Jean Backus - Ellery Queen. The Best of Suspense

“That’s okay. I have plenty of salami... Hector, eh? Do I know him?”

“No, you don’t. I bring Mr. Hector when I want to convince someone that paying legitimate bills isn’t a matter for joking. Do you understand?”

“Not really. But he sounds like an interesting guy... Does he like salami and white wine?”

“We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“Good. Be nice to see you both.”

He hung up, and sipped wine, then lay back, placing the glass on his stomach. There was a pleasant smile on his face.

Inside twenty minutes the door chime sounded. Moorman set the glass on the floor, bounced from the couch, ran to the door, and threw it open, calling, “So good of you to come! How are you? It’s Colonel Kleistershtroven, isn’t it, formerly with the S.S.? How I remember those wonderful seminars of yours!...Ah, you brought a friend with you... don’t I know him from somewhere?”

He had grasped the nearer man’s hand, pumped it, and still held it as he peered in a benevolent manner at the other man. The man whose hand he held wore a neat tan suit, and had a pallid, tense young face with harried eyes. The other man was small, narrow-shouldered, balding, dressed in a dark suit; he had tight lips and cold eyes enlarged by thick-lensed glasses.

The first man, grimacing angrily, pulled his hand free. “I’m Mr. Dooney. This is Mr. Hector.”

“Don’t I know you, Mr. Hector?”

Mr. Hector’s lips went tighter, and he shook his head.

“Sure I do! I’ve seen you plenty, out at the track.”

Mr. Hector’s enlarged eyes became more so. He shook his head harder.

“Sure, you’re the guy.” Moorman laughed in a friendly fashion. “You’re pretty well-known out there. Everybody calls you ‘The Stooper.’ ”

Mr. Hector said, in a strained voice, “What are you talking about?”

“He’s being funny,” said Mr. Dooney. “He thinks he’s a comedian. He thinks this is all a joke.”

“It isn’t a joke,” said Mr. Hector, and hefted his briefcase.

“Sure, the old Stooper — goes around picking up discarded mutuel tickets, looking for a winner somebody missed. You get many of those. Stoop? Is it a living?” He made to pat Mr. Hector in a comradely way on the shoulder; Mr. Hector twisted his narrow shoulder away from Moorman.

Dooney said, “The joke’s just about over, Moorman.”

“Oh. Well, why don’t you come in?” His broad frame filled the doorway. “Why are you standing around in the hot sun? Come in, come in... How’re the wife and all the brood? How’s Miss LaTorche?”

He stepped back. Dooney proceeded in, his face stony. Mr. Hector followed.

“Sit down,” said Moorman. “Sit down anywhere. Take that chair there. Stoop. Just throw the clothes on the floor. They’re fresh ironed, but what’s that to you? Like you say — you don’t have to wear ’em. Just pitch ’em in the corner... right?”

Mr. Hector stared at him, then walked away across the room. There was a folding chair near the dining table. He sat down on it, with his briefcase on his knees, and looked at Moorman, his narrow face lowered and his lips drawn in.

Moorman dropped on the couch, crossing his legs. “Where are you going to sit, Dooley?”

“Dooney.”

“Right, Dooney. Where are you going to sit?”

“I’ll sit in this chair here.”

“There’s an applecore on it.”

“I can see the applecore. I’ll remove it.”

“Good thinking.” Moorman nodded approvingly as Dooney picked up the applecore by the stem and dropped it in the near fireplace. “That’s a good place for it. You must have been raised in the country. Nothing like a frosty night with the wind how ling, and the sweet smell of roasting applecores... remember those nights, Dooley?” He blinked, and nodded, smiling reminiscently.

Dooney sat down. He said, his voice flat, “This has been very amusing, Moorman. You’re a very funny fellow. Now it’s time to face some realities that are going to be a little bit harsher. Do you know what failure to meet the terms of a contract means?”

“Not really, no. Do you know. Stoop?”

“Stop calling him Stoop!”

“He doesn’t mind, he’s used to it. Everybody at the track calls him that.” He smiled genially at Mr. Hector, whose thin lips became thinner. “Well, Dooley, what’s on your mind? What can I do for you?”

“You can write me a check for $71.88. That’s what you can do.”

“Sure, I can do that easy enough. Is that all you want?” He slapped various pockets. “I don’t seem to have my checkbook. Maybe Lisa’s got it. Sorry. Well, I’ll get it in the mail tonight — okay? As you know, my word is my bond.” He smiled widely.

Dooney said, “You think you’re such a comedian. Well, here are some facts.” His forefinger picked out various articles in the room. “That color TV there, that dining table, those bookcases, the rug, the drapes — they’re all going out of here. All of them. Today, this afternoon. And the beds in the bedroom, and the washing machine in the kitchen. When we leave here, we’re going directly to the sheriff. We’re going to get an order, Mr. Moorman — Mr. Hector is our company lawyer. He has the contract there in his briefcase — the contract you and Mrs. Moorman signed in our office. You’re delinquent. You think it’s all a big joke don’t you? Tell him, Mr. Hector.”

Mr. Hector nodded, fished in his briefcase, and pulled out a document. “This is the contract. It’s all here, all signed and witnessed. There’s no legal way to block appropriation. The furniture and appliances are all covered by the chattel mortgage — and as of now, it all belongs to Affiliated Finance.”

“Oh.” Moorman rubbed his jaw and looked solemn. “Well, all right. But I should tell you that the TV doesn’t work too good. You got to keep kicking it to hold the picture. When you want to watch it, get some guy to stand by it and boot it every ten seconds. Otherwise, you have to keep throwing things at it.”

Mr. Hector looked at him with huge glazed eyes. Moorman said, “Before you escalate your terror tactics... you claim to be a lawyer?”

“I am a lawyer.”

“Anybody can say that. Do you have a badge?”

“A badge?”

“I didn’t think so. Also, a real lawyer always carries a diploma.”

“I have a diploma in my office.”

“And I have a Thompson submachine gun in my office. That makes me the neighborhood hit man.”

Dooney said, “This is one of his jokes, Morris — don’t pay any attention.”

“You say it’s a joke?” Moorman sat forward, large hands clasped, face intent, brows drawn down. “Is that what I am to you? Is that what all of us are, all us little people who grub in the grime for our washing machines and color TVs, who sweat and strain to make our monthly payments so you and your flunky here can spend the day joy-riding around in your swanky Mercedes-Benz—”

“I have a Pontiac — ’72 Pontiac.”

“Whatever. Is that what we are to you — just a contemptible joke?”

He whipped his anguished face to Mr. Hector and jabbed a finger at him, his face gone suddenly hard and grim. “I want the simple truth, fellow — that’s all I’m asking. You’re The Stooper, and I know it and you know it. Your boss here doesn’t know it, but—”

“He’s not my boss.”

“Well, whatever he is to you... that’s none of my affair, I’m not going to open that can of worms. But the point is, you claim to know something about the law—”

“I’m a lawyer!”

“Yeah. You bragged about your famous diploma. Where’d you get it, some correspondence course advertised on a book of matches? Even from there you should have learned one thing — that if you can’t prove the signatures on a contract are valid, that contract isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on.”