by Mike Resnick
“Begging your pardon, brother,” I said, “but ain't you in the wrong room?”
“I hardly think so,” he said in a voice so slick and cultured you could have used it for cooking oil. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Dobbins, Major Theodore Dobbins, late of His Majesty's armed forces.” He handed me his card, which was just a little frayed around the edges, and was black with white lettering on it.
I extended my hand. “The Right Reverend Doctor Jones at your service,” I said.
“Well, my dear Doctor Jones,” he said, pulling out a cigarette and putting it into a mother-of-pearl holder, “I shan't beat about the bush. I have come to you because I am in need of your help.”
“I'm always happy to help a soul in need, Major,” I said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Of course, you understand that spiritual aid and comfort does get a little expensive at this time of night.”
“It is not spiritual aid that I seek, sir,” he said with a dry chuckle. “Indeed it is not. I am given to understand that you came into possession of a considerable amount of money earlier this evening. Is this not correct?”
“The Good Lord saw fit to smile upon me,” I admitted.
“Excellent!” He was positively beaming now while puffing away at his cigarette. “Then I am in the position to suggest a brief alliance which may work to our mutual benefit, involving as it does a pooling of resources.”
“This money is being held in escrow for the Tabernacle of Saint Luke,” I replied with dignity. Then I thought about it, and added, “However, to be perfectly honest, construction ain't due to begin for another few months when the rainy season ends, and I imagine my parishioners wouldn't be averse to an extremely conservative short-term investment.”
“I understand perfectly, my dear sir,” he said with a smile. Even his teeth looked oily. “I deal in commodities, Doctor Jones. Many of these are in the form of highly perishable goods imported from the fields of far, exotic China. Such a shipment is currently aboard a vessel anchored not five hundred yards from us.” He paused to light another cigarette. “May I presume that you fully comprehend my position?”
“I think we're on the same wave length,” I allowed.
“Well, then, you can imagine my dismay when I discovered that my associate, who was on his way here from Marrakech, was waylaid and murdered by a band of Arab slave traders. My goods are in the harbor, my principals await their delivery in the Mediterranean, my caravan has been hired, yet I am temporarily unable to set the wheels of industry in motion. The entire enterprise has ground to a halt for lack of the necessary capital. Worse yet, my competitors, knowing that something has gone amiss, are waiting like jackals at the kill. In brief, sir, I must have no less than seventeen hundred British pounds. The return on your investment, within a mere matter of days, will be tenfold.”
“What's the nature of your competition?” I asked.
He waved a hand vaguely, as if shooing a fly away. “Men of little breeding and less ethics. Hardly worthy of notice, except for this unfortunate turn of affairs. One of them is actually a trafficker in human flesh.”
“Not God-fearing gentlemen like us?”
“My dear Doctor Jones!” he said, shaking my hand warmly. “We understand one another completely! May I assume that we are partners?”
“I'll have to spend the night in prayer, conferring with the Lord and getting His advice on the subject,” I said. “Suppose I meet you for dinner at Maurice's tomorrow night and give you my decision at that time.”
“Certainly,” he said, rising and walking to the door. Just before he left, he turned and said, “Remember, my dear sir, that God helps those who help themselves.”
“That sentiment ain't never far from my mind,” I assured him.
After he left, I settled down to thinking seriously about the Major's proposal. I felt certain that, understanding my goals as He did, the Lord wouldn't mind my entering into this little enterprise. Just the same, as my Silent Partner, I knew that He'd want me to look into all aspects of it very carefully. For example, it stood to reason that if the goods were still aboard the ship, the Major's competition also lacked the necessary funding, and while a thousand percent profit was a healthy return on my investment, I could build my tabernacle a lot quicker with a two thousand percent return. Therefore, just before I fell asleep, I made up my mind to see if I couldn't hunt up the Major's rivals.
As it turned out, I didn't have to do much in the way of hunting at all. I was sitting at my table on the hotel's veranda the next morning, drinking my coffee and waiting for some ostrich eggs and toast, when a stout gentleman dressed in a soiled white suit walked up and seated himself opposite me. His hair was so thin that his skull shone through in half a hundred places, all red and covered with sweat which ran down his face in little rivulets until it got caught up in his beard.
“Doctor Jones?” he said, pulling out a handkerchief and mopping his forehead. He had an accent I couldn't quite place.
“The Right Reverend Doctor Jones,” I acknowledged, sipping my coffee.
“It has come to my attention that you had a visitor last night.”
“I've nothing to hide, brother,” I said. “I met with Major Theodore Dobbins, late of His Majesty's armed forces.”
He laughed. “Until he was court-martialed for embezzling,” he said. “I assume he put forth a proposition to you?”
“That he did.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “I hope you were not so impetuous as to enter into any business agreement with him.”
“Cautious is my middle name, brother,” I said. “I'm still mulling over his offer.”
“Good!” he said. “You had a very narrow escape, Doctor Jones. You cannot begin to know the nature of the man with whom you were speaking.”
“True,” I agreed. “On the other hand, I do know his name.”
“Forgive me,” he said, wiping his head again. “I am known as the Dutchman.”
