At the other counter, still fumbling with his displays and wicker hamper, the salesman said, “We can make pieces to order. Custom made. If any of your customers have their own ideas.” His voice had a strangled quality; he cleared his throat, gazing at Childan and then down at a piece of jewelry which he held. He did not know how to leave, evidently.
Childan smiled and said nothing.
Not my responsibility. His, to get himself back out of here. Place saved or no.
Tough, such discomfort. But he doesn’t have to be salesman. We all suffer in this life. Look at me. Taking it all day from Japs such as Mr. Tagomi. By merest inflection manage to rub my nose in it, make my life miserable.
And then an idea occurred to him. Fellow’s obviously not experienced. Look at him. Maybe I can get some stuff on consignment. Worth a try.
“Hey,” Childan said.
The man glanced up swiftly, fastened his gaze.
Advancing toward him, his arms still folded, Childan said, “Looks like a quiet half hour, here. No promises, but you can lay some of those things out. Clear back those racks of ties.” He pointed.
Nodding, the man began to clear himself a space on the top of the counter. He reopened his hamper, once more fumbled with the velvet trays.
He’ll lay everything out, Childan knew, Arrange it painstakingly for the next hour. Fuss and adjust until he’s got it all set up. Hoping. Praying. Watching me out of the corner of his eye every second. To see if I’m taking any interest. Any at all.
“When you have it out,” Childan said, “if I’m not too busy I’ll take a look.”
The man worked feverishly, as if he had been stung.
Several customers entered the store then, and Childan greeted them. He turned his attention to them and their wishes, and forgot the salesman laboring over his display. The salesman, recognizing the situation, became stealthy in his movements; he made himself inconspicuous. Childan sold a shaving mug, almost sold a hand-hooked rug, took a deposit on an afghan. Time passed. At last the customers left. Once more the store was empty except for himself and the salesman.
The salesman had finished. His entire selection of jewelry lay arranged on the black velvet on the surface of the counter.
Going leisurely over, Robert Childan lit a Land-O-Smiles and stood rocking back and forth on his heels, humming beneath his breath. The salesman stood silently. Neither spoke.
At last Childan reached out and pointed at a pin. “I like that.”
The salesman said in a rapid voice, “That’s a good one. You won’t find any wire brush scratches. All rouge-finished. And it won’t tarnish. We have a plastic lacquer sprayed on them that’ll last for years. It’s the best industrial lacquer available.”
Childan nodded slightly.
“What we’ve done here,” the salesman said, “is to adapt tried and proven industrial techniques to jewelry making. As far as I know, nobody has ever done it before. No molds. All metal to metal. Welding and brazing.” He paused. “The backs are hand-soldered.”
Childan picked up two bracelets. Then a pin. Then another pin. He held them for a moment, then set them off to one side.
The salesman’s face twitched. Hope.
Examining the price tag on a necklace, Childan said, “Is this—”
“Retail. Your price is fifty percent of that. And if you buy say around a hundred dollars or so, we give you an additional two percent.”
One by one Childan laid several pieces aside. With each additional one, the salesman became more agitated; he talked faster and faster, finally repeating himself, even saying meaningless foolish things, all in an undertone and very urgently. He really thinks he’s going to sell, Childan knew. By his own expression he showed nothing; he went on with the game of picking pieces.
“That’s an especially good one,” the salesman was rambling on, as Childan fished out a large pendant and then ceased. “I think you got our best. All our best.” The man laughed. “You really have good taste.” His eyes darted. He was adding in his mind what Childan had chosen. The total of the sale.
Childan said, “Our policy, with untried merchandise, has to be consignment.”
For a few seconds the salesman did not understand. He stopped his talking, but he stared without comprehension.
Childan smiled at him.
“Consignment,” the salesman echoed at last.
“Would you prefer not to leave it?” Childan said.
Stammering, the man finally said, “You mean I leave it and you pay me later on when—”
“You get two-thirds of the proceeds. When the pieces sell. That way you make much more. You have to wait, of course, but—” Childan shrugged. “It’s up to you. I can give it some window display, possibly. And if it moves, then possibly later on, in a month or so, with the next order—well, we might see our way clear to buy some outright.”
