Even the brats in baby carriages—Hoag fancied that he liked babies, enjoyed himself in the role of honorary uncle. Not these. Snotty-nosed and sour-smelling, squalid and squalling—
The little hotel was like a thousand others, definitely third rate without pretension, a single bit of neon reading: “Hotel Manchester, Transient & Permanent,” a lobby only a half lot wide, long and narrow and a little dark. You do not see such if you are not looking for them. They are stopped at by drummers careful of their expense accounts and are lived in by bachelors who can’t afford better. The single elevator is an iron-grille cage, somewhat disguised with bronze paint. The lobby floor is tile, the cuspidors are brass. In addition to the clerk’s desk there are two discouraged potted palms and eight leather armchairs. Unattached old men, who seem never to have had a past, sit in these chairs, live in the rooms above, and every now and then one is found hanging in his room, necktie to light fixture.
HOAG BACKED INTO THE DOOR of the Manchester to avoid being caught in a surge of children charging along the sidewalk. Some sort of game, apparently—he caught the tail end of a shrill chant, “—give him a slap to shut his trap; the last one home’s a dirty Jap!”
“Looking for someone, sir? Or did you wish a room?”
He turned quickly around, a little surprised. A room? What he wanted was his own snug apartment but at the moment a room, any room at all, in which he could be alone with a locked door between himself and the world seemed the most desirable thing possible. “Yes, I do want a room.”
The clerk turned the register around. “With or without? Five fifty with, three and a half without.”
“With.”
The clerk watched him sign, but did not reach for the key until Hoag counted out five ones and a half. “Glad to have you with us. Bill! Show Mr. Hoag up to 412.”
The lone bellman ushered him into the cage, looked him up and down with one eye, noting the expensive cut of his topcoat and the absence of baggage. Once in 412 he raised the window a trifle, switched on the bathroom light, and stood by the door.
“Looking for someone?” he suggested. “Need any help?”
Hoag tipped him. “Get out,” he said hoarsely.
The bellman wiped off the smirk. “Suit yourself,” he shrugged.
The room contained one double bed, one chest of drawers with mirror, one straight chair and one armchair. Over the bed was a framed print titled “The Colosseum by Moonlight.” But the door was lockable and equipped with a bolt as well and the window faced the alley, away from the street. Hoag sat down in the armchair. It had a broken spring, but he did not mind.
He took off his gloves and stared at his nails. They were quite clean. Could the whole thing have been hallucination? Had he ever gone to consult Dr. Potbury? A man who has had amnesia may have it again, he supposed, and hallucinations as well.
Even so, it could not all be hallucination; he remembered the incident too vividly. Or could it be? He strained to recall exactly what had happened.
TODAY WAS WEDNESDAY, HIS CUSTOMARY day off. Yesterday he had returned home from work as usual. He had been getting ready to dress for dinner—somewhat absentmindedly, he recalled, as he had actually been thinking about where he would dine, whether to try a new Italian place recommended by his friends, the Robertsons, or whether it would be more pleasing to return again for the undoubtedly sound goulash prepared by the chief at the Buda-Pesth.
He had about decided in favor of the safer course when the telephone had rung. He had almost missed it, as the tap was running in the washbasin. He had thought that he heard something and had turned off the tap. Surely enough, the phone rang again.
It was Mrs. Pomeroy Jameson, one of his favorite hostesses—not only a charming woman for herself but possessed of a cook who could make clear soups that were not dishwater. And sauces. She had offered a solution to his problem. “I’ve been suddenly left in the lurch at the last moment and I’ve just got to have another man for dinner. Are you free? Could you help me? You could? Dear Mr. Hoag!”
It had been a very pleasant thought and he had not in the least resented being asked to fill in at the last minute. After all, one can’t expect to be invited to every small dinner. He had been delighted to oblige Edith Pomeroy. She served an unpretentious but sound dry white wine with fish and she never committed the vulgarism of serving champagne at any time. A good hostess and he was glad she felt free to ask him for help. It was a tribute to him that she felt that he would fit in, unplanned.
