by Howard Fast
“We’ll, really, I mean it as a compliment, Countess,” Macbain said.
“Suppose I did tell it to a cop,” Margie thought. “Just that way. Then do I go to Bellevue or to jail or what? The trouble is that nothing like this ever happens to any sane person and it certainly isn’t supposed to.”
“I have offended you,” Macbain said.
“Oh no. No, I was thinking,” Margie said. She said it rather proudly, because she firmly believed that when it came to thinking, she did rather well—regardless of the folklore to the contrary. “How is it, Mr. Macbain, that you know so much about Dravina?”
“That, Countess, is both simple and complicated—and if you will only have lunch with me, I am sure I can satisfy your curiosity. You are curious?”
“Curious? Oh yes—yes indeed. If I had a dollar for every time my mother told me that curiosity killed the cat, I would be a rich woman today.”
“But you are a rich woman, my dear Countess.”
“Oh? Well, I suppose so.”
“And you will have lunch with me?”
“By all means,” Margie decided suddenly.
“Sardi’s East? Will that do?”
“I love Sardi’s East. You know, I certainly can’t complain about Mr. Potnik, because he is an angel and he pays very well indeed and he has never made a pass—you know, he’s a real father image for me—but where can you go with that kind of thing? So I keep my dreams of TV work going—I mean commercials. Good golly, you can become rich on one fat set of residuals, and you simply have to be seen at Sardi’s East. I mean, you must. Producers have no memory ganglion. Nerve cells. Memory and all that. Everything goes into the roving hands with producers, so you must be seen—”
Macbain was staring at her.
“There I go.” Margie sighed. “Margie Beck again. I just get to thinking I am Margie Beck. I suppose I want to be—it makes me shudder to think of those cold, drafty castles. You know, Mr. Macbain, being a countess is not all strawberries and cream.”
“You are a remarkable woman.”
“That’s very nice.” Margie smiled. “Much better than being told how pretty you are. It is also good for the appetite.”
“You make me wonder,” Macbain said thoughtfully. “Just what have you heard about me, Countess?”
“I never heard your name before today. Should I have heard it?”
“I don’t really know,” Macbain answered slowly. “They said you were a very clever woman. But, you know, when they say that about a woman—”
“It doesn’t mean clever at all. Is that what you meant to say?”
Macbain shrugged. He kept looking at her as they walked on.
“Most people think I’m stupid,” Margie said flatly. “It’s the way I am, I mean the way I go, live, do things, but that’s the way it is today, isn’t it?”
“Is it?”
“I think so,” Margie said. “I mean a girl hasn’t very much going for her—and she kind of walks in a jungle at times. Oh, don’t mistake me, Mr. Macbain. I am not one of these nuts who think that New York City is a no man’s land where no one’s life is safe. I detest that kind of talk. I love this city. Just look at it …” They were on Park Avenue now, and Margie waved her hand toward the mighty, almost indescribable cul-de-sac man-made canyon to the south, the glass fronts of the buildings glittering and shimmering in the sunlight, the great bulk of the Pan-Am Building part wonderful, part insane. “It never stops being an adventure for me, and I can never get over the fact that I am really here.”
“And you’ll never go back to Dravina?”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Macbain. But what I meant before is that a girl can’t be an open-eyed idiot about it, and it’s a pretty good defense and something to have going for you when most people don’t believe you have a brain in your head.”
“I don’t suppose you would call me Gerald? I mean …”
Suddenly she liked him. It had not sneaked up on her; she had mistrusted him and watched him, and then, as if she simply snapped her fingers to bring it about, she liked him.
“If you wish,” she agreed.
“Thank you, Countess. I mean that.”
“Then you musn’t call me Countess.”
“Danya? They said you disliked the name so.”
“Why don’t you just call me Margie.” She smiled.
They were at Sardi’s East now, and Macbain nodded and grinned and held the door open for her. He had a warm grin. Albert, who was the over-all captain for the lunch crowd, evidently knew Macbain, and that made Margie feel better. He said, “Alas, I can only seat you in here today, Mr. Macbain.” In here was the small room directly off to the right as you enter, and Macbain shrugged and said it would be perfectly all right.
“I would have saved your table. But it is so late.”
“It’s nothing,” Macbain insisted.
They were seated and looking at the menus, when Macbain raised his eyes and stared at her and said, “You see through it, don’t you? The whole thing was kind of silly, wasn’t it?”
“The bandages? The closet?”
He nodded.
“Well, really. That window was just made to get out of—so they couldn’t have wanted me to stay there. And then you in the closet—were they supposed to have forgotten? It was all rather silly, I think.”
“Alexander’s notion. He’s stupid.”
“Then why did you go along with it?”
“Well, he insisted. I suppose I am a bit afraid of him. Tell me, did you mean what you said—about them killing someone?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
Margie told him how it had happened. “So I don’t know whether he is dead or alive. I wish I could be more sorry for him, I mean for Joey Montoso, but I am just not sorry at all. He is a professional killer. He hires himself out to kill people. I never really believed that it happened that way. Did you?”
