One of Us Is Wrong

by Samuel Holt

  “I have a seat on the one p.m. flight back.”

  That startled her. “Today?”

  “The only reason I have to be here is to be questioned by the other guy’s lawyer.” I looked at my watch. “Forty minutes from now.”

  “Where?”

  “Graybar Building, next to Grand Central.”

  “We’ll get you there,” she promised. “If we needed you, could you stick around a little longer, a few more days?”

  “If absolutely necessary,” I said. “But I’d rather not.”

  She nodded, and finally glanced at Clifford, who closed up his notebook. Shanley said to me, “If you don’t mind, while I make a couple phone calls, I’d like you to go over the house with Clifford, see if anything’s been taken or tampered with.”

  “I haven’t noticed anything missing.”

  “Or tampered with,” she repeated. “This floor and your office are clean, but we don’t know what those clowns had in mind, do we? Maybe all they wanted was to rig a booby trap somewhere.”

  “Oh.” That hadn’t occurred to me.

  “So let Clifford open everything first, all right?”

  “Absolutely,” I said.

  Clifford rose, so I rose. Shanley said, “Okay if I use your phone?”

  “Of course.”

  Clifford led the way out of the room and up. We started at the top of the house and worked our way down, Clifford being brief but efficient. On the way up he’d murmured, “I used to like your show,” and I’d said, “Thank you,” but that was the extent of our chitchat. And from top lumber room to bottom lap pool, we found nothing. The mess the invaders had made on the ground floor, the few drops of blood from the dying man (who’d done most of his bleeding internally); that was it.

  Shanley was off the phone when we met her again in the living room, Clifford looking at her and shaking his head. Shanley said to me, “You got a limo coming?”

  “I was planning to grab a taxi over on Sixth.”

  “We’ll drive you,” she said.

  “Thank you.”

  “That way we can talk in the car and you won’t be late.” She gave me an opaque look and a flat smile. “And if anything occurs to you,” she said, “we’ll be right there.”

  28

  Shanley knew something was wrong, that was clear enough. I could tell she believed I was probably in a position to give her more than I had, but she didn’t push it. They had other lines they could work from; the corpse of the one invader, whatever fingerprints the others might have left behind, whatever trail through backyards and other buildings they’d made in their getaway, whatever witnesses might come forward who’d seen them either coming or going. She didn’t have a handle on my back, and she knew it, so she wouldn’t waste time or embarrass herself by trying to get me to tell her things I apparently wanted to keep to myself.

  But if she ever did get a handle on my back, I could expect Sergeant Maureen Shanley to give it one hell of a yank. That was understood.

  Their car was a battered and rusty pale green Plymouth Fury, unmarked on the outside but with police radio and other equipment on the inside, including a red flasher that could be suction-cupped to the roof when needed. It wasn’t needed this time, we making good time up Madison Avenue and around Forty-sixth Street to Lexington and down to the Graybar Building. The sky was dirty white with unfallen snow, but the streets were mostly clean. Shanley drove, with me beside her and the silent Clifford in back, and she assured me they’d keep a policeman on the door of my house until my guy Walter had come to repair the damage.

  Both sets of lawyers, mine and the comic book people’s, had offices in the Graybar, my guy Morton Adler on the twenty-third floor and their firm on twenty-nine. I met Morton in his office, and while we waited for an elevator I told him about the attack on my house during my absence last night and the cops’ suspicion that the comic book people might have been behind it. Morton expressed amusement his usual way, by smiling shyly at the floor and nodding several times, and then the elevator came and we joined the three widely various people already in it, and rode on up.

  Morton, a short and stocky man in his mid-fifties, with a neat round head crosshatched by thin but still black hair, looks mostly like a social science professor in a college somewhere within the city; maybe in Brooklyn. He moves slowly, and reacts thoughtfully, and knows an astonishing number of things. He doesn’t have the smoothness and easy affability of Oscar Cooperman, my lawyer out on the Coast, but New York doesn’t much prize smoothness and affability anyway; a combination of traditional learning and quick street smarts is the winner here, and Morton has it.

