by Joan Aiken
I had never been in a supermarket on a Saturday before, and at first, I thought I had inadvertently stumbled onto a riot of some proportion, or possibly a student demonstration, because the place was jammed with noisy people, all apparently going in different directions; but after a moment, I could see that there was a bit of organization to the confusion, and I took a shopping cart and pushed into the melee. I shall never understand why, with so many fine American customs and inventions to choose from, Europeans always seem to select the very worst ones to copy, such as supermarkets, television, or—but again, I digress.
The aisles of the store had arrows mounted above them in a futile effort to get traffic to flow along a rational pattern, but naturally, nobody was paying the slightest attention to them. I managed, by using my shopping cart as a battering ram, to cover about one-third of the store, but I then abandoned it in favor of doing a solo. This involved quite a bit of side-stepping and agile pirouetting, but it did allow a more rapid coverage of the area. Any fears I had had about appearing out of place as a non-shopper were forsaken at once. In that mob, I could have been nude or playing the bagpipe, and still have remained entirely unnoticed for a week.
I took the store, section by section, paying particular heed at first to those clerks who dispensed such non-packaged items as meat and vegetables. I was pleased to note that, despite the regimentation of such modern mechanical means of distribution, fruits were still being mauled, pinched, and squeezed in time-honored fashion; but no world-shaking ideas sprang from this observation. I paused to watch young lads hastily piling tins in mounds to replace the attritional inroads of the thundering herd, but other than a forced admiration for their acrobatic skills, nothing came of this. I studied the entrances, the exits, the freezers, the shelves, the windows, even—to give you some idea of the bankruptcy of my thoughts—the fans set high in the arched roof above.
Eventually, I worked my way to the front of the store and the check-out counters. There was a long line of impatient consumers before each one, and so great was the crowd that even the manager had been pressed into service, and was standing over his register at the end of the line, sweating away like the hired help, pounding on the keys. The other check-out clerks were no less busy, but at least they were more attractive. And I do mean attractive—if that is not too light a word for girls that are beautiful. There were three redheads, two brunettes, and three blondes; and whoever handled the personnel hiring for my cousin’s chain of supermarkets deserved a merit badge for good taste.
I stood with my back against a precarious mountain of soap boxes and watched their dainty hands fly over the register keys, watched them bend down to pack their sales into paper sacks, noting particularly the gaping of their blouses as they performed these necessary chores. It added nothing toward the solution of my problem, of course, but at least it was a pleasant respite in a day that was beginning to promise nothing but failure. And suddenly remembering that fact brought my mind back to business, and once again, I started back through the aisles.
Well, to make a long story short, I spent another fruitless two hours wandering through that hungry crowd, and for all the good it did, I might just as well have stayed home with the housemaid. I saw, of course, all the obvious possibilities, such as backing a truck up to the rear door and simply carting away a load of things, but I was sure that these had been thoroughly checked. And so, with one last adoring look at the beautiful girls at the check-out counters, I finally gave up and headed back toward my cousin’s home.
I walked slowly, reviewing everything I had seen on my tour of the huge premises, but other than the beauty of the girls, I could think of nothing even worth recalling. As a rule, I do not mind failure; in my life, it has occurred rather frequently and I have learned to be philosophical about it I did, of course, mind the loss of the ten-thousand-franc reward, but since I saw no way of earning it, I put that thought aside as well, and allowed my memory to drift back to the girls at the check-out counters.
And then, all at once, I saw the entire scheme.
Of course! Simple—as I knew it would have to be—and beautiful—as all truly great schemes are! It came to me so complete, it struck me so sharply, that I stopped dead in my tracks, and a lady behind me, pushing a pram, bumped into me; but after my ordeal with shopping carts that morning, I barely noticed it. She pushed past me, muttering darkly, but I paid no attention. My mind was racing, for immediately upon comprehending the scheme, I had also seen a way to improve upon it—or at least, to improve upon it as far as I, personally, was concerned. I must have stood in that spot for at least ten minutes, reviewing the entire thing in my mind, before I turned about and started back to the supermarket.
The line at the manager’s counter was, as were all the others, quite long, but I placed myself at its end and waited patiently, eyeing the girls at the other counters appreciatively until my turn came.
When at last I faced the manager, he looked up with a frown when he noted that I had no merchandise with me. “Monsieur,” I said, “If I could speak with you a moment...”
He glared at me impatiently. “Solicitations are not allowed, and if you are selling anything, we do no purchasing here,” he said brusquely. “All that is handled at the central office. And now, if you will pardon me...”
I bent over and whispered something in his ear. His hand, which had already been reaching for a package from the next customer, froze. His eyes widened, then closed for several moments, then reopened. For a period of at least ten seconds, he said nothing; he merely stared at me with horror. And then, as I knew he would, he pushed down a small gate that directed the customers to go to a different line and led me into his office.