He had had such thoughts on his mind, he remembered, as he dressed. Probably, in his preoccupation, what with the interruption of the phone call breaking his routine, he had neglected to scrub his nails.
It must have been that. Certainly there had been no opportunity to dirty his nails so atrociously on the way to the Pomeroys’. After all, one wore gloves.
It had been Mrs. Pomeroy’s sister-in-law—a woman he preferred to avoid!—who had called his attention to his nails. She had been insisting with the positiveness called “modern” that every man’s occupation was written on his person. “Take my husband—what could he be but a lawyer? Look at him. And you, Dr. Fitts—the bedside manner!”
“Not at dinner, I hope.”
“You can’t shake it.”
“But you haven’t proved your point. You knew what we are.”
Whereupon that impossible woman had looked around the table and nailed him with her eye. “Mr. Hoag can test me. I don’t know what he does. No one does.”
“Really, Julia.” Mrs. Pomeroy had tried hopelessly to intervene, then had turned to the man on her left with a smile. “Julia has been studying psychology this season.”
The man on her left, Sudkins, or Snuggins—Stubbins, that was his name. Stubbins had said, “What does Mr. Hoag do?”
“It’s a minor mystery. He never talks shop.”
“It’s not that,” Hoag had offered. “I do not consider—”
“Don’t tell me!” that woman had commanded. “I’ll have it in a moment. Some profession. I can see you with a brief case.” He had not intended to tell her. Some subjects were dinner conversation; some were not. But she had gone on.
“You might be in finance. You might be an art dealer or a book fancier. Or you might be a writer. Let me see your hands.”
He was mildly put off by the demand, but he had placed his hands on the table without trepidation. That woman had pounced on him. “Got you! You are a chemist.”
EVERYONE LOOKED WHERE SHE POINTED. Everyone saw the dark mourning under his nails. Her husband had broken the brief silence by saying, “Nonsense, Julia. There are dozens of things that will stain nails. Hoag may dabble in photography, or do a spot of engraving. Your inference wouldn’t stand in court.”
“That’s a lawyer for you! I know I’m right. Aren’t I, Mr. Hoag?”
He himself had been staring unbrokenly at his hands. To be caught at a dinner party with untidy manicure would have been distressing enough—if he had been able to understand it.
But he had no slightest idea how his nails had become dirtied. At his work? Obviously—but what did he do in the daytime?
He did not know.
“Tell us, Mr. Hoag. I was right, was I not?”
He pulled his eyes away from those horrid fingernails and said faintly, “I must ask to be excused.” With that he had fled from the table. He had found his way to the lavatory where, conquering an irrational revulsion, he had cleaned out the gummy reddish-brown filth with the blade of his penknife. The stuff stuck to the blade; he wiped it on cleansing tissue, wadded it up, and stuck it into the pocket of his waistcoat. Then he had scrubbed his nails, over and over again.
He could not recall when he had become convinced that the stuff was blood, was human blood.
He had managed to find his bowler, his coat, gloves, and stick without recourse to the maid. He let himself out and got away from there as fast as he could.
Thinking it over in the quiet of the dingy hotel room he was con
vinced that his first fear had been an instinctive revulsion at the sight of that dark-red tar under his nails. It was only on second thought that he had realized that he did not remember where he had dirtied his nails because he had no recollection of where he had been that day, nor the day before, nor any of the days before that. He did not know what his profession was.
It was preposterous, but it was terribly frightening.
He skipped dinner entirely rather than leave the dingy quiet of the hotel room; about ten o’clock he drew a tub of water just as hot as he could get it and let himself soak. It relaxed him somewhat and his twisted thoughts quieted down. In any case, he consoled himself, if he could not remember his occupation, then he certainly could not return to it. No chance again of finding that grisly horror under his fingernails.
He dried himself off and crawled under the covers. In spite of the strange bed he managed to get to sleep.