“I’m afraid I did, Margie. But he may not be dead. They might have used chloroform or something like that.”
“I would have smelled it,” Margie said. “I don’t know much about killing anything. If you use a knife, won’t he yell and kick and fight back before he dies?”
“Not if the man with the knife is an expert.”
“Oh?”
“It’s part of the Dravinian folkways. They are very good with knives.”
The waiter came and they ordered. Margie ordered Eggs Benedict and then explained to Macbain that while it was very fattening, right now nothing seemed to put any weight on her. He ordered the cold salmon, and then when the fish came, he toyed with it and appeared too utterly downcast to enjoy a bite of it. It always made Margie nervous to see men sit in front of a plate of food and leave it untasted or half eaten. It was not only that her own appetite was so excellent, but under her mother’s tutelege, a process that went on for many years, she had been brainwashed into believing that the only good plate after a meal was a clean plate.
She said to Macbain, “But you must be hungry, Mr. Macbain.”
“Gerald?”
“Oh well—with someone practically a stranger it takes a little time to get on a first-name basis. You know, I never knew a Gerald before. Look—I know you’re disturbed over Joey Montoso, but I don’t know why. I can’t stand to see a mouse killed in a trap, and when I have to fumigate my apartment because of the roaches—not mine, you may be sure, but no matter how you clean they come in from other apartments—well, when I have to fumigate, I sometimes start to cry afterward because I am not even sure it’s right to kill bugs. But Joey Montoso—”
“That I should ever hear such tender sentiment from a Hutsinger! Unbelievable! Well, things change, and for the better too.”
“I mean I’m not vindictive, but I told you what this Montoso did for a living. You know, in ‘The Untouchables’ they always have these contracts for killing people—that’s the TV show with Elliot Ness, just in case you don’t watch TV—but I always thought it
was something they made up. But Joey Montoso, killing people was his business—”
“I couldn’t care less about Joey Montoso.”
“Then why?”
“Countess—”
“See, there you are. I can’t say Gerald and you can’t say Margie.”
“Margie or Countess—the point is that you are a witness to a murder, and Alexander and his playmates know that you are a witness to a murder, and they don’t want witnesses.”
“They can’t have everything they want,” Margie said.
Macbain stared at her.
“You mean they’ll kill me?”
Macbain nodded.
“Well, of all things!”
“Yes, exactly.”
“But they can’t go around killing anyone they want to kill. Even Joey Montoso wouldn’t do that. This is New York. When we leave here, I can stop the nearest policeman.”
“And tell him what?”
“That this General Alexander wants to kill me.”
“And make it stand up? Alexander is the military attaché of the Dravinian Embassy. Diplomatic status. He would smile. ‘Poor child’s out of her mind,’ he would say.”
“But I saw a murder—I mean that it might have been a murder.”
“Did you? Your word against theirs? No—”
“Then what am I to do? Just wait until your general decides to shoot me?”
“No, no—of course not. And he’s a wretched shot, so don’t worry for the moment. Only—”
“Now just one minute,” Margie said firmly. “I think it is time that you explained. Just how do you fit into all this, and just what is this all about? I still don’t know who you are or what you are, and while there are some things about you that I like, I would also like to know how you know so much about this Dravina place.”
“The last is the easiest to answer. I spent a year there doing a geological survey.”
“Why?”
“Because, my dear Countess, I am a geologist. Or Margie—you see, if you are the Countess—and I still sort of think you are—then I tramped and rode and motored over half or three quarters of your family lands. Oh, I should say that I examined some thirty thousand of your forty thousand acres, and that’s a lot of land, in Dravina or anywhere else.”
“And just why are you so interested in this land?”
Macbain sighed and nodded. “Here goes, and I blow it. I suppose I want to blow it. I’m not a crook. You can’t just become a crook because you decide to. You have to have the personality for it. So I might as well come out flatly and tell you that they are the richest unexploited oil lands left in Europe.”
“I still don’t follow you. So they are the richest unexploited oil lands left in Europe.”
“I’ll try to make it short and to the point,” Macbain said. “As you know, the Dravina government has been unwilling to nationalize the Hutsinger holdings. They haven’t any real notion of the wealth that lies under them, and such an arbitrary act of nationalization would weaken their ties with England and the United States. There were about three thousand acres of tillable land, as you know, and these were purchased by the government from your business managers—if you are the Countess. You can see that I, too, am becoming thoroughly confused. The rest is forest land, and it is farmed by two furniture companies and a paper mill under long-term leases that were signed by Count Amel, your father, after World War Two. All of these companies are backed by German, British, and American capital—but they have helped put Dravina back on its feet and the government does not want to tip the apple cart. So now I am doing the tipping.” Macbain sighed.
“Just one thing,” Margie said. “How is it that none of you ever saw the Countess?”
“That’s simple enough. She was born at the beginning of World War Two—or you were, if you are the Countess. Her mother took her to England just before Dravina was invaded, and directly after the war they came to America. Oh, she travels and all that, but this has been her home for the past nineteen years.”
