Эд Макбейн - Happy New Year, Herbie and other stories

“Sir?”

“Can’t you understand English? The September—”

“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”

I snapped off and turned quickly to John. He was pacing the floor anxiously, wringing his hands.

“I’ve heard stories about J.G.,” I said. “They say he was a crazy bastard. They say he did anything to sell magazines.”

“He couldn’t have been this crazy,” John moaned.

“No, no,” I agreed. “A million dollars. Oh God, don’t let it be true.”

“I think it is,” John wailed. “I think it’s true.”

The door opened, and Miss Davis fairly fell into the room, a strand of blond hair hanging over one eye. “I have it, sir,” she beamed.

She held up a small container, and I started to say, “What the hell is—”

“Microfilm!” she announced.

“Give it here,” I snapped. She handed me the container, and then left the office. John leaped to the wall cabinet, sliding it open and pulling out a portable viewer. He put the viewer on my desk, and I inserted the first strip, peering into the view plate. It was the cover of the old Prince. It showed a man with a bare chest, wrestling with an equally nude alligator. Splashed across the top of the magazine in bold red letters was the legend: PRINCE OFFERS $1,000,000 FOR FIRST MAN ON MOON!

“It’s true,” John wailed.

“I knew it. I knew it.”

“Shall we read the article?”

“What for? It’s true, John. We’re ruined.”

“There must be a loophole.”

“Let’s check that page again.” I scanned through the strips until I came to the contest-offer page. I removed that from the pile and slipped it into the viewer. It was identical with the one Mr. Donald had shown us.

“There must be a loophole,” John repeated.

“How? Where?”

John narrowed his eyes shrewdly. “There’s always a loophole.”

I clicked the toggle on the intercom.

“Yes, sir?”

“Get Stein, my lawyer. Tell him to get down here immediately. And check through our files. See if there’s anyone still with the firm who was working for J. G. Trimble back in 1926.”

“1926, sir?”

“My dear young lady, must I repeat everything to you six times?”

“1926, sir. Yes, sir.”

She clicked off, only to come back on again in a few minutes.

“I have Mr. Stein for you, sir.”

“I don’t want him. Just tell him to get down here right away.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What are we going to do?” John asked.

“I don’t know. Do you suppose this crazy old coot really went to the moon?”

“Impossible,” John said firmly. “I’d bet a million dollars no one—”

“Please! Please.”

“Sorry,” John murmured.

The buzzer sounded, and I clicked on. “Yes?”

“There’s a man working here, sir.”

“Fine,” I said. “Tell him to keep up the splendid—”

“I mean, he’s been working here since 1926.”

“Oh. Good, what’s his name?”

“Malther. Ephraim Malther.”

“What department is he in?”

“Shipping.”

“How old is he?”

“Ninety-four, sir. He was ready for retirement years ago, but he elected to stay on.”

“And he’s in the shipping room?”

“Yes, sir. He’s been there since 1926.”

“Send him in,” I said. “On the double.”

“Yes, sir.”

The shipping room was right downstairs, and I couldn’t understand what took Ephraim Malther so long to climb the flight, especially when I’d specified “on the double.” Until I saw him, of course. The door opened suddenly, and he stood there uncertainly, like a fragile leaf on an autumn tree. I glanced anxiously at the air circulator, and John quickly stabbed his thumb at the “Stop” button, just as the big vent threatened to suck the old man into its maw.

“Mr. Malther?” I asked.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Trimble, sir.”

“I’m not Mr. Trimble,” I told him. “I’m Mr. Merrian, the new publisher.”

“Eh? Would you mind speaking a little louder, Mr. Trimble?”

The old man hobbled closer to the desk.

“I’m not Mr. Trimble,” I shouted.

“How’s that again?” he asked, cocking his head to one side. He had startlingly black hair, and rheumy blue eyes, and an annoying habit of lifting one brow high on his forehead when he spoke.

“Never mind,” I bellowed. “What do you know about the moon trip?”

“Good idea, J. G.,” he said. “I thought so in the beginning, and I still think so. One million dollars. Great publicity stunt.”

“How is the firm protected?” I said. “How did they expect to raise a million dollars if anyone took them up on it?”

“Took them up on what?”

“The moon trip.”

“Took who up?”

“Us. Took us up.”

“To the moon? Shucks, Mr. Trimble, ain’t no one gonna reach the moon. Heck, I’ll bet a million doll—”

“Never mind,” I shouted. “How is the company protected?”

“Fine,” he said.

“Fine what? What on earth are you talking about?”

“The company’s Detectives. Fine group of magazines. Should do well, Mr. Trimble.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake.”

“How’s that?” He cocked his head to one side again.

“Look, try to understand. Some idiot claims he’s reached the moon. He wants his million dollars. How are we going to pay it to him?”

Ephraim Malther spread his hands wide. “Shucks, Mr. Trimble, the insurance company will take care of that. Ain’t nothing to worry about there.”

“Of course!” John yelped.

I snapped my fingers and then clasped Malther to my bosom. “Naturally! Old J. G. would never have taken the risk himself. An insurance company! Of course, of course.” I released Malther, and he almost fell to the floor. He gathered himself together and I pointed my forefinger at his chest.

“Which one?”

“Which one what, sir?”

“Which insurance company?”

“Oh. Lessee now.”

“Think,” I prompted.

“Think hard,” John added.

Malther clapped his hands together. “Derrick and Derrickson. That’s who!”

“Thank God,” I murmured. “You may go now, Mr. Malther.”

“Sir?”

“I said you may go now.”

“Eh?”

I stepped around the desk and took Malther by the elbow. “Go,” I said. “Go. Back to the shipping room. Go. Out. Goodbye.” I steered him to the door, and then I passed him outside.

“Thank you, Mr. Trimble,” he said.

“Not at all.”

“Eh?”

I turned back into the room, and the door shut on his puzzled face. John was already thumbing through the phone directory.

“Here it is,” he said. “Derrick and Derrickson, twenty-three branch offices.”

“Where’s the nearest one?”

“Fifth Avenue, corner of Thirty-eighth.”

“Get on the phone, John. Make an appointment. I’m on my way down now.”

“Right!” he snapped.

I went to the door and opened it. I turned and looked at John solemnly, and he raised his arm.

“Godspeed, Bert!”

“Amen,” I muttered.

The door shut behind me.

Peter Derrickson was an impressive-looking man in a conservative blue suit. His hair was snow white, and he sported a mustache of the same color under his somewhat bulbous nose.

His pretty redheaded secretary ushered me into his spacious office, and he motioned me to a chair near his desk.

“Your art director sounded upset,” he said in a booming voice, as if he were shouting over a nationwide hookup.

I winced and said, “Well, he’s excitable.” I had decided on the way over that I was going to play this one cagily. I watched him now while he pounced on a fat cigar in a box on his desk. He put it between his teeth, chewed off one end, turned, and unceremoniously spit it past my ear. I heard the bitten-off end whistle by, and I opened my eyes wide in astonishment. Peter Derrickson didn’t seem to notice my amazement.