending over her, slapping her face. "Stop that," she said indignantly. "It hurts!"

  He gave a sigh of relief. "Gee, honey," he said tenderly. "You sure gave me a turn. You’ve been out for minutes."

  "Unnnh!"

  "Do you know where I found you? There!" He pointed to the spot just under the open window. "If you hadn’t fallen just right, you would have been hamburger by now. What happened? Lean out and get dizzy?"

  "Didn’t you catch him?"

  He looked at her admiringly. "Always the professional! No, but I damn near did. I saw him, from down the corridor. I watched a moment to see what he was up to. If you hadn’t screamed, I would have had him."

  "If I hadn’t screamed?"

  "Sure. He was in front of our office door, apparently trying to pick the lock, when—"

  "Who was?"

  He looked at her in surprise. "Why, Hoag, of course—Baby! Snap out of it! You aren’t going to faint again, are you?"

  She took a deep breath. "I’m all right," she said grimly, "—now. Just as long as you’re here. Take me to the office."

  "Shall I carry you?"

  "No, just give me your hand." He helped her up and brushed at her dress. "Never mind that now." But she did stop to moisten, ineffectively, a long run in what had been until that moment brand-new stockings.

  He let them into the office and sat her carefully in an armchair, then fetched a wet towel with which he bathed her face. "Feel better?
"

  "I’m all right—physically. But I want to get something straight. You say you saw Hoag trying to get into this office?"

  "Yeah. Damned good thing we’ve special locks."

  "This was going on when I screamed?"

  "Yeah, sure."

  She drummed on the arms of the chair.

  " ’S matter, Cyn?"

  "Nothing. Nothing at all—only this: The reason I screamed was because Hoag was trying to choke me!"

  It took him some time even to say, "Hunh?"

  She replied, "Yes, I know, darling. That’s how it is and it’s nuts. Somehow or other, he’s done it to us again. But I swear to you that he was about to choke me. Or I thought he was." She rehearsed her experience, in detail. "What does it add up to?"

  "I wish I knew," he told her, rubbing his face. "I wish I did. If it hadn’t been for that business in the Acme Building, I would say that you were sick and had fainted and when you came to you were still kinda lightheaded. But now I don’t know which one of us is batty. I surely thought I saw him."

  "Maybe we’re both crazy. It might be a good idea if we both went to see a good psychiatrist."

  "Both of us? Can two people go crazy the same way? Wouldn’t it be one or the other of us?"

  "Not necessarily. It’s rare, but it does happen. Folie a deux."

  "Folee adooh?"

  "Contagious insanity. Their weak points match up and they make each other crazier." She thought of the cases she had studied and recalled that usually one was dominant and the other subordinate, but she decided not to bring it up, as she had her own opinion as to who was dominant in their family, an opinion kept private for reasons of policy.

  "Maybe," Randall said thoughtfully, "what we need is a nice, long rest. Down on the Gulf, maybe, where we could lie around in the sunshine."

  "That," she said, "is a good idea in any case. Why in the world anyone chooses to live in a dismal, dirty, ugly spot like Chicago is beyond me."

  "How much money have we?"

  "About eight hundred dollars, after the bills and taxes are paid. And there’s the five hundred from Hoag, if you want to count that."

  "I think we’ve earned it," he said grimly. "Say! Do we have that money? Maybe that was a hoax, too."

  "You mean maybe there never was any Mr. Hoag and pretty soon the nurse will be in to bring us our nice supper."

  "Mm-m-m—that’s the general idea. Have you got it?"

  "I think I have. Wait a minute." She opened her purse, in turn opened a zippered compartment, and felt in it. "Yes, it’s here. Pretty green bills. Let’s take that vacation, Teddy. I don’t know why we stay in Chicago, anyway."

  "Because the business is here," he said practically. "Coffee and cakes. Which reminds me, slaphappy or not, I’d better see what calls have come in." He reached across her desk for the phone; his eye fell on a sheet of paper in her typewriter. He was silent for a moment, then said in a strained voice, "Come here, Cyn. Take a look at this."

  She got up at once, came around and looked over his shoulder. What she saw was one of their letterheads, rolled into the typewriter; on it was a single line of typing:

  CURIOSITY KILLED THE CAT.

  She said nothing at all and tried to control the quivering at the pit of her stomach.

  Randall asked, "Cyn, did you write that?"

  "No."

  "Positive?"

  "Yes." She reached out to take it out of the machine; he checked her.

  "Don’t touch it. Fingerprints."

  "All right. But I have a notion," she said, "that you won’t find any fingerprints on that."

  "Maybe not."

  Nevertheless, he took his outfit out of the lower drawer of his desk and dusted the paper and the machine—with negative results on each. There were not even prints of Cynthia to confuse the matter; she had a business-college neatness in her office habits and made a practice of brushing and wiping her typewriter at the end of each day.

  While watching him work she remarked, "Looks as if you saw him getting out rather than in."

  "Huh? How?"

  "Picked the lock, I suppose."

  "Not that lock. You forget, baby, that that lock is one of Mr. Yale’s proudest achievements. You could break it, maybe, but you couldn’t pick it."

  She made no answer—she could think of none. He stared moodily at the typewriter as if it should tell him what had happened, then straightened up, gathered up his gear, and returned it to its proper drawer. "The whole thing stinks," he said, and commenced to pace the room.