“Pictures? You must have seen pictures.”
“A few. She looks enough like you to make it plausible. She was living at the Plaza. She wore a dark mink coat, almost black—like the one you are wearing.”
“Which belongs to the Governor’s wife,” Margie said firmly.
“Which is nearly as confusing as the rest of this. Shall I finish? Do you believe me?”
“I’ll believe you, if you will believe me.”
“That is a very interesting proposition, Margie. I buy it.”
“Good. Now suppose you explain that silly stunt in the closet.”
“A little more background first,” Macbain said. He ordered brandy. It had been a long lunch, but Margie felt warm and comfortable. The day was unquestionably wasted, and poor Mr. Potnik was no doubt sick with worry over her; but she couldn’t see that it would hurt things to let them drift on this way awhile longer. For one thing, she was warm, comfortable, and full of food, and for another, she was sort of dating a very nice guy—at least to Margie’s needs and analysis. It was true that he was by no means the strong, sure type; he appeared to have many very definite character weaknesses. But Margie was attracted to this type, and this one had an English accent that utterly charmed her.
“All right—background.” Margie smiled.
“You’re not the Countess,” he admitted. “No countess would smile that way.”
“Now that’s sensible, isn’t it? Of course I am not the Countess.”
“Then I’ll make it even shorter. There’s some rumor in Dravina about Alexander doing away with old Hutsinger, the Count. That was after the war, and the old man died in an auto crash under rather suspicious circumstances. Maybe the General did it, maybe not—I can’t be sure. But the Count was not alone in the car when he died; he had an English geologist with him, and it is possible that evidence of oil was found by this man. Anyway, after that General Alexander, one or two other people in the government there, and some outside financial interests formed the Dravinian Oil Company and they hired me to do the geological survey. I had done a stint in the Sahara for Shell after graduation from engineering school, and I was competent. I found evidence of oil—very strong and valuable evidence. Then I was sent to New York and the Dravinian Oil Company opened an office in the building across the street from here, on Park Avenue. They began to raise capital, and meanwhile the Countess was approached to sign some leases. She refused, and then they discovered that she had some conversations with Standard Oil people. It was the General cooked up this crazy scheme. She would rescue me; I would help her escape. We would begin a relationship. I would win her confidence, and then she would sign the leases. Well …”
Margie shook her head. “He’s not very bright, is he—your General Alexander?”
“Not very—no, I’m afraid not.”
“I mean, there are certainly thirty ways to meet a girl that make sense.”
“He’s a conspirator. He thinks that way. He couldn’t do anything straightforward—across the board. He has to find some crazy underhand way to go about it. That’s the way they have been thinking in Dravina for the past hundreds of years. It’s not an easy habit to break.”
“Yet it might even have worked—except for the murder of Joey Montoso.”
“If he was murdered. But it’s more than that, Margie. I am a bad choice for the part. In fact, all things considered, I am a pretty weak character—and I suppose you’re not the Countess.”
“I’m not.”
“Then I am in hot water—very hot water.”
“But you’re in much more hot water if I am the Countess. You’ve just about loused things up permanently.”
“I guess I have.”
“But I am not the Countess, so there you are, and all you have to worry about is General Alexander, a murder, and losing your job with Dravinian Oil. That’s not so bad. It could be worse.”
“How?”
“I told you before. If I were really the Countess
…”
“Then it’s your turn,” Macbain said. “Who are you?”
“I told you who I am. I am Margie Beck.”
And with that she went into the entire story, beginning with her journey westward along Thirty-seventh Street from Fifth Avenue that same morning, and complicating it with bits of background about her childhood in Kapatuk and the time she played Eliza in the Kapatuk High School production of My Fair Lady, and coming finally to her acceptance of Joey Montoso’s invitation to have coffee with him.
Macbain nodded as the story went on. His nods became slower, his eyes wider, and his mouth slowly dropped open. When she had finished, he just stared at her.
“Do you still think I am the Countess Danya Hutsinger?” Margie asked.
“No. No, I guess not. Tell me, you really thought this man, Montoso, was a buyer for the Dallas department store?”
“Of course I did,” Margie replied indignantly. “It seems to me that it makes every bit as much sense as you and General Alexander thinking that anyone could fall for that infantile scheme of tying you up in the closet.”
“Yes, I guess so.”
“Anyway, I know something about buyers, believe me, but you and the General don’t know one thing about girls.”
“Quite,” he agreed.
“And now,” she said, “I am going to call Mr. Potnik so that he can stop worrying, which he does better than my father.”
“My office is across the street. You can call him from there.”
“Just so long as I can make the next call to the police,” Margie said, “because it seems to me that these characters on TV and in the films—well, there would simply be no plots at all and no danger either if they would only call the police to begin with. So I am going to call the cops, and the main thing is I want you to back up my story so they won’t think I am some sort of nut or something who runs around stealing mink coats and diamond bracelets and inventing stories about places like Dravina. Is that agreed?”
“Agreed,” Macbain said.
CHAPTER 7
In which we gratefully encounter Cousin Fenton.
