The Viola Brothers Shore Mystery

by Viola Brothers Shore

Mr. Ring thought in another week or two. But two weeks later Mr. Ring advised him affably that on account of the railroad strike nobody was getting any cars.

  “You oughtn’t to get impatient, Mr. Apfel. There’s a man here been waiting eight months for his car.”

  “How is it,” inquired Irving bitterly, “you didn’t tell me about him when I was giving th’ order?”

  “If you feel like—” began Mr. Ring, but Irving hung up the receiver.

  One morning coming down his front path he almost collided with Mr. Wolfe.

  “Sorry to hear about your trouble, Mr. Wolfe—” he fell into step beside him. “Neil told me on the telephone last night. Ten thousand dollars! That’s a big verdict! You’re gonna appeal?”

  “That,” responded Mr. Wolfe ungraciously, “is the affair of the insurance company—entirely.”

  Irving missed the implication.

  “You’re covered, ain’t you?” And when Mr. Wolfe seemed not to have heard him he repeated: “You’re covered?”

  “No.” Mr. Wolfe bit off the word testily.

  Irving was stunned.

  “How comes you didn’t carry enough insurance?”

  Mr. Wolfe resented the slur on his foresight.

  “Five thousand dollars is all they’ll give you in any of their blasted companies!”

  Irving felt so sorry for him he paid his fare.

  “It’s too bad,” he sympathized later, seated beside him in the train, and though he was truly sorry for Mr. Wolfe, there was none the less a little edge on his words. “Too bad you didn’t think to put the car in your wife’s name.”

  Mr. Wolfe’s expression was undecipherable. Then, “I jolly well did,” he answered, and buried his nose in his paper.

  Before Irving had a chance to recover from this, his neighbor looked up from the headlines with such a look in his eyes that Irving felt in his bones he was going to tell him bad news. Irving’s bones were better than that barometer his wife’s aunt brought from Europe, and that you had to be a mind reader to understand.

  “I say,” remarked Mr. Wolfe, “the blooming Birchlands have gone up in price.”

  Irving was relieved.

  “It’s nothing in my life. My order is in over two months already.”

  “Oh, but you’ll have to pay the blooming advance anyway, what?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My friend Ferguson, of the Dash Company, tells me all the blooming automobile contracts are subject to price prevailing on date of delivery, don’t you know.”

  “Foolishness!” replied Irving, who nevertheless felt a sinking in his stomach. “Because they ain’t able to deliver me my car when they promised I got to pay them yet a bonus?”

  “If you look up your blooming contract,” suggested Mr. Wolfe, “I dare say you’ll find that you jolly well do.”

  Irving reached his office feeling low. Mr. Ring, simply radiating affability over the telephone, confirmed his worst fears. Yes, all contracts were made subject to price prevailing on date of delivery. Irving got his contract out of the safe. Not that he doubted his misfortune, but he just wanted to take a look at such a contract that he, Irving Apfel, was damn fool enough to sign. His eye traveled sadly down the page. Then he straightened perceptibly, and some of the sadness vanished. Again—this time with a beating heart—he read his contract.

  For once Mr. Ring seemed on the verge of divorce from his affability. He had to read his own copy of the contract three times before he could believe what Irving told him, and then he assured Irving it was the only contract that had ever gone out of his office without such a clause. Mr. Ring did not seem to take much stock in the theory of luck. He blamed it all on the carelessness of the salesman who had signed Mr. Apfel up, and the only thing that kept the salesman from losing his job was the fact that he had thrown it up two weeks before.

  The next time Irving inquired after his car he learned that the fellows who supply the raw materials were holding them up because of strikes, though as Irving hinted to Mr. Ring, whose affability was beginning to get on his nerves, why a car that should have been shipped in January should be held up at the end of March for lack of raw materials wasn’t exactly clear. And furthermore he did not feel like disposing of his contract!

  Followed the freight embargo on luxuries, and right on top of that a lovely warm Sunday, with automobiles as thick as flies in a mountain boarding house. And as if that ain’t aggravation enough, Mr. Wolfe goes riding out like the King of Jerusalem in his secondhand Fearless. Never a word that feller says when you’re dying for conversation. But if there’s one time when any kind of conversation would only be a aggravation, believe me, he ain’t tongue-tied.