“Just the Dutchman?”
He nodded. “I do have a large variety of business names,” he added helpfully, “if using one of them would make you more comfortable.”
“Not at all,” I said, pouring another cup of coffee. Then I looked up at him quickly. “You wouldn't happen to be a slave trader, would you?”
He sat up erect and said, “I prefer to think of myself as the director of an international occupational placement service.”
I signaled to the waiter. “Won't you join me for breakfast, Dutchman? I have a feeling that we've got a lot to talk about.”
“Just coffee, thank you,” he said. The waiter brought a large pot and left it on the table. The Dutchman poured himself half a cup, waved away my offer of cream and sugar, and withdrew a small flask from his coat pocket, pouring a generous amount into the cup and stirring it vigorously.
“Doctor Jones,” he said after taking a man-sized swallow and screwing up his face, “may I speak frankly with you?”
“Well, it might make a pleasant change,” I answered.
“I am in need of a certain amount of venture capital: fourteen hundred pounds, to be exact. You won considerably more than that last night. I would like to arrange a short-term loan.”
“Have you considered a bank?” I asked.
“Yes, I have,” he replied. “But the bank at Dar-es-Salaam is well fortified, and would be most difficult to break into.”
“I assume that your credit rating would make a more forthright approach out of the question?”
He nodded vigorously. “There must be a prejudice against Hollanders in Tanganyika. I can conceive of no other reason for it. At any rate, will you consider such a transaction?”
“Jesus only threw the money-lenders out of the Temple,” I said with a smile. “I don't recall the Good Book making any reference to throwing them out of Dar-es-Salaam.”
“Then may I assume that we have a deal?” said the Dutchman.
“Well, now, that's putting the cart just a little bit ahead
of the horse,” I said. “What interest would you be expecting to pay?”
“Shall we say one thousand percent for ten days?”
“Well, that's a right round number,” I said. “All them zeroes and everything. A very pretty number indeed.”
“Good!” exclaimed the Dutchman. “Shall we draw up a contract right away?”
“Of course, fifteen hundred is just as pretty,” I continued. “I think there ought to be a five in there somewhere. Always liked fives, ever since I was a toddler. And I suppose two zeroes is just as good as three. Reminds me more of one of Solomon's wives that way.”
“Such a figure is out of the question!” snapped the Dutchman. “I know that our mutual friend couldn't have offered you that much.”
“What he offered me, Dutchman,” I said, “is a matter known only to him, me, and the Lord.”
“I shall have to speak to my investors,” said the Dutchman.
“That's perfectly understandable,” I replied. “I think a short session of prayer might help you to come to a decision.”
“I will meet again with you tonight,” he said, finishing his coffee and rising.
“I'll be at Maurice's most of the evening,” I said. “I'm meeting Major Dobbins there for dinner.”
“Make no commitment until you hear from me,” said the Dutchman. “And remember that I sell merchandise of all colors.”
Well, I didn't know if that was a threat or an offer, so I just smiled at him and watched him waddle away. Then I dug into breakfast with a vengeance, after which I walked to the harbor. I figured the goods would be in a rust-covered seedy-looking scow, but there were so many of them there that I knew right away that I'd never be able to spot the one that had brought Saint Luke's Tabernacle this little windfall.
As I was walking back to my hotel I noticed a small, olive-colored man following me. He was sneaking in and out of shadows just like a real-life spy, except that he was so clumsy about it that he damned near went through a couple of plate-glass windows trying to jump out of my line of vision. Just to make certain it was me he was after, I took a walk through the Arab quarter, and sure enough, he was still about two hundred feet behind me half an hour later.
It being a hot day and the air being as thick as salt water, I finally took pity on him, turned in my tracks, and walked right up to him. As I approached, he looked so scared that I thought he was going to faint dead away, but he settled for gulping twice and sweating a lot.
“Good afternoon, brother,” I said cheerfully. “Would it be easier on you if I just found a nice shady bench and sat down on it?”
He nodded.
“Cat got your tongue?” I asked.
“Most assuredly not,” he said in a high nasal voice. “Or is that an American colloquialism?”
“No, it's just slang,” I said. “Let's rid ourselves of the formalities. The Right Reverend Doctor Jones at your service.” I extended my hand, and he looked so startled that I thought he was going to jump clear up to the moon.
“And I am Henri Pasquard,” he said when he'd stopped shaking.
“Can't say that I've ever heard of you, brother,” I said.
“Oh, nobody has,” he said solemnly. “That is essential to my business. But possibly you have heard of Le Rongeur?”
“Nope.”
He looked disappointed.
“What does it mean?” I asked.
“Oh, nothing much. It's just my professional name, sort of like a stage name for an actor.”
I was about to pat him on the shoulder and tell him not to look so unhappy, but I didn't want him to start shaking again, so l settled for offering him a cigar.
“Oh, I don't smoke,” he said. “The smell makes me ill.”
“Then I won't inflict the stench of my tobacco on you,” I said, putting the one I had chosen for myself back into my pocket. His hair was all slicked down with grease, and the grease and sweat were starting to run down his forehead into his eyes, so I offered him a handkerchief. He accepted it with a brief murmur of thanks.
