fallen to the pavement when he had banged it against the lamp.
"Hm. Dropped it, I suppose. Pity." His fingers lovingly handled the watch, as if merely touching it gave him pleasure. "Fine watch. Don't see this kind very often any more." He gently pried off the back and bent over it with his jeweler's eyepiece in place, murmuring all the while he worked over it.
Mr. Talbot studied the other man surreptitiously. He hadn't known exactly what to expect, but certainly he had not expected this. From the reports he had received about the shop the old man must be at least ninety; Talbot would have to look up the dates again. But this man couldn't be the son. He was obviously too old for that, despite his green eyes and smooth face—something about his expression perhaps, or the startling whiteness of his shock of hair. Talbot averted his eyes quickly as the old man raised his head from the ruined watch.
"I think it will be all right now, sir." And he handed it back again, pointing with a pencil. "I'll have to keep it to grind a new crystal and replace the hand, you understand, but otherwise it's all right now. That spring there," and he touched it with the point of the pencil, "was broken, and I replaced it. There was some displacement of the other spring, but it hadn't broken—merely bent a little." His eyes were emerald green as he smiled at Mr. Talbot and retrieved the timepiece, affixing a label to it.
Talbot felt his mouth sagging and closed it with a snap. "Hmph. How soon will it be ready?" he asked gruffly, adding, "That crystal was hand ground, you know."
"Naturally. Many years ago I saw a lot of these, but recently they seemed to have disappeared entirely. Pity. Much is sacrificed by mass production."
Secretly, Talbot agreed; but he couldn't very well admit it to this person, so he grunted and left without another word. Had he looked back, he would have seen an amused smile play across the unlined face of the proprietor.
Back in his office, Mr. Talbot roared at his secretary, "Get Brigley up here!" He swung around in his chair and glowered at the city spreading out in every direction as far as he could see from the top of the Talbot Building. It was his city. He had built a good part of it and planned to build more. He had hotels and restaurants and office buildings and apartment houses. And he had two city blocks, had spent twelve years acquiring the deeds from the various owners, but now he was ready. The plans and permits were waiting to be used. The contractor was awaiting his call. All ready—except for a tiny shop of no consequence. He scowled ferociously as he heard the soft whisper of the door as it opened to Brigley.
"Mr. Brigley, how long have you been working for me?" He didn't turn to face the attorney, but continued to stare out over the city.
Brigley knew that tone too well not to know he was in for something, and accordingly he swallowed the pill he had snatched from his desk before answering the summons to the inner den. He said, "Fourteen years, sir." It was in the approved manner of a slave addressing his lord.
"Mr. Brigley, our association will terminate in precisely two weeks unless you can make some progress in the purchase of that shop. Now get out of here. I don't care how you get it, but I want that block—and I want it this month." He did turn then, and his face was so malevolent that whatever Brigley had started to say was stillborn in his throat; he departed hastily.
The attorney was busy the following days, no longer trusting his hirelings for the task—as had become his wont in the recent years.
"Look, Mr. Brigley, we can't condemn it simply because your boss wants us to. It's in perfect condition—built like the gold vault at Fort Knox. It'll be there long after we're both dead and forgotten. And the old man's a licensed electrician and has more up-to-date wiring than most of the hotels in town have." And more slyly, "Besides I heard Old Man Talbot supported the other side
"Hm. Dropped it, I suppose. Pity." His fingers lovingly handled the watch, as if merely touching it gave him pleasure. "Fine watch. Don't see this kind very often any more." He gently pried off the back and bent over it with his jeweler's eyepiece in place, murmuring all the while he worked over it.
Mr. Talbot studied the other man surreptitiously. He hadn't known exactly what to expect, but certainly he had not expected this. From the reports he had received about the shop the old man must be at least ninety; Talbot would have to look up the dates again. But this man couldn't be the son. He was obviously too old for that, despite his green eyes and smooth face—something about his expression perhaps, or the startling whiteness of his shock of hair. Talbot averted his eyes quickly as the old man raised his head from the ruined watch.
"I think it will be all right now, sir." And he handed it back again, pointing with a pencil. "I'll have to keep it to grind a new crystal and replace the hand, you understand, but otherwise it's all right now. That spring there," and he touched it with the point of the pencil, "was broken, and I replaced it. There was some displacement of the other spring, but it hadn't broken—merely bent a little." His eyes were emerald green as he smiled at Mr. Talbot and retrieved the timepiece, affixing a label to it.
Talbot felt his mouth sagging and closed it with a snap. "Hmph. How soon will it be ready?" he asked gruffly, adding, "That crystal was hand ground, you know."
"Naturally. Many years ago I saw a lot of these, but recently they seemed to have disappeared entirely. Pity. Much is sacrificed by mass production."
Secretly, Talbot agreed; but he couldn't very well admit it to this person, so he grunted and left without another word. Had he looked back, he would have seen an amused smile play across the unlined face of the proprietor.
Back in his office, Mr. Talbot roared at his secretary, "Get Brigley up here!" He swung around in his chair and glowered at the city spreading out in every direction as far as he could see from the top of the Talbot Building. It was his city. He had built a good part of it and planned to build more. He had hotels and restaurants and office buildings and apartment houses. And he had two city blocks, had spent twelve years acquiring the deeds from the various owners, but now he was ready. The plans and permits were waiting to be used. The contractor was awaiting his call. All ready—except for a tiny shop of no consequence. He scowled ferociously as he heard the soft whisper of the door as it opened to Brigley.
"Mr. Brigley, how long have you been working for me?" He didn't turn to face the attorney, but continued to stare out over the city.
Brigley knew that tone too well not to know he was in for something, and accordingly he swallowed the pill he had snatched from his desk before answering the summons to the inner den. He said, "Fourteen years, sir." It was in the approved manner of a slave addressing his lord.
"Mr. Brigley, our association will terminate in precisely two weeks unless you can make some progress in the purchase of that shop. Now get out of here. I don't care how you get it, but I want that block—and I want it this month." He did turn then, and his face was so malevolent that whatever Brigley had started to say was stillborn in his throat; he departed hastily.
The attorney was busy the following days, no longer trusting his hirelings for the task—as had become his wont in the recent years.
"Look, Mr. Brigley, we can't condemn it simply because your boss wants us to. It's in perfect condition—built like the gold vault at Fort Knox. It'll be there long after we're both dead and forgotten. And the old man's a licensed electrician and has more up-to-date wiring than most of the hotels in town have." And more slyly, "Besides I heard Old Man Talbot supported the other side
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