by Josh Pachter
The reception room was stereotypical: spanking-new plastic furniture, sterile artists’ conceptions of the Rat on the walls. The apparition behind the desk looked like Myrna Loy playing Dracula’s daughter. She was slinky, she was sultry, and she was dressed as has never been a receptionist in the history of receptionists. Her pneumatic lips were painted to the point that she looked as though she might bleed to death through them. I didn’t get too close, not wanting to catch a cold from her batting her eyelashes.
“You must be the shamus,” she leered. “Mr. Clarke called and said to cooperate. I’ve never met a gumshoe before. What can I do for you?”
“The boss wants me to interview the complete staff of Ruptured Motors—that is, all those who’ve come in contact with Charlie Asimov.”
“All right, fire away,” she said.
I looked at her blankly. “Where do I find the others?”
“There are no others,” she told me, “except for Mr. Aldiss, Mr. Brunner, and Mr. Clarke—and none of them are here. Besides, you’ve already talked with them. This place is really automated. Charlie and I are the only employees, except for the three Britishers.”
“One secretary and one inventor can’t possibly do all the work.”
“What work?” she said reasonably. “I’m telling you, it’s all computerized.”
I was flabbergasted. “What about building the factory where the Rat is to be manufactured?”
“That’s to be contracted out.”
I closed my eyes momentarily, but then opened them and said, “All right, what’s your name?”
“Le Guin,” she said. “Mata Hari Le Guin.”
“You’re an American?”
“No. I was born in Tangier, Morocco. My mother came from Brazil and my father from Macao.”
I eyed her. “So you’re another example of immigrants being allowed by the government to work while ninety percent of Americans are unemployed and on Negative Income Tax?”
“Please,” she said haughtily, “I do not permit four-letter words to be spoken in my presence.”
“What four-letter words?”
“Government.”
I shook my head. “Here you are a secretary and you can’t spell any better than I can. Now, this Charlie Asimov. What can you tell me about his disappearance? Do you think it was a kidnapping? Possibly terrorists?”
“What disappearance?” she said. “He phoned in, right before you got here. He’s home with a bad cold.”
I retraced my way to the brownstone on West 35th Street, only twice running into small bands of terrorists. I let myself in, and, before going to the office, stopped off at the kitchen to see if I was in time for lunch.
Felix, or whatever his name is, was working happily at the stove. “Look, Baldie,” he said, “it’s like the old days. Shad roe fines herbes, no parsley, instead of soy burgers. And, tonight, instead of Escoffier hash—”
“Where’d you get the credits for all this fancy grub?”
“We have a client, Baldie! I phoned Mummiani’s on Fulton Street, the last gourmet food store in—”
“What client?” I said, not exactly hopping with joy. “We were hired to investigate a disappearing inventor, but it turns out he’s in bed with a cold at the Bowery Hilton.”
I went on into the office to report. Fatso was sitting there in his chair, his eyes closed, his lips going in and out, in and out. He is not to be interrupted while thinking. This time, however, it was just too much.
“What in the hell,” I said, “are you thinking about?”
“Lunch,” he said.
I took my place at my desk. “You want me to report?”
He opened his eyes and scowled at me, probably having forgotten what errand he had sent me on. “Proceed,” he said snidely, “giving everything in full detail from your famed photographic memory.”
I told him about going to the small suite that housed the offices of the Ruptured Motors Company. Told him about the svelte Ms. Le Guin. Went on to reveal that she and Charlie Asimov were the only employees of the company, save the three British scientists who headed the project.
The shad roe fines herbes without parsley was superb, and Fatso was in his version of Allah’s paradise. Since the rule is we never talk business during mealtimes, he regaled me with a summary of several chapters of the paperback he had just finished, Three for the Chair, undoubtedly having forgotten that it had been me who had peddled the exaggerated account to an idiot of an editor long years past.
