Donald Westlake - What's So Funny?

"Yes, sir, they will."

"If I intended to sell the set," Mr. Hemlow mused, "it would be a simple matter of giving each a percentage. And you, too, of course."

"Thank you, sir."

"But that would require destroying the set, extracting the individual jewels and melting the gold down into ingots, which would be a far worse crime, in my opinion."

"Absolutely, sir," Eppick said piously.

"So," Mr. Hemlow went on, "since converting the set to cash is out of the question, let us consider what we should offer these fellows as recompense for their good work."

"It will all be coming out of your own pocket, Mr. Hemlow."

"I realize that. On the other hand, my pockets are deep enough to allow me such an indulgence. And when the day is done, I and my descendents will still have the set, with all its value intact."

"That's true, sir."

Mr. Hemlow brooded at the Hutchinson River Parkway a while, and then said, "The question is, what would constitute a proper payment? How much should I offer? What amount would fellows like that think was fair, and what would they think was insulting?"

"That's a very good question, sir," Eppick said. "Give me a minute to think about it."

"Of course."

Now it was Eppick who brooded a while at the Hutch, occasionally nodding or shaking his head as the argument progressed within. Finally he turned back to Mr. Hemlow to say, "If it were me, sir, I would begin by offering them ten thousand dollars apiece. They would not be satisfied with that number."

"I shouldn't think so," Mr. Hemlow said.

"So you would allow them to negotiate with you," Eppick explained, "to argue you up to fifteen or twenty thousand. I'm believing a payout of a hundred thousand dollars would be all right with you."

"Of course. Let me think about this."

"Certainly, sir."

Mr. Hemlow took his turn studying what by now had become Route 684, and did some of his own head-shaking, just visible mixed in there with his normal head-shaking. Then he looked again at Eppick and said, "I think that's too low. I think ten thousand dollars is not a strong enough bargaining first step, but would be seen as an insult. They know as well as we do they did more than ten thousand dollars' worth of work last night."

"That's true."

"I might offer them twenty, however."

"You'll still have the argument, though, sir," Eppick pointed out. "And then you'll wind up at twenty-five or thirty."

"Well, thirty thousand dollars doesn't seem out of the way, considering the job that was done."

"So that would make it a hundred-fifty-thousand-dollar payout for you."

"One hundred eighty thousand," Mr. Hemlow said.

"Sir?"

"You would be getting the same amount, Johnny," Mr. Hemlow said. "In addition to the normal fees I'm paying you."

Astounded, Eppick said, "I would?"

"None of this would have been possible without you, Johnny. You knew how to assemble the team, and you knew how to keep them in good order. You kept them honest."

"In a way," Eppick said.

"Yes, in a way."

Eppick laughed. "Mr. Hemlow," he said, "if I'm getting the same size piece as everybody else, I've been negotiating on the wrong side here."

"It was better that way, Johnny, better for you to think your advice was disinterested. I take it you would be content with thirty thousand dollars."

"Absolutely, sir."

"And the others?"

"I don't see any problem there, sir," Eppick said. "I truly don't."

"Fine."

When they gazed out at the Taconic State Parkway now, both were smiling.

Pembroke buzzed them in at the gate, and they drove the winding road up through the massive pines. Pale late-afternoon light was steadily darkening, the snow around the trees looking gray and tired and old. They drove part of the way up to the house and then Mr. Hemlow barked, "Pembroke! Stop."

Pembroke stopped, and Eppick turned to see what Mr. Hemlow was staring at. Out there, in a small clearing beside the road, on green tarpaulins, were two armies of chessmen, one the brightest crimson, the other deepest black.

"Beautiful," Mr. Hemlow breathed. "No one would guess what lies beneath that paint. On, Pembroke."

Pembroke drove on.

MRS. W SAID, "What's taking so long ?"

Fiona, seated on the next settee, had wanted to ask the same question, but was still somewhat intimidated by Jay Tumbril, particularly here in his own office, and so had kept silent.

"In my experience," Tumbril answered, "arrest is sudden, but release takes a little longer."

"It's nearly six o'clock," Mrs. W pointed out. "They've had nearly two hours to let poor Brian go."

Tumbril started, "Yes, but—" and was interrupted by his phone. "Maybe this is Michael now," he said, reaching for it.

While Fiona, Mrs. W, and Tumbril waited here in Tumbril's office, another Feinberg beastie, not so wee, named Michael, a cadaverous seven-footer in a black suit that made him look like an exclamation point, had been sent to retrieve Brian from the police, after Tumbril had phoned to explain the situation to the assistant district attorney who'd been assigned the case. Now, into the phone, Tumbril said, "Yes, Felicity? Good, put him on. Michael, what's the delay there? What ? Jacques is absolutely certain of this? Put Roanoke on." That being the name of the assistant DA. Tumbril raised baffled eyebrows at Mrs. W, then said into the phone, "Mr. Roanoke? Jay Tumbril here. Are you certain Jacques Perly's certain? Well, if you don't mind, we'd like to be on our way there as well. Mrs. Livia Northwood Wheeler, with her assistant, and I shall come along personally. We'll get downtown just as rapidly as we can."

Breaking the connection, Tumbril pressed another button on the phone and said, "Felicity, call us a car. Soonest."

Mrs W, increasingly irritated and impatient, said, "Jay? What is this? What's going on? Where's Brian?"

"Jacques Perly," Tumbril said, "the private investigator whose office—"

"Yes, we know who he is. What about him?"

Tumbril spread his hands. "He says he has proof positive Clanson was part of the gang."

Fiona said, "That's ridiculous."

"Jacques is on his way to the DA's office with photographs."

Sounding like Queen Elizabeth the First in a testy mood, Mrs. W said, "I will wish to see these photographs."

"We all will," Tumbril assured her. "That's why I ordered the car."

Perly had arrived ahead of them, an outraged capon, too agitated to sit. He bounced around the small messy office of Assistant DA Noah Roanoke, and began squawking before Mrs. W and Fiona and Tumbril had even finished crossing the threshold: "You were going to let him go ? You were going to release him? After what he did to my building? And your chess set!"

"Just a minute, Jacques," Tumbril said, and approached the balding neat metal-bespectacled man behind the room's standard-issue gray metal desk. "Mr. Roanoke?"

Roanoke rose, hand extended. He was as calm as Perly was excited. "Mr. Tumbril," he suggested, as they shook hands.

Tumbril gestured. "Ms. Livia Northwood Wheeler. Her assistant, Fiona Hemlow."

"Please sit," Roanoke offered, and took his own advice.

But nobody else did, because Perly, having vibrated through the introduction ritual, now said, "I cannot believe this! And you didn't even consult me!"

"If you have evidence, Jacques," Tumbril told him, "I assure you we all want to see it."

"Didn't even consult."

"We're here now, Jacques."

"I've turned the photos over to Noah," Perly said, with a quick brushing-away gesture toward Roanoke.

Who said, "Please, ladies. Those chairs aren't terribly comfortable, but they're better than standing."

Along the wall to the left of the entrance were three gray metal armless chairs with green cushioned seats, the sort of chairs you'd associate with Department of Motor Vehicles waiting rooms rather than doctors' waiting rooms. Since Mrs. W now took the one farthest left, Fiona took the one farthest right, as Roanoke handed a manila folder to Jay, who opened it and said, "Jacques, I'd appreciate it if you'd tell me what I'm looking at here."