The Specialty of the House

by Stanley Ellin

  ‘You’re being very decent, Costain,’ he said. ‘I hope you’ll continue to dine here until we meet again. It shouldn’t be too long.’

  Sbirro made way for Costain to pass. ‘I will expect you,’ he said. ‘Au ‘voir.’

  Costain stopped briefly in the dim foyer to adjust his scarf and fix his Homburg at the proper angle. When he turned away from the mirror, satisfied at last, he saw with a final glance that Laffler and Sbirro were already at the kitchen door, Sbirro holding the door invitingly wide with one hand, while the other rested, almost tenderly, on Laffler’s meaty shoulders.

  The Cat’s-Paw

  There was little to choose among any of the rooms in the boarding house in their dingy, linoleum-floored, brassbedsteaded uniformity, but the day he answered the advertisement on the Help Wanted page, Mr Crabtree realized that one small advantage accrued to his room: the public telephone in the hallway was opposite his door, and simply by keeping an ear cocked he could be at the instrument a moment after the first shrill warning ring had sounded.

  In view of this he closed his application for employment not only with his signature but with the number of the telephone as well. His hand shook a little as he did so; he felt party to a gross deception in implying that the telephone was his personal property, but the prestige to be gained this way, so he thought, might somehow weight the balance in his favor. To that end he tremorously sacrificed the unblemished principles of a lifetime.

  The advertisement itself had been nothing less than a miracle. Man wanted, it said, for hard work at moderate pay. Sober, honest, industrious former clerk, age 45–50 preferred. Write all details. Box III; and Mr Crabtree, peering incredulously through his spectacles, had read it with a shuddering dismay at the thought of all his fellows, age 45–50, who might have read the same notice minutes, or perhaps, hours, before.

  His answer could have served as a model Letter of Application for Employment His age was forty-eight, his health excellent. He was unmarried. He had served one single firm for thirty years; had served it faithfully and well; had an admirable record for attendance and punctuality. Unfortunately, the firm had merged with another and larger; regrettably, many capable employees had to be released. Hours? Unimportant. His only interest was in doing a good job no matter the time involved. Salary? A matter entirely in the hands of his prospective employer. His previous salary had been fifty dollars per week, but naturally that had come after years of proved worth. Available for an interview at any time. References from the following. The signature. And then, the telephone number.

  All this had been written and rewritten a dozen times until Mr Crabtree had been satisfied that every necessary word was there, each word in its proper place. Then, in the copperplate hand that had made his ledgers a thing of beauty, the final draft had been transferred to fine bond paper purchased toward this very contingency, and posted.

  After that, alone with his speculations on whether a reply would come by mail, by telephone, or not at all, Mr Crabtree spent two endless and heart-fluttering weeks until the moment when he answered a call and heard his name come over the wire like the crack of doom.

  ‘Yes,’ he said shrilly, ‘I’m Crabtree! I sent a letter!’

  ‘Calmly, Mr Crabtree, calmly,’ said the voice. It was a clear, thin voice, which seemed to pick up and savor each syllable before delivering it, and it had an instant and chilling effect on Mr Crabtree who was clutching the telephone as if pity could be squeezed from it.

  ‘I have been considering your application,’ the voice went on with the same painful deliberation, ‘and I am most gratified by it. Most gratified. But before calling the matter settled, I should like to make clear the terms of employment I am offering. You would not object to my discussing it now?’

  The word employment rang dizzily through Mr Crabtree’s head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘please do.’

  ‘Very well. First of all, do you feel capable of operating your own establishment?’

  ‘My own establishment?’

  ‘Oh, have no fears about the size of the establishment or the responsibilities involved. It is a matter of some confidential reports which must be drawn up regularly. You would have your own office, your name on the door, and, of course, no supervision directly over you. That should explain the need for an exceptionally reliable man.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Crabtree, ‘but those confidential reports …’

  ‘Your office will be supplied with a list of several important corporations. It will also receive subscriptions to a number of financial journals which frequently make mention of those same corporations. You will note all such references as they appear, and, at the end of each day, consolidate them into a report which will be mailed to me. I must add that none of this calls for any theoretical work or literary treatment. Accuracy, brevity, clarity: those are the three measures to go by. You understand that, of course?’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Mr Crabtree fervently.

