by Otto Penzler
At seven the next morning, my student phoned me. “This is Alice Miller. I’m so sorry to disturb you,” she said, “but your friend, the famous writer, borrowed my car last night. We went out for coffee and afterward he said he had an urgent errand to go on, he practically got on his knees to beg to borrow the car. He said that although he knew I didn’t know him very well, you could vouch for him, and he promised he would have my car back in my carport by midnight. He borrowed ten dollars, too. He never came back. And I can’t get to work without it!”
“I’ll see if I can reach him,” I told her. “I’m so sorry. I’ll call you right back. ”
But his landlady did not find him in his room. I called Alice back and told her I could only imagine that there was some emergency with his son who was a paraplegic. I reassured her that he would surely have the car back to her very shortly but in the meantime to take a taxi to work, that I would pay for it.
I learned later that when finally Ricky did return the car to Alice, he never even rang her bell. He left the car at the curb. She found the inside of it littered with cigarette butts, racing forms, empty paper cups, and the greasy wrappers from McDonald’s hamburgers. There was not enough gas left in the tank for Alice to get to a gas station.
Toward the end of September, I was applying for a fellowship and realized that I needed my typewriter to fill out the application form. My anger overcame my revulsion, and I dialed the number Ricky had originally given me. His landlady answered, informing me that he’d moved out bag and baggage — that “he shipped out to sea.”
“To sea!” I imagined him on a whaling ship, thinking he was
Melville, or more likely that he was one of the sailors in Stephen Crane’s story about men doomed at sea, “The Open Boat,” a piece of work whose first line Alvord had often quoted: “None of them knew the color of the sky. ”
But my typewriter! I wanted it, it was mine. I felt as if Ricky had kidnapped one of my children.
“Let it go,” my husband said. “It’s an old typewriter, I’ll get you a new one; it doesn’t matter. Write it off as a business loss. Write him off — your old friend — if you can as one of those mistakes we all make in life.”
In the days following, I had trouble sleeping. I held imaginary conversations with Ricky, by turns furious, accusatory, damning, murderous. “I trusted you!” I cried out, and in return I heard his laugh . . . his cackle. Alvord had often talked about evil in his class; the reality of it, how it existed, how it was as real as the spinning globe to which we clung.
Days later, in a frenzy, I began calling hospitals, halfway houses, rehab clinics, trying to find the place where Ricky’s son lived — if indeed he had a son.
“Don’t do this to yourself,” Danny said. He saw me on the phone, sweating, asking questions, shaking with anger, trembling with outrage.
But one day I actually located the boy. He was in a hospital in a city only a half hour’s drive from my house. I named his name, Bobby, with Ricky’s last name, and someone asked me to wait, they would call him to the phone. And a man picked up the phone and said “Yes? This is Bobby. ”
I told him I was a friend of his father, that his father had my typewriter.
“Oh sure, I know about that. You’re his old friend. He left the typewriter here with me. You can come and get it.” His voice had the same tones as Ricky’s voice. The same seductive sound — the “Oh sure” a kind of promise, the “come and get it” the serpent’s invitation.
“His landlady said he went to sea. ...” I felt I must have another piece of the puzzle, at least one more piece.
‘Yeah — he got a job teaching English on a Navy ship. I told him he better take it, he wasn’t going to freeload off me the rest of his life.”
“I’m sorry,” I said to the boy “I’m sorry about your accident. . . and about your troubles with your father.”
“Hey don’t worry about it. It’s nothing new. But if you want his address on the ship I could give it to you.”
“No — thank you,” I said. “I don’t want it. I think your father and I have come to a parting of the ways. Good-bye, Bobby, I wish you good luck.”
“You, too,” Bobby said. “Anyone who knows my father needs it.”
Then, two years after I talked to his son, I got the third phone call. “This is a voice out of your fucking past.”
“Hello, Ricky.” My heart was banging so hard I had to sit down.
“I heard from my son you want your goddamned typewriter back.”
“No, no —”
“You’ll have it back. It’s in little pieces. I’ll be on your doorstep with it in twenty minutes.”
“I don’t want it, Ricky. Don’t come here! Keep it.”
“I said you’ll have it back. I always keep my word, you fucking ...” “Please, keep it. I don’t need it! Keep it and write your book on it!”
‘Just expect me,” Ricky said. “I’ll be there, you count on it. Watch out your window for me.”
I did. For a week. For a month. I keep watching and sometimes, when the phone rings, I let it ring and don’t answer it.
The Old Spies Club
from Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine
Rand had been retired from British Intelligence for a good many years, but it was not until he turned sixty that he was invited to join the Old Spies Club. That was not its official name, of course, but around London’s clubland it was often called that, especially by nonmembers who may have been a bit jealous of its exclusive status and impressive membership.
The club itself occupied three floors of a late-Victorian building on St. James’s Street, just a short walk from Piccadilly. The main floor was given over to the gentlemen’s lounge and the dining room, with a billiard room, card room, smoking lounge, library, and the other amenities one might expect. On the second floor were rooms for meetings or private dinners, along with the club’s offices. The third floor contained three dozen residential rooms where members might stay for a day or a year. These were often occupied by members in the city on a visit, although some members also found them useful when death or divorce suddenly changed their marital status.
