Gift Shop

by Charlotte Armstrong

  “Oh, pig!” said the man’s voice.

  “Don’t come here. There’s nothing here. Any news?”

  “Not by me.”

  “I’ll phone. Now, how fast can you get over to Dublin? Can you hear me?”

  “Dublin, Ireland? Can’t say …”

  “They’ll be in the air within the hour. Vance made a good guess. Got their flight number. Can you get there first?”

  “It’ll be close. No, I guess—”

  “Don’t guess. Get there. Pick up their tracks. Leave a message for me at the first hotel in the book that begins with A. I’ll be there in the morning.”

  “Shall I meet you?”

  “No, no, no.”

  “Tail them? Right?”

  “Save time, if you can,” said Dorinda. “Get hold of the girl-guide he’s got along, that baby-faced blondy. She knows where the pig is.”

  “Pig?” said the voice, cautiously, still incredulous. “P for Paris?”

  “I for idiot. G for get going.”

  Dorinda hung up. Her beautiful face was smooth and cold. But her very fingertips seemed to drip her overflowing will to power. She placed a telephone call to New Zealand.

  Chapter Twelve

  That night, in Dublin, Harry was on the phone to Los Angeles, where it was midday. “Not a lot of luck,” he told his daddy, “but some. What’s the news there?”

  “We know more than we did, and it’s not good,” his father said. “Wait a minute and I’ll read you a letter. Came from Beckenhauer, written in the Islands. I’m glad you called, because you’d better know what we’re up against. Listen to this.”

  Harry seemed to hear the rattle of paper, then his father’s steady voice became Bernie, speaking from his grave.

  “Dear Mr. Fairchild:

  “I have good hope that if all