The Girl, the Gold Watch and Everything

by John D. MacDonald

  He thought sourly of all the should-have-done things. Another man, a real man, might well have burst from the couch with a roar of rage at such playful violation of privacy, grasped her, swung her onto the couch and ravished her there, under the stars, a fitting punishment for impertinence. (But maybe that was really what she was asking of him!)

  He wondered what, long ago, had created this incapacity to deal with people like Charla. He looked out at the sea and wondered why he should be afraid of anything, of anyone. The sea went on, and the shore people changed, but there were stars so lasting that the sea itself was smaller than the life of one man in comparison. Compared to the sea, compared to the stars, of what moment was one snatch of the fishwife hand, one small humiliation, on one night, for one man?

  He thought of her hands, small, strong, quite square-looking, beautifully kept, the nails long and curving, the pads of the palms prominent.

  He groaned and snapped his cigarette toward the sea and went to bed.

  Five

  THE EXECUTIVE CONFERENCE ROOM was sixteen stories above the street, with a huge window framing the bay, a segment of causeway and distant pastel confections of hotels out on the beach. The decor was lime and white, and the big round table and the captains’ chairs were lusterless black.

  There were eight men at the table. D. LeRoy Wintermore sat at Kirby’s left. At his right was a square, pale, motionless fellow named Hilton Hibber, representing the trust department of the bank named executor in Omar Krepps’ will. The other five men were Krepps Enterprises executives. They depressed Kirby. They always had. He could not tell them apart. They all had names like Grumby and Groombaw and Gorman. They all had snowy linen, gold accessories and an air of reverence. And they all had big fleshy faces weathered to a look of distinction, perfect governors on television dramas.

  And he had always found their general attitude tiresome. They seemed to resent the frivolity of the decision to have the main offices in Miami. And somehow they had pigeonholed Omar Krepps as being a rather ludicrous eccentric, a little man who complicated their grave chores by hopping around picking up odd bits and pieces of businesses which they then had to fit into the measured structure of empire. And they had never tired of trying to tuck O.K. Devices into the fold. In far countries Kirby had always been getting little multicolored forms with small holes in them and blanks for him to fill out. Uncle Omar had told him to ignore them and he did. But they kept trying, and sometimes they would write him sad scolding letters.

  The middle one called the meeting to order and said, “Let me recap the terms of Mr. Krepps’ will, gentlemen. All the assets of the estate are to be turned over to the Omar Krepps Foundation. Krepps Enterprises will be slowly liquidated over a period of time as its holdings in other corporations are transferred. We five executives of K.E. become officers and directors of the Foundation, in addition to our continuing corporate duties. It has occurred to us, Mr. Winter, that it would be fitting that you should be connected with the Foundation in some active capacity. We are mindful of the fact that Mr. Krepps left you no money in his will. We shall need an executive secretary for the Foundation, and we are prepared to offer you a salary of twenty-five thousand dollars a year.”

  “I haven’t asked for anything,” Kirby said.

  The five looked sternly at him. “You are unemployed, are you not?” the spokesman asked.

  “At the moment.”

  “Gentlemen!” said D. LeRoy Wintermore suavely. “You are giving me and my client here the impression some deal is underway. But we cannot properly assess its merits until we know what you expect of him.”

  “Your client?” the spokesman asked. “Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”

  “No indeed,” the old man said.

  Hilton Hibber cleared his throat. “Perhaps I can shed some light. In going over the summary records for tax purposes, I find that over the past eleven years, some twenty-seven million dollars in cash and liquid assets have been drained from the asset structure of K.E. and turned over to O.K. Devices. Inasmuch as all taxes were paid on this money, Internal Revenue took no particular interest in it. But O.K. Devices was entirely owned by Omar Krepps. And now they wish to consider that twenty-seven million part of the estate. If they do, scraping up the tax money on that amount would gut the structure of K.E. and reduce the scope of the Foundation seriously. The current books of O.K. Devices were turned over to me. They were maintained by Miss Wilma Farnham, who, aside from Mr. Winter, was the only other employee of O.K. Devices. The books show a current asset value of four hundred dollars. There are no notes payable or receivable, no accounts payable or receivable.” He hesitated and took out a white handkerchief and wiped his face, though the conference room was cool. “In fact, there are no records at all, aside from the depreciation account on office equipment.”

  “And we know why there are no records,” the spokesman said in a strangled tone. “Miss Farnham claims she was following Mr. Krepps’ instructions. She hired a truck and helpers, and on the day following the death of Mr. Krepps, she took all the files and records to a remote area and burned them. She stacked them, poured kerosene on them, and burned them, by God!”

  “Most unfortunate,” Mr. Wintermore murmured.

  “Furthermore,” Mr. Hibber said, “the Revenue people will assume this was done to conceal the location of the hidden assets. Obviously they will eventually subpoena both Miss Farnham and Mr. Winter in an attempt to extract information regarding these assets. So I suggest that—uh—co-operation at this point on the part of Mr. Winter might be beneficial to all.”