“Would you care to tell me why you were following me, Brother Rongeur?” I said, hoping the use of his professional name would put him more at ease.
“I meant to approach you sooner or later,” he said, staring down at his two-toned shoes, “but is it not reasonable that I should first see if I could determine where you might have hidden the money?”
“Reasonable as all get-out,” I agreed. “And now that you know it's not on me and that I'm not going to lead you to it, what next?”
“Why, I should like to propose a partnership, of course,” he said. “Major Dobbins is a thief of the lowest type, and the Dutchman is even worse. I should think that dealing with such people would be repugnant to a man of your character.”
“Whereas dealing with a man like yourself...?”
“Please do not think that I offer you only honesty and integrity,” he said quickly. “On the contrary, l will return your money threefold in a week's time.”
“I've already had better offers than that,” I said.
“I have no doubt of it,” said the little man, almost apologetically. “But what good are their offers once they have their hands on the material? I, without false modesty, can give you a list of references which will satisfy even a man of the cloth. I can—” He broke off suddenly. “Excuse me,” he said, withdrawing an impressive-looking pistol from a shoulder holster and tucking it into his belt. “I tend to sweat under my arms, and moisture ruins the mechanism. Where were we?”
“I believe you were about to list your references,” I said.
“That would perhaps be indiscreet, until such time as I know you are interested in a partnership,” he said.
“Perfectly understandable,” I said. “Just out of curiosity, Brother Rongeur, what exactly do you do when you're not striking up partnerships?”
“Oh, I try to keep busy at one thing or another,” he said, lowering his eyes again.
“And what does Le Rongeur mean?”
“The Rodent,” he said, blushing under his olive skin. “Originally I was the Weasel, but there is no masculine form of it in French. It is always La Belette. It became very embarrassing, and attracted an inferior sort of person, if you understand my meaning.”
“But why rodent or weasel or any kind of animal at all?” I asked.
“It's kind of a private joke,” he said, still blushing furiously.
“Care to let me in on it, Brother Rongeur?”
“Then it wouldn't be private any longer, would it?” he replied. “Besides, it really has very little to do with the business at hand. Have you reached a decision?”
“I'll have to spend some time weighing all my offers very carefully,” I said. “I should be able to come to a decision by tonight. I can meet you at—”
“Oh, we needn't make any arrangements, Doctor Jones,” he interrupted. “I don't intend to let you out of my sight for the rest of the day.”
“Oh?”
“I don't mean to disturb you, but you must understand my position. Just go on about your business as if I weren't here. I shall try to be as unobtrusive as possible.”
I thanked him and began walking back to the hotel. Every now and again I'd turn back and, sure enough, there he'd be, ducking in and out of shadows about fifty feet behind me. He was such a skinny little man and I got to feeling so sorry for him that once or twice, when I got too far ahead of him, I'd browse at a vendor's table and give him a chance to catch up, for which he shot me a couple of very grateful smiles.
I finally got to my room, relaxed in the cast-iron tub for an hour, shaved, and lay down for a little nap. When I woke up it was getting on toward sunset, so I changed into my Sunday preaching clothes and decided it was time to stroll over to Maurice's. The Rodent was waiting for me on the hotel veranda, and began following me at a respectful distance.
Maurice's was exotic and dirty, with about a three-to-one ratio in favor of the dirt. There were a number of rooms with prett
y farfetched doorframes, all separated by rows of hanging beads. The lighting throughout the place was dim, the air was circulated by a couple of very large and slow-turning overhead fans, and the walls were covered with animal heads, tapestries, and paintings of very naked ladies. I paused in the bar just long enough to stuff a couple of bills in the brassiere of a belly dancer and then walked into one of the smaller back rooms, where I found Major Dobbins, late of His Majesty's armed forces, sitting at a table and puffing away at his cigarette holder.
“Ah!” he exclaimed as his gaze fell upon me. “My dear Doctor Jones! l trust your day went well.”
“So far, so good,” I assured him. “Of course, it ain't over yet.”
“True,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “But any day that begins with a visit from the Dutchman can't fail but to get better, eh?” He chortled and poured half a flask of gin into his water glass. Then, stirring it up a little with a dirty coffee spoon, he drank it down in a single swallow. “I know it irritates Maurice,” he confided, “but I simply cannot tolerate his bar stock. And as for his wine cellar...” He gave a man-of-the-world shrug, and I nodded in my most sophisticated manner.
At this moment the Rodent walked into our room and sat down at an adjoining table. He gave us a nervous little smile and immediately buried his nose in the menu, which was kind of strange since the only thing Maurice ever served was impala steak.
“You know him, I presume?” said the Major, nodding in the Rodent's direction.
“Met him this afternoon,” I said.
“He made you an offer?”
“He did.”
“You turned him down, naturally,” said the Major.
“Why naturally?”
“Anyone could tell just by looking at him that he's a man of weak moral character,” said the Major. “Hardly the kind of person you'd care to enter into business with. See how he keeps peeking at us over the top of his menu. No, my dear sir, we Englishmen have to stick together.”
