What's So Funny

by Donald Westlake

  “That’s right,” she said. “I’ve always been fascinated by history, and this was history with my own family in it, the First World War and invading Russia and all the rest of it. So I took down the names of everybody in that platoon that brought the chess set to America, and the other names, like the radio company they wanted to start, Chess King Broadcasting, and everything else I thought might be useful, and I Googled it all.”

  Dortmunder had heard of this; some other nosey parker way to mind everybody else’s business. He preferred a world in which people stuck to their own knitting, but that world was long gone. He said, “You found some of these people on Google.”

  “And I looked for brand names with chess words,” she said, “because why wouldn’t Alfred Northwood use that kind of name, too? A lot of the stuff I found was all dead ends, but I’m used to research, so I kept going, and then I found Gold Castle Realty, founded right here in New York in 1921, and then it turned out they were the builders of the Castlewood Building in 1948. So I looked into Gold Castle’s owners and board of directors, and there’s Northwoods all over it.”

  “The sons,” Dortmunder said.

  “And daughters. But mostly now grandsons and granddaughters. It had to be the same Northwood, came here from Chicago when he stole the chess set, used it to raise the money to start in real estate, and became hugely successful. They are very big in New York property, Mr. Dortmunder. Not as famous as some others, because they don’t want to be, but very big.”

  “That’s nice,” Dortmunder said. “So they’ve got this chess set, I guess.”

  “Well, here’s where it gets even better,” she said, and she so liked this part she couldn’t stop grinning. “The original Alfred X. Northwood,” she said, “married into a wealthy New York family —”

  “Things kinda went his way.”

  “His entire life. He died rich and respectable, loved and admired by the world. You should see the obit in the Times. Anyway, he died in 1955, aged seventy, and left six children, and they grew up and made more children, and now there are seventeen claimants to Gold Castle Realty.”

  “Claimants,” Dortmunder said.

  “The heirs are all suing each other,” she said. “It’s very vicious, they all hate each other, but every court they go into they get gag orders, so there’s nothing public about this information at all.”

  “But you got it,” Dortmunder said, wishing she’d quit having fun and just tell him where the damn chess set was.

  “In my researches,” she said, “I came across inklings of some of the lawsuits, and then it turned out this firm represents Livia Northwood Wheeler, Alfred’s youngest daughter, who’s suing everybody in the family, no partners on her side at all.” Leaning closer to him over the conference table, she said, “Isn’t that delicious? I’m looking for the Northwoods, and everything you could possibly want to know about their business for the last eighty years is in files in these offices. Oh, I’ve done a lot of after–hours work, Mr. Dortmunder, I can assure you.”

  “I’m sure you have,” Dortmunder said. “Now, about this chess set.”

  “It used to be,” she said, “on display in a bulletproof glass case in the corporate offices of Gold Castle Realty in their thirty–eighth floor lobby of the Castlewood Building. But it is an extremely valuable family asset, and it is being violently fought over, so three years ago it was removed to be held by several of the law firms representing family members. Four of these firms are in this building. For the last three years, the chess set has been held in the vaults in the sub–basement right here, in the C&I International bank corporation vault. Isn’t that wonderful? What do you think, Mr. Dortmunder?”

  “I think I’m going back to jail,” Dortmunder said.

  Chapter 8

  * * *

  She blinked. “I’m sorry?”

  “Don’t you be sorry,” he said. “I’ll be sorry for both of us.”

  “I don’t understand,” she admitted. “What’s wrong?”

  “I know about banks,” he told her. “When it comes to money, they are very serious. They got no sense of humor at all. You ever been down to this vault?”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “I’m not authorized.”

  “There it is right there,” he said. “Do you know anybody is authorized?”

  “The partners, I suppose.”

  “Feinberg and them.”

  “Well, Mr. Feinberg isn’t alive any more, but the other partners, yes.”

  “So if — Wait a minute. Feinberg’s name is there, head of the crowd, and he’s dead?”

  “Oh, that’s very common,” she said. “There are firms, and not just law firms either, where not one person in the firm name is still alive.”

  “Saves on new letterhead, I guess.”

  “I think it’s reputation,” she said. “If a firm suddenly had different names, then it wouldn’t be the same firm any more, and it wouldn’t have the reputation any more.”

  Dortmunder was about to ask another question — how a name could sport a reputation without a body behind it — when he realized he was straying widely away from the subject here, so he took a deep breath and said, “This vault.”

  “Yes,” she said, as alert as a dog who’s just seen you pick up a ball.

  He said, “Do you know what it looks like? Do you know how you get there? Does it have its own elevator?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I suppose it could.”