Rand had taken a good deal of kidding from his wife Leila about being elderly enough for the Old Spies Club, and in truth he had never been much of a joiner. He was a bit dismayed the first time he took the train up from Reading and stopped in the place one warm July afternoon. The first person he met, just inside the door, was Colonel Cheever, a blustering old man who could have starred in any number of film comedies about the army. It was hard to imagine he’d ever been engaged in any sort of intelligence work.
“Rand! How are you, old chap? I saw your name come up on the new member postings. Good to have you aboard.” His gray jmous-
tache drooped around his thick lips and he had a habit of spitting when he spoke quickly, but Rand had to admit he seemed trim and in good health for his age. Cheever had been in army intelligence, far from Rand’s own sphere of activity. Their paths had only crossed a few times at government functions Rand couldn’t avoid.
Now, in trying to be politely friendly, he asked Cheever, “Do you come here often, Colonel?”
“I’m here for the meeting at two o’clock. I expect you are too.” “No,” Rand admitted. “I was just in the city for the day and thought I’d acquaint myself with the place.”
Colonel Cheever smiled. “Let me give you the tour.”
Rand admired the comfortable leather armchairs in the lounge, wondering if he’d ever be elderly enough to pass his afternoons in such a place. “The air in here used to be blue with cigar smoke,” the colonel explained, “but now the smokers have been relegated to a smaller lounge down the hall. Times do change.”
He led the way through the spacious billiard room and the card room, where green-shaded lights hung down over felt-covered tables.
“I imagine there are some wicked card games in here,” Rand commented.
“Wicked, indeed! I prefer bridge, but mo
st players like faster methods of losing their money.”
The dining room, with its rows of neatly arranged tables, was quite inviting and Rand made a mental note to dine there sometime with Leila. When they’d reached the second-floor meeting rooms it was two o’clock, time for the colonel’s meeting. Rand started to excuse himself but saw another familiar face among those entering the meeting room. “Harry! Harry Vestry!”
The slender smiling man turned at the sound of his name. “Well, if it isn’t Rand! Good to see you, old chap. How long have you been gone from Concealed Communications now?”
“Too long, Harry. I’m old enough to qualify for this club, after all. And Double-C doesn’t even exist anymore under that name.” Vestry chuckled. Rand had been a close friend of Vestry’s when they were recruited together for intelligence work, but the vagaries of overseas assignments had separated them after a few years. “Look, why don’t you sit in on our meeting, Rand? It’s nothing really secret, and you may have some good suggestions to toss in.”
“I don’t even know what it’s about,” Rand protested mildly.
Vestry smoothed back his thinning gray hair. “Finding the truth, old chap. That’s what it’s about.” Then, acknowledging Cheever for the first time, he urged, “Bring him along, Colonel. It’s an open meeting.”
Cheever placed a hand on Rand’s shoulder. ‘You heard the man. Come along and join us.”
There were a dozen of them around the long oval table, though seats had been provided for twice that number. Rand had already observed that, like most London clubs, this one had not yet progressed to admitting women. Harry Vestry took his place at the head of the table, ready to conduct the meeting, and it was obvious he’d been within his rights when he invited Rand to sit in. Looking around the table at the other men, all about his age or slightly older, Rand was surprised that he knew so few. Cheever and Vestry were the only two he could have named, though a tall man with a red face and a bald head like a bullet seemed familiar.
“I think we all know the purpose of this meeting,” Vestry began when the others had quieted their conversations.
Rand raised his hand. “I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Of course, Jeffrey. I forgot. Well, you probably read in the papers last winter about the death of Cedric Barnes during heart surgery. He was the author of all those books on famous British spies, double agents, MI5, MI6, and Air Intelligence. I believe he even did a volume on Concealed Communications, your old department.”
Rand remembered. He’d read it when it came out, feeling a perverted sense of pride when he found sixteen references to himself in the index. Even in a top-secret organization it was nice to achieve some level of recognition. Oddly enough, he’d thought of Cedric Barnes just a few days earlier, after reading a news account from America that stated that the CIA had agreed to stop employing journalists in the gathering of intelligence data. “I had lunch with the man once,” Rand said. “He wanted an interview but it was forbidden by the Official Secrets Act. I don’t know where he obtained all his information.”
“It hardly matters now,” Vestry said. “What matters is that his daughter Magda intends to auction off the furnishings from his country house. Barnes’s wife has been dead about ten years, so everything went to the daughter. The auction is scheduled here in
London next week, at Sotheby’s. Many of us believe grave danger can be done to the country if that auction is allowed to go forward.” Rand was a bit surprised when he allowed his gaze to circle the table and saw that the others were taking this seriously. “Do you really think he had some top-secret papers hidden in a piano leg?” “Such things are possible,” the tall red-faced man said. “He worked at home with his daughter’s help, and we already know certain well-placed journalists will be bidding on select pieces. A diary or journal could be invaluable.”
