Three-Martini Lunch by Suzanne Rindell Page B

doesn’t get around too good, so if he doesn’t hear you buzzing, you’re to go around to the side entrance and use this key to let yourself in.”
    He handed me a house key and an envelope, eyeing me over from head to toe. “Hmph. I know you’re one of those book-smart Negroes and all, but I don’t expect you’ve ever been anywhere that compares to his house. Try to behave yourself. With any luck, you can leave the package downstairs and you won’t have to talk to him face-to-face.” He paused and rubbed his chin. “Now that I think about it . . . maybe I’ll phone over and warn him. Wouldn’t want the codger to be surprised by seeing a Negro in his house and have himself a heart attack.”
    The dispatcher shuffled away. The top flap of the envelope was open, and a quick peek inside revealed the package contained a slender manuscript written under a curiously quaint nom de plume, “François Reynard.” I had seen this name before, on bookshop shelves and even, sometimes, at the drugstore. He was the author of short, noir-style mysteries, the type of fare popular in the 1930s and more often than not snatched up by Hollywood and turned into movies.
    I memorized the address; it was on the Upper East Side. I tucked the key into my vest pocket and pedalled off on my bicycle. Messenger-boys were indispensable to publishing houses in those days. It seemed an endless stream of copies wanted dispatching all over the island of Manhattanand occasionally across the Brooklyn Bridge. Memos, typed carbons, and signed contracts whizzed between skyscrapers, brownstones, and mansions alike. A great many authors lived in New York at that time and quite often correspondences between writers and editors were ferried directly back and forth by messenger.
    I rode uptown and found the townhouse more or less as I had imagined it: a rather large, stately brownstone on East Seventy-eighth Street near the park. It was a corner building, the kind with a servants’ entrance around the side. After two attempts at the bell, I went to the side entry and tried the key. Once inside, I found myself in a narrow hallway. I followed it blindly into a foyer where my shoes echoed loudly on the pure white marble floor. A package wrapped in brown parchment was laid out on a small console table. I assumed it was intended for me, or rather for the publishing house that employed me, and I moved to collect it.
    â€œWho’s that? Who’s there?” came a voice. I froze.
    â€œMy name is Miles Tillman, sir,” I called back. “I’m a messenger. Torchon and Lyle sent me.”
    â€œYou’re not the regular boy,” the voice said. The timbre of it sounded tight, full of tension, as though he were holding back a wheezing cough. I was sure he was lying down and had been napping. I could hear him catching his breath from some remote back bedroom and I understood I had clearly woken him by ringing the bell and upset his regular routine. “Well?” the voice demanded. “Come on up here.”
    â€œSir?”
    â€œYou’re here in my house, I need to get a look at you!” he snapped. “Don’t dawdle. I’m not getting any younger.”
    I set the package down, put a hand on the cold marble banister, and looked upwards in the direction of the voice. There was nothing to do but go. I reached the top of the stairs and was met with a hallway that extended in both directions. I hesitated, considering which way to turn.
    â€œFaster, boy!” he snapped. “You lack confidence. I can hear your mincing little step on the rug.”
    I moved in the direction of the voice, and found my way to the most cavernous, sumptuous, bizarre-looking bedroom I have ever seen. It was a veritable sultan’s palace. Every inch of the place was covered in velvets and silks. Cushions were piled in heaps amid animal skins stretched out all around the floor. I