  Coming out of the elevator on twenty-nine, Morton said to me, “Slip that in.”

  “What?”

  “The police suspicion,” he said as we walked down the corridor. “Don’t make a major point of it, and don’t act at all as though you thought there was anything to it. Just slip the story into one of your answers, that your house was broken into last night, there was gunplay with the police, one fellow’s dead, and the police took a great interest in our lawsuit.” He nodded at the floor, chuckling to himself. “They’ll become very nervous,” he said.

  “But they didn’t do it,” I pointed out. “They’re innocent.”

  “That’s why they’ll be nervous,” he told me. “They won’t have the first idea how to deal with innocence.”

  29

  It did make them nervous, too, and was probably responsible for the proceeding being rather shorter than anticipated. The company’s legal position was that PACKARD was no longer a commercially active property but had fallen into a commonality of use, like cartoon characters based on W. C. Fields or a trench-coated Humphrey Bogart, or like that ubiquitous smile face in a yellow circle that shows up everywhere. Our contention was that PACKARD was still actively in syndication and earning profits for its owners—including me—whose income would be put at risk if we didn’t protect our rights.

  As to PACKARD being a moribund creation, my job was to testify that I was still identified in the public mind with the character—God help me, that was true enough—and that it was still potentially a current vehicle. Furthering that idea, I somewhat unfairly brought out Danny Silvermine’s scripts, explaining the idea of presenting them as dinner theater without expressly stating that I intended to do any such thing. This item pleased Morton and distressed the opposition almost as much as the invasion of my house, and when the two attorneys questioning me—decent, methodical men, doing their mundane nit-picking job—decided they’d had enough, Morton chuckled his way down the corridor from their offices, nodding at the floor, and saying, “A very nice touch, those little plays. Brilliant idea.”

  “They happen to be legit,” I told him. “Though I’m probably not going to do them.”

  Slowly, he shook his head at me, an elfin sparkle in his eyes. “Sam, Sam,” he said. “Why don’t you let me go on thinking of you as brilliant?”

  “Because I wouldn’t be able to maintain it,” I said. Ralph and the limo were not due to pick me up until eleven forty-five, an hour away, so Morton suggested we go down to the bar in Grand Central for a celebratory bloody Mary, since he now believed the opposition’s attorneys would soon convince their clients to settle the case instantly, before it cost them any more wasted dollars. I said that sounded like a fine idea.

  We had to stop by Morton’s office first, for him to touch base with his secretary, and while we were there I said, “Morton, I bet you could help me with something.”

  “Something new?”

  “Very new. I want to know if there’s actually an emirate along the Arabian Gulf called Dharak, and if so, is there a Minister of Justice there named Hassan Tabari. And if both exist, what do we know about them.”

  He gave me a puzzled look. “I cannot begin to think of a context for you in which such a question would arise.”

  “And yet, there it is.”

  He studied me a few seconds longer, realized I didn’
t intend to explain my interest, shrugged his acceptance, and said, “Well, come in, let’s see what we can find out.”

  Morton is one of four partners in this small but good firm, and he won the Sloppiest Office award for so many years in a row, it was finally retired; or maybe it’s in his office somewhere, under something. Now, while he went nodding and thinking to sit behind his desk, I removed from a chair three newspapers, a law book, some mail, and two copies of a contract, put them atop the mountain of stuff already on the library table, and sat.

  “Well,” Morton said slowly, tapping his cheek, “there is one fellow I know. I know him socially, his summer place is up near mine, in Danbury. Near Danbury. He’s South African, something with the United Nations, employed there, I think in public relations. He might be our man.”

  “I knew you’d know somebody.”