  “So do I. These partners that can get down there, can you talk to them about this? Ask ‘em what it’s like?”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “I’ve hardly ever even seen one of the partners.”

  “The living ones, you mean.”

  “Wait,” she said. “Let me show you something.” And she stood, went over to the construction that contained everything, and came back with a sheet of paper. She slid it across the table to him and it was the company’s letterhead stationery. Pointing, she said, “These names across the top, that’s the name of the firm.”

  “Yeah, I got that. All the way to Klatsch.”

  “Exactly. Now these names down the left side, those are the actual current partners and associates.”

  “The ones that are alive.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  He looked, and the names were not in alphabetical order, so they must be in order of how important you were. “You’re not here,” he said.

  “Oh, no, I’m not — Those are the partners and associates, I’m —” She laughed, in a flustered way, and said, “I’m just a wee beastie.”

  Dortmunder waved a finger at the descending left–hand column. “So these guys —”

  “And women.”

  “Right. They’re the ones can go down to the vault, if they got business there.”

  “Well, the top ones, yes.”

  “So not even all of them.” Dortmunder was trying not to be exasperated with this well–meaning young person, but with all the troubles he now found staring him in the face it was hard. “So tell me,” he said, “this chess set being down there in that vault, how is this good news?”

  “Well, we know where it is,” she said. “For all those years, nobody knew where it was, nobody knew what happened to it. Now we know.”

  “And you love history.”

  Sounding confused, she said, “Yes, I do.”

  “So just knowing where the thing is, that’s good enough for you.”

  “I … I suppose so.”

  “Your grandfather would like to get his hands on it.”

  “Oh, we’d all like that,” she said. “Naturally we would.”

  “Your grandfather hired himself an ex–cop to help him get it,” Dortmunder told her, “and the ex–cop fixed me up with a burglary charge if I don’t bring it back with me.”

  “If you don’t bring it back?” Her bewilderment was getting worse. “Where’s the burglary if you don’t bring it back?”

  “A different burglary,” he explained. “An in
–the–past burglary.”

  “Oh!” She looked horribly embarrassed, as though she’d stumbled upon something she wasn’t supposed to see.

  “So the idea was,” he told her, “I come here and you tell me where the chess set is, and I go there and get it and give it to your grandfather, and his ex–cop lets me off the hook.”

  “I see.”

  “This vault under this — What is this building, sixty stories?”

  “I think so, something like that.”

  “So this vault way down under this sixty–story building, probably with its own elevator, with a special guest list that your name has to be on it or you don’t even get to board the elevator, in a building owned by a bank that used to be called Capitalists and Immigrants, two groups of people with really no sense of humor, is not a place I’m likely to walk out of with a chess set I’m told is too heavy for one guy to carry.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, and she sounded as though she really was.

  “I don’t suppose you could get a copy of the building’s plans. The architect plans with the vault and all.”

  “I have no idea,” she said.

  “It would be research.”

  “Yes, but —” She looked extremely doubtful. “I could look into it, I suppose. The problem is, I couldn’t let anybody know what I was looking for.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And I don’t actually see how it could help,” she said. “I mean, I don’t think you could, say, dig a tunnel to the vault. So far as I know, there is no actual dirt under midtown, it’s all sub–basements and water tunnels and steam pipes and sewer lines and subway tunnels.”

  “I believe,” Dortmunder said, “there’s some power lines down in there, too.”

  “Exactly.”

  “It doesn’t look good,” Dortmunder suggested.

  “No, I have to admit.”

  They brooded in silence together a minute, and then she said, “If I’d known, I’d never have told Granddad.”

  “It isn’t him, it’s the ex–cop he hired.”

  “I’m still sorry I told him.”

  Which meant there was nothing more to say. With a deep breath that some might have been called a sigh, he moved his arms preparatory to standing, saying, “Well —”

  “Wait a minute,” she said, and produced both notepad and pen. “Give me a number where I can reach you. Give me your cell.”

  “I don’t have a cell,” he said. But I’m going to, he thought.

  “Your landline, then. You do have a landline, don’t you?”

  “You mean a phone? I got a phone.”

  He gave her the number. Briskly she wrote it down, then said, “And you should have mine,” and handed him a small neat white business card, which he obediently tucked into a shirt pocket. She looked at the landline number he’d given her, as though it somehow certified his existence, then nodded at him and said, “I don’t promise anything, Mr. Dortmunder, but I will do my best to find something that might help.”

  “Good. That’s good.”

  “I’ll call you if I have anything at all.”

  “Yeah, good idea.”

  Now he did stand, and she said, “I’ll show you out.”

  So he tried a joke, just for the hell of it: “That’s okay, I left a trail of breadcrumbs on my way in.”