  “I say now,” began Mr. Wolfe, “where’s the blooming Birchland?”

  “I loaned it to President Wilson,” replied Irving with a facetiousness he was far from feeling—oh, very far.

  “New cars are deuced scarce, what?” rejoined Mr. Wolfe. “I do believe it’s more satisfactory, don’t you know, to own a used car than to keep on nearly owning a new one, what? There’s a new Dash you could get. My friend Ferguson says they happen to have one in the shop—blooming paint scratched off and all that sort of thing—had to be sent to the paint shop, don’t you know. But I don’t suppose they could sell you that—living in Brooklyn and all that sort of rot. Besides, it’s probably too dashed much money for you. It’s a pretty good car, the Dash. Not at all in the same blooming class as the Birchland, don’t you know.”

  Irving only knew that he was so mad that if he didn’t talk to somebody he would bust—positively. He went up and talked to Bessie. He told her everything. Of course she made believe she was surprised. They had a long heart-to-heart talk. The upshot of that talk was that the next day Irving Apfel presented himself at the New York offices of the Dash Company. His wife was with him. Mr. Ferguson was a nice man. He was sympathetic; also he was a good salesman. He agreed, when Irving had related his treatment at the hands of the Birchland people—though he did not like to run down a competitor—that Irving had a grievance. And he felt certain that Irving would have no difficulty in disposing of his Birchland—if it ever arrived—even if the Birchland people did not back up their repeated offers to relieve him of his contract. Irving felt certain of it too; so did Bessie, At that moment the Birchland seemed the remotest of remote possibilities; the Dash the most concrete of fascinating realities.

  Moreover, as I have said, Mr. Ferguson had a charming personality. How did Mr. Apfel—was it?—happen to have heard about the Dash they had coming out of the shop? Through Mr. Wolfe? Ah, so! Mr. Apfel was very fortunate. If the car had ever reached the floor—the Dash cars went like hot cakes. He could guarantee to sell six in two hours if he had them on the floor. Mr. Apfel could have the Dash the day after tomorrow. Bessie was in high spirits all the way home.

  “I’m so glad you took the Dash, dear. It’s such a nice-looking car.”

  “No better than the Birchland. In fact if you stand them side by side they look like twins.”

  “But everybody knows the Dash is a better car.”

  “It ought to be. It costs a thousand dollars more.”

  “Oh, but it sounds so much better to say you have a Dash than a Birchland.”

  “To tell the truth, for the sound I wouldn’t give a thousand dollars extra. Even th’ upholstery is the same.”

  “Anybody would think you were sorry you had given your order.”

  Well, in a way. You don’t like to pay a thousand dollars more for nilly the same thing you could get for a thousand dollars less. And anyway, he had to pretend he lived in New York or they wouldn’t have given him the car, and no man really likes that kind of bluffing. With the Birchland he didn’t have to do such hocus-pocus.

  “Yes, but when would you get the old Birchland?”

  “Well, to tell you the truth, what’s t
he hurry? Did I promise somebody a ride for Pesach? I waited four months already, so I could wait another coupla weeks.”

  “Well, there’s no use crying over it. The Dash is bought.”

  Well, so was the Birchland—even more so, when you came right down to it. And when you think how polite that feller Ring always was, and the time they spent giving him lessons! Irving began to feel not a little ashamed. And after all, nearly everybody said the Birchland was a good car and a bargain for the money. Not only the initial cost would be less, but it would cost less to run. Less for tires, less for gas, less for insurance. A genuine nostalgia for his Birchland began to possess Irving’s soul. Why on earth had he let Bessie talk him into buying that Dash? Why must the women always make a man crazy with style? Wasn’t he perfectly satisfied with his Birchland all along? And now what did he have? Two cars on his hands, and maybe lawsuits and God knows what. Dammit, if only the women wouldn’t keep mixing in!

  By the time they reached home Irving had retired into the silences. Annie, opening the door, informed him that somebody had phoned for him.

