“I wonder that myself.”
“It was a moment before I grasped the full meaning of what he was saying. At first I worried that it was their intention to knock me, of all people, up for some cash, and you know that would have been impossible.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It would have been against my principles to pay ransom, even if I had the cash, which, of course, I didn’t.”
“I understand, sir.”
“One must have one’s principles. But then I grasped the pristine beauty of his idea—raise a subscription for your life from the public! Wring their hearts out, fleece them, all the while selling newspapers! Perfect! I wish I could take complete credit for the idea,” clucked Thadeus Lowry. “But I can’t.” Thadeus Lowry drained the rest of his martini glass. “Ransom of one hundred thousand dollars: They were quite decided on that. It seemed a bit much to me, but I decided to take it on as a literary challenge worthy of my talents. How quickly could I raise one hundred thousand dollars from the public on a sentimental matter?” Victoriously, he smiled across the table at the matter of sentiment. “Four days! Would you believe that?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, I did it! A fantastic testament to my literary ability! Do you realize how many dollars that comes out to per word?”
“I couldn’t guess, sir.”
Neither could he, apparently, as he next said, “Actually, yesterday morning, while the world thought I was going to Grand Central Station with my brown paper bag stuffed with cash, having made absolutely sure I was free of police observation, instead I sauntered around for my usual midmorning visit to The Three Balls.”
“The Men Only, sir?”
“What? Yes. There I met Officer William O’Riordan.”
“The man who had led ‘a degenerate, degraded life far outside the law?’”
“We had a great laugh. So I gave him the fifty thousand dollars—”
“Fifty thousand dollars, sir?”
“Of course.”
“Weren’t there one hundred thousand dollars, sir?”
“Of course. I took half. That was the deal. We arranged that Thursday night.”
“While I was ‘cowering in some cold corner, starved and beaten, a knife at my throat?’”
“But that wasn’t true,” said Thadeus Lowry. “You should never believe your own press.”
“But it became true! I spent the night in a rubbish barrel! I upset everybody in an hotel! Tony Savallo chased me all over the city. He shot at me twice!”
“Tush, tush, Robby. I daresay you saw parts of New York you’d never have seen otherwise.”
“I saw underneath a lot of places.”
“You survived. You’re all right, aren’t you?”
“I may be coming down with a nose cold, sir.”
“From all that breakfast you’re eating, I expect. Consider my retirement! Fifty thousand dollars. Why, Robby, this frees me to do all sorts of things! Perhaps I’ll go into public service, run for Congress. Or I could buy a small country newspaper, build it into an empire!”
“Oh, no, sir.”
“Why not?”
Robby looked through the window. On the sidewalk people were scurrying with Christmas packages. “I don’t know, sir.”
“Of course,” said Thadeus Lowry, again apparently hearing some distant bell of duty, “what I really should do is write a book.”
“Oh, yes, sir. You’ve hit upon it.”
“I’ve hit what?”
“The answer, sir. Your writing a book. You type so fast, sir.”
“The inside story of journalism,” Thadeus Lowry mused. “How it really works, by the man who knows. The honesty, the integrity, the talent men and women bring to it, the long hours, the hard work, the sparse rewards. It would make a million.”
Outside on the sidewalk, Santa Claus was setting up his money pot on a tripod. Robby was surprised. The last time he had seen Santa Claus he was on his back in a gutter being beaten by an enraged taxi driver. Looking more closely, however, perhaps more closely than he would have before, Robby observed that Santa’s whiskers were not really a part of Santa’s face. They were the whiskers of a fat man, slipping up and down a thin man’s face. And in the sunlight, the snowy, flowing hair was a bit too gossamer to have been spun by time.
Robby Burnes said, “That Santa Claus is a fake.”
Thadeus Lowry looked through the window. Quietly, he said, “Never believe anything, Robby. Including this.”
Thadeus Lowry shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and signalled the waiter for another drink. “Yes, that’s what I’ll do. Write a book and make a million. I’ll send you a copy.”
“Send me a copy? Where am I going?”
“Oh, yes,” said Thadeus Lowry. “I haven’t told you that yet.”
Robby waited to be told.
Thadeus Lowry said, “You have a grandaunt, in Scotland.”
“I have?”
“You didn’t know?”
“I was beginning to disbelieve it.”
“You also have a lawyer living luxuriously in a suite upstairs—suite 1776—in full anticipation of your imminent arrival. Name of Carp. Firm of Pollack, Carp and Fish, London.”
“I have, sir? I mean, he’s here? In this hotel?”
“Who else can afford this hotel save an employed lawyer? The Waldorf-Astoria has floors and floors permanently reserved for other people’s lawyers.”
“Has he been here all the time?”
“Arrived Friday. By plane. Apparently your old grandaunt got wind of your family’s current events belatedly, climbed aboard her escutcheon, whistled into London and pulled a lot of wigs. Raised all the circles of hell, according to Carp. Dispatched him on the next plane coming west to bring you back dead or alive.”
“Dead or alive?”
“Just an expression, Robby. Anyway, he arrived Friday, bought a newspaper at the airport, saw you were among the missing, checked into a suite upstairs, and has been eating gloriously ever since.”
“Eating! Was he no help at all?”
“Between meals he kept insisting things be done properly, phone calls traced, that sort of thing. That was all right, of course, as William O’Riordan would only call me from the police station.”
“I’m going home!”
“By plane. This afternoon. Seems a very unsafe way to travel these days, but fly you shall. You’ll be home in time for Christmas, Robby. Ah, here’s the eminent picture-taker for The New York Star.”
The entrance of the photographer caused a stir. He was stopped in the door and made to explain his camera to the headwaiter. He arrived at the table flanked by waiters.
“Hullo, Burnes,” the photographer said. “How does it feel to be thadeuslowried?”
Robby stood up and shook hands with the photographer. Then he shook hands with the headwaiter and the other waiters.
As the photographer took pictures of Robby, other people crowded around, shook his hand, asked him to write his name on slips of paper. They congratulated him on his return to safekeeping, and several mentioned how glad they had been to send The New York Star a dollar or two toward his ransom.
On the slips of paper Robby wrote: Robert Clearwater.
The photographer left. The crowd thinned. Robby turned back to the table.
Thadeus Lowry was gone.
The headwaiter was speaking quietly to Robby. “I hate to bother you with this, Your Grace, but the gentleman who was with you left without paying the bill.”
“What?” smiled Robby. “He didn’t even tell you a story?”
“He didn’t say anything, sir. He just left.”
Robby took the gold sovereign his father had given him out of the breast pocket of his jacket. He looked at it before giving it to the headwaiter. “Will this be all right?”
“That will be fine.” The headwaiter took the sovereign. “Sorry to bother you.”
“Quite all right,” said Robby. “You’ve just been thadeuslowrie
d. One gets used to it.”
* * *
A very, very thin man in a three-piece suit answered the door of suite 1776.
“Mr. Carp?” Robby asked. “I’m—”
“Yes, yes, my boy,” the man said. “Have you had luncheon yet?”
“No,” Robby beamed, “I haven’t.”
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Snatch Page 42