  She was still looking blank when she shook his hand good–bye at the elevators; so much for jokes.

  Riding down, alone this trip, he thought his best move now was go straight over to Grand Central, take the first train out for Chicago. That’s supposed to be an okay place, not that different from a city. It could even work out. Meet up with some guys there, get plugged in a little, learn all those new neighborhoods. Get settled, then send word to May, she could bring out his winter clothes. Chicago was alleged to be very cold.

  Leaving the C&I International building, he figured it’d be just as quick to walk over to the station when here on the sidewalk is Eppick with a big grin, saying, “So. You got it all worked out, I bet.”

  Chapter 9

  * * *

  “Not entirely,” Dortmunder said.

  “But you’re working on it.”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “And naturally you’ll have to consult with your pals, whoever it is you bring in on the job. Who do you figure you’ll work with this time?”

  Dortmunder looked at him. “You told that grandfather,” he said, “how I learned a few things over the years.”

  “You’re right, you’re right.” Eppick shrugged and grinned, not at all put out, dropping the whole subject. “So let’s take a cab,” he said, and crossed the sidewalk to the curb.

  Helpless, Dortmunder followed. “Where we taking it?”

  Eppick’s arm was up now, but he didn’t bother to watch oncoming traffic, instead continuing his cheerful grin at Dortmunder as he said, “Mr. Hemlow wants to see you.”

  “He already saw me.”

  “Well, now he’s gonna see you again,” Eppick said, as a cab pulled to a stop in their general neighborhood. Eppick opened its door, saying, “Hop in, I’ll tell you about it.”

  So Dortmunder hopped in and slid across the seat so Eppick could follow. Eppick slammed the door and told the turbaned driver, “Two–eleven Riverside Drive.”

  Dortmunder said, “Not your office.”

  “Mr. Hemlow’s place,” Eppick said, as the cab headed west. “Mr. Hemlow’s a distinguished man, you know.”

  “I don’t know anything about him.”

  “He’s retired now,” Eppick said, “mostly because of this illness he’s got. He used to be a chemist, invented a couple things, started a couple businesses, got very rich, sold the stuff off, gives millions away to charity.”

  “Pretty good,” Dortmunder said.

  “The point is,” Eppick told him, “Mr. Hemlow isn’t used to being around roughnecks. He didn’t know how he was gonna take to you, so that’s why the first meeting was at my place. We knew we’d have to check in with you again after you saw the granddaughter, but Mr. Hemlow decided you were okay, or okay enough, and it isn’t easy for him to get around town, so this time we’re going to his place.”

  “I guess I’m honored,” Dortmunder said.

  “You’ll be honored,” Eppick told him, “when Mr. Hemlow’s got the chess set.”

  It was a narrow stone building, ten stories high, midblock, taller wider buildings on both sides. The windows were all very elaborate, which made sense, because they faced a tree–dotted park sloping down toward the Hudson, with the West Side Highway and its traffic a sketched–in border between grass and water and New Jersey across the way looking good at this distance.

  Eppick paid and they got out of the cab and went up the two broad stone steps to where a dark green–uniformed doorman held the big brass–fitted door open for them and said, “Yes, gentlemen?”

  “Mr. Hemlow. I’m Mr. Eppick.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The lobby was small and dark and looked like a carpet salesroom in a mausoleum. Dortmunder and Eppick waited while the doorman made his call, then said, “You may go up.”

  “Thanks.”

  The elevator had an operator, in a uniform from the same army as the doorman, although Dortmunder noticed there weren’t any operator type controls, just the same buttons that in other elevators the customer has to figure out how to push all by himself. But here the operator did it, and by looming over the panel in a very stiff manner he made sure nobody else got close to the buttons.

  “Floor, sir?”

  “Mr. Hemlow, penthouse.”

  “Sir.”

  The operator pushed P and up they went, and at the top the operator held Door Open while they exited, so he was either being very conscientious or he was hoping nobody’d notice he wasn’t actually required.

  Apparently Mr. Hemlow had the entire top floor, because the elevator opened onto his living room, a broad muted space with a wall of large old–fashioned windows ov
erlooking the river but too high up to show the park or the highway. Mr. Hemlow himself waited for them in his wheelchair, and said, “Well, Johnny, from the smile on your face, things are going well.”

  “Oh, they are, Mr. Hemlow,” Eppick assured him. “But mostly I’m smiling because I just love this room. Every time I see it.”

  “My late wife thanks you,” Mr. Hemlow said, a little grimly. “It’s all her taste. Come along and sit down.” And his motorized wheelchair spun around in place and took off at a pretty good clip, which was probably why he didn’t have any rugs on the nice hardwood floor.