Эд Макбейн - Happy New Year, Herbie and other stories

“So,” he boomed, “what’s your problem, sir?”

“When J. G. Trimble was publisher of Prince Magazine, he took out a policy with your firm,” I said.

Derrickson lit his cigar, and clouds of smoke billowed up around his head as he puffed heartily. A stream of smoke found the match, extinguished it. From behind the cloudy layers his voice boomed, “Lots of people take out policies with our firm.”

“This one was for a million dollars.”

Derrickson puffed some more, and I tried vainly to see him through the smoke screen.

“Lots of people take out million-dollar policies,” a voice said from behind the billowing cloud.

“This one was insurance against a trip to the moon.”

A white head popped out of the cloud. “Oh, that damn fool thing.”

“Yes,” I said.

“I remember,” Derrickson shouted in his normal voice. “What about it?” His head retreated into the cloud once more, and I was once again talking to a shifting screen of smoke.

“That’s what I wanted to ask you. What about it?”

“That’s a good question,” Derrickson roared. “I think the policy has lapsed.”

“Lapsed?” I inquired weakly.

“Yes, lapsed,” Derrickson bellowed. “I can remember when Trimble came to me with the idea. ‘Hell, sure,’ I said. ‘Isn’t any private citizen going to reach the moon in our time, Mr. Trimble. Oh, sure, maybe the military or some special agency, but a private citizen? Never. I’ll give you a million-dollar policy, and I’ll consider it a safe risk.’ That’s what I told him.”

“And... and the policy has lapsed?”

“Yes, I believe so. Fact, I’m sure of it. Trimble stopped paying the premiums. Don’t know why. They were ridiculously low.”

“H... h... how low?”

“I just told you,” Derrickson shouted. “Ridiculously low. You deaf or something, young man?”

“Why, no. I... I was just wondering how long ago the policy lapsed.”

“I’d say about seven years ago. Why?”

“I just wondered. Would... would it be possible to pay up the back premiums and put the policy into effect again?”

“I don’t know. Why? You worried someone’s going to reach the moon before the government or the Russians?” For some strange reason Derrickson thought this was funny. He started laughing from behind his pile of smoke, and I laughed with him. “Hell, you’re as crazy as old Trimble was. He apparently wised up, and that’s when he stopped paying the premiums. Hell, son, no private citizen’s going to set foot on the moon in our time.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Sure?” he roared. “Sure? Of course, I’m sure.”

“Then you’d let us pay up the back premiums and reinstate the policy?”

Derrickson’s head popped out of the smoke again, and he pointed at me with his vile-smelling cigar. “Of course,” he said. “Why not?”

“Well, that’s fine. How much are the back premiums?”

Derrickson leaned back against the smoke, and it swallowed him. “Five hundred dollars a year,” he said.

“And the policy lapsed seven years ago?”

“That’s right. If you want to bring it up to date, you’d have to give us thirty-five hundred dollars. And we’d like the next year’s premium paid in advance. Four thousand total.”

“Will you take my check?” I asked, reaching into my jacket instantly.

“Certainly. But there’s no rush.”

“Well, I’d like to get it off my mind. Don’t like loose ends.”

Derrickson pushed the smoke away from his face now that we were ready to pass the cash across the table. It fled before his big hands, and he said, “Just make it out to Derrick and Derrickson. Four thousand dollars.”

He pressed the button on his intercom and shouted, “Bring in the Prince Magazine records.”

“Yes, sir.”

He reached into his bottom drawer then and pulled out a printed form with the words POLICY RENEWAL stamped across the top. He sighed, unscrewed the top of his fountain pen, and said, “Soon as I sign this, you’ll be fully covered again.” He chuckled loudly. “Against a sudden trip to the moon.”

I shoved the check at him eagerly, nodding. I glanced at my watch. “Well, if you’ll just sign it,” I said.

“Got to fill in a few items first. I’ll need the records for that.”

“Couldn’t I give you the information you need?”

“Nope. Need the records.” He sucked deeply on his cigar, annoyed when he discovered it was out. He put down the pen, lit the cigar again, and began driving all the oxygen from the room once more. In a few moments the redhead came in with the records.

“Sir...” she started.

“Just a moment, Miss Freeley.”

She stood by the desk patiently, grinning at me. Derrickson peered through his billowing screen and quickly copied the information he needed.

“There,” he said at last. “Now I’ll put the old John Han—”

“Sir...” the redhead said again, and I was beginning to dislike her intensely.

“Just a moment, Miss Freeley,” Derrickson said.

“Sir...”

“What the hell is it, Miss Freeley?”

I stared at the pen poised over the dotted line.

“Couldn’t you sign...”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the redhead said, “but I didn’t mean to interrupt. It’s just that the most wonderful thing has happened!”

“What’s that?” Derrickson said. He put the pen on the paper, a small dot of ink appearing under the point. He looked up expectantly.

“A man has just returned from the moon!” the redhead said excitedly.

Derrickson clamped down on his cigar and lifted the pen as if it were on fire. “WHAT?” he boomed.

“Yes, sir, it’s in all the papers and on all the broadcasts. Amos Donald is his name. He’s the cutest man you ever...”

Derrickson turned his chair toward me slowly, great plumes of smoke streaming from his nose and the corners of his mouth.

“You — knew — this,” he said slowly.

“No, Mr. Derrickson, I didn’t,” I said brightly. “Comes as a complete surprise to me. Comes as a—”

“Get out!” he screamed. “Get out of here before I—”

“But, Mr. Derrickson...”

“Get out, you cheap fourflusher!”

“But...”

“Get out, you... you... grifter!”

I got up quickly and headed for the door, and behind me the redhead asked, “Did I say something, Mr. Derrickson”

She certainly had.

Amos Donald brought proof the next day. He also brought photographers and newspapermen, and the offices of Prince were more crowded than they’d been in many a moo — many a day.

He lay the items on the desk one by one.

“Exhibit A,” he said. “Gypsum. Taken from the moon.”

“How do we know?” John asked.

“Have your scientists test it. Ain’t no atmosphere on the moon. No erosion. No weathering. Have them test it against earth specimens. Absolutely authentic.”

“Exhibit A,” I said wearily.

“Exhibit B — silver. Got it on the moon, too.” He plunked a piece of silver as big as my head onto the desk.

“Exhibit B,” John said.

Mr. Donald lifted a bag. It was a big bag, and he needed both hands to raise it to the desk. Abruptly he turned it over, spilling the contents onto the mahogany.

“Exhibit C — moon pumice. Got it from Archimedes. Genuine article, believe me.”

I looked at John, and John looked at me. We were both thinking of the $21,456.31 in Prince’ s treasury. That was a far cry from a million dollars. A far, far cry.

Mr. Donald opened a suitcase and brought out a bulky nylon and rubber contrivance. “Space suit I wore on the moon,” he said quietly. The reporters began to buzz, and a few flash guns flashed. I looked at the space suit and at the helmet resting in the deep suitcase.