  “Let’s not be hasty,” he warned me, and turned to brood briefly at the telephone. He can be maddeningly slow, Morton, but eventually it all works out. Now, having assured himself that he remembered what a telephone was for and that he knew how to operate it, he reached forward to lift the receiver. Punching out the number, he leaned back in his swivel chair and studied me owlishly over the receiver while he waited, finally saying, “Tony Georgens, please.” Then he waited again, nodding, looking at me, tapping his desktop with his free hand. This was a longer wait, and then he said the same thing again, “Tony Georgens, please,” this time adding, a few seconds later, “Morton Adler.” A short wait and he said, “Tony? Morton here. I’m fine, thanks. Tony, I have an old friend in my office who has a question you just might be the man to answer. His name is Sam Holt. Yes, that’s the one, I’ll put him on.”

  So saying, Morton leaned forward, extending the receiver to me, the coiled cord sweeping a small avalanche of papers to the floor. While Morton clucked at himself and went down on hands and knees to rescue it all, I said into the phone, “Mr. Georgens?”

  “I was a huge fan of PACKARD,” said an English-accented voice. “One of the very few intelligent shows on the air. I was devastated when it went off.”

  “Well, thank you very much.”

  “I don’t suppose you were, though,” he said. “Time to go on to other things, eh?”

  You bet; and past time. “That was mostly it,” I agreed.

  “How can I help you?”

  Red-faced from effort, Morton was getting off his knees and back into his swivel chair, papers rescued. I said into the phone, “I understand there’s an Arab country called Dharak.”

  “Ah, yes,” he said. “One of the non-crucial Trucials.”

  “Their Minister of Justice is, I believe, called Hassan Tabari.”

  “If you say so.”

  “You wouldn’t know him.”

  “I wouldn’t know anyone on the domestic side. I do know their fellow at the U.N., not very well.”

  “Well, uh . . .”1 didn’t know exactly how to present the problem. “What kind of country is it?”

  “Dry, I expect,” he said. “Sandy. Small. I’m not sure what your question is.”

  “Neither am I, I guess. I think I want to know, well, their politics?”

  “They are Arabs,” he said, “and OPEC members. They are anti-Israel but pro-Western. Essentially, they link themselves with Kuwait more than with anybody else.”

  “So they’re— What is it called? Moderates.”

  “Ahhh,” he said as though this were a very prickly word indeed I’d just sent down the telephone line to him. “Moderates. Within the Arab context, yes. They are opposed to the fundamentalists in Lebanon and Iran and Libya and so forth. They like western movies and western clothing. On the other hand, they still have public whippings for various crimes, their women are limited to being household objects, and they haven’t forsworn the clitorectomy.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I think I have the picture. Thanks a lot.”

  “Any time,” he assured me. “And when you come out with a new series or a movie or whatever you’re doing, be sure to tell Morton, so he can alert me.”

  “I definitely will,” I promised, and hung up, and said to Morton, “A nice fellow.”

  He nodded. “Why,” he asked me, “don’t you want to tell me the reason for your interest?”

  I looked at my watch. “My driver will be here in fifty minutes,” I said.

  He sighed, shook his head, got to his feet, then paused to frown at me again. “Just promise me one thing,” he said.

  “If I can.”

  “That it isn’t love,” he said. “Promise me you aren’t considering running off with this Minister of Justice’s daughter or some such thing.”

  Laughing in surprise, I said, “That much I can promise. And now, come on, I need that drink. I just found out my lawyer is a romantic.”

  30

  A nice young girl in the airline’s blazer was about to preboard me, when my name was paged on the public address system. “Pick up the white courtesy telephone, please.” I said to the airline girl, “That’s me. Where’s the white courtesy telephone?”

  “Over here.”

  It was behind the check-in station, mounted on the wall next to a fire extinguisher in a little niche behind glass. I picked it up, listened to buzzing and a click, and then a female voice said, “May I help you?”

  “I think so,” I said. “I’m Sam Holt, you just paged me.

  “One moment, please.”

  I waited. Beside me, the airline girl’s smile was losing some of its crease; she looked at her watch, then pretended she hadn’t. So far I was still a preboarder, and the regular boarding was being held up.

