Nora: “And if you hadn’t told us this, we’d have paid Church and he’d probably never have bothered you anymore.”
MacFay: “You young idiots! Money’s not to pass out to the first person that asks for it.”
Nora: “But it would have been our money and you—”
MacFay: “Your money? Yes, but I’m the one that slaved getting it together for you and I feel about it just as I do about my own.”
Nick and Nora exchange suspicious glances.
Nick clears his throat, says: “That’s swell of you. Now about those routine business matters you mentioned. Don’t you think we may as well—uh—you know—kind of go over them now that we’re here?”
MacFay: “If you want to.” He puts his hand on a desk drawer.
Nick, trying to speak casually: “I sometimes feel ashamed of myself for not knowing more about business than I do. I think a man ought to—well, I’m going to try to take more of an interest in things. For instance, if a man’s money is invested in—say in any kind of business—he should know something about it; he should be able to understand—uh—balance sheets and things.”
Nora: “Why, Mr. Charles, I’m proud of you!”
MacFay, dryly: “You’re not still pretending you think I’m a crook?”
Nick laughs insincerely. “Oh, of course not! But seriously, my conscience hurts me sometimes. Here we are, going along not bothering about anything, just okaying—uh—routine matters when you show them to us. Kind of like butterflies, you might say. And there you are, having to shoulder all the responsibilities, look after all the details for us. It’s not right. Is it hard to learn to—uh—you know—make heads or tails of these rows of numbers and things?”
MacFay: “No, all it takes is a little application.”
Nick: “Well, suppose instead of just skimming the surface the way we usually do, would it take too long if we—uh—went into things a little more thoroughly this time?”
MacFay: “An excellent idea, and I’ve all the time in the world. Pull your chairs up.” He smiles maliciously. “We’ll take our lumber company first. It’s a little simpler than the others.” He takes a bale of papers from a drawer and puts it on the desk, selecting one sheet of paper from the bale and putting it on the desk in front of them. “To start at the beginning, this graph shows the production of lumber, seasonally adjusted, for our company—that’s the solid line—for all other companies in the United States combined—that’s the dotted line—for all Canadian companies—the double lines, and for all Canadian and United States companies, exclusive of our company—the chain line—from January 1929, to the present month, both inclusive. Here”—passing them another sheet of paper covered with columns of typewritten figures—“are the figures, if you wish to check them.”
Nick: “Not at all.”
MacFay: “Study them. Don’t fall back into your habit of skimming over things again.”
Nick and Nora bend their heads over the figures.
MacFay: “You’ll notice that production, seasonally adjusted, has been falling off since June.” He fishes out another sheet of paper. “You can see by this that new business in the last couple of months has slowed up and unfilled orders are some 20 percent below last year’s figure, while gross stocks are considerably higher than they were a year ago.”
Nick, trying to pretend he knows what it is all about, asks: “How large a stock of grosses do we usually have on hand?”
MacFay dives into his bale of papers again.
Nora, who has been counting on her fingers under the desk, nudges Nick and whispers: “The first row of figures in that left-hand column is added up right.”
Nick, whispering: “But are they seasonally adjusted?”
Nora nods: “Like a watch!”
Nick: “Good!”
MacFay gives them a still larger sheet of paper with still more figures on it. “Now here are our yearly figures from 1929 to 1936, both inclusive. You’ll find them very interesting.” He leans over to point out the various columns to them. “Here are the Sales, here Depreciation and Depletion, here Net Income—you’ll notice that the figure for 1931 excludes unrealized inventory loss—then Interest, Interest Times Earned, Earned Per Share, Cash Dividends, Surplus For Year—you’ll notice there were deficits for the years 1931 to 1934, both inclusive; and here below are Invested Capital—the 1934 figure is after drastic adjustments in the value of land and development—then Percentage Earned on Capital, Properties, Percentage Earned on Properties, Cash and Equivalent, Working Capital, Current Ration, and, last of all, Profit and Loss Surplus. Now here’s a statement of . . .”
We leave Nick and Nora nodding determinedly, but groggily, at each item the Colonel shows them.