  “The office! D’y’ever see? One day I go away and—”

  No, it wasn’t the office. It was a Mr. Bell.

  “Bell?”

  “No—Ring. He says your car is there, and will you please come and take it away tomorrow.”

  Irving could contain himself no longer.

  “You see?” he demanded of the perplexed Bessie—“you see?” and marched with extreme dignity and bitterness to the bedroom and slammed the door.

  He called Arthur up after supper.

  “I don’t think there’ll be any trouble,” he explained to his legal adviser. “The Dash feller says the Dash cars go like hot cakes. In two hours he could sell six from the floor if he only had them. But I thought before I do anything I’ll better call you up. What do you think?”

  “How,” inquired the lawyer, “could a smart business man like you get yourself in such a hole?”

  Irving was pained.

  “Listen, Arthur! I don’t need a lawyer to ask me questions. What I need a lawyer for is to tell me answers. What should I do?”

  “Here’s what you do! Go up to the Dash people in the morning and tell them you find yourself financially embarrassed—don’t think you’ll be able to meet payment on the car—you know, ask for a little extension of time. Put it on thick, and if you do it right they’ll be glad to give you back your deposit and get out of the contract.”

  “What? Me? Irving Apfel—I should go up and tell, such a automobile salesman I ain’t got three thousand dollars to pay for his car? Rather I’ll be stuck with three cars.”

  “Suit yourself, but don’t come crying to me.”

  “Listen, Arthur, can’t you see? I look like a damn fool!”

  “Well?”

  Irving hung up the receiver. That’s what you get for having your wife’s family for a lawyer. What you want from a lawyer is business advice, not personal opinions. He spent a sleepless and unprofitable night.

  At nine the next morning the office phone rang. It was Mr. Ferguson. Mr. Ferguson was a polite and charming man, but you could see his feelings were badly wounded. Mr. Apfel had stated, and had made his application to state that he resided in Manhattan, whereas the night before, merely through chance and the kindness of a friend, Mr. Abraham Wolfe, Mr. Ferguson had learned that Mr. Apfel resided in Brooklyn. Mr. Wolfe, though hating to do it, had admitted that Mr. Apfel was in fact a neighbor of his in Brooklyn. Now to permit a resident of Brooklyn to have a car out of New York stock would be in violation of their contract with their Brooklyn agency. Mr. Apfel saw that, did he not?

  No, he did not. Mr. Apfel refused to have anything to do with the Brooklyn agency. Mr. Ferguson was very patient. He explained again all about their contract with their Brooklyn agency. Mr. Apfel was inclined to be unreasonable. He refused to understand. Mr. Ferguson’s patience began to skid. Mr. Apfel remained obdurate. If Mr. Apfel had betrayed even a glimmer of reason, Mr. Ferguson, who was a very charming man, and patient, might have fixed it up for him. But Mr. Apfel continued to be so unreasonable that Mr. Ferguson, who was only human, finally lost his temper and refused in the name of the Dash Company to have any further dealings with Mr. Apfel at all! Mr. Apfel was afraid that, God forbid! he should change his mind, so he took the precaution to stop payment on his check. It don’t do to depend too much on luck, even if it begins to look as if there is such a thing, takisch.

  It was with a light spirit Irving called up the Birchland and learned that his car was really there.

  “You’ll be out for it this afternoon?” Mr. Ring inquired.

  “I should say not! I got to get my insurance first. Just keep it a few days yet.”

  “We’ll have to charge you storage,” Mr. Ring advised him cheerfully.

  Irving exploded. Did y’ever hear such a highhanded robbery way of doing business? They can keep you waiting four months for your car. That’s all right. But the minute it comes, right away, quick, they expect you should come over like a magician and whistle it away! Storage! When you got a garadge home that you never used since you moved in only to store in a stepladder and two cans of paint! The temper into which Irving had previously thrown Mr. Ferguson was a seven days’ calm compared with the temper into which Mr. Ring now threw Irving.

  “I’ll see you in Germany,” he yelled—or some equally undesirable locality—“before I’ll pay you a cent storage! Six o’clock I’ll come over so I’ll take away my car!”