While we were having our coffee, the doorbell rang, and I went to answer it. At first, it looked to me as though our visitor was wearing a bed sheet pulled over his head, on the top of which rested a circle of black braided rope. Then I realized that he was an honest-to-goodness Arab.
I opened the door a slit and said, “If you’re soliciting funds for the Palestinian side of the Hundred Years War …”
But he touched his forehead, his lips, and then his heart, and said, “As-salaam alaykum.”
“That’s nice,” I told him. “What do you want?”
He stroked his black beard and said, “Effendi, I wish even to speak with your master.”
What the hell, we hadn’t had a laugh around the place for months. I let him in and led the way back to the office.
When we entered, Fatso glowered at me. “Is this flummery, Baldie?” he bellowed.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “He wants to talk to you.”
Without an invitation, the newcomer took the red leather chair and crossed his legs. He wore soft leather boots under his white skirts, or whatever you call the outfit.
“Well, sir?” Fatso muttered. He hates to have his digestion interfered with.
“Effendi, I represent the United Arabian Petroleum Industries. I have come to put you under retainer.”
“I already have a client.”
“Verily, as each of us know: the Ruptured Motors Company. However, our retainer would consist of five million pseudo-dollars. Tax free, of course.”
“Hmmm,” Fatso said. “Just what is it you wish to retain me to do?”
“First, is it true that your present clients are on the verge of producing a vehicle that will produce gasoline, rather than consuming it?”
“Confound it, sir,” Fatso said indignantly, “I never discuss the affairs of my clients—unless there is a profitable reason for me to do so. Where’s the five million?”
We spent the next few minutes transferring the amount from one numbered Swiss account to another. Then Fatso leaned back, crossed his hands over his belly, and answered the question: “Yes.”
The newcomer said, “Verily, it is a miracle of God.”
“What do you have in mind in retaining my wits?”
The other came to his feet. “For the moment, Effendi, nothing. We will contact you when your services are required. Al-humdu li-lah, praise be to God.”
“Hey,” I said, “what’s your name?”
He looked at me. “Even Carlos Mahmoud ould Sheikh, Effendi.”
I made a note of it.
He turned back to Fatso, touched forehead, lips, and heart, and murmured, “May your life be as long and flowing as the tail of the horse of the Prophet.”
I followed him out, then returned to the office. Fatso was reading Plot It Yourself and chuckling over the manner in which he had outfoxed the plagiarist Amy Wynn, more years ago than I like to remember.
I sat at my desk and said bitterly, “So now we have two sets of clients. You don’t think there might be a little conflict of interest there?”
He looked up from the book. “Certainly not. How could there be?”
I said patiently, “One sells petroleum, and the other one is going to turn out a car that not only doesn’t need it, except for the initial start, but produces it as a by-product.”
&nb
sp; “See here, Baldie,” he said, just as patiently, “as our new client Carlos Mahmoud ould Sheikh pointed out, thus far they have nothing for us to do. We are merely under retainer. If anything develops that we cannot in good conscience accept, we will resign—keeping such amount of the retainer as we decide is called for. Say four-fifths of it.”
He reached for the button to summon more beer.
The Bowery Hilton had seen better days. By the looks of it, it might have been used as a recruiting station when Lincoln issued his call for seventy-five thousand volunteers. The only thing that could be said favorably about this section of town was that there were no terrorists. The residents had already been terrorized to hell and gone.
The place wasn’t even automated. When I approached the front desk, a fey character looked up and said, “Good afternoon, sir. My name’s Bradbury. What can I do for you?”
I said, “Don’t tell me your first name. I don’t want to know. What room was Azimov Asimov in?”
“Was?” he said, lifting eyebrows. “He still is. He’s in room 305.”
Something Mata Hari Le Guin said came back to me, something about a three-day cold.
I made my way up the creaking steps, planning on using a skeleton key to get into the missing inventor’s room so I could search it in hopes of digging up some clue as to what had happened to him.
The skeleton key wasn’t required: the door was unlocked.