  ‘Excellent,’ said the voice. ‘Now your hours will be from nine to five, six days a week, with an hour off at noon for lunch. I must stress this: I am insistent on punctuality and attendance, and I expect you to be as conscientious about these things as if you were under my personal supervision every moment of the day. I hope I do not offend you when I emphasize this?’

  ‘Oh, no, sir!’ said Mr Crabtree. ‘I …’

  ‘Let me continue,’ the voice said. ‘Here is the address where you will appear one week from today, and the number of your room’ – Mr Crabtree without pencil or paper at hand pressed the numbers frantically into his memory – ‘and the office will be completely prepared for you. The door will be open, and you will find two keys in a drawer of the desk: one for the door and one for the cabinet in the office. In the desk you will also find the list I mentioned, as well as the materials needed in making out your reports. In the cabinet you will find a stock of periodicals to start work on.’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ said Mr Crabtree, ‘but those reports …’

  ‘They should contain every single item of interest about the corporations on your list, from business transactions to changes in personnel. And they must be mailed to me immediately upon your leaving the office each day. Is that clear?’

  ‘Only one thing,’ said Mr Crabtree. ‘To whom – where do I mail them?’

  ‘A pointless question,’ said the voice sharply, much to Mr Crabtree’s alarm. ‘To the box number with which you are already familiar, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Mr Crabtree.

  ‘Now,’ said the voice with a gratifying return to its original deliberate tones, ‘the question of salary. I have given it a good deal of thought, since as you must realize, there are a number of factors involved. In the end, I let myself be guided by the ancient maxim: a good workman is worthy of his hire – you recall those words?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Crabtree.

  ‘And,’ the voice said, ‘a poor workman can be easily dispensed with. On that basis, I am prepared to offer you fifty-two dollars a week. Is that satisfactory?’

  Mr Crabtree stared at the telephone dumbly and then recovered his voice. ‘Very,’ he gasped. ‘Oh, very much so. I must confess I never …’

  The voice brought him up sharply. ‘But that is conditional, you understand. You will be – to use a rather clumsy term – on probation until you have proved yourself. Either the job is handled to perfection, or there is no job.’

  Mr Crabtree felt his knees turn to water at the grim suggestion. ‘I’ll do my best,’ he said. ‘I most certainly will do my absolute best.’

  ‘And,’ the voice went on relentlessly, ‘I attach great significance to the way you observe the confidential nature of your work. It is not to be discussed with anyone, and since the maintenance of your office and supplies lies entirely in my hands there can be no excuse for a defection. I have also removed temptation in the form of a telephone which you will not find on your desk. I hope I do not seem unjust in my abhorrence of the common practic
e where employees waste their time in idle conversation during working hours.’

  Since the death of an only sister twenty years before, there was not a soul in the world who would have dreamed of calling Mr Crabtree to make any sort of conversation whatsoever; but he only said, ‘No, sir. Absolutely not.’

  ‘Then you are in agreement with all the terms we have discussed?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Mr Crabtree.

  ‘Any further questions?’

  ‘One thing,’ said Mr Crabtree. ‘My salary. How …’

  ‘It will reach you at the end of each week,’ said the voice, ‘in cash. Anything else?’

  Mr Crabtree’s mind was now a veritable logjam of questions, but he found it impossible to fix on any particular one. Before he could do so, the voice said crisply, ‘Good luck, then,’ and there was the click which told him his caller had hung up. It was only when he attempted to do the same that he discovered his hand had been clenched so tightly around the receiver that it cost him momentary anguish to disengage it.

  It must be admitted that the first time Mr Crabtree approached the address given him, it would not have surprised him greatly to find no building there at all. But the building was there, reassuring in its immensity, teeming with occupants who packed the banks of elevators solidly, and, in the hallways, looked through him and scurried around him with efficient disinterest.