  He immediately called up his wife’s Uncle Nathan about the insurance.

  “Sure you can have it right away as a special favor. Day after tomorrow.”

  “What good is day after tomorrow? Today I got to have it!”

  Uncle Nathan was not of an excitable temperament.

  “What’s the sweat?” he inquired placidly.

  “Four months I’m begging him already take out for me a little insurance on my car! And now when I need it he says, ‘What’s the sweat?’”

  “But I told you to give me three or four days’ notice.”

  “Listen, chammer, and try to forget for a minute you’re a fool. How could I give you three days’ notice when I only heard it myself today? That’s what I get for mixing business with relations!”

  You can imagine the way he felt. Not only he must take out his car without even a lesson to brush up his memory, but he must take it out yet without insurance. But on the other hand, what was there to be afraid of so much? The whole thing was maybe two miles to drive. All the fools in the world could run automobiles. Most of his friends did. And the last time he had done very well, without any help from the cigarettel. He could manage already. There was nothing to be nervous about. Was he maybe gonna be reckless or something?

  Still he could not keep his mind on business. Round and round in his head went the formula—“Push round the button—push the hands to a quarter after four—see the brake is off.”

  He did nothing all day but start the car—stop the car—go into first—go into second—go into high—reverse. Once while the girl was out to lunch he sat down at the typewriter to address an envelope and his foot reached out absent-mindedly for the starter.

  At last closing time drew near. The nearer it drew the harder he tried to keep it from arriving. But finally he could not find another thing to do. He had to start. He thought he was going to be ill—he had such a funny feeling round his heart, and his hands were like ice!

  There was not a single flaw in the subway service that evening. Before he had started and stopped his car fifty times he was there. The check was given to Mr. Ring—most affable. He was seated in the car—his own car. His feet searched out the starting button—the clutch. His hands were busy at the wheel—he was off!

  * * * *

  “I don’t know yet how it happened!” Irving mopped his brow with
his handkerchief, and bracing his feet against the lower drawer of his desk leaned back in his office chair. “For the life of me, I don’t know yet how such a thing could happen to me!”

  Neil regarded him sympathetically. Though it was the seventeenth time he had heard the details of the tragedy, he listened patiently.

  “Everything was going along so fine. Not a bit of trouble all the way home—not a stall—nothing. Through the park—through traffic—everything.

  “And then on my own street such a big gonef has to get ahead of me with a truck, and he won’t let me past. I should ride up my own street the first time in back of such a elephant—nobody wouldn’t see me at all. I give him a toot. Yo! He should worry! I give him another toot. Then I get so mad I give him three—four—five toots!

  “Finely he moves over a little. I didn’t realize it was so near the crossing. I put on gas to go past him—gevalt! All of a sudden I see a feller coming down the avenue, so I thought already I’m smashed in pieces! I give a turn out, so I’m in the other feller’s way! I give another turn in. You could believe me, Neil, I don’t know how it is to this day! I didn’t see her till it was already too late! I give you my word I never seen that woman till I was on top of her already!”

  He paused to mop his brow again.

  “Such a schlemazel! Not for a million dollars would I do such a thing to nobody—let alone a woman that—”

  Neil sought to stem the tide of self-recrimination.

  “There now, Irving, don’t you worry! Everybody knows it wasn’t your fault, and she’s not badly hurt. You know they said at the hospital it was mostly shock.”

  “Oh, sure, I know she’ll be all right again, but I’ll never forget it so long I live! Just to me such a thing should happen! Just to me!” and he shook his head from side to side sadly.

  “Nonsense, Irving!” Neil tried to cheer him up. “Buck up! Those things happen to everybody. Look at my uncle—had the same thing happen to him his first day out!”

  “Ye-eh, I know”—Irving forgot his own troubles for a moment—“and they got a ten-thousand-dollar verdict, and his insurance was only five. But a lot they could do with such a verdict when the car’s in his wife’s name. I got to hand it to your uncle. He’s a smart man. He ain’t the kind that gets stung easy.”