IN A SHABBY SALOON
Face Peppler is standing at the bar with a big thug.
Face, giving the bartender a dollar bill: “Give me twenty nickels—twenty.”
The big thug, plaintively: “I want to go to Nick’s party, Face. I love Nick.”
Face, as if repeating something he had said before: “It’s a kid’s party, Whacky. Nobody can’t go unless they bring a kid.”
Whacky: “But Pete and Larry are going.”
Face: “Larry’s got a kid, and I’m lending Pete one of my brother’s brats.”
Whacky: “I’ll bring a kid.” He buttons his coat with an air of determination. “What kind of kid do you want?”
Face grabs his lapel. “Wait a minute, Whacky! No snatch, for God’s sake! We don’t want to put the big heat on this party!”
Whacky mumbles: “Well, I want to go.”
Face: “Okay, but borrow a kid legitimate. Don’t show with no hot tot.”
Face carefully counts the nickels the bartender gives him, then, with the nickels in one hand, Nora’s address book in the other, goes into the telephone booth and dials the first number in the address book.
Face, into the phone: “Is Miss Adams there? . . . This is Nick Charles’s society sekkatary. Put her on the wire.”
At the other end of the wire, Miss Adams is being handed a telephone by a maid. Miss Adams: “Hello.”
Face: “This is Nick Charles’s society sekkatary. We’re throwing a binge for Nick’s kid Tuesday afternoon. Can you make it?”
Miss Adams: “Nick Charles? Are they in town?”
Face: “Are they in town? You ought to be in town like they are! But, hey!—wait a minute. Have you got any kids?”
Miss Adams: “Kids? Why, no!”
Face: “Then don’t bother. Give it a skip.” He hangs up muttering, “That dame wasting my nickels!” dials another number, says into the phone: “Is Mrs. Alliston there? This is Nick Charles’s society sekkatary . . .”
MACFAY’S OFFICE
The lights have been turned on.
MacFay, straightening up from the last sheet of paper in his bale, is saying: “And now I think I’ve given you a pretty good rough picture of the situation.”
Nick and Nora rise with deep sighs of relief. Nora seems to be having trouble focusing her eyes. Nick’s hair is rumpled, his tie askew, and his face tired.
Nick, pulling himself together and trying to sound hearty: “This has been awfully nice of you, Colonel MacFay, and we’ve learned a lot. It’s—uh—it’s opened up—uh—new vistas to us. Hasn’t it, Nora?”
Nora: “It’s been marvelous!”
MacFay: “But sit down. That’s only the lumber company. You’ll find the railroad much more interesting. It’s more complicated.” He takes a larger bale of papers from another drawer. “And after that, we’ll take the mining properties.”
Nora strikes a pose with a hand to one ear and says: “I hear Nicky crying.” She moves toward the door. “Isn’t that like him—to make a fuss just when I’ve found something so fascinating!”
Nick: “I’ll go with you.”
Nora: “Oh, no! I’ll be right back, and you must show me afterwards what Colonel MacFay explained to you while I’m gone, because I don’t want to m
iss a thing.”
Nick, glaring at her: “Well, at least send me in a Scotch and soda.”
MacFay: “No, son. I want to give you a piece of advice. A lot of men say liquor and business don’t mix. I don’t say that, but I do say there’s one time they don’t mix. Drink all you can handle any other time, but don’t touch it while you’re checking up the figures.”
Nora: “That sounds like mighty sound advice to me.”
As she goes out, MacFay is beginning: “First, I must tell you that the courts have authorized us to make payments of 20 percent of the principal amount on equipment trust certificates, series D, maturing December 15th.”
Nora goes to her room, blows a kiss at Nick Jr., who is sleeping, smiles at the nurse, and begins to change for dinner.
LIVING ROOM OF SMITTY’S APARTMENT IN NEW YORK
It is a typical middle-class furnished apartment, to which Smitty has added feminine touches in the shape of some beribboned cushions, a doll or two, etc.
Dum-Dum is sitting on his heels in one corner of the room eating a dish of ice cream.