  The same voice came back. “There’s a phone call for you from Los Angeles. The gentleman is named Ross Ferguson. Will you talk with him?’’

  Ross? What was so urgent? What was happening? “Yes, I will,” I said.

  “Hold on, please, we’ll switch him. If nothing happens in a minute or two, hang up, and we’ll call you back at that station when we’ve reconnected.’’

  How perilous she made it all sound. “That’s what I’ll do,’’ I agreed, and there was a click and silence. I turned to the airline girl, saying, “This is a phone call from L.A. Maybe you shouldn’t wait for me.’’

  Which gave her an opportunity to look overtly at her watch. “No, that’s fine, Mr. Holt,’’ she said. “We still have plenty of time. When your call is done—’’

  Ross’s voice said in my ear, “Hello? Sam?’’

  “I’ll be over there by the door.’’

  “Fine. Thanks.’’ The girl walked away, and I said into the phone, “Ross? What’s up?’’

  “Listen, Sam,’’ he said. He sounded tense but zapped up, convincing himself he was on top of things. What he was on top of, in fact, was the tiger. He said, “There’s a question here.’’

  “Yeah?’’ His friends had a question, was that what he meant?

  He said, “When you flew back there yesterday, uh, who was in the seat beside you?’’

  “Why?’’

  “Sam, do you mind? Is it a big secret, for Christ’s sake?’’

  His control was beginning to crack. “I’m wondering the same thing myself,” I told him. “He said his name was Hassan Tabari, and he’s supposed to be Minister of Justice in someplace called Dharak.”

  “How come he was in that seat?”

  “Why don’t you ask your pals? I think the thing was a set-up, but I don’t know what the hell for."

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Not much, that’s why I can’t figure out why he wanted to be there. He mostly read magazines, did the whole puzzle in The Atlantic. He told me he’d been talking with the L.A. police about a couple of his countrymen—what would they be, Dharakians?”

  “Who gives a shit, Sam? What about them?”

  “He said they’d been charged with bank robbery in L.A., and the reason he went out there was to find out if it connected with anything at home. He said it didn’t. And he was coming to Ne
w York to talk with his guy at the U.N., I don’t know about what.”

  “Why do you say it was a set-up?”

  “They preboarded me. In fact, Ross, these people here would very much like to preboard me now, so if you could figure out why you’re calling, I’d appreciate it. Anyway, they preboarded me, and he was already there, ahead of everybody. When it turned out he was an Arab from some dinky little Gulf state, I figured it had to be connected with your buddies somehow. Why, what’s happening? A falling out among the troops?”

  “Sam, you just don’t know the situation here.”

  “That’s true. I wish I did know it. Is there anything else?”

  “Hold on.”

  The lion tamer went off to get instructions from his lions. I smiled across at the airline girl, giving her an encouraging nod and holding up one finger: just one minute more. She smiled back, also nodding, letting me know everything was just fine and she’d really appreciate it if I’d get my ass in gear.

  “Thanks, Sam.” Ross again. “Have a nice flight.”

  “You too,” I said, but he was gone.

  31

  Who was Tabari? I brooded that question most of the flight back. I had no seatmate at all this time, so I sprawled my legs over the entire area, ignored the movie, picked at the lunch, drank a lot of club soda, and tried to fit Tabari into the picture.

  Ross had told me the Barq people represented a Middle East nation, that they were there in his house because it would give them access to a place where a person would be that they meant to kidnap and take back home for a show trial. Maybe that was the truth, or maybe Ross just thought it was the truth, or maybe Ross was lying to me and the scheme was something else entirely. But if it were true, would the Middle East nation be Dharak? And was Tabari a part of the scheme, or was he allied with the person they meant to kidnap? A Minister of Justice would be very involved in a major political show trial.

  But would a “moderate” nation engage in murder quite as casually as these people? Even if in many ways Dharak was a backward and brutal country, the description Morton’s friend had given me just didn’t fit the style of Ross’s companions.