  The office was there too, hidden away at the end of a devious corridor of its own on the very top floor, a fact called to Mr Crabtree’s attention by a stairway across the corridor, which led up to an open door through which the flat grey of the sky could be seen.

  The most impressive thing about the office was the CRABTREE’S AFFILIATED REPORTS boldly stenciled on the door. Opening the door, one entered an incredibly small and narrow room made even smaller by the massive dimensions of the furniture that crowded it. To the right, immediately inside the door, was a gigantic filing cabinet. Thrust tightly against it, but still so large that it utilized the remainder of the wall space on that side, was a huge, old-fashioned desk with a swivel chair before it.

  The window set in the opposite wall was in keeping with the furniture. It was an immense window, broad and high, and its sill came barely above Mr Crabtree’s knees. He felt a momentary qualm when he first glanced through it and saw the sheer dizzying drop below, the terrifying quality of which was heightened by the blind, windowless walls of the building directly across from him.

  One look was enough; henceforth, Mr Crabtree kept the bottom section of the window securely fastened and adjusted only the top section to his convenience.

  The keys were in a desk drawer; pen, ink, a box of nibs, a deck of blotters, and a half-dozen other accessories more impressive than useful were in another drawer; a supply of stamps was at hand; and, most pleasant, there was a plentiful supply of stationery, each piece bearing the letterhead, Crabtree’s Affiliated Reports, the number of the office, and the address of the building. In his delight at this discovery Mr Crabtree dashed off a few practice lines with some bold flourishes of the pen, and then, a bit alarmed at his own prodigality, carefully tore the sheet to minute shreds and dropped it into the wastebasket at his feet.

  After that, his efforts were devoted wholly to the business at hand. The filing cabinet disgorged a dismayingly large file of publications which had to be pored over, line by line, and Mr Crabtree never finished studying a page without the harrowing sensation that he had somehow bypassed the mention of a name which corresponded to one on the typed list he had found, as promised, in the desk. Then he would retrace the entire page with an awful sense of dallying at his work, and groan when he came to the end of it without finding what he had not wanted to find in the first place.

  It seemed to him at times that he could never possibly deplete the monstrous pile of periodicals before him. Whenever he sighed with pleasure at having made some headway, he would be struck with the gloomy foreknowledge that the next morning would find a fresh delivery of mail at his door and, consequently, more material to add to the pile.

  There were, however, breaks in this depressing routine. One was the preparation of the daily report, a task which, somewhat to Mr Crabtree’s surprise, he found himself learning to enjoy; the other was the prompt arrival each week of the sturdy envelope containing his salary down to the last dollar bill, although this was never quite the occasion for unalloyed pleasure it might have been.

  Mr Crabtree would carefully slit open one end of the envelope, remove the money, count it, and place it neatly in his ancient wallet. Then he would poke trembling exploratory fingers into the envelope, driven by the fearful recollection of his past experience to look for the notice that would tell him his services were no longer required. That was always a bad moment, and it had the unfailing effect of leaving him ill and shaken until he could bury himself in his work again.

  The work was soon part of him. He had ceased bothering with the typed list; every name on it was firmly imprinted in his mind, and there were restless nights when he could send himself off to sleep merely by repeating the list a few times. One name in particular had come to intrigue him, merited special attention. Efficiency Instruments, Ltd was unquestionably facing stormy weather. There had been drastic changes in personnel, talks of a merger, sharp fluctuations on the market.

  It rather pleased Mr Crabtree to discover that with the passage of weeks into months each of the names on his list had taken on a vivid personality for him. Amalgamated was steady as a rock, stolid in its comfortable success. Universal was high-pitched, fidgety in its exploration of new techniques; and so on down the line. But Efficiency Instruments, Ltd was Mr Crabtree’s pet project, and he had, more than once, nervously caught himself giving it perhaps a shade more attention than it warranted. He brought himself up sharply at such times; impartiality must be maintained, otherwise …

  It came without any warning at all. He returned from lunch, punctual as ever, opened the door of the office, and knew he was standing face to face with his employer.