A nightmare jerked him awake, although he did not realize it at first, as the tawdry surroundings seemed to fit the nightmare. When he did recall where he was and why he was there the nightmare seemed preferable, but by that time it was gone, washed out of his mind. His watch told him that it was his usual getting-up time; he rang for the bellman and arranged for a breakfast tray to be fetched from around the corner.
By the time it arrived he was dressed in the only clothes he had with him and was becoming anxious to get home. He drank two cups of indifferent coffee standing up, fiddled with the food, then left the hotel.
After letting himself into his apartment he hung up his coat and hat, took off his gloves, and went as usual straight to his dressing room. He had carefully scrubbed the nails of his left hand and was just commencing on his right when he noticed what he was doing.
The nails of his left hand were white and clean; those of the right were dark and dirty. Carefully holding himself in check he straightened up, stepped over and examined his watch where he had laid it on his dresser, then compared the time with that shown by the electric clock in his bedroom. It was ten minutes past six P.M.—his usual time for returning home in the evening.
He might not recall his profession; his profession had certainly not forgotten him.
II
The firm of Randall & Craig, Confidential Investigation, maintained its night phone in a double apartment. This was convenient, as Randall had married Craig early in their association. The junior partner had just put the supper dishes to soak and was trying to find out whether or not she wanted to keep the book-of-the-month when the telephone rang. She reached out, took the receiver, and said, “Yes?” in noncommittal tones.
To this she added, “Yes.”
The senior partner stopped what he was doing—he was engaged in a ticklish piece of scientific research, involving deadly weapons, ballistics and some esoteric aspects of aerodynamics; specifically he was trying to perfect his overhand throw with darts, using a rotogravure likeness of café society’s latest glamour girl thumbtacked to the bread board as a target. One dart had nailed her left eye; he was trying to match it in the right.
“Yes,” his wife said again.
“Try saying ‘No,’” he suggested.
She cupped the mouthpiece. “Shut up and hand me a pencil.” She made a long arm across the breakfast-nook table and obtained a stenographer’s pad from a hook there. “Yes, go ahead.” Accepting the pencil she made several lines of the hooks and scrawls that stenographers use in place of writing. “It seems most unlikely,” she said at last. “Mr. Randall is not usually in at this hour. He much prefers to see clients during office hours. Mr. Craig? No, I’m sure Mr. Craig couldn’t help you. Positive. So? Hold the line and I’ll find out.”
Randall made one more try at the lovely lady; the dart stuck in the leg of the radio-record player. “Well?”
“There is a character on the other end of this who wants to see you very badly tonight. Name of Hoag, Jonathan Hoag. Claims that it is a physical impossibility for him to come to see you in the daytime. Didn’t want to state his business and got all mixed up when he tried to.”
“Gentleman or lug?”
“Gentleman.”
“Money?”
“Sounds like it. Didn’t seem worried about it. Better take it, Teddy. April 15th is coming up.”
“O.K. Pass it over.”
She waved him back and spoke again into the phone. “I’ve managed to locate Mr. Randall. I think he will be able to speak with you in a moment or two. Will you hold the line, please?” Still holding the phone away from her husband she consulted her watch, carefully counted off thirty seconds, then said, “Ready with Mr. Randall. Go ahead, Mr. Hoag,” and slipped the instrument to her husband.
“Edward Randall speaking. What is it, Mr. Hoag?
“Oh, really now, Mr. Hoag, I think you had better come in in the morning. We are all human and we like our rest—I do, anyhow.
“I must warn you, Mr. Hoag, my prices go up when the sun goes down.
“Well, now, let me see—I was just leaving for home. Matter of fact, I just talked with my wife so she’s expecting me. You know how women are. But if you could stop by my home in twenty minutes, at…uh…seventeen minutes past eight, we could talk for a few minutes. All right—got a pencil handy? Here is the address—” He cradled the phone.
“What am I this time? Wife, partner, or secretary?”
“What do you think? You talked to him.”
“‘Wife,’ I’d guess. His voice sounded prissy.”
“O.K.”
“I’ll change to a dinner gown. And you had better get your toys off the floor, Brain.”
