thirds of the compromised figure, they were able to survive. The market seemed definitely restored, and Max with it. He had lost his haggard look.
"If ever you doubt again the old adage that time is money, remember these terrible days," he told Tony.
"And I suggest that you, too, remember a couple of things," Tony retorted. "Particularly what happens to little boys who fall in with loan sharks. Have you paid off Lassatta yet?"
"Not entirely. I'd have to sell some of our Herron to do that."
"Sell it."
"But, Tony, it's going up. It's bound to go up more!"
Tony contemplated Max's fresh, boyish face with amazement. How was it possible that the fear which had so ravaged him, emotionally and physically, only a week before, should have departed and left no trace? How could a man have been that scared once and take the risk a second time? Was it the saving grace of a superficial man that his fears were superficial, too?
"I should think at this point you might want to play it safe for a bit."
"You mean stop now?" Max demanded. "But we haven't got anywhere yet. You and I haven't taken the risks we've taken just to be a couple of petty bourgeois, I hope."
"You mean you've got another job for me?"
"No, no, no, but I'm certainly not going to sell Herron. Or Alrae. I'm going to hang on to them if it kills me."
"Which I suppose it may. Anyway, so ends our first venture into crime. The only thing I can't understand about it is why it pays Lassatta and Menzies to treat us so foully. Suppose they need to use us again?"
A potential answer to Tony's question seemed to be offered that same evening when a mild, soft-voiced young man accosted him in the street as he walked to the subway.
"Excuse me, Mr. Lowder. I've been sent by Mr. Menzies, Mr. Lionel Menzies. He would like to adjust a certain matter with you. If you would care to come to his apartment now for a drink, he would be very much obliged. I have the car here and can take you."
Tony was amused. The black limousine, the silent drive up the East River, the bar in the car, the use of the back elevator in Lionel Menzies' magnificent apartment building in Sutton Place, all made for a far better scenario than the washrooms and parked cars of his more recent experience. The immense library where his host received him had a baroque stage at one end, framed with twisted columns, on which a dining room table and chairs were set. Between glass cabinets containing golden-backed books reaching to the ceiling were alcoves hung with old paintings and drawings. Tony noticed what he took to be a Van Dyke portrait, a Piranesi print, a Tiepolo drawing. Menzies was a small man, with a round, absolutely bald head and large, beady, laughing eyes. He made Tony think of a bug in an animated cartoon. He talked incessantly.
"I see you like nice things, Mr. Lowder. Are you perhaps a collector yourself? No? But I'm sure you will be. Oh, I can tell. You spotted my Piranesi right off. It really is the best of the prison series. Can't you see it as a set for a Verdi opera? Doesn't it make you want to be a tenor in the last act, discovered by a spotlight in a living tomb and not too starved to sing one last superb aria? Ah, you admire the Tiepolo. That shows you have a real eye. Did anyone ever know skies like Tiepolo? Of course, a drawing is not the thing to see that in, but you must admit he could make a landscape do a minuet. Yes, right under it is a portrait of Corneille. Pierre Corneille who wrote
Le Cid.
We don't believe it was actually done from life, but it's very much of the period, don't you think? Ah, Corneille, who else did more for the
gloire
of France?"
Tony wandered about the chamber, allowing this odd creature to ramble on. Menzies' chatter was self-generated; it needed no response. Was there some necessary connection between crime and banality? Surely it would behoove him to return to the straight and narrow if the lawless were so bound to the cliché. Or was he learning something
"If ever you doubt again the old adage that time is money, remember these terrible days," he told Tony.
"And I suggest that you, too, remember a couple of things," Tony retorted. "Particularly what happens to little boys who fall in with loan sharks. Have you paid off Lassatta yet?"
"Not entirely. I'd have to sell some of our Herron to do that."
"Sell it."
"But, Tony, it's going up. It's bound to go up more!"
Tony contemplated Max's fresh, boyish face with amazement. How was it possible that the fear which had so ravaged him, emotionally and physically, only a week before, should have departed and left no trace? How could a man have been that scared once and take the risk a second time? Was it the saving grace of a superficial man that his fears were superficial, too?
"I should think at this point you might want to play it safe for a bit."
"You mean stop now?" Max demanded. "But we haven't got anywhere yet. You and I haven't taken the risks we've taken just to be a couple of petty bourgeois, I hope."
"You mean you've got another job for me?"
"No, no, no, but I'm certainly not going to sell Herron. Or Alrae. I'm going to hang on to them if it kills me."
"Which I suppose it may. Anyway, so ends our first venture into crime. The only thing I can't understand about it is why it pays Lassatta and Menzies to treat us so foully. Suppose they need to use us again?"
A potential answer to Tony's question seemed to be offered that same evening when a mild, soft-voiced young man accosted him in the street as he walked to the subway.
"Excuse me, Mr. Lowder. I've been sent by Mr. Menzies, Mr. Lionel Menzies. He would like to adjust a certain matter with you. If you would care to come to his apartment now for a drink, he would be very much obliged. I have the car here and can take you."
Tony was amused. The black limousine, the silent drive up the East River, the bar in the car, the use of the back elevator in Lionel Menzies' magnificent apartment building in Sutton Place, all made for a far better scenario than the washrooms and parked cars of his more recent experience. The immense library where his host received him had a baroque stage at one end, framed with twisted columns, on which a dining room table and chairs were set. Between glass cabinets containing golden-backed books reaching to the ceiling were alcoves hung with old paintings and drawings. Tony noticed what he took to be a Van Dyke portrait, a Piranesi print, a Tiepolo drawing. Menzies was a small man, with a round, absolutely bald head and large, beady, laughing eyes. He made Tony think of a bug in an animated cartoon. He talked incessantly.
"I see you like nice things, Mr. Lowder. Are you perhaps a collector yourself? No? But I'm sure you will be. Oh, I can tell. You spotted my Piranesi right off. It really is the best of the prison series. Can't you see it as a set for a Verdi opera? Doesn't it make you want to be a tenor in the last act, discovered by a spotlight in a living tomb and not too starved to sing one last superb aria? Ah, you admire the Tiepolo. That shows you have a real eye. Did anyone ever know skies like Tiepolo? Of course, a drawing is not the thing to see that in, but you must admit he could make a landscape do a minuet. Yes, right under it is a portrait of Corneille. Pierre Corneille who wrote
Le Cid.
We don't believe it was actually done from life, but it's very much of the period, don't you think? Ah, Corneille, who else did more for the
gloire
of France?"
Tony wandered about the chamber, allowing this odd creature to ramble on. Menzies' chatter was self-generated; it needed no response. Was there some necessary connection between crime and banality? Surely it would behoove him to return to the straight and narrow if the lawless were so bound to the cliché. Or was he learning something
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