Эд Макбейн - Strangers When We Meet

Every morning, as Felix Anders waited for the train with his copy of the Daily News tucked under his arm, he surveyed the platform with a faintly bored air. There was something demeaning about having to wait for a train, and Felix Anders allowed his displeasure to show in his stance and in the set of his Lincolnesque face.

He was a tall man with straight brown hair and green eyes. The green eyes added to his expression of untouchable aloofness. He had a massive craggy nose and a lean lantern jaw, and he looked around him as if he had just delivered the Emancipation Proclamation to a horde of ignorant slaves who didn’t understand English.

Felix Anders was a butcher.

He owned a small market on Sixty-third Street and Lexington Avenue, and he cut meat for the major part of his waking day. But even in his blood-stained apron, Felix managed to look disinterested and bored. In his mind’s eye, standing outside of his body and slightly to the left of it, Felix did not look like a butcher in his butcher’s apron. He looked, instead, like a noted brain surgeon who had just performed a delicate operation. And when Felix discussed veal cutlets with female customers, he exuded the distant charm of the brain surgeon pulling off his rubber gloves after passing on the job of suturing to an assistant.

Felix was, he knew, poised, charming, bored, aloof, secretive, superior and intelligently cunning.

On Tuesday morning, as Felix waited to board the train, he noticed Larry Cole standing on the platform. He knew that he had been invited to a party at Cole’s house for this Saturday night, but he also remembered that he’d once asked Cole to work out a landscape plan, and Cole had said, “Sure, as soon as I get a chance,” and then never delivered it. Felix Anders did not take such treatment lightly.

He would, on Saturday night, go to Cole’s house and drink his liquor and eat his food, but that didn’t mean he had to say hello to him on a station platform. He busied himself with watching the tracks for the approaching 8:07. A slim redheaded girl with an overnight bag stood alongside Felix, staring down the length of track. Munificently, Felix glanced at her, and then turned away to tug at his glove. When the train pulled into the station, Felix allowed the redhead to mount the steps before him, glancing magnanimously at her legs when the skirt rode up over her nylons as she climbed the steps. He then politely shouldered a fellow commuter aside and, Daily News tucked securely under left arm, went into the car and found himself a seat near the rear. He was lighting a Parliament when Larry Cole came into the car, looked around for a moment, and then walked back to sit beside him.

Felix very rarely said hello to anyone first. He waited.

“Hi,” Larry said. “Haven’t seen you in a long time.”

“Well, you know,” Felix answered. “Busy, busy.”

“Oh, sure. I understand you’re coming over to our place this Saturday night.”

“Is that right?” Felix asked.

“Didn’t Betty tell you?”

“Must have slipped her mind.”

“Well, you are,” Larry said.

“My pleasure,” Felix answered. “Cigarette?” He extended the package to Larry.

“Thanks, I’ll have one of my own.”

“These cost a few cents more,” Felix said, even before he saw Larry’s cigarettes, “but they’re worth it.”

“I guess you get into the habit of smoking one brand, and that’s it,” Larry said, shaking a cigarette free and lighting it.

“Oh, indubitably,” Felix said, and then translated it for Larry. “Without doubt, without doubt.”

“Not too crowded this morning,” Larry said.

“It hasn’t been too bad lately,” Felix said. “They’ve added several cars. Of course, you don’t have to do this very often, anyway. I imagine it’s immaterial to you.”

“Well, I like a seat no matter how few times I go in.”

They were silent for a few moments.

“Something important?” Felix asked. “In the city?”

“The firm that sent me to Puerto Rico,” Larry said. “I told you about that, didn’t I? On the train, in fact, I think it was.”

“Yes, I seem to recall,” Felix said, remembering instantly.

“They want to see me again.”

“What about?”

“I don’t know. Probably the recommendations I made. They’re probably ready to start work on the scheme.”

“Must be interesting work,” Felix said. “Designing the buildings, and the grounds, and the... landscaping.”

“Oh, yes, it certainly is. I love it.”

Felix cleared his throat. “I hear you’re designing a house for Roger Altar.”

“Designed already,” Larry said. “We’ll be pouring the foundation as soon as the snow is gone.”

“Why would you want to design a house for him?”

“What?” Larry said. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard you corr—”

Clearly and emphatically, Felix said, “Why would you want to design a house for him?”

“Yes, that’s what I thought you...” Larry paused. “Well, why not?”

“I’m only a butcher, you understand,” Felix said, making it sound as if he were saying, “I’m only a noted brain surgeon, you understand.” He raised his eyebrows. “But do you think Altar is a good writer?”

“Yes,” Larry said.

“Well, I’m only a butcher.”

Both men fell silent again.

“But,” Felix went on at last, “I think he stinks, if you’ll excuse the plain English.”

“Every man’s entitled to his opinion,” Larry said, shrugging.

“Certainly. I prefer the purists myself.”

“Like who?”

“Like James Jones,” Felix said. He paused. “Will you be seeing Altar again soon?”

“I imagine so.”

“Tell him I don’t like his books, would you? Tell him for me. Tell him Felix Anders thinks he stinks. Do me that favor.”

“I’ll introduce you. I’m sure you’d rather tell him yourself.”

“No need to do that,” Felix said. “Just pass my message on.” He paused. “How much does he get for each of those books?” Felix asked.

“I don’t know.”

“A good chunk, I’ll bet.”

“Oh, indubitably,” Larry said. “Without doubt, without doubt.”

“Stealing,” Felix said, and then let the matter drop. “This party Saturday night?”

“Yes?”

“A lot of people?”

“Thirteen, I think.”

“Anyone I know?”

“All from the development,” Larry said. “I’m sure you’ll know some of them.”

Felix seemed to be debating whether or not it was worth while continuing the conversation. At last, he made up his mind, opened the Daily News , and said to Larry, “Do you want a part of this paper?”

“Thanks,” Larry said. “I’ll just sit and smoke.”

Felix shrugged his shoulders and turned to Dick Tracy.

There was a tray of pencils on Harry Baxter’s desk. Not all of the pencils in the tray were sharpened, the way an idle executive’s pencils are always sharpened in readiness for the next master stroke. Some of the pencils were stubs. All of them had been chewed so that their yellow stems were ragged and splintery. Larry glanced at them and knew at once that Baxter was a working-man.

A ludicrous figure in pencil-striped trousers and white shirt, Baxter rose the moment Larry entered the office. His tie was pulled down, the shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal thick arms. He crossed the room with his hand extended, and he took Larry’s fingers in a firm grip.

“Did you drive in?” he asked.

“No, I took the train, Mr. Baxter.”

“Call me Harry. Please.” Baxter smiled. “I was just going to have some coffee. Will you join me?”

“I’d love some.”

“Cream? Sugar?”