  ‘Come in, Mr Crabtree,’ said the clear, thin voice, ‘and shut the door.’

  Mr Crabtree closed the door and stood speechless.

  ‘I must be a prepossessing figure,’ said the visitor with a certain relish, ‘to have such a potent effect on you. You know who I am, of course?’

  To Mr Crabtree’s numbed mind, the large, bulbous eyes fixed unwinkingly on him, the wide, flexible mouth, the body, short and round as a barrel, bore a horrifying resemblance to a frog sitting comfortably at the edge of a pond, with himself in the unhappy role of a fly hovering close by.

  ‘I believe,’ said Mr Crabtree shakily, ‘that you are my employer, Mr … Mr …’

  A stout forefinger nudged Mr Crabtree’s ribs playfully. ‘As long as the bills are paid, the name is unimportant, eh, Mr Crabtree? However, for the sake of expedience, let me be known to you as – say – George Spelvin. Have you ever encountered the ubiquitous Mr Spelvin in your journeyings, Mr Crabtree?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Mr Crabtree miserably.

  ‘Then you are not a playgoer, and that is all to the good. And if I may hazard a guess, you are not one to indulge yourself in literature or the cinema either?’

  ‘I do try to keep up with the daily newspaper,’ said Mr Crabtree stoutly. ‘There’s a good deal to read in it, you know, Mr Spelvin, and it’s not always easy, considering my work here, to find time for other diversions. That is, if a man wants to keep up with the newspapers.’

  The corners of the wide mouth lifted in what Mr Crabtree hoped was a smile. ‘That is precisely what I hoped to hear you say. Facts, Mr Crabtree, facts! I wanted a man with a single-minded interest in facts, and your words now as well as your application to your work tell me I have found him in you. I am very gratified, Mr Crabtree.’

  Mr Crabtree found that the blood was thumping pleasantly through his veins. ‘Thank you. Thank you again, Mr Spelvin. I know I’ve been trying very hard, but I didn’t know whether … Won’
t you sit down?’ Mr Crabtree tried to get his arm around the barrel before him in order to swing the chair into position, and failed. ‘The office is a bit small. But very comfortable,’ he stammered hastily.

  ‘I am sure it is suitable,’ said Mr Spelvin. He stepped back until he was almost fixed against the window and indicated the chair. ‘Now I should like you to be seated, Mr Crabtree, while I discuss the matter I came on.’

  Under the spell of that commanding hand Mr Crabtree sank into the chair and pivoted it until he faced the window and the squat figure outlined against it. ‘If there is any question about today’s report,’ he said, ‘I am afraid it isn’t complete yet. There were some notes on Efficiency Instruments …’

  Mr Spelvin waved the matter aside indifferently. ‘I am not here to discuss that,’ he said slowly. ‘I am here to find the answer to a problem which confronts me. And I rely on you, Mr Crabtree, to help me find that answer.’

  ‘A problem?’ Mr Crabtree found himself warm with a sense of well-being. ‘I’ll do everything I can to help, Mr Spelvin. Everything I possibly can.’

  The bulging eyes probed his worriedly. ‘Then tell me this, Mr Crabtree: how would you go about killing a man?’

  ‘I?’ said Mr Crabtree. ‘How would I go … I’m afraid I don’t understand, Mr Spelvin.’

  ‘I said,’ Mr Spelvin repeated, carefully stressing each word, ‘how would you go about killing a man?’

  Mr Crabtree’s jaw dropped. ‘But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. That,’ he said, ‘that would be murder!’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Mr Spelvin.

  ‘But you’re joking,’ said Mr Crabtree, and tried to laugh, without managing to get more than a thin, breathless wheeze through his constricted throat. Even that pitiful effort was cut short by the sight of the stony face before him. ‘I’m terribly sorry, Mr Spelvin, terribly sorry. You can see it’s not the customary … it’s not the kind of thing …’