Эд Макбейн - Happy New Year, Herbie and other stories

“I said Mr. Donald would like his million dollars.”

“You see, John?” I said. “It’s started already. I told you you can’t trust artists. Well, I’ll put a stop to this foolishness right away.” I turned back to the intercom. “Send Mr. Donald in. And tell him to leave his portfolio outside.”

“He has no portfolio, sir.”

“Send him in anyway.” I snapped off the toggle angrily and glared at John. John shrugged, moving his shoulders in a gesture that said, “I’m only the art director here.”

I leaned back in my chair and waited for the door to open. When it did, a tall, thin man stepped into the room, blinking his eyes against the sunlight that streamed through the blinds. He shielded his eyes with one hand and took three cautious steps toward the desk.

“Mr. Donald?” I asked.

“Yes, sir,” he said hesitantly.

“How do you do, sir? I’m Bert Merrian, publisher of Prince , and this is John Hastings, my art director. Have a seat, won’t you, sir?”

“Well, thank you. That’s awfully nice of you... considering.”

I watched him cross the room and settle himself in the chair beside my desk. He had black shaggy eyebrows that all but covered pale, almost violet, eyes. He kept his brows pulled low, so that his eyes showed only occasionally, like dim bulbs behind a darkroom curtain. His nose was thin, slicing down the center of his angular face like a machete slash. His lips were pressed firmly together. He looked like a man with unpleasant business on his mind. He certainly did not look like an artist.

“Well,” I said cheerily, “what can we do for you, Mr. Donald?” I was beginning to enjoy this. I felt a little like an executioner putting his basket under the blade of the guillotine.

Mr. Donald smiled briefly, almost bashfully. “I’d like my million dollars,” he said.

“Wouldn’t we all?” I answered, chuckling a little.

His brows lifted slightly, and there was surprise in his pale eyes. “I guess we would at that,” he said. He chuckled, too, and John joined in, and we had a short round of laughs until I coughed abruptly and called it to a halt.

“How did you... ah... intend getting your million dollars?” I asked, a pleasant smile on my face.

The brows went up again. “Why, from Prince .”

“From Prince,” I repeated. I turned to my art director and said meaningfully, “From Prince , John.”

“Yes,” Mr. Donald said.

“Yes,” I repeated. “And just exactly what for? Would you mind telling us?”

“Not at all,” Mr. Donald said, making himself comfortable in his chair. “For the moon trip, of course.”

“The... what?”

Mr. Donald pointed up toward the ceiling with his extended forefinger. “The moon trip. You know.”

“The moon trip? You mean moon? M-o-o-n? Our satellite? The moon?”

“Uh-huh,” Mr. Donald said, nodding his head.

I leaned over toward John and whispered, “Did we run a piece about the moon lately?” John shook his head. “What the hell is this bird talking about?” John shook his head again. I sighed and turned back to Mr. Donald.

“Just exactly what did you have in mind about the moon trip?” I asked, pretending to know what it was all about.

Mr. Donald shrugged bashfully. “Well... I been.”

“You been? What do you mean?”

Mr. Donald pointed up at the ceiling again. “The moon. I been.”

“Oh-oh,” I said.

“Yep,” Mr. Donald agreed, nodding.

I looked quickly at John, and he returned my anxious glance. We were both beginning to realize that Mr. Donald was perhaps a little bit removed from his perch on the rocker.

He shrugged again. “So,” he said casually, “I just come for the million dollars. If you’ll let me have it, I’ll be on my way.”

“You figure we owe you a million dollars, is that it?”

“Oh, sure,” Mr. Donald said.

“Uh... why? I mean...”

“Guess maybe it was a little before your time,” Mr. Donald said. He fished into his wallet and came up with a folded sheet of paper. The paper was glossy, and there was printing on it. I watched him as he placed it on the desk and began unfolding it, portion by portion, section by section. He spread it all out, smoothed it with a browned hand, and then leaned back. “There,” he said.

I looked at the sheet of paper, noticing that a rectangular portion had been cut from the bottom of it. I shrugged and shifted my eyes to the top of the sheet.

“Cut it out when the contest was announced,” Mr. Donald said.

I looked at the page again. September 1926. Hell, that was more than thirty years ago. I shifted my eyes and studied the page.

Now that you have read the preceding article, So You Think You’ll Reach the Moon, the publishers of Prince Magazine are ready to make a startling, unprecedented offer.

I heard a sudden gasp behind me, and I realized that John was reading over my shoulder and coming to the same horrible conclusion I myself was reaching. With morbid fascination I turned back to the frayed page from an ancient copy of our magazine.

Prince is ready to back up its conclusions with an offer of cold cash! We will pay ONE MILLION DOLLARS ($1,000,000), ONE MILLION DOLLARS to the first private citizen who reaches the moon and returns alive.

I was beginning to feel a little ill. I clutched the top of my desk and forced myself to read the rest of the page. Mr. Donald watched, a happy grin on his face.

The rules of the contest are simple:

1 — All contestants must be citizens of the United States of America.

2 — The Moon Trip must be made within the next fifty years.

3 — The coupon at the bottom of this page must be mailed to Prince on or before October 15, 1926.

4 — Employees or relatives of employees of any government agency are not eligible for entry in this...

“I ain’t,” Mr. Donald said.

“A relative, you mean,” I said weakly.

“Or an employee.”

“I didn’t think you were.”

Mr. Donald stretched leisurely. “Well, can I have the million dollars now?”

“Well... uh...” I looked hopefully to John.

“These things take a little time,” John said quickly.

“Yes, yes, of course,” I added. “A little time.”

“Mmmm,” Mr. Donald said.

“We... we have to check to see that your coupon is on file here,” John said.

“Of course,” I put in.

“It’s on file,” Mr. Donald said. He fished for his wallet again and came up with a small card. I winced and picked it up from the desk top. It read:

“We would need proof, of course,” I said triumphantly, shoving the card across the desk.

“I got proof.”

“Well, you bring it in,” John said shrewdly. “We’ll see about the million dollars then.”

“Sure,” Mr. Donald said, rising. “I’ll have it tomorrow.”

“We’re closed tomorrow,” I almost shouted.

“Monday, then. Ain’t no rush.”

“No rush at all,” I agreed unenthusiastically.

Mr. Donald started for the door and opened it quickly.

“See you, fellas,” he called, waving happily.

He stepped out of the room, and the door shut behind him. I reached quickly for the buzzer on my desk.

“Yes, sir?”

“Miss Davis, I want the September 1926 issue of Prince immediately!”