Timothy Files

by Lawrence Sanders

  Dr. January has an answer ready, so ready it might have been rehearsed. “Shelby and Hawthorne have been our financial advisers for several years. When we decided we wanted to expand, we asked them how we might locate a partner willing to make a substantial cash investment. Shelby and Hawthorne suggested we approach a venture capital company, and recommended Pingle Enterprises because of your success in raising funds for the E-Z Ortho dental chain and the Walksoft podiatric clinics.”

  “We have also done pizzas and tacos,” the old man says wryly.

  His son rises abruptly. “Thank you for coming by,” he says to the two doctors. “It’s a very interesting concept. But of course we’ll want our attorneys to give an opinion and our accountants to go over the numbers.”

  “And when may we expect to hear from you?” Dr. January asks.

  “Within a month,” Lester Pingle promises.

  His father stands up slowly and everyone shakes hands. Then Lester walks the visitors to the elevator. After they have departed, he returns to the conference room, where his father is again slumped in the club chair at the head of the table.

  “I like it,” Lester says.

  “I don’t,” his father says. “Take my adwice, it’s not for us.”

  “Why not? The numbers look good.”

  “It’s not for us,” the old man repeats stubbornly.

  His son sighs. “Pop, like you said, the world is changing. We’ve got to keep up. What don’t you like about it?”

  “I don’t know,” Ernest Pingle says slowly. “Something isn’t kosher. That Doctor Wictor—a very smart man. He talks well. The woman also is smart. They have all the answers. Even before you have the questions, they have the answers.” The old man makes a soft fist and thumps his round belly. “Something here,” he says. “Something in my gut tells me we should pass this one by.”

  “You and your gut!” his son scoffs. “Pop, if we had listened to your gut we never would have done that software deal in Massachusetts. And look how much money we made.”

  “Not so much,” Ernest Pingle says. “I didn’t understand software. I don’t understand this. Frozen sperm and eggs and embryos. Feh! Frozen pizza and tacos I can understand.”

  “Think about it,” his son urges. “Will you just do that? I really believe it’s a hot proposition. Listen, I’m going to run out for some lunch. Can I bring you anything?”

  “No,” the old man says. “I’ll have Mrs. Scherer make me a nice glass of tea and maybe I’ll have one of those English biscuits. You’ll be back when?”

  “In an hour. At the most. And then we’ll talk more about the Nu-Hope deal.”

  His father nods. “Something is wrong here,” he says, tapping the bound presentation.

  “We’ll talk about it,” his son says again and hurries out.

  Lester Pingle, a tallish man with round shoulders and a pot that will one day rival his father’s, walks quickly to the South Street Seaport. As usual, the sidewalks are crowded, and he makes better time by scuttling along the narrow streets, dodging traffic rather than trying to shove through the mob of sightseeing pedestrians.

  It’s a kaleidoscope, a carnival, a merry-go-round, a festival and entertainment, it’s a carousel, a funfair. The costumes! The players! Everything is awhirl, and he is dizzied by the movement, colors, a shattering cacophony. Everything gigs him, and he yearns for quiet, solidity, truth—and cannot find them.

  But he does find his man, browsing in a trendy shop offering maritime artifacts, including a selection of plastic scrimshaw that looks like the real thing—if you’ve never seen the real thing.

  The man is wearing a double-breasted topcoat of herringbone tweed. It accents a barrel chest and broad shoulders: a thick, stumpy body topped with a bullethead. And atop that, an incongruous green felt fedora with a little clump of bright feathers in the band.

  The two men stand close to the scrimshaw display and converse in low voices. The tweedy one handles a fake whalebone letter opener while Pingle fondles a darning egg.

  “How did it go?”

  “All right,” Lester says. “Very alert, knowledgeable people. They handled themselves well.”

  “So you’re taking them on?”

  “Well—ah—not yet. It wouldn’t do to make an immediate decision. It has to be vetted by our lawyers and accountants, or someone is sure to ask questions. We don’t want to attract attention to this deal, do we?”

  The other man turns his head slowly to stare at Pingle. His eyes are a startling blue: electric eyes. “No,” he says, “we don’t want to do that. But the investigation will be just routine, won’t it?”

