Davidian Report by Dorothy B. Hughes Page A

papers. It would take a team of men long hours to plow through this mess, longer to make a detailed report. There simply wasn’t that much time. The top layer had been disturbed by Mr. Oriole’s men, Schmidt had been second. He too must have known discouragement. If embedded in the junk there was a morsel leading to Davidian, the man must be found more quickly than the clue could be.
    In the doorway, Llewellyn waited like a flunky. Steve posed a question, “Did he ever come here.”
    “Who, sir?” Easier to lose your faith than your breeding.
    “Mr. Grasse was to put me in touch with an old friend of mine from Berlin.” Steve had no way of knowing how much Llewellyn had heard; the young fellow was as poker-faced as Schmidt. “I flew out from New York for that meeting.” The clerk would recognize the importance of such a move; the New York office didn’t fly specialists out every day.
    “If this man came here, I know nothing of it. Mr. Grasse said nothing.”
    Albion would say nothing. And certainly Davidian could be expected to have more discretion than to walk boldly into a center. Yet he had called upon Mr. Oriole looking for Steve. The risk would appeal to his sly humor.
    “Perhaps he came when Mr. Grasse was out. A small man, small hands and feet—” He went on describing the Davidian he had known and the Davidian who had appeared on Mr. Oriole’s porch Monday night.
    Uncertainty came to the young man’s face. “I don’t know. There was a customer—” He broke off. “You should talk to Pam.” He walked quickly away.
    Disregarding fire hazard, Steve lit a cigarette. He rested himself on the papers which covered the desk.
    Pam was the dark-haired one. “It was the funniest thing—odd, I mean. This man came in one afternoon—”
    “When?”
    “When?” she echoed. “About two weeks, ago, I think. Wasn’t it about two weeks ago, Lyn? Mr. Grasse had gone to the bank, I remember.”
    Together, they figured. Two weeks stood, possibly, a little more, a little less. Steve didn’t care that close but he didn’t interrupt. He’d asked the question. Two weeks was about right. Steve had still been in Berlin. Waiting for word from Albion.
    Pam went on with her event, “He wasn’t anyone you’d notice. Lyn and Portia were busy so I took him. We don’t bother anyone who just comes in to browse,” she explained, “but he didn’t. You know, like you this afternoon, you were waiting to be asked and Lyn asked. And I asked him, this funny little man. You could hardly understand him, his accent I mean, and what he wanted was a book of Russian poetry, in Russian, you know, a very obscure book. We didn’t even have it listed.”
    More of Davidian’s humor; he’d invent author and title.
    “He didn’t look as if he could afford to buy a book,” Pam continued sympathetically, “but he was very nice and polite. It’s the system,” she declaimed loyally, “that makes a man hunger for books and not have the money to buy them.” With that off her chest, she proceeded. “As he started to leave he said he wanted to give me something for my trouble and do you know what he gave me?”
    Steve didn’t have the slightest idea and said so. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d said a map of the Kremlin. Hand-lettered and signed by Joseph Stalin.
    “A Russian ruble!”
    “Counterfeit.” Steve smiled the word.
    “How did you know?” Both pairs of horn-rims grew anxious.
    He said, “It was a hunch.” Davidian up to his old tricks, passing out his calling card. A Davidian ruble. Made by Europe’s finest engraver; he’d tell you so himself. Steve was sorry he’d spoiled the girl’s story. “Go on, then what?”
    She wasn’t as glib now. As if she were afraid he was still ahead of her. She spoke defensively, “Well, I’d never seen one before and it was a queer thing for a man to hand you, like a tip, just as if you were in Russia, only tipping is capitalistic and in Russia—”
    “I know