  Everyone looked at Kirby Winter. “Let me understand this,” he said. “You’re in a tax jam. You don’t know what I’ve been doing for the past eleven years, and you are dying to know. If I explain what I’ve been doing and what happened to the twenty-seven million dollars, then I get a nice reward of an undemanding job for life.”

  The spokesman smiled. “Badly stated, of course. But if you should refuse the offer, you can’t blame us for suspecting that some of this missing money might be—diverted to your private account.”

  “That statement is slanderous, sir,” Wintermore said tartly.

  The spokesman shrugged. “Perhaps. But we’re all realists here. We have to protect ourselves.”

  Kirby leaned back in his chair and studied the intent faces. “You just want to know where all that money is, huh?”

  He saw six eager nods, six pairs of glittering eyes.

  He smiled at them. “It’s gone.”

  “Gone!” It was a sound of anguish.

  “Sure. I gave it all away.”

  Consternation turned immediately to indignation. The spokesman said, “This is hardly the time for frivolous responses, Winter. Mr. Krepps was eccentric. But not that eccentric.” He leaned forward and struck the table with his fist. “Where is that money?”

  “I gave it away,” Kirby said. “You asked me. I told you. I gave it away.”

  “My client has given you his answer,” Wintermore said.

  “In view of Mr. Winter’s attitude, I see little point in continuing this meeting,” the spokesman said. “His attitude is not unlike Miss Farnham’s attitude. Obviously they are agreed not to co-operate with us. May I ask your plans, Mr. Winter?”

  “I might go on a cruise.”

  “With twenty-seven million dollars?” Hibber asked in a cold voice.

  “I never carry more than fifty dollars in cash.”

  “Where do you keep the rest of it?”

  “I gave it all away.” He leaned to his right and whispered to the elderly attorney.

  Wintermore straightened up and said, “As the only living relative, my client is entitled to whatever personal papers and documents Mr. Krepps left here.”

  All five executives looked uncomfortable. “He left a case of documents in the vault here,” the spokesman explained. “When we were faced with—this problem, we examined them. It would seem to be—some sort of a joke. The case contains fifty
or so pounds of texts and pamphlets on jokes and magic. Decks of marked cards. Handkerchief tricks. Interlocking rings. The old man was—rather strange you know. The case is back in the vault—any time you care to send for it.”

  On the taxi ride back to Wintermore’s office, the old man was silent and thoughtful. When they were in his private office, he began to make a strange sound. Kirby looked at him with alarm. Wintermore’s face was dark. Suddenly Kirby realized the old lawyer was laughing.

  “Oh dear, oh dear,” Wintermore said. “Forgive me. I have added up all the little clues in a long friendship. Oh dear. Yes indeed. There is no other answer. You did give the money away.”

  “That’s what I told them.”

  “But you see, they can never believe it. It is a concept so monstrous, they rebel at it. Omar delighted in practical jokes. And this is the biggest practical joke in financial history. Wherever he is, he is laughing as helplessly as I am. Those p-poor earnest fellows! And I am sure Miss Farnham was following his instructions when she burned the records.” Wintermore blew his nose and stood up and said, “I’ll get your watch.”

  “Doesn’t the will have to be probated or something first?”

  “Not for keepsakes, Kirby.”

  Wintermore came back in a few moments with a fat, old-fashioned, gold pocket watch on a worn chain. The watch was running and on time. On the other end of the chain was a charm in the shape of a little gold telescope. Kirby looked at the watch and then he looked through the telescope, turning it toward the windows. The light illuminated a little interior scene done with photographic realism. Kirby gasped and stared and then looked questioningly at Wintermore.

  “My dear fellow, your uncle did not care to live with a woman. But that does not mean he found them entirely useless. He was a man, even as you and I.”

  “I feel as if I never knew him at all.”

  “He was not an easy man to know.”

  “He always seemed—impatient with me, as if I was a disappointment.”

  Wintermore leaned back in his leather armchair. “He didn’t say much about you, Kirby, but when he did I detected a certain amount of anxiety. It was as if he was terribly anxious that you should be ready. As if some great trial or task would eventually be given you. I wouldn’t say he faulted you for diligence or imagination. But he seemed to be waiting, with decreasing patience, for you to stand on your own two feet.”

  “God knows I tried to quit often enough.”

  “Quit and go crawl into a hole was the way he put it, I believe. Once he wondered aloud in my presence if you were going to be a ninny all your life. Forgive me, but the quote is exact.”

  “I don’t feel hurt. I’ve wondered the same thing.”

  “If Omar could have seen you this morning, he would have been heartened.”

  “Would he?”

  “You were splendid, my boy. Skeptical, indignant, indifferent. I would have expected you to apologize to those five impressive gentlemen for any inconvenience you had caused them, make a full statement of what your duties have been, and gladly accept the position they offered.”

  “You know, I’m surprised I didn’t. But people have been pushing me around ever since I got back here.”

  “You baffled them, Kirby. You gave them no leverage, no handle, no button to push. So naturally they think you were speaking with the independence of hidden millions.”

  “So Uncle would have been heartened. So what? It came a little late, didn’t it?”

  “It would seem so.”