  “Oh, sure. No problem. However …”

  “However what?”

  “The old man doesn’t like it. But I’ll bring him around,” Pingle adds hastily.

  “I’m sure you will,” the man says with a mirthless smile. “That’s what we’re paying you for, isn’t it? Mr. D. is very interested in this project. Personally interested. It wouldn’t do to have it fall through.”

  No menace. Just a flat statement.

  “I understand that,” Lester says, replacing the plastic darning egg. “It won’t fall through. By the way, how did you know Nu-Hope would come to us? They said we were recommended by their financial advisers, Shelby and Hawthorne.”

  Again that mirthless smile. “I thought you knew. We own Shelby and Hawthorne.”

  Pingle is too keyed up to pause for lunch. He scurries back to the office and finds his father still in the conference room, sipping his glass of tea and nibbling on a biscuit from a big English tin.

  Lester doesn’t even take off his hat or coat. “About this Nu-Hope deal,” he says abruptly.

  His father looks up at him. “You read about the Clovis scandal?” he asks.

  The son stares at him in astonishment. “Of course I read about it. They were stupid. How long did they think they’d get away with it? But what has the Clovis swindle got to do with us?”

  “Haldering and Company uncovered it,” the old man says. “They were hired to inwestigate, and one of the Haldering detectives found out what was going on. I want to hire Haldering and Company to inwestigate Nu-Hope for us.”

  Suddenly hot and sweating, Lester takes off his hat and coat. “Come on, Pop,” he says, “there’s no need for that. We’ve got a lot of high-priced lawyers and accountants who can do all the investigating we need.”

  Ernest Pingle bares his dentures. It’s intended as a smile, but looks more like a snarl. “You’re outwoted,” he says. “You’re still a junior partner—remember? We either hire Haldering to inwestigate Nu-Hope or the whole deal is dead as far as we’re concerned.”

  Lester has no choice. “Okay then,” he says, trying to make it casual, “we’ll hire Haldering. I guarantee they’ll find Nu-Hope is on the up-and-up.”

  “You’re all perspiry,” his father says. “Calm down and have a biscuit. They’re wery good.”

  On this particular afternoon, Hiram Haldering is in an expansive mood. His sausage fingers are laced across his double-breasted vest as he lounges in a high-backed leather swivel chair, beaming at two expressionless employees: Samantha Whatley and Timothy Cone.

  “Pingle Enterprises, Incorporated,” Haldering says happily. “They’re a venture capital outfit. I met with them this morning. Checked them out first, of course. They’ve got a good track record. Served as general partners in a number of private and public limited partnerships. Made a mint when they took a pizza chain public. Most of their other deals have paid off. No problems with the SEC or IRS. Their reputation on the Street is as good as any risk capital company.

  “Anyway,” H. H. continues, “I talked to the principals: Ernest Pingle, who looks to be one year younger than God but has all his marbles, and his son, Lester, a sweaty fat guy who looks like he might enjoy a career as a flasher. Well, to make a long story short—”

  “Too late for that,” Cone mutters, and Samantha glares at him furiously.

  �
�To make a long story short,” Haldering repeats equably, “Pingle Enterprises has been approached by an uptown outfit called Nu-Hope Fertility Clinic.”

  “I know it,” Sam says promptly. “They used to be into abortions, but now they only do artificial insemination and test-tube babies.”

  “Kee-rect,” H. H. says. “Sex without joy.”

  His jape convulses him with laughter, and the other two smile weakly.

  The boss recovers slowly. “Nu-Hope,” he says, “wants to go nationwide with a chain of fertility clinics, and wants the Pingles to set up the financing. Lester, the son, is hot for the deal. The old man, Ernest, doesn’t like it. He says it just doesn’t smell right. He wants this Nu-Hope Fertility Clinic checked out six ways from the middle. It’s a great opportunity for us. A nice fee, and a chance to get our foot in the door to the venture capital business.”

  “Why did they pick us, Mr. Haldering?” Whatley asks.

  “Well …” he says, “I gather they read the news stories on the Clovis case and were impressed by our work. As they should have been; it was a neat job.”

  He beams at them, and they look at him with some trepidation, knowing what’s coming.