Smitty, at the telephone, is saying: “I want to speak to Lieutenant John Guild, Homicide Bureau. This is Mrs. R. Culver Smith speaking.” She gets Guild on the phone. “This is Mrs. R. Culver Smith.”
He asks: “Who?”
She says disgustedly: “This is Smitty.”
He says: “Oh, Smitty—how are you? What do you hear from Tip?”
She says: “He’s still kicking about wanting a larger cell—but that ain’t what I called you about. I don’t know whether it’s one of those half-smart tricks that you people think up, or what it is, but some guy phoned me a little while ago, all excited. He won’t tell me who he is except he claims he’s a friend of Tip’s, and he wants to know if I’m going to be home after midnight. He won’t tell me what it’s all about except that it’s something that won’t get me in a jam if I give him a square break, but he said he don’t want any monkey business, because he’s got two murder raps hanging over his head and he’s playing for keeps. That wouldn’t be some kind of charade you boys thought up, would it?”
Guild says: “It’s all news to me. What are you going to do about it?”
Smitty says: “I ain’t going to do anything but keep as far away from trouble as I can until Tip gets out of Sing Sing.”
Guild says: “That’s showing sense. I think the best thing for you to do is to stick around home after midnight and give us a chance to see what this setup is.”
Smitty says: “Yeh, but I don’t want to get into any trouble with people thinking I’m rattling on them either.”
Guild says: “Oh, it’s nothing like that. We’ll keep your nose clean both ways.”
Smitty says hesitantly: “Oh, all right then,” and puts up the telephone as Church, in his shirt sleeves, comes in from the adjoining room, holding ice wrapped in a towel to his black eye.
Church asks: “Oke?”
Smitty says: “Oke. But I’m afraid of these fancy rackets. There are too many things can go wrong.”
Church laughs at her fears. “It’s airtight—we can’t miss.”
She smiles ruefully. “If that don’t sound like Tip. I guess I’m just a sucker for men who are too slick for their own good and mine. Seven years I’ve been married to him, and he’s so slick that he ain’t been out of the can long enough to finish our honeymoon.”
Church says: “You like that guy, don’t you?”
Smitty says: “No foolin’.”
Church says thoughtfully: “So do I.” Then he asks: “Going back to him when he gets out?”
Smitty says: “Yep! I like you a lot, Sam, but Tip’s my boy.” She laughs reminiscently. “Living with him you never know what kind of a jam you’re going to get into from one minute to the next. Did I ever tell you about the time I had my operation and he gave the hospital a rubber check that bounced back before they got me on the table? Was I burned up! Another time in Boston he was fooling around on the side with a little hatcheck girl . . .” She breaks off saying, “But you don’t want to listen to all this.”
Church kisses her lightly and says: “I like to hear you talk about Tip.”
She says: “But on the level, I don’t like these schemes where a lot of pieces have to fit in together.” She dovetails her fingers. “If I was a man and wanted to steal, I’d rather take my chances just socking somebody with a hunk of pipe.”
Church says good-naturedly: “You’d miss a lot of fun.”
Smitty says: “Fun? It’s no fun to me. Anyway, if we’ve got to go in for all this razzle-dazzle, why don’t you do something about pulling that Nick Charles away from there? I don’t trust him. He looks like a guy with insomnia to me”—she smiles at Church’s eye—“and a fast punch.”
Church: “I don’t want him around, but I don’t see how he can gum our game. It was airtight without him, and it’ll be airtight with him.” He touches his black eye. “Don’t let this goog bother you. A lot of winners have had them.”
Smitty: “All right, if you say so, but maybe I ought to know more about the ins and outs of what you’re doing.”
Church: “Losing confidence in me since I stopped that punch?”
Smitty: “No, I still haven’t got that much sense.”
The doorbell rings. Smitty looks at Church.
Church wriggles a thumb at Dum-Dum, who gets up swiftly and carries his ice-cream dish into the next room, putting it on a table, and flattening himself against one side of a connecting doorway. Dum-Dum’s hand pushes his coat aside a little to rest a handle of the knife in his waistband.
Church nods his head and Smitty goes to the door.