  Kirby looked again through the telescope, sighed and put the watch in his pocket. “Let them squirm for a while. I’ll take them off the hook when I’m ready. Or maybe I won’t. I don’t know.”

  “They won’t just sit there wringing their hands, you know. Expect some sort of counterattack.”

  “When it comes, you can tell me what to do. You’re my attorney.”

  “It would be interesting to know what Omar had in mind. I do wish we could open that letter he left for you. But I have had a long and ethical career, young man, because I have had the good judgment never to trust myself. We have a Mr. Vitts in this office, a man of truly psychotic dependability. I had him put that letter in his personal safety deposit box. Mr. Vitts delights in sacred trusts. Boiling him in oil would not give anyone access to that letter one day sooner.”

  “Before the year is up, I may have a better idea of what’s in it.”

  “If you ever have a plausible guess please tell me. Omar was a strange fellow. He made no wrong moves. I’ve often wondered at the secret of his success, and the only answer that seems even halfway reasonable is that, long ago, he devised certain mathematical procedures which enabled him to predict future events. I keep wondering if those formulae are in that letter. It would account for his anxiety about you. The ability to predict would be a terrifying responsibility.”

  Kirby frowned and nodded. “It would account for those gambling winnings when I was a kid. And then he lost them back on purpose, so people would leave him alone.”

  “I intend to live through this year, too. Just to learn what is in the letter.”

  Kirby walked from Wintermore’s office to a neighborhood drugstore for a sandwich and coffee. One little word kept rebounding from the cerebral walls. Ninny. It was a nineteenth-century word, yet he could not find a modern equivalent with the same shade of meaning. Probably it was a corruption of nincompoop. Ninny—that soft, smiling, self-effacing, apologetic fellow, the type who is terribly sorry when you happen to step on his foot, the kind you can borrow money from in the certainty he will never demand you repay it. And if he was a little brown dog, he’d wear his tail tucked slightly under, and wag it nervously, endlessly.

  He wondered at his own degree of ninnyism. How severe was it? How incurable was it? Could a man walk through life in a constant readiness to duck? On the other hand, were not the opposite traits rather unpleasant? Arrogance, belligerence, domination. Yet the arrogant man seemed to have considerably less difficulty with one primary aspect of existence.

  “Girls,” he said aloud. A fat woman on the adjoining stool turned and gave him a long cold stare. Kirby felt himself flush and felt his mouth begin to stretch into a meek smile of apology. As he began to hunch over, he straightened his shoulders, lifted his chin and said, “Madame, I was talking to myself, not to you. If you feel you’re in the presence of a dangerous nut, I suggest you move to another stool.”

  “Whaddaya? Some wise guy?”

  “You glared at me, so I responded.”

  “All kinda nuts in Miami,” she muttered and hunched herself over her tuna fish.

  Kirby felt a small glow of pride. Perhaps not completely a ninny. But one had to start in small ways. One had to emerge, step by step, from ninnyism, acquiring confidence at each small victory.

  Actually, at the conference, he hadn’t given a true ninny reaction. Ninnyism would require making a detailed statement of what he had been doing for O.K. Devices, and making them believe it. He had told the truth, but as a gesture of revolt, had made it sound like an evasion. In all honesty he had to admit that it was the intransigence of Miss Wilma Farnham which had backstopped his moments of rebellion. Let the executives sweat.

  When a chunky girl came to take his money he braced himself and said, “The coffee is lousy.”

  “Huh?”

  “The coffee is lousy.”

  She gave him a melting smile. “Boy! It sure is.”

  He went to the phone booths and called Wilma Farnham at her apartment. She answered on the second ring, her voice cool and precise.

  “Kirby Winter. I tried to get you yesterday,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I thought we ought to talk.”

  “You did?”

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing’s the matter with me, Mr. Winter. The office has been closed. I’ve turned the books over to the attorneys. I’m seeking other employment. Mr. Krepps left me a generous beq
uest, but I shan’t receive it for some months they tell me. The relationship is over, I would say. Good-by, Mr. Winter.”

  He called her back. “What could you possibly have to say to me, Mr. Winter?”

  “Listen, Miss Farnham. Wilma. I heard you burned all the records.”

  “That is correct.”

  “So it looks as if the tax people might subpoena us—”

  “Mr. Winter! I knew you would call me. I knew that the instant Mr. Krepps died you’d forget your word of honor to him. I intend to keep my word, Mr. Winter. I would rot in prison rather than break my word to that great man. But I knew you would immediately start currying favor with everybody by telling them everything you know. Believe me, there is no longer any documentation for anything you have told them or will tell them. And you cannot wheedle me into breaking my word, or frighten me into breaking my word. You are a miserable, sycophantic weakling, Mr. Winter, and I would say your uncle overestimated you all your life. Don’t bother me again, please.”

  And once again the line was dead.

  Twenty minutes later he was pressing the bell for her apartment. When she answered over the communicator and he told her who he was, there was a silence. The lock was not released. He pressed other bells at random. The door buzzed and he pushed it open and went into the tiny lobby. The elevator was in use. He went up two flights of stairs, found her apartment in the rear and beat upon the door with his fist.