Our conversation was short, but quite pointed. When I walked out, I left behind me a disappointed man, it is true—but also a greatly relieved man. In a way, I felt sorry for him, because he had invented a truly great scheme, but unfortunately, in this life, one must always look out for oneself, and the failure of his plan was definitely necessary to the success of my own.
Well, as you can well believe, I returned to my cousin’s home at a much more spritely pace, let myself in and went directly to the library.
As usual, on a Saturday afternoon, Stavros was seated at his desk going over his personal accounts. At my entrance, he looked up, and at the expression on my face—for I am no great dissembler—he jumped excitedly to his feet and hurried in my direction.
“Kek! You have discovered it!” he exclaimed. His tone was a neat blend of hope and disbelief.
“I have,” I said, as modestly as I could under the circumstances, and proceeded to pour myself a drink.
“Wonderful! Marvelous!” He was almost beside himself with joy. “One morning in the supermarket and you find what a dozen detectives were unable to locate in four months. Fantastic! And when I think of what they cost me...” He swallowed the balance of this thought as being economically unsuitable for expression. He stared at me a1most proudly. “How did they work it?”
I did my best to look shocked. “That was not our bargain,” I said reprovingly. “I agreed—in return for ten thousand francs—to discover the scheme and put a stop to it. That was all you asked of me. I did not agree to disclose it.”
His face fell. “So!” he said heavily. “You did not really discover it! I should have known better! You are merely attempting—”
I held up my hand. “As a guest in your house,” I said, “permit me to prevent you from insulting me. I said I discovered the means by which you have systematically been swindled, and I have.” I walked over and seated myself on the corner of his desk, taking, of course, my drink with me.
“Tell me,” I said, “how long will it take you and your auditors to determine that I am telling the truth? How long will it take your financial experts to discover that the losses have stopped?’’
He frowned at me in great indecision. My cousin, despite his many good qualities, such as an unerring palate for brandy and a
sharp eye for presentable housemaids, suffers from a suspicious nature. “I will have a good indication within a week,” he said slowly. “And in two weeks I can be absolutely certain.”
“Good!” I said heartily. “Then, giving you two weeks to acquire your absolute certainty, I shall expect your check for ten thousand francs. Fortunately,” I added aloofly, “I prevented you from saying anything that would require—in addition to the money—an apology.” And I started to rise.
“Wait!” he said. He shook his head and began to pace back and forth. It was evident that he did not like the situation. He swallowed once or twice and finally came out with what was on his mind. “Why?” he enquired plaintively. “Why won’t you tell me the scheme?’’
“I’ll tell you in two weeks,” I said.
“You’ll tell me the scheme in two weeks?’’ he asked. Hope had returned to his voice.
“No,” I said politely. “In two weeks, I’ll tell you why I won’t tell you.”
And with that I downed my drink and started for the door. It had occurred to me that I had missed lunch, and besides, on a Saturday afternoon, I had become accustomed to a nap. I could almost feel his eyes burning through my back as I turned the handle of the door.
Kek Huuygens paused and smiled at me. “Of course,” he said apologetically, “now that I’ve explained everything, you can see the wonderful scheme, and my subsequent plan, so you can now understand why I was forced to ask for your promise of secrecy...”
“I see nothing of the sort!” I’m afraid my voice rose a bit. “I do not see the scheme, nor do I see your plan, nor do I understand the need for my silence! As a matter of fact—”
He held up a hand to stop the flow of my language and looked at me almost with pity. “Well,” he said, “have another brandy and you soon will.” He called over the waiter, and then looked at me again and shrugged for my stupidity. “Prosit,” he said, holding up his glass.
Well (Huuygens continued, finally putting his glass to one side), the two weeks passed. Far too slowly for my liking, but pass they did. Each evening, Stavros would return from his office and I could tell from the look in his eyes that the figures were bearing out my promise that the losses would stop. But being the stubborn man he is, he could not bring himself to admit that I was shortly due for a check. Once or twice, I could have sworn that he was on the verge of claiming that the losses had not stopped, but despite his cupidity, he was not downright stupid, and something must have told him this would not have worked for an instant.
In any event, two weeks from that Saturday, I went into the library and pulled a chair up to face him across his desk. “Well?” I asked quietly.
He sighed. ’The losses have stopped,” he admitted, albeit with hesitancy. “I shall draw you a check in the amount agreed upon.” He stared at me. “And in return, you will tell me why you will not tell me...” He could not go on; it was evident that he was under a certain amount of stress.
“Certainly,” I said equably. “I will not describe the scheme to you because I have discovered—and stopped—a nefarious means of dishonesty which, were it ever bruited about, could lead to similar attempts by others in supermarkets. In your own chain of supermarkets, to be exact. Attempts, I might mention, that I guarantee would be equally successful. At great cost to you. And since you are no fool...”
Stavros stared at me with growing knowledge of what I was saying. “I am the worst kind of fool,” he said at last, bitterly. “I should have known better than to say one word to you about this. You, of all people!” He shoved the papers on the desk away from him with an angry motion, as if they somehow represented the dishonesty he was always so ardently combatting. His eyes came up. “What do you have in mind?”