Diamond-Back Vogel, the man Nick saw watching Church’s cottage from the hilltop that morning, is there.
Vogel says in his hoarse voice: “Hello, Smitty! Busy?”
She says: “Never too busy to see a friend. Come on in. What do you know?”
Vogel says: “Nothing much.” He follows her into the living room. He says: “Hello, Church” without much warmth.
Church says casually: “How are you, Diamond-Back?”
Smitty says: “Sit down.”
Vogel sits down, says: “No, I’ve only got a minute. A guy came in from up the river this morning with a line from Tip.”
Smitty asks: “What is it? What does he say?”
Vogel stares at Church.
Smitty says: “Go ahead—Sam’s all right. What did Tip say?”
Vogel says: “For you he’s all right maybe, but I don’t know if he’s all right for Tip. Come on out in the kitchen.”
Smitty says to Church: “You don’t mind, do you?”
Church says: “No.”
Smitty and Vogel go into the kitchen.
“What did Tip say?” Smitty asks. “Is he all right?”
Vogel growls: “He’s okay, but he’s been thinking again. He sent down a lot of forms, orders for material and stuff, with the warden’s signature forged on them, and he wants you to get hold of somebody that can pass himself off as the warden’s go-between and collect a rake-off for placing these phony orders with business houses. He says make a fifty-fifty deal with whoever you get.”
Half-laughing, half-angry, Smitty exclaims: “Nothing can stop that boy!” She holds out her hand. “Have you got the stuff he sent?”
He takes some papers from his pocket and gives them to her. She tears them up.
Vogel nods approvingly, asks: “You spend a lot of time with Church, don’t you?”
Smitty says: “Don’t start that again. He’s just a good friend like I told you.”
Vogel growls: “And a guy can get to be too good a friend, too, like I told you. Be seeing you.”
He goes out. Smitty returns to the living room.
Church says: “I’m going to skin a knuckle on that four-eyed gent some day.”
Smitty laughs and says: “Take big sister’s advice and—A, don’t try it; and B, if you think you have to, try to catch him without
the cheaters on, because I’ve heard experts say he’s plenty good as long as he can see.”
Church says: “But he can’t see very well without—?” He holds thumbs and forefingers up in circles to indicate glasses.
Smitty says: “So they tell me.”
Church says: “Maybe that’s something to remember.” He looks at his watch and calls: “Dum-Dum.”
The Negro comes in.
Church says: “It’s time to get going, son.” He holds out his hand. “Good luck.”
Dum-Dum, smiling broadly, shakes Church’s hand and says: “Thank you, sir,” pulls a wadded cap from his pocket, says: “Adios” to Church and Smitty, and goes out.
AT MACFAY’S
Lois and Horn are sitting on the shore of a lake, looking out over the water. His arm is around her; she is leaning back against his shoulder.
Horn: “Happy, darling?”
Lois: “M-m-m!”
Horn: “It’s not too chilly?”
Lois: “I’d never be chilly this way.”
In the living room, Freddie is fooling with the dial of a radio. After a moment, he turns the radio off impatiently and goes to a window, where he stands looking out, biting a fingernail.
In a linen closet, Mrs. Bellam, the housekeeper, is placidly counting sheets.
In Nora’s bedroom, she is lying in bed reading, with Nick Jr. sleeping beside her. She turns her head once to smile in the direction of MacFay’s office, then goes back to her reading.
In the office, Nick’s collar is open and he has taken off his coat. A tray on a table near the desk holds the remains of their dinners. The desk is piled high with papers now.
MacFay is saying: “. . . showing a consolidation net profit of thirty-one thousand, eight hundred sixty-four dollars and twenty-two cents after all charges and normal federal income taxes, but before provision for surtax, equal, after preferred dividend requirements, to fifty-eight cents a share on the combined class A and B common stock.
Nick, trying to prop his eyes open: “I wouldn’t’ve believed it.”
MacFay: “But, production in August showed a substantial decline, though part of the sharp July increase was retained, and the average for the two months is well above that for the second quarter.”
Return of the Thin Man: Two never-before-published novellas featuring Nick & Nora Charles Page 17