The salesman had now spent well over an hour showing his wares, Childan realized. And he had everything out. All his displays disarranged and dismantled. Another hour’s work to get it back ready to take somewhere else. There was silence. Neither man spoke.
“Those pieces you put to one side—” the salesman said in a low voice. “They’re the ones you want?”
“Yes. I’ll let you leave them all.” Childan strolled over to his office in the rear of the store. “I’ll write up a tag. So you’ll have a record of what you’ve left with me.” As he came back with his tag book he added, “You understand that when merchandise is left on a consignment basis the store doesn’t assume liability in case of theft or damage.” He had a little mimeographed release for the salesman to sign. The store would never have to account for the items left. When the unsold portion was returned, if some could not be located—they must have been stolen, Childan declared to himself. There’s always theft going on in stores. Especially small items like jewelry.
There was no way that Robert Childan could lose. He did not have to pay for this man’s jewelry; he had no investment in this kind of inventory. If any of it sold he made a profit, and if it did not, he simply returned it all—or as much as could be found—to the salesman at some vague later date.
Childan made out the tag, listing the items. He signed it and gave a copy to the salesman. “You can give me a call,” he said, “in a month or so. To find out how it’s been doing.”
Taking the jewelry which he wanted he went off to the back of the store, leaving the salesman to gather up his remaining stuff.
I didn’t think he’d go along with it, he thought. You never know. That’s why it’s always worth trying.
When he next looked up, he saw that the salesman was ready to leave. He had his wicker hamper under his arm and the counter was clear. The salesman was coming toward him, holding something out.
“Yes?” Childan said. He had been going over some correspondence.
“I want to leave our card.” The salesman put down an odd-looking little square of gray and red paper on Childan’s desk. “Edfrank Custom Jewelry. It has our address and phone number. In case you want to get in touch with us.”
Childan nodded, smiled silently, and returned to his work.
When next he paused and looked up the store was empty. The salesman had gone.
Putting a nickel into the wall dispenser, Childan obtained a cup of hot instant tea which he sipped contemplatively.
I wonder if it will sell, he wondered. Very unlikely. But it is well made. And one never sees anything like it. He examined one of the pins. Quite striking design. Certainly not amateurs.
I’ll change the tags. Mark them up a lot higher. Push the handmade angle. And the uniqueness. Custom originals. Small sculptures. Wear a work of art. Exclusive creation on your lapel or wrist.
And there was another notion circulating and growing in the back of Robert Childan’s mind. With these, there’s no problem of authenticity. And that problem may someday wreck the historic American artifacts industry. Not today or tomorrow—but after that, who knows.
&n
bsp; Better not to have all irons in one fire. That visit by that Jewish crook; that might be the harbinger. If I quietly build up a stock of nonhistoric objects, contemporary work with no historicity either real or imagined, I might find I have the edge over the competition. And as long as it isn’t costing me anything . . .
Leaning back his chair so that it rested against the wall he sipped his tea and pondered.
The Moment changes. One must be ready to change with it. Or otherwise left high and dry. Adapt.
The rule of survival, he thought. Keep eye peeled regarding situation around you. Learn its demands. And—meet them. Be there at the right time doing the right thing.
Be yinnish. The Oriental knows. The smart black yinnish eyes . . .
Suddenly he had a good idea; it made him sit upright instantly. Two birds, one stone. Ah. He hopped to his feet, excited. Carefully wrap best of jewelry pieces (removing tag, of course). Pin, pendant, or bracelet. Something nice, anyhow. Then—since have to leave shop, close up at two as it is—saunter over to Kasouras’ apartment building. Mr. Kasouras, Paul, will be at work. However, Mrs. Kasoura, Betty, will very likely be home.
Graft gift, this new original U.S. artwork. Compliments of myself personally, in order to obtain high-place reaction. This is how a new line is introduced. Isn’t it lovely? Whole selection back at store; drop in, etc. This one for you, Betty.
