“By the time I was in a position to explain it,” he said, “you were in no condition to hear it.”
“Thanks to you,” I said.
I was careful to add a laugh. An apologetic little titter, anyway. This was 1930, you must remember. Benny Kramer never allowed himself to forget.
“Believe me,” Roon said, “it was unintentional. The situation is a bit ridiculous. I’m surprised Mr. Bern didn’t explain it to you. He helped arrange it, you see. My uncle, the I. G. Roon who is I. G. Roon, Ltd., as it were, is a very shrewed man, as I think you will probably have suspected from your brief meeting. A number of years ago he contracted for an insurance policy that says if he is physically incapacitated, and can no longer go to his office, he is to receive a monthly indemnity from the insurance company. Well, a few months ago my uncle did in fact suffer a heart attack. I don’t know how severe it was, but he decided it was severe enough to keep him from going to the office, and he filed his claim. The insurance company was understandably annoyed because the monthly indemnity payments they had contracted to pay are rather large. My uncle sent for me to come over from England. My father is his brother. He installed me in his office in which he no longer sets foot, but I do meet him for lunch every day in some restaurant like Shane’s. The insurance company suspects that my uncle and I do more than consume a few potables and some comestibles at these lunches. In fact, they strongly suspect my uncle is continuing to conduct his business affairs through me.”
He laughed again.
“I shouldn’t be at all surprised, you know, but the insurance company has to prove it, and so they’ve got my uncle under constant surveillance. We had a near thing the day before you accompanied me to Shane’s. I made the mistake of pulling a bill of lading from my pocket at the lunch table, and the detective saw it. So the next day, yesterday, I thought I’d ask you along as a sort of cover, you might say. I hope you didn’t mind too much?”
I thought of the gutted venison hanging outside the restaurant door. Well, perhaps some other time. I was still working on ham sandwiches and bacon and eggs.
“That man who came over to the table?” I said. “Mr. O’Casey? He was a detective?”
“One of several my uncle and I have come to know.”
“Well,” I said.
It did not seem an adequate reply, but I could think of nothing else.
“If you have a date,” Roon said, “why don’t you just buzz along?”
“But what about you?” I said.
He pulled over the bundle of “turning” and started snipping at the rectangles of silk with his scissors.
“Oh, you mustn’t mind me,” he said cheerfully. “If you’ll just explain to your mother that I’d enjoy staying here for a bit and helping her, I’ll be very happy.”
“You sure?” I said.
“Oh yes, quite,” Sebastian Roon said.
While I explained this odd development to my mother, I noticed the way she was looking at Roon. With suspicion, of course. She never really trusted anybody. But also with something I had noticed on other occasions: interest. My mother had always had an eye for a good-looking man. I looked back at Roon. Ramon Novarro? No. But not Louis Wolheim, either. He was attractive.
“My mother says fine, if you want to stay,” I said. “I’m sorry that I can’t. I’ve got this date, see?”
“Of course I see,” Sebastian Roon said. “And of course I want to stay.” He smiled at my mother, then looked around the small room. “It’s very much like our scullery in Blackpool,” he said.
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Copyright © 1971 by Jerome Weidman
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