Donald Westlake - What's So Funny?

"Well, the top ones, yes."

"So not even all of them." Dortmunder was trying not to be exasperated with this well-meaning young person, but with all the troubles he now found staring him in the face it was hard. "So tell me," he said, "this chess set being down there in that vault, how is this good news?"

"Well, we know where it is," she said. "For all those years, nobody knew where it was, nobody knew what happened to it. Now we know."

"And you love history."

Sounding confused, she said, "Yes, I do."

"So just knowing where the thing is, that's good enough for you."

"I… I suppose so."

"Your grandfather would like to get his hands on it."

"Oh, we'd all like that ," she said. "Naturally we would."

"Your grandfather hired himself an ex-cop to help him get it," Dortmunder told her, "and the ex-cop fixed me up with a burglary charge if I don't bring it back with me."

"If you don't bring it back?" Her bewilderment was getting worse. "Where's the burglary if you don't bring it back?"

"A different burglary," he explained. "A in-the-past burglary."

"Oh!" She looked horribly embarrassed, as though she'd stumbled upon something she wasn't supposed to see.

"So the idea was," he told her, "I come here and you tell me where the chess set is, and I go there and get it and give it to your grandfather, and his ex-cop lets me off the hook." I see.

"This vault under this— What is this building, sixty stories?"

"I think so, something like that."

"So this vault way down under this sixty-story building, probably with its own elevator, with a special guest list that your name has to be on it or you don't even get to board the elevator, in a building owned by a bank that used to be called Capitalists and Immigrants, two groups of people with really no sense of humor, is not a place I'm likely to walk out of with a chess set I'm told is too heavy for one guy to carry."

"I'm sorry," she said, and she sounded as though she really was.

"I don't suppose you could get a copy of the building's plans. The architect plans with the vault and all."

"I have no idea," she said.

"It would be research."

"Yes, but—" She looked extremely doubtful. "I could look into it, I suppose. The problem is, I couldn't let anybody know what I was looking for."

"That's right."

"And I don't actually see how it could help," she said. "I mean, I don't think you could, say, dig a tunnel to the vault. So far as I know, there is no actual dirt under midtown, it's all sub-basements and water tunnels and steam pipes and sewer lines and subway tunnels."

"I believe," Dortmunder said, "there's some power lines down in there, too."

"Exactly."

"It doesn't look good," Dortmunder suggested.

"No, I have to admit."

They brooded in silence together a minute, and then she said, "If I'd known, I'd never have told Granddad."

"It isn't him, it's the ex-cop he hired."

"I'm still sorry I told him."

Which meant there was nothing more to say. With a deep breath that some might have been called a sigh, he moved his arms preparatory to standing, saying, "Well—"

"Wait a minute," she said, and produced both notepad and pen. "Give me a number where I can reach you. Give me your cell."

"I don't have a cell," he said. But I'm going to, he thought.

"Your landline, then. You do have a landline, don't you?"

"You mean a phone? I got a phone."

He gave her the number. Briskly she wrote it down, then said, "And you should have mine," and handed him a small neat white business card, which he obediently tucked into a shirt pocket. She looked at the landline number he'd given her, as though it somehow certified his existence, then nodded at him and said, "I don't promise anything, Mr. Dortmunder, but I will do my best to find something that might help."

"Good. That's good."

"I'll call you if I have anything at all."

"Yeah, good idea."

Now he did stand, and she said, "I'll show you out."

So he tried a joke, just for the hell of it: "That's okay, I left a trail of breadcrumbs on my way in."

She was still looking blank when she shook his hand good-bye at the elevators; so much for jokes.

Riding down, alone this trip, he thought his best move now was go straight over to Grand Central, take the first train out for Chicago. That's supposed to be an okay place, not that different from a city. It could even work out. Meet up with some guys there, get plugged in a little, learn all those new neighborhoods. Get settled, then send word to May, she could bring out his winter clothes. Chicago was alleged to be very cold.

Leaving the C&I International building, he figured it'd be just as quick to walk over to the station when here on the sidewalk is Eppick with a big grin, saying, "So. You got it all worked out, I bet."

"NOT ENTIRELY," DORTMUNDER Said.

"But you're working on it."

"Oh, sure."

"And naturally you'll have to consult with your pals, whoever it is you bring in on the job. Who do you figure you'll work with this time?"

Dortmunder looked at him. "You told that grandfather," he said, "how I learned a few things over the years."

"You're right, you're right." Eppick shrugged and grinned, not at all put out, dropping the whole subject. "So let's take a cab," he said, and crossed the sidewalk to the curb.

Helpless, Dortmunder followed. "Where we taking it?"

Eppick's arm was up now, but he didn't bother to watch oncoming traffic, instead continuing his cheerful grin at Dortmunder as he said, "Mr. Hemlow wants to see you."

"He already saw me."

"Well, now he's gonna see you again," Eppick said, as a cab pulled to a stop in their general neighborhood. Eppick opened its door, saying, "Hop in, I'll tell you about it."

So Dortmunder hopped in and slid across the seat so Eppick could follow. Eppick slammed the door and told the turbaned driver, "Two-eleven Riverside Drive."

Dortmunder said, "Not your office."

"Mr. Hemlow's place," Eppick said, as the cab headed west. "Mr. Hemlow's a distinguished man, you know."

"I don't know anything about him."

"He's retired now," Eppick said, "mostly because of this illness he's got. He used to be a chemist, invented a couple things, started a couple businesses, got very rich, sold the stuff off, gives millions away to charity."

"Pretty good," Dortmunder said.

"The point is," Eppick told him, "Mr. Hemlow isn't used to being around roughnecks. He didn't know how he was gonna take to you, so that's why the first meeting was at my place. We knew we'd have to check in with you again after you saw the granddaughter, but Mr. Hemlow decided you were okay, or okay enough, and it isn't easy for him to get around town, so this time we're going to his place."

"I guess I'm honored," Dortmunder said.

"You'll be honored," Eppick told him, "when Mr. Hemlow's got the chess set."

It was a narrow stone building, ten stories high, midblock, taller wider buildings on both sides. The windows were all very elaborate, which made sense, because they faced a tree-dotted park sloping down toward the Hudson, with the West Side Highway and its traffic a sketched-in border between grass and water and New Jersey across the way looking good at this distance.

Eppick paid and they got out of the cab and went up the two broad stone steps to where a dark green-uniformed doorman held the big brass-fitted door open for them and said, "Yes, gentlemen?"

"Mr. Hemlow. I'm Mr. Eppick."

"Yes, sir."

The lobby was small and dark and looked like a carpet salesroom in a mausoleum. Dortmunder and Eppick waited while the doorman made his call, then said, "You may go up."

"Thanks."

The elevator had an operator, in a uniform from the same army as the doorman, although Dortmunder noticed there weren't any operator type controls, just the same buttons that in other elevators the customer has to figure out how to push all by himself. But here the operator did it, and by looming over the panel in a very stiff manner he made sure nobody else got close to the buttons.