Doug Allyn - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 104, No. 4 & 5. Whole No. 633 & 634, October 1994

At the rough but sturdy structure that housed his shop, the printer came to a halt, released the door latch slowly, and entered cautiously, surveying the efficient space before closing himself inside. No type was scattered across the floor, and his apron and visor were on pegs, not lying where he remembered dropping them earlier in his haste. But the tall stool was over on its side. Gingerly he pressed the side of his head, and winced from the pain. On the counter he saw the oil lamp flickering over the new type, which was tied with twine in the galley trays, a full page completed, just as he’d remembered.

Lifting the stool upright, the printer climbed up on its seat. He scratched his wiry head in bewilderment, then leaned forward and looked out the window across the lane. The candle in the window of the gabled house was out.

For a long while the printer stared out at the irregular roofs and windows of Salem, which shimmered in the glow of morning, and there appeared in the distance a man with receding hair the color of oak leaves in winter, a thick moustache, and dense, moody eyebrows. He was carrying a leather pouch under his arm. Disturbed by the approach of the author, the printer glanced toward the bolt on his door. But his eyes came to rest on the printing press, and in the stillness of his workplace, in the soft golden light of morning, the firm footing of its frame and the harmonious balance of its oak, iron, and stone struck him all at once as beautiful...

Centering himself on the stool, he began to pluck letters out of the type case, sliding them left on the composing stick to form words and sentences. And ideas. His hand moved quickly, accurately, and his fingers did not stop until he heard the knocking on his door.

The printer turned and called, “Come right in, Mr. Hawthorne.”

© 1994 by Patrick Ireland

Patrick Ireland first appeared in EQMM’s Department of First Stories only six short years ago, but he writes with a polish and assurance many more seasoned writers might envy. The California resident creates for us here a protagonist with an imagination as far-reaching as his own, but for his character, the proclivity to fantasize holds unexpected dangers ...

Hamilton slid into his seat on the first-class deck of the 747 and, for the hundredth time in the last six months, thanked his lucky stars. It was still hard to believe he’d landed such a job. A career like this was one in a million, and he owed it all to his penchant for daydreaming.

He’d always had a vicarious streak in him, finding hours of entertainment just by perusing the classified ads in a Sunday newspaper, poring over the miscellaneous for sale items... the situation wanted section... the pets column... lost & found... and that most precious of all fine print, the personals. The classifieds were an endless source of amusement for Hamilton. And sometimes more than mere amusement. He’d located his apartment, adopted a cat, and purchased his car through newspaper ads. He’d even found romance. Several romances, in fact. But it was his present job that had opened a whole new world for him. He’d spotted the ad in the help wanted section, and it had changed his life. Moved him from mere daydreaming into the real world, where his life had meaning.

As an international courier, Hamilton was paid to hand-carry sensitive information back and forth between the worldwide offices of a global network of stockbrokers. Information which couldn’t be trusted to electronic communications. He’d felt rather ridiculous when he’d applied for the position, never honestly expecting to be hired; but the idea of world travel as a career was magnetic to him, and to his great surprise and satisfaction, the background required was far less specialized than he’d anticipated. Really, nothing more than reliability and punctuality. Before he’d even had time to be amazed by his luck, he was on the payroll.

He settled himself into the seat and glanced out the window at the scurrying figures of the ground crew as they readied the plane for takeoff. He smiled at the thought that only a short time ago he’d gladly have accepted such menial employment as those fellows’. Instead, he was now a man of distinction. A world traveler. And, while his salary was, admittedly, rather modest, millions of dollars in investment capital depended upon him alone. To think that up until six months ago the high points in his life had been moments of pretense! Ah, but he’d been very good at pretense. Once he’d become expert at fooling himself, he’d found great joy in fooling others.

It was a source of pride to him that he’d been able to convince so many unsuspecting persons of so many different things. And the wellspring of these dupes was the ever-provident classified ads. He’d find a yacht for sale, say, or a Lear jet. Something extraordinarily expensive. It was then a simple matter to pretend interest in the purchase thereof. An appointment would be made for a demonstration, Hamilton would arrive fashionably late, and permit himself to be courted and catered to by an anxious seller. Then, at the psychologically correct moment, he’d decline the purchase.

“Frightfully sorry, old stick, but I’d had something a bit more elaborate in mind. No, really, I couldn’t hazard a lower offer. Simply not done in my family. Couldn’t bear to insult you. I’ll just be trotting then.” It gave him a perverse delight to bask in the discomfiture of some pompous jackass who happened to be down to his last million or two.

And then, of course, there were the ladies. The ones to be found in the personals. And that was another story.

With a self-indulgent sigh he turned his attention away from the window to a magazine he’d found left in the seat next to his. Flipping through the pages, he felt a familiar tingling as he realized that it was devoted exclusively to elaborate advertisements for exotic automobiles, each ad accompanied by a color photograph. His eyes skipped eagerly from page to page, reveling in such automotive exotica as Maseratis, Shelby Cobras, Lamborghinis; even, astonishingly, a Deusenberg. Truly, while they held the lion’s share of space, the Rolls-Royces and Mercedes rather paled in such sophisticated company.

His pulse quickened; in one full-page ad, no expense had been spared to attract a buyer for a pair of vintage Porsche 904 GTS race cars. Lean, black brutes, alien to his eyes, they seemed to spring from the page with a life of their own; ferocious beasts, starving for victory and possessed of the speed to capture it under any circumstances. He was entranced.

The tone of the advertisement was affectedly complacent, calculated to pander to the most conceited temperament. The price, a mere $250,000 the pair. Hamilton gagged, eyes bulging at the glossy photo. The last sentences were a rather sardonic little jab at the common person: “Call for appointment to see and appreciate. If you can afford to even think about buying these cars, you can certainly afford to fly to Zurich, Switzerland, for the firsthand look they deserve.”

Hamilton took this twist of the blade personally, finding himself rather short of breath at such arrogance, and it came to him that the business trip he was on would afford him an opportunity to repay in kind. Zurich, in fact, was his destination. And he was exactly the man to handle this singular bit of pomposity. He whiled away the hours in flight absorbed with the magazine and its breathtaking photographs.

Upon reaching London, he telephoned ahead to Zurich as he awaited his connecting flight.