“Oh, I don’t know. It gives a nice touch of eccentricity.”
“Maybe you’d like some shag tobacco in a carpet slipper. Or some Regie cigarettes.” She moved around the room, switching off the overhead lights and arranging table and floor lamps so that the chair a visitor would naturally sit in would be well lighted.
Without answering he gathered up his darts and the bread board, stopping as he did so to moisten his finger and rub the spot where he had marred the radio, then dumped the whole collection into the kitchen and closed the door. In the subdued light, with the kitchen and breakfast nook no longer visible, the room looked serenely opulent.
“HOW DO YOU DO, SIR? Mr. Hoag, my dear. Mr. Hoag…Mrs. Randall.”
“How do you do, madame.”
Randall helped him off with his coat, assuring himself in the process that Mr. Hoag was not armed, or—if he was—he had found somewhere other than shoulder or hip to carry a gun. Randall was not suspicious, but he was pragmatically pessimistic.
“Sit down, Mr. Hoag. Cigarette?”
“No. No, thank you.”
Randall said nothing in reply. He sat and stared, not rudely but mildly, nevertheless thoroughly. The suit might be English or it might be Brooks Brothers. It was certainly not Hart, Schaffner & Marx. A tie of that quality had to be termed a cravat, although it was modest as a nun. He upped his fee mentally. The little man was nervous—he wouldn’t relax in his chair. Woman’s presence, probably. Good—let him come to a slow simmer, then move him off the fire.
“You need not mind the presence of Mrs. Randall,” he said presently. “Anything that I may hear, she may hear also.”
“Oh…oh, yes. Yes, indeed.” He bowed from the waist without getting up. “I am very happy to have Mrs. Randall present.” But he did not go on to say what his business was.
“Well, Mr. Hoag,” Randall added presently, “you wished to consult me about something, did you not?”
“Uh, yes.”
“Then perhaps you had better tell me about it.”
“Yes, surely. It—That is to say—Mr. Randall, the whole business is preposterous.”
“Most businesses are. But go ahead. Woman trouble? Or has someone been sending you threatening letters?”
“Oh, no! Nothing as simple as that. But I’m afraid.”
“Of what?”
“I don’t know,” Hoag answered
quickly with a little intake of breath. “I want you to find out.”
“Wait a minute, Mr. Hoag,” Randall said. “This seems to be getting more confused rather than less. You say you are afraid and you want me to find out what you are afraid of. Now I’m not a psychoanalyst; I’m a detective. What is there about this business that a detective can do?”
Hoag looked unhappy, then blurted out, “I want you to find out what I do in the daytime.”
Randall looked him over, then said slowly, “You want me to find out what you do in the daytime?”
“Yes. Yes, that’s it.”
“Mm-m-m. Wouldn’t it be easier for you to tell me what you do?”
“Oh, I couldn’t tell you!”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
Randall was becoming somewhat annoyed. “Mr. Hoag,” he said, “I usually charge double for playing guessing games. If you won’t tell me what you do in the daytime, it seems to me to indicate a lack of confidence in me which will make it very difficult indeed to assist you. Now come clean with me—what is it you do in the daytime and what has it to do with the case? What is the case?”
Mr. Hoag stood up. “I might have known I couldn’t explain it,” he said unhappily, more to himself than to Randall. “I’m sorry I disturbed you. I—”
“Just a minute, Mr. Hoag.” Cynthia Craig Randall spoke for the first time. “I think perhaps you two have misunderstood each other. You mean, do you not, that you really and literally do not know what you do in the daytime?”
“Yes,” he said gratefully. “Yes, that is exactly it.”
“And you want us to find out what you do? Shadow you, find out where you go, and tell you what you have been doing?”
Hoag nodded emphatically. “That is what I have been trying to say.”
Randall glanced from Hoag to his wife and back to Hoag. “Let’s get this straight,” he said slowly. “You really don’t know what you do in the daytime and you want me to find out. How long has this been going on?”
The Fantasies of Robert A. Heinlein Page 28