  “I’ve alerted our attorneys and accountants,” Haldering goes on, “and they’re checking to make sure Nu-Hope Fertility Clinic is soundly run and on the up-and-up. But we also have to run a check on the principals. That’s where you two come in.”

  Sam and Timothy glance at each other, shifting uncomfortably in their rigid office chairs.

  “Whatley,” H. H. says, “I want you to work with the lawyers and accountants. Cone, the actual investigation’s your baby. Hey! You’ll be investigating a fertility clinic, and I say it’s your baby. That’s funny!”

  Cone doesn’t think so. “Why the hell me?” he demands. “I don’t know a goddamned thing about artificial insemination.”

  Hiram Haldering slowly lights a cigar and blows a plume of smoke over their heads. “Learn,” he says. “Buy some books and read up on it. Ernest Pingle says he’s alerted the doctors at Nu-Hope, and they promise to cooperate fully with our representatives. Besides, old man Pingle insisted that the detective who broke the Clovis swindle work on this one. So you’re elected. Keep me informed. We want to do a bang-up job.”

  Samantha and Timothy push back their chairs, wander down the corridor.

  “Lots of luck,” Sam says. “Do a bang-up job and keep me informed.”

  “Up yours,” the Wall Street dick says. “What in God’s name do I know about sperm banks?”

  “Learn,” she repeats. “Buy some books and read up on it. Who knows, maybe you’ll become a donor.”

  “Not me,” he says. “I haven’t got any to spare.”

  He is mollified somewhat when Sam promises to relieve him of his current caseload and parcel out his files to the other Haldering investigators. Back in his cramped office, he begins to get his notes in order. Since the Clovis scam his assignments have been dull stuff, involving mostly routine phone calls and research at Dun & Bradstreet. Nothing with any pizzazz.

  He is opening his second pack of Camels of the day when his phone rings, and he reaches for it absently. “Yeah?” he says.

  “Mr. Timothy Cone?”

  A man’s voice, kind of creaky.

  “That’s right,” Cone says. “Who you?”

  “My name is Ernest Pingle. Mr. Haldering has just informed me that you have been assigned to the inwestigation of the Nu-Hope Fertility Clinic.”

  “I guess,” Cone says, sighing. “And you’re the client?”

  “I am. I was wondering, Mr. Cone, if you and I could meet personally. I would appreciate it wery much.”

  “Sure,” Cone says. “Where and when?”

  “Could you make it this evening at, say, nine o’clock? At my apartment?”

  “Sounds okay. Are you in the book?”

  “Yes. The only Ernest Pingle listed. On Fifth Avenue. I can expect you at nine?”

  “Sure, I’ll be there. I don’t have to dress up, do I?”

  “Dress up?” the old man says, astonished. “Why should you dress up?”

  “I don’t visit on Fifth Avenue very often.”

  Pingle laughs, a nice, bubbly sound. “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “This will be a wery informal wisit.”

  “I’ll be there,” Cone promises.

  On his way out, he stops at Samantha Whatley’s office. She’s pulling yellowed leaves from her mournful little philodendron. Cone stands in the doorway and watches her.

  “Why don’t you get rid of that thing,” he says. “It’s dead.”

  “It’s not dead,” she says indignantly. “Just a little peaked. All it needs is tender, loving care.”

  “Who doesn’t?” he says. “Listen, I just got a call from Ernest Pingle. The old man. He wants to see me tonight at his place.”

  Sam looks at him. “What for?”

  “Didn’t say.”

  “Well, will you try to spruce up a little before you meet him?”

  “Why should I? It’s just an informal wisit.”

  “A what?”

  “That’s the way he talks. It’s a wery informal wisit.”

  “Good night, asshole,” she says in a low voice.

  “Good night, shithead,” he says.

  On his walk uptown, Cone stops at a discount bookstore and buys three volumes on artificial insemination, test-tube birth, and human embryo transfer. Then, closer to his loft on lower Broadway, he picks up a pepperoni pizza and a cold six-pack of Bud.

  The moment he’s inside the door, Cleo smells the hot pizza and comes growling up to rub against his shins.

  “Take it easy, monster,” he tells the cat. “You’ll get yours.”