  Cynthia took a rag from her own desk and wiped the print powder from the machine, then sat down and watched him. She held her tongue while he fretted with the matter. Her expression was troubled but she was not worried for herself—nor was it entirely maternal. Rather was she worried for them.

  "Cyn," he said suddenly, "this has got to stop!"

  "All right," she agreed. "Let’s stop it."

  "How?"

  "Let’s take that vacation."

  He shook his head. "I can’t run away from it. I’ve got to know."

  She sighed. "I’d rather not know. What’s wrong with running away from something too big for us to fight?" e stopped and looked at her. "What’s come over you, Cyn? You never went chicken before."

  "No," she answered slowly, "I never did. But I never had reason to. Look at me, Teddy—you know I’m not a female female. I don’t expect you to pick fights in restaurants when some lug tries to pick me up. I don’t scream at the sight of blood and I don’t expect you to clean up your language to fit my ladylike ears. As for the job, did I ever let you down on a case? Through timidity, I mean. Did I ever?"

  "Hell, no. I didn’t say you did."

  "But this is a different case. I had a gun in my bag a few minutes ago, but I couldn’t use it. Don’t ask me why. I couldn’t."

  He swore, with emphasis and considerable detail. "I wish I had seen him then. I would have used mine!"

  "Would you have, Teddy?" Seeing his expression, she jumped up and kissed him suddenly, on the end of his nose. "I don’t mean you would have been afraid. You know I didn’t mean that. You’re brave and you’re strong and I think you’re brainy. But look, dear—yesterday he led you around by the nose and made you believe you were seeing things that weren’t there. Why didn’t you use your gun then?"

  "I didn’t see any occasion to use it."

  "That’s exactly what I mean. You saw what was intended for you to see. How can you fight when you can’t believe your own eyes?"

  "But, damn it, he can’t do this to us—"

  "Can’t he? Here’s what he can do." She ticked them off on her fingers. "He can be two places at once. He can make you see one thing and me another, at the same time—outside the Acme Building, remember? He can make you think you went to an office suite that doesn’t exist on a floor that doesn’t exist. He can pass through a locked door to use a typewriter on the other side. And he doesn’t leave fingerprints. What does that add up to?"

  He made an impatient gesture. "To nonsense. Or to magic. And I don’t believe in magic."

  "Neither do I."

  "Then," he said, "we’ve both gone bats." He laughed, but it was not merry.

  "Maybe. If it’s magic, we had best see a priest—"

  "I told you I don’t believe in magic."

  "Skip it. If it’s the other, it won’t do us any good to try to tail Mr. Hoag. A man with the D.T.’s can’t catch the snakes he thinks he sees and take them to a zoo. He needs a doctor—and maybe we do, too."

  Randall was suddenly alert. "Say!"

  "Say what?"

  "You’ve just reminded me of an angle that I had forgotten—Hoag’s doctor. We never checked on him."

  "Yes, you did, too. Don’t you remember? There wasn’t any such doctor."

  "I don’t mean Dr. Rennault; I mean Dr. Potbury—the one he went to see about the stuff under his fingernails."

  "Do you think he really did that? I thought it was just part of the
string of lies he told us."

  "So do I. But we ought to check up on it."

  "I’ll bet you there isn’t any such doctor."

  "You’re probably right, but we ought to know. Gimme the phone book." She handed it to him; he thumbed through it, searching for the P’s. "Potbury—Potbury. There’s half a column of them. But no M.D.’s, though," he announced presently. "Let’s have the yellow section; sometimes doctors on’t list their home addresses." She got it for him and he opened it. " ‘Physical Culture Studios’-‘ Physicians & Surgeons.’ What a slog of ‘em! More doctors than saloons—half the town must be sick most of the time. Here we are: ‘Potbury, P.T., M.D.’ "

  "That could be the one," she admitted.

  "What are we waiting for? Let’s go find out."

  "Teddy!"

  "Why not?" he said defensively. "Potbury isn’t Hoag—"

  "I wonder."

  "Huh? What do you mean? Do you mean that Potbury might be mixed up in this huggermugger, too?"

  "I don’t know. I’d just like to forget all about our Mr. Hoag."

  "But there’s no harm in this, bright eyes. I’ll just pop into the car, slide down there, ask the worthy doctor a few pertinent questions, and be back for you in time for lunch."

  "The car is laid up for a valve grind; you know that."

  "O.K., I’ll take the el. Quicker, anyway."

  "If you insist on going, we’ll both take the el. We stick together, Teddy."

  He pulled at his lip. "Maybe you’re right. We don’t know where Hoag is. If you prefer it-"

  "I certainly do. I got separated from you for just three minutes a little while ago and look what happened."

  "Yeah, I guess so. I sure wouldn’t want anything to happen to you, kid."

  She brushed it away. "It’s not me; it’s us. If anything happens to us, I want it to be the same thing."

  "All right," he said seriously. "From now on, we stick together. I’ll handcuff us together, if you’d rather."

  "You won’t need to. I’m going to hang on." I

  Potbury’s office was to the south, beyond the university. The tracks of the elevated ran between familiar miles of apartment houses. There were sights which one ordinarily sees without any impression registering on the brain; today she looked at them and saw them, through her own brown mood.