’Well,” I said in a reasonable tone of voice, “I thought that ten thousand francs a week would be ample payment for seeing that the scheme is not repeated in any of the other stores.” I held up my hand. ’’This would be in addition to the reward which I have already earned.”
He clenched his teeth and glared at me. “This is blackmail!” he said tightly. “This is a crime!”
“A crime?” I asked innocently. “To prevent stealing? To see that you are not bankrupt through pilfering? Any other action on my part, it seems to me, could only be interpreted as being dishonest. And, to be frank, would lead you into disaster in short order.” I looked at him evenly across the desk. “Well?”
One thing about Stavros is that he knows when he is beaten. I could almost hear the wheels click in his head as he calculated my demands against his losses should they spread to the other stores.
“I assume,” he said in a voice drained of emotion, “that with this income, you will be able to move from my home into a place of your own?”
“I have spent the last two weeks locating a suitable apartment,” I assured him. “With this income, I can swing it.”
“Then allow me to help you by according with your wishes,” he said politely. “Of course, you know that I shall have to continue spending money on detectives.”
“I imagined you would,” I said coldly, and got to my feet. “Otherwise, my demands would have been much higher.”
And that’s how we left it.
Kek Huuygens grinned at me across the table. “And so I live a comfortable life,” he said. His hand gestured idly, including his wardrobe and the sidewalk cafe in general. “And shall continue to—at least, until my cousin figures out how he was being swindled. Which is almost impossible, since it has been stopped and the evidence removed from the area of his investigation.”
“But I still don’t understand it,” I said in irritation. “How did the scheme work? What did you whisper into the ear of the manager of that store?”
“Have another brandy,” he said, and waited once again until we were served. I could barely contain my impatience, but Huuygens, in one of his moods, is not to be rushed.
When our glasses were again full, he viewed me in quite another manner—seriously this time—and then nodded as if he had come to an important decision.
“I can trust you,” he said at last. “And it is too good a story to remain untold, although only by me—” his finger came up, “—and not by you. What I said to the manager of the store was this: ‘You are the ninth counter.”’
I had started to raise my glass to my mouth, but paused and set it down untouched. I opened my mouth to say something, and then closed it again as his words came through to me in all their meaning. Kek nodded, happy that I had at last seen the light
“Yes,” he said quietly. “Stavros had told me there were eight check-out counters. And there were eight girls checking out goods at these counters. But the manager had added a ninth counter which he handled himself. And which was completely beyond the control of my cousin’s vaunted auditors.” He grinned at me. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“It is,” I admitted. “Truly beautiful.”
He raised his glass. “To beautiful schemes,” he said. And then added quietly, a glint in his eye, “And if I buy the next one, you will then owe me two.”
The Man Who Played Too Well
Don Von Elsner
Nobody, but nobody writes detective stories like Don Von Elsner. And no other detective but his Jake Winkman gets write-ups in Oswald Jacoby’s bridge columns. But no one else in fiction and very few in real life play bridge the way Jake Winkman does. If you don’t believe it, read on.
Bridge pro Jake Winkman stood at the window of the luxurious suite where Edna Mayberry Mallory had installed him in her imposing Tudor mansion. He fingered his black tie and frowned.
There was nothing wrong with the view. It commanded a sweep of broad marble terrace and a trellised rose garden with curvaceous and inviting pathways that sloped down to the lake, where gentle swells, gray-blue in the twilight, were breaking considerately against a carefully manicured beach. It always seemed a little unreal to him that the rich could contrive to have problems.
Jeanne, the
Countess d’Allerez, and Prince Sergio Polensky emerged from the garden to ascend the broad marble steps of the terrace. The Prince had his arm around her and was whispering something, doubtless tender and exotically accented, into her delicate ear. Slim and seductive, the Countess was wearing a gown that featured provocatively little above the waist but billowed enticingly below. It fit perfectly, Jake decided, into the theme of his well-chosen surroundings, but did nothing to erase his frown.
A weekend of bridge and swimming in the rarified atmosphere of conservative Lake Forest was all very well, and he had been a guest here before. The stakes would be as unrealistically high as Monopoly money; and his losses, in the improbable event that he suffered any, would be graciously absorbed by his hostess, while his winnings would be strictly between him and Internal Revenue. Not that winning would necessarily be easy. The rich, he knew, were often surprisingly adept at the game, some of them possessing an almost uncanny sense of values, while others exhibited a well-calculated dash and flair. None of them, with only a paltry few thousand at stake, was ever intimidated from backing his judgment. And he would be playing with the nobility, no less. But this time it had to be different.
He had known it the moment he had answered the phone in his Hollywood apartment that morning and heard Edna’s voice. “Wink, I know it’s unpardonably short notice, but could you possibly catch a plane...this morning...yes, for the weekend...you see, my sister, Jeanne, is here...and a Prince Polensky...and Fred is away...Argentina, I think...I can’t promise you anything exciting...but...I’d appreciate your coming, Wink...”