Harry Vestry continued. “My proposal, gentlemen, is that we stop this auction by placing a preemptive bid for the entire offering. I have already spoken to Magda Barnes about the possibility and she is agreeable.”
“How much does she want?” Colonel Cheever asked.
“One million pounds.”
There were sighs and groans from around the table. “The club doesn’t have that sort of money,” someone said.
“We may be able to negotiate a lower figure,” Vestry tried to reassure them. “But we must all realize the importance of this matter.”
Rand spoke again. “If it’s so important, why doesn’t the government step in and take action?”
“We understand they have done all they can on an official basis,” Vestry answered vaguely. Rand wondered if he was implying that the government had appealed to the Old Spies Club for financial backing in the matter.
It was Colonel Cheever who seemed most vocal in opposing Vestry. “Are you saying you expect the members in this room to come up with the million pounds necessary to cancel the auction? Such a suggestion borders on the ridiculous!”
Vestry tried to remain calm against this attack, but the members around the table quickly chose sides. After most of them had spoken, it seemed obvious he was in the minority. “The money just isn’t there,” the red-faced man said.
“Do you have any other suggestions, Shirley?” Vestry asked.
At first the use of the feminine name jarred Rand, but then something clicked in his memory. Shirley Watkins, the man with a woman’s name. During his years of covert government service Shirley’s job had always been assassination. Few knew his name and fewer still had seen his face. Rand had met him just once in Berlin, twenty years ago, but supposed him long dead. Could this possibly be the same man?
“Let me talk to the daughter,” Shirley suggested. “Maybe I can make her see reason.”
- It might have been an innocent remark, but coming from this man it could also have been a death threat. Rand knew his imagination was running away with him but still he raised his hand and spoke. “If you’ll excuse me, I wonder if I might be of service, gentlemen. As I said, I had lunch with Cedric Barnes a few years back when he wanted an interview for the Double-C book. His daughter might remember my name if she helped him with the book.”
“That’s very good of you, Rand,” Colonel Cheever said at once. “What say you all? Shall we take Jeffrey up on his offer?”
There were assents from around the table, and perhaps a sense of relief. Rand wondered what he was getting himself into.
Sotheby’s London auction rooms were located on New Bond Street, in a remodeled four-story building that probably dated from Georgian times. The building ran through the block to St. George Street, and the main entrance was around the back. It was here that Rand entered, stopping to purchase a pricey full-color catalogue of that week’s lots to be auctioned. The one that interested him was titled simply Items from the Country House of an Author and Journalist.
He went upstairs to the second-floor exhibition hall and spent the better part of the next hour inspecting an array of furniture including antique desks, chairs, tables, lamps, even a four-poster bed with a canopy. Barnes’s old manual typewriter was there with a shiny new plastic ribbon in place. A pile of books, neatly tied in manageable bundles of twenty or so, was being sold as a separate lot. Glancing over the titles, Rand recognized some of the Cold War classics, plus a few books on espionage in general and World War II in particular. David Kahn’s thick volume The Code Breakers was there, along with Hitler’s Spies, and Robert Harris’s recent novel Enigma. There was also a complete set of Cedric Barnes’s own books, many in foreign-language editions, leaving little doubt as to the identity of the “author and journalist.” An array of office supplies, a camera, and a tape recorder completed the lot.
Rand spent the rest of his time studying the others who roamed through the exhibition hall. One that he recognized at once was Simon Spalding, a columnist for the Speculator. He was an expert at digging up dirt on the Royal Family, and perhaps now he was widening his horizons.
On his way out Rand stopped
in the office and requested a ticket to the auction itself. The young woman behind the desk informed him that no tickets were necessary. “Anyone may attend our regularly scheduled auctions,” she said. “However, if you think you might be bidding you should register at the door and receive a numbered paddle which you hold up to signify a bid.”
“I wronder if you could help me with one other matter. Could you put me in touch with a family member regarding this auction?” Apparently she was accustomed to such requests. ‘You may place an early bid with us for any item you wish.”
“This is more of a family matter,” he said, purposely vague.
She glanced toward the closed door to an inner office. ‘Just a minute, please.” She tapped lightly on the closed door and then entered.
After a moment she emerged with a dark-haired woman, perhaps in her middle thirties, wearing a bright summer dress that looked expensive to Rand’s untrained eye. She smiled and extended her hand. “I’m Magda Barnes. The items to be auctioned are from my father’s house. I came by today to see how they were being displayed. May I be of service?”
He accepted the hand, which was surprisingly soft. “Is there somewhere we could talk in private, Miss Barnes?”
“I was using their conference room to review the catalogue. Perhaps we could talk in there.” She glanced at the secretary, who nodded permission.
Inside the small room Rand introduced himself and came right to the point. ‘Your father was a respected journalist. I met him once and you may recall I was mentioned several times in his book on the Department of Concealed Communications. Some of us, now retired from the Service, are concerned that your father’s possessions might contain some hidden notes that could fall into the wrong hands.”
She smiled at the thought. “No, no — I’ve been over everything being offered at auction. I examined and searched each item at
