Дэймон Найт: Orbit 8

“Well, now,” said Mr. Robinson, gently. “He did wait. And it didn’t kill him.” There were some more noises. A lot more. “Isn’t killing her, either, presumably,” he added.

“It always pays to do things right,” his wife said. “You’ll get some good greens and potatoes and garden truck this year, I shouldn’t wonder.”

He gave a slow, reflective nod. “You decided what kind of annuals you want out front?” he asked. She started to reply; then, with a tongue click of self-reproof, flung open the front door and emptied the goblet in a wide-scattered toss. Her lips moved. “ There ,” she said, after a moment, closing up. The two older people looked at each other in quiet contentment. They sighed. Nodded briskly.

“Plenty to do,” he said. “Even before those two are ready to help us. Got to get all those knives and cleavers out of the cabinet and sharpen— Oh. Oh, yes. Before I forget.” He fetched a pad and an envelope, ink bottle and pen, sat. “To the Editor, Dear Sir,” he wrote, in his neat, slow hand. “This morning at”—he pursed his lips, consulted his pocket watch, considered—”at about a quarter-to eleven we sighted the first robin of spring in our front yard. Wonder if this is any kind of a record for recent years? Would be glad to hear from any devoted ‘robin-watchers’ and followers of other good old ways and customs, who may write me directly if they care to.”

In her room across the other side of the house, fat Mrs. Machick rang her little bell.

Harry Van Outten was sitting on the tall stool behind the bar at Decline And Fall when the chunky man with the straw snap-brim and the attaché case came in. He stood blinking as his eyes got used to the dark, and Harry got a good long look at him and decided who he was. The man ambled over to the bar and Harry took the usual deep breath and waited. The case was put down gently between the man and Harry, and of course the man did not sit down.

“If it’s about the fire policy, you’ll have to go see Pardie in the Maritime and Commercial Building. Suite H, tell him I sent you.”

“Mr. Van Outten?”

“Doctor. DDS. No matter. Listen, I’d like to help you, but the lawyer said I wasn’t to mess around with this insurance mess.”

“Dr. Harry Van Outten, Orthodontic Surgeon, NLP, 22053 Oceanic Avenue, Bournemouth, N.J.” (He said it “EnJay.”) “This address.”

“NLP.”

“No Longer Practicing.”

“How’d you know that? Would you like a drink?”

“My name is Roseboom,” said the chunky man, and pulled out a little vinyl card case with his picture and thumbprint set into it. The card had “Federal Bureau of Investigation” printed across the top.

“ Oh , yeah,” said Harry, leaning forward on the stool. “What can I do for you, Mr. Rosenbloom?”

“That’s Roseboom.” The man looked at Harry’s hand and took it and shook it.

“Sorry,” said Harry. “Drink?” He clinked the rocks in his gin-gin.

“Maybe later.” He looked closely at Harry for a moment. “You know, Doctor...Mister...”

“Call me Harry,” said Harry.

“You know, Doctor, you don’t look very much like your description.”

“I’ve been sick. What description?”

“Bureau files description.”

“Why would the FBI have a description of me?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” said Roseboom vaguely. “Could I talk to you? For a while?”

“How long? What about?”

“A while. Some of your...associates.”

“Which?”

“Your business associates.”

“You mean Joe the Nuts?”

“I hoped you’d come to the point.”

“We’ll come to the point of an icepick in here,” said Harry in a raspy whisper, “this place is bugged to the ears. We’ll go for a ride.”

Roseboom led the way out the door by several yards, and Harry gimped across the parking lot after him. “Slow down,” he called, “this hot blacktop is murder.”

“You could’ve gotten your shoes. I’d wait.”

“Never wear ‘em. Here.” Harry jumped up on the running board of an absolutely mint 1934 Packard Twin Six Phaeton, in buff aluminum with red piping and gray watered-silk upholstery. He twitched his scorched toes for a few seconds and scraped his feet on the running board, then deftly swung the door open and fell behind the towering wheel. “Come on.”

Roseboom walked cautiously around the beast and climbed up and in the passenger’s side. Harry piloted the big silver car out of the parking lot and turned north on Oceanic Avenue. Roseboom craned his neck to look behind, then slowly turned again to the front.

“That second windshield keeps the wind off your neck if you’re riding in front and is vital if you’re in the back.” Roseboom looked over the dash, which was real ebony, taking in the expanse of dials and instruments. “This hickey here is a stopwatch for testing your speedometer, this is a brake fluid gauge, this is a...now what the hell is this? Might be a manifold pressure gauge, but then again....”

“What would a car like this cost?”

“Invaluable. Priceless. There aren’t any more, you see.”

Roseboom looked straight ahead through the tall windshield. “You are a successful orthodontist,” he said. “Yet most of your income comes from that gin mill we just left. You command a very great deal of money. But I think a toy like this might be beyond even you.” He looked over at Harry.

“The car was a gift,” said Harry.

“From whom, may I ask?”

“Why?”

“I’m wondering—this is for the record—if any taxes were paid on this gift.”

“I honestly wouldn’t know,” said Harry, glancing back at Roseboom for an instant. The agent narrowed his eyes but saw no guile in Harry’s face. “My lawyer takes care of the money.”

“Which brings us back to the source of the gift.”

“Oh, Joe saw the thing at the opera one night—parked outside the opera house, that is—in Hollywood, I think it was. Said it reminded him of The Untouchables.” Harry gave one soundless snicker.

“And he bought it then.”

“I’ve got a bill of sale, title, everything’s in order.”

“I know,” said Roseboom after a time. He sat quietly, watching the honky-tonks on Oceanic Avenue fly past. Shortly, Harry noticed that the agent was inspecting him again.

“Something the matter?”

“This nags at me. There are only two elements of the description we have of you that jibe with your actual appearance. The height. The glasses. Now, it says here”—and he was not looking at any paper—”six feet, two thirtyfive, brown hair, gray eyes—”

“Gray is right,” said Harry.

“If you like. And you are about six feet. The stoop fools you. White hair now, and you weigh”—a pause and a sidewise glance—”about one sixty, one fifty-five.”

“I told you I was sick.”

“Also, the beard. And mustache.”

“I quit shaving when I sold my practice. Only psychiatrists get away with beards. Who brings their kids to a dentist with a beard? You know, that poopsheet you have on me sounds like about four, five years ago.”

“At date of compilation, subject forty-two years of age.”

“I’m forty-six. This birthday.” He thumped the wheel with the heel of his hand. “You must’ve gotten that stuff from my driver’s license or something.”

“Mmmm,” said Roseboom, nodding vaguely, “I concede that you were sick.”

“ Oh , yeah,” said Harry.

“What with?”

“Gastroenteritis,” said Harry, after a pause. “Recurrent. Gets worse as you get older, I guess.”