He trembled. Just she and I, midday in the apartment. Husband off at work. All on up and up, however; brilliant pretext.
Airtight!
Getting a small box plus wrapping paper and ribbon, Robert Childan began preparing a gift for Mrs. Kasoura. Dark, attractive woman, slender in her silk Oriental dress, high heels, and so on. Or maybe today blue cotton coolie-style lounging pajamas, very light and comfortable and informal. Ah, he thought.
Or is this too bold? Husband Paul becoming irked. Scenting out and reacting badly. Perhaps go slower; take gift to him, to his office? Give much the same story, but to him. Then let him give gift to her; no suspicion. And, Robert Childan thought, then I give Betty a call on the phone tomorrow or next day to get her reaction.
Even more airtight!
When Frank Frink saw his business partner coming back up the sidewalk he could tell that it had not gone well.
“What happened?” he said, taking the wicker hamper from Ed and putting it in the truck. “Jesus Christ, you were gone an hour and a half. It took him that long to say no?”
Ed said, “He didn’t say no.” He looked tired. He got into the truck and sat.
“What’d he say, then?” Opening the hamper, Frink saw that a good many of the pieces were gone. Many of their best. “He took a lot. What’s the matter, then?”
“Consignment,” Ed said.
“You let him?” He could not believe it. “We talked it over—”
“I don’t know how come.”
“Christ,” Frink said.
“I’m sorry. He acted like he was going to buy it. He picked a lot out. I thought he was buying.”
They sat together silently in the truck for a long time.
10
IT HAD BEEN a terrible two weeks for Mr. Baynes. From his hotel room he had called the Trade Mission every day at noon to ask if the old gentleman had put in an appearance. The answer had been an unvarying no. Mr. Tagomi’s voice had become colder and more formal each day. As Mr. Baynes prepared to make his sixteenth call, he thought, Sooner or later they’ll tell me that Mr. Tagomi is out. That he isn’t accepting any more calls from me. And that will be that.
What has happened? Where is Mr. Yatabe?
He had a fairly good idea. The death of Martin Bormann had caused immediate consternation in Tokyo. Mr. Yatabe no doubt had been en route to San Francisco, a day or so offshore, when new instructions had reached him. Return to the Home Islands for further consultation.
Bad luck, Mr. Baynes realized. Possibly even fatal.
But he had to remain where he was, in San Francisco. Still trying to arrange the meeting for which he had come. Forty-five minutes by Lufthansa rocket from Berlin, and now this. A weird time in which we are alive. We can travel anywhere we want, even to other planets. And for what? To sit day after day, declining in morale and hope. Falling into an interminable ennui. And meanwhile, the others are busy. They are not sitting helplessly waiting.
Mr. Baynes unfolded the midday edition of the Nippon Times and once more read the headlines.
DR. GOEBBELS NAMED REICHS CHANCELLOR
Surprise solution to leadership problem by Partei Committee. Radio speech viewed decisive. Berlin crowds cheer. Statement expected. Goring may be named Police Chief over Heydrich.
He reread the entire article. And then he put the paper once more away, took the phone, and gave the Trade Mission number.
“This is Mr. Baynes. May I have Mr. Tagomi?”
“A moment, sir.”
A very long moment.
“Mr. Tagomi here.”
Mr. Baynes took a deep breath and said, “Forgive this situation depressing to us both, sir—”
“Ah. Mr. Baynes.”
“Your hospitality to me, sir, could not be exceeded. Someday I know you will have understanding of the reasons which cause me to defer our conference until the old gentleman—”
“Regretfully, he has not arrived.”
Mr. Baynes shut his eyes. “I thought maybe since yesterday—”
“Afraid not, sir.” The barest politeness. “If you will excuse me, Mr. Baynes. Pressing business.”
“Good day, sir.”
The phone clicked. Today Mr. Tagomi had rung off without even saying good-bye. Mr. Baynes slowly hung the receiver.
I must take action. Can wait no longer.