I entered cautiously, which also wasn’t required. I could have made enough noise to wake the dead.
But I didn’t, because the dead was stretched out on the bed, looking very dead indeed.
Charlie Asimov hadn’t just disappeared. He had died. I checked quickly. There were no signs of violence. In fact, there was nothing out of the ordinary at all, except for a half-finished bowl of soup on the nightstand. I checked it out. Mushroom. There was a cardboard quart container next to the bowl, obviously used to bring the soup in.
I got on the TV phone quickly to report. It’d be just my luck for the inspector or the sergeant to turn up. They’d haul me down to Centre Street and use some of their surplus Nazi equipment, thumbscrews and so forth… .
Fatso’s face faded in. “I assume you’ve become lost?”
“No, sir,” I said. “I’ve found Charlie Asimov.”
“What?” he bellowed indignantly. “The first day? I had expected to string this case out for weeks, if not months. Bring him here so I can question him. Perhaps we can figure out some manner in which—”
I adjusted my bifocals and looked down at the corpse. “That might be difficult,” I said. “He’s a little dead. Should I notify the inspector?”
His rheumy eyes took on a slyness that only accented his caducity. “No. How long do you think we could just leave him there before he was found?”
I looked around the room. “Probably a week.”
That took him aback. “A week? How about the odor?”
“In this fleabag, no one would notice. And I doubt they have maid service.”
“Very well. Satisfactory. Return at once.”
Just before leaving, I picked up the half-empty container of mushroom soup. We hadn’t had such a delicacy in many a month, and Charlie Asimov wasn’t going to be wanting it.
After only two minor skirmishes with terrorists, I got back to the brownstone. I let myself in and went straight back to the office.
Fatso glowered peevishly at me, then leveled his eyes at my soup container. “What in the name of Hades is that?”
I told him where I’d picked it up, adding that it smelled better than anything we’d eaten for ages.
Food being food, he took it, removed the top and peered down at the contents. Then, to my surprise, he put the container down, stretched back in his chair, closed his eyes, and began working his lips in and out, in and out, in that mannerism that has had me climbing the walls for more than half a century. I went to my desk and sat down.
Finally, he said, “Baldie, you’re a lackwit.”
“Yes, sir, you’ve mentioned that before.”
The phone rang. It was Saul, reporting that Aldiss, who he had been tailing, was sleeping with Mrs. Brunner.
I passed on the information to Fatso, who commented with a “Pfui.”
The phone rang again. It was Orrie, reporting that Brunner was sleeping with Mrs. Clarke. I got another “Pfui” from the lord of the manor.
The phone rang again. Fred, who reported that Clarke was sleeping with Mrs. Aldiss.
“It’s a regular merry-go-round,” I commented to Fatso. “Pfui.”
The doorbell rang, and I went to let in the inspector and his sidekick, the sergeant.
The inspector wasted no time on preliminaries. “All right, Baldie, this time you’ve had it. Get your hat.”
I cleared my throat. “Don’t you think we should go in and see the boss?”
He glared at me in triumph. “That’s a good idea. Probably the only one you’ve ever had. I can’t wait to see the expression on his fat face. Come on, Sergeant.”
We marched down to the office.
Fatso looked up from a fresh bottle of beer. “To what do I owe this intrusion, sir?”
The inspector plumped down, making no attempt to disguise his satisfaction. “This time you’ve had it, you chunk of blubber. Baldie here is under arrest on so many charges I won’t bother to recite them all.”
Fatso took the time to down half his glass of beer before leaning back and closing his eyes. His lips began moving in and out. It obviously fascinated the inspector, though he’d witnessed the performance a thousand times before.
“This, Inspector,” he said at last, “I cannot allow. Baldie has been my assistant for so long that I’ve almost become used to him. Just short of idiotic he may be, these days—”
“Hey,” I said.
