slot at the bottom of the door. I knew what they would be. They rarely varied. A detective agency in Philadelphia or somewhere had heard about me and needed operatives. They would be delighted to pay me eighty-five or ninety bucks a week if I signed my life over to them. A handful of unhappily married Washingtonians wanted their divorces arranged. They would get the form letter, done up by the mimeograph and photo-offset outfit on the third floor of the Farrell Building, which explained that I didnât do divorce work. A few flyers advertised everything from fingerprint kits to toupees to authentic Chinese lunches, to go. The Bring-the-Vote-to-Washington Committee was in there pitching with a brochure. It usually ran like that. And maybe, if my luck were running, there might be a case waiting for me and fifty dollars a day and expenses while it lasted.
But I never got as far as the letters stuffed into the mail slot this time. Something too big to stuff was leaning against the base of the door. It was a rectangular box done up hastily and untidily in old brown wrapping paper with bakery string. I picked it up and saw the New York postmark and the handwriting of the address. It was Andy Dineenâs handwriting, and the last, thing he had ever written.
The elevator operator hummed something and sang some words in falsetto about towering over the street where I lived. The brown wrapping paper rustled in my hands as I tore the string. Macadam Bond , it said on the box inside. There was a picture of a Sphinx against a blue sky. It was a ream box of typing paper. Inside, on top, a note had been scrawled in pencil on a torn off piece of the brown wrapping paper. It said: Chet, the client is scared stiff. Maybe you better hold this for safekeeping. Regards to the Pinkertons, Andy.
I remembered what Iâd told Pablo Duarte. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. I had said: You killed Rafael Caballero because his book could rip hell out of Indalecio Grandeâs regime. You killed him, but you didnât get the book. And, I had lied: I have the book.
The sky-blue box contained several hundred sheets of paper, typed on, with much crossing out and many marginal jottings, if the first few sheets were any indication. I riffled through them. There were also a couple dozen crisp, shiny photostatic positives of letters. I didnât read them. I opened the office door with my key and went inside. I looked at the office safe and shook my head. It might do for some things, but it wouldnât do for this. I found an attaché case, two years old and never used, which a satisfied client had given me, or maybe it had been my aunt in Spokane, Washington, I didnât remember which. I put the box in the case and snapped the lid.
Rafael Caballeroâs book. Me and my big mouth.
I returned to the elevator with the attaché case under my arm. The elevator operator looked at the case and gave me a knowing smile. He hummed the one about the rain in Spain falling mainly in the plain. âSeen it?â he asked me. I shook my head. Heâd made his point. The road show of My Fair Lady had come to town. He had seen it.
Outside, I tooled the De Soto up 15th to Thomas Circle and then to Logan Circle and along Rhode Island Avenue under the railroad trestle and beyond. Pretty soon I crossed the Maryland border. I wouldnât have been too surprised if the attaché case burned a hole in the leather upholstery of the De Soto on the way out to College Park.
The Baylis house wouldnât have disappointed an antiquarian who took his ante-bellum houses straight and Georgian, with red brick walls, a real live portico out front, Victorian iron deer prancing on a lawn which rolled back from the street in a big curving swoop like a matronly breast and was shaded by sycamores, elms and even a couple of force-fed Southern magnolias growing about as far north as magnolias will deign to grow. But the view was spoiled by
But I never got as far as the letters stuffed into the mail slot this time. Something too big to stuff was leaning against the base of the door. It was a rectangular box done up hastily and untidily in old brown wrapping paper with bakery string. I picked it up and saw the New York postmark and the handwriting of the address. It was Andy Dineenâs handwriting, and the last, thing he had ever written.
The elevator operator hummed something and sang some words in falsetto about towering over the street where I lived. The brown wrapping paper rustled in my hands as I tore the string. Macadam Bond , it said on the box inside. There was a picture of a Sphinx against a blue sky. It was a ream box of typing paper. Inside, on top, a note had been scrawled in pencil on a torn off piece of the brown wrapping paper. It said: Chet, the client is scared stiff. Maybe you better hold this for safekeeping. Regards to the Pinkertons, Andy.
I remembered what Iâd told Pablo Duarte. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. I had said: You killed Rafael Caballero because his book could rip hell out of Indalecio Grandeâs regime. You killed him, but you didnât get the book. And, I had lied: I have the book.
The sky-blue box contained several hundred sheets of paper, typed on, with much crossing out and many marginal jottings, if the first few sheets were any indication. I riffled through them. There were also a couple dozen crisp, shiny photostatic positives of letters. I didnât read them. I opened the office door with my key and went inside. I looked at the office safe and shook my head. It might do for some things, but it wouldnât do for this. I found an attaché case, two years old and never used, which a satisfied client had given me, or maybe it had been my aunt in Spokane, Washington, I didnât remember which. I put the box in the case and snapped the lid.
Rafael Caballeroâs book. Me and my big mouth.
I returned to the elevator with the attaché case under my arm. The elevator operator looked at the case and gave me a knowing smile. He hummed the one about the rain in Spain falling mainly in the plain. âSeen it?â he asked me. I shook my head. Heâd made his point. The road show of My Fair Lady had come to town. He had seen it.
Outside, I tooled the De Soto up 15th to Thomas Circle and then to Logan Circle and along Rhode Island Avenue under the railroad trestle and beyond. Pretty soon I crossed the Maryland border. I wouldnât have been too surprised if the attaché case burned a hole in the leather upholstery of the De Soto on the way out to College Park.
The Baylis house wouldnât have disappointed an antiquarian who took his ante-bellum houses straight and Georgian, with red brick walls, a real live portico out front, Victorian iron deer prancing on a lawn which rolled back from the street in a big curving swoop like a matronly breast and was shaded by sycamores, elms and even a couple of force-fed Southern magnolias growing about as far north as magnolias will deign to grow. But the view was spoiled by
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