It had been made very clear to him by his superiors that he was not to contact the Abwehr under any circumstances. He was simply to wait until he had managed to make connections with the Japanese military representative; he was to confer with the Japanese, and then he was to return to Berlin. But no one had forseen that Bormann would die at this particular moment. Therefore—
The orders had to be superseded. By more practical advice. His own, in this case, since there was no one else to consult.
In the PSA at least ten Abwehr persons were at work, but some of them—and possibly all—were known to the local SD and its competent senior regional chief, Bruno Kreuz vom Meere. Years ago he had met Bruno briefly at a Partei gathering. The man had had a certain infamous prestige in Police circles, inasmuch as it had been he, in 1943, who had uncovered the British-Czech plot on Reinhard Heydrich’s life, and therefore who might be said to have saved the Hangman from assassination. In any case, Bruno Kreuz vom Meere was already then ascending in authority within the SD. He was not a mere police bureaucrat.
He was, in fact, a rather dangerous man.
There was even a possibility that even with all the precautions taken, both on the part of the Abwehr in Berlin and the Tokkoka in Tokyo, the SD had learned of this attempted meeting in San Francisco in the offices of the Ranking Trade Mission. However, this was after all Japanese-administered land. The SD had no official authority to interfere. It could see to it that the German principal—himself in this case—was arrested as soon as he set foot again on Reich territory; but it could hardly take action against the Japanese principal, or against the existence of the meeting itself.
At least, so he hoped.
Was there any possibility that the SD had managed to detain the old Japanese gentleman somewhere along the route? It was a long way from Tokyo to San Francisco, especially for a person so elderly and frail that he could not attempt air travel.
What I must do, Mr. Baynes knew, is find out from those above me whether Mr. Yatabe is still coming. They would know. If the SD had intercepted him or if the Tokyo Government has recalled him—they would know that.
And if they have managed to get to the old gentleman, he realized, they certainly are going to get to me.
Yet the situation even in those circu
mstances was not hopeless. An idea had come to Mr. Baynes as he waited day after day alone in his room at the Abhirati Hotel.
It would be better to give my information to Mr. Tagomi than to return to Berlin empty-handed. At least that way there would be a chance, even if it is rather slight, that ultimately the proper people will be informed. But Mr. Tagomi could only listen; that was the fault in his idea. At best, he could hear, commit to memory, and as soon as possible take a business trip back to the Home Islands. Whereas Mr. Yatabe stood at policy level. He could both hear—and speak.
Still, it was better than nothing. The time was growing too short. To begin all over, to arrange painstakingly, cautiously, over a period of months once again the delicate contact between a faction in Germany and a faction in Japan . . .
It certainly would surprise Mr. Tagomi, he thought acidly. To suddenly find knowledge of that kind resting on his shoulders. A long way from facts about injection molds . . .
Possibly he might have a nervous breakdown. Either blurt out the information to someone around him, or withdraw; pretend, even to himself, that he had not heard it. Simply refuse to believe me. Rise to his feet, bow and excuse himself from the room, the moment I begin.
Indiscreet. He could regard it that way. He is not supposed to hear such matters.
So easy, Mr. Baynes thought. The way out is so immediate, so available, to him. He thought, I wish it was for me.
And yet in the final analysis it is not possible even for Mr. Tagomi. We are no different. He can close his ears to the news as it comes from me, comes in the form of words. But later. When it is not a matter of words. If I can make that clear to him now. Or to whomever I finally speak—
Leaving his hotel room, Mr. Baynes descended by elevator to the lobby. Outside on the sidewalk, he had the doorman call a pedecab for him, and soon he was on his way up Market Street, the Chinese driver pumping away energetically.
“There,” he said to the driver, when he made out the sign which he was watching for. “Pull over to the curb.”
The pedecab stopped by a fire hydrant. Mr. Baynes paid the driver and sent him off. No one seemed to have followed. Mr. Baynes set off along the sidewalk on foot. A moment later, along with several other shoppers, he entered the big downtown Fuga Department Store.
The Man in the High Castle Page 15