“Tough,” the inspector got out in what he probably meant to be a snarl. “But it seems he went into the Bowery Hilton an hour or so ago, and his furtive manner raised the suspicions of Charles Bradbury, the front-desk clerk, who phoned the police. And what did the officers who responded to the call find? The body of a certain Azimov Asimov. Baldie was the last person reported to have seen him.”
“Pfui,” Fatso prattled. “I sent him to find clues to the reason for Asimov’s disappearance. When he found the man dead, he immediately came back to report.”
Despite the situation, I had to be proud of the old glutton. He was almost making sense.
“Let’s go, Baldie,” the inspector said, pushing to his feet.
But Fatso waggled a finger at him. “Inspector, I refuse to countenance this brazen impudence on the part of you Cossacks. I propose the following bargain. If you will round up all those concerned in this affair and have them here in my office at nine, I guarantee to turn the murderer over to you.”
The inspector blinked.
The sergeant said, “Huh! You must think we’re drivel-happy.”
But it was as if the decades had rolled back. The inspector had been through this before.
“Shut up, Sergeant,” he said testily. And then, grudgingly, to Fatso: “It’s a deal. Who do you want?”
It made for a rather full room that night. Our original three clients: Aldiss, Brunner, and Clarke, Clarke in the red chair and his two colleagues in yellow ones. Mata Hari Le Guin, looking luscious. Carlos Mahmoud ould Sheikh, right out of the Arabian Nights. Saul was in his wheelchair at the far end of the room, and Orrie and Fred stood on either side of him.
I, of course, was at my desk. Next to me were the inspector, trying to look gimlet-eyed, and the sergeant.
Fatso, in the full form he affected when pretending he still retained his once-brilliant faculties, was planted firmly in his king-sized chair. Before him on the desk, to my surprise, was the container of soup I had pinched from Asimov’s room.
> He looked out over his audience for a long moment, and then closed his eyes, as though figuring the hell with it. But then he opened them again and sighed all the way down to his gaiters. He’s probably the last man left in Manhattan who wears gaiters.
He looked around the room. “The eyes of the murderer of Azimov Asimov are at this moment upon me,” he said. “However, before revealing his identity, I wish to clarify a few points and thus earn my fee.” He cleared his creaking voice. “Or fees.”
He turned his watery eyes to Aldiss, Brunner, and Clarke. “First of all, gentlemen, you need no longer worry about the disappearance of Mr. Asimov. After considering all aspects of the situation, I dispatched my dotard assistant—”
“Hey,” I said in protest.
“—who found him. So that is no longer a problem.” He turned to me. “Baldie,” he said, “please get the copy of the Qu’ran from the bookshelf.”
“The what?”
“The Koran, you nincompoop. It’s over there, behind the globe.”
I found it and brought it back.
“Give it to Carlos Mahmoud ould Sheikh.”
I did.
“Are you willing to swear on the book of Allah,” he said, trying to be severe, “that you will answer my questions truthfully?”
“Verily,” Carlos said. “However, you’ve evidently picked up a wrong idea. I’m a born-again Baptist Fundamentalist, praise be to God, from Leesville, South Carolina.”
That stopped even Fatso.
I cleared my voice and said, “I seem to have gathered the impression that you were one of the highest-ranking officials of the United Arabian Petroleum Industries. If you’re an American, how come the fancy costume and the corny language and all?”
“We high government officials,” he said with considerable dignity, “think it only right to continue the traditions and institutions of the countries we now govern.”
“Govern?” the inspector got out. “But you just said you’re an American from Starboardville, South Carolina, or someplace.”
The petroleum tycoon looked at him coolly. “Verily, Inspector,” he said. “You obviously do not keep up with the news. As all learned men know, Charles Smith is now president of the United Arab States. Under pressure from the Human Rights Division of the Reunited Nations, the Arab states have, for the first time in history, allowed free elections. What they didn’t foresee was that so many American technicians, engineers, mechanics, and construction workers were now permanent residents that they would carry the election.”