  He cuts the pizza into six wedges and gives one to Cleo. Then he pops a beer, starts on the pizza, and begins reading the first of his three books.

  It’s not a thick volume, and he finds he can do a lot of skipping and skimming and still pick up the gist. Unexpectedly, he finds the subject fascinating. A paragraph that blows his mind suggests that with current techniques, it would be possible for a child to have five parents: The egg of a donor and the sperm of a donor are joined in vitro. Two parents. The resulting embryo is then implanted in a surrogate mother. The third parent. After birth, the baby is adopted by a childless couple. The fourth and fifth parents.

  “And nobody got fucked,” Cone marvels aloud to Cleo, who has leaped up onto the table and is licking up pizza crumbs. “What is the world coming to, you crazy cat? Who are the legal parents of the child? The lawyers are going to have a field day with that one.”

  He doesn’t exactly spruce up for his meeting with Ernest Pingle, but he does change his shirt, discarding a faded flannel plaid number for a clean white broadcloth. He checks the short-barreled .357 Smith & Wesson Magnum in his ankle holster, then starts out, waving a hand at Cleo.

  “No self-abuse,” he cautions.

  He takes a cab uptown, figuring H. H. is so happy with the new client that he won’t scream too loudly at Cone’s expense account. He arrives at Ernest Pingle’s apartment house, on Fifth Avenue just north of Sixty-fourth Street, a few minutes after nine. It’s a cold, sharp night, a zillion stars whirling in a cloudless sky over Central Park.

  The lobby has all the charm of a crematorium, and when Cone finally gets up to Apartment 24-A, he discovers it’s a gloomy cavern big enough to breed stalactites. The only thing that saves it are the floor-to-ceiling windows facing west; the view is spectacular.

  Ernest Pingle, apparently the only person present, turns out to be a chubby, shortish gaffer with a big head of bristly white hair. His face may have as many lines as a Rand McNally road map, but his eyes are bright, sharp, and, Cone figures, rarely have the wool pulled over them.

  “I thank you for coming on such short notice,” he says, shaking hands. He takes the detective’s anorak and hangs it away in a closet that looks to be as large as Cone’s loft. “The truth is, it’s o
ur maid’s night off, and also it’s Mrs. Pingle’s evening with her mah-jongg club. So I thought it would be a good opportunity to inwite you up to have a little talk.”

  It seems like a long, unnecessary explanation to Cone, and he wonders if this bustling little man might be a trifle nervous.

  “Tell me,” Pingle says, “do you take a drink?”

  “Now and then,” Cone says, sitting on an enormous brocade couch. “This is one of the ‘now’ times. It’s cold out there.”

  “So it is, so it is. To tell you the absolute truth, I like a drop of schnapps myself. The problem is this: My wife, God bless her, has wery firm opinions about strong drink and won’t allow any in the house. So, to be perfectly honest, I hide a bottle on the premises. Now, you are a detective—tell me, where do you think I conceal it?”

  He stands, grinning like a plump Buddha, ready to make his startling revelation.

  Cone stares at him thoughtfully. “If the cork is tight, Mr. Pingle, the best place to keep it would be in the toilet tank in your bathroom. I doubt if your wife would ever lift the lid. And you’d be helping the city’s water shortage by cutting down on the volume of the tank.”

  “Gott im Himmel!” Ernest Pingle says, gasping. “You are exactly right. You are a wery smart man, Timothy. I may call you Timothy?”

  “Of course. But I’m not so smart. The toilet tank is the first place every cop looks when he’s tossing a place.”

  Pingle goes off, shaking his head in wonderment. He comes back a few moments later, using a hand towel to wipe a bottle of kirsch. He disappears again and returns with two small glasses. He fills them to the rim with the cherry brandy.

  “This should warm you up,” he says.

  Cone looks at his glass. “This should combust me,” he says. He raises the drink. “Prosit!”

  “Prosit!” his host responds, and they both take swallows. Not sips, but gulps.

  “Oh, boy,” Cone says, shuddering. “Through the teeth and around the gums; look out stomach, here she comes. Wow! That’s something, that is.”

  “You said Prosit. You know German?”

  “No,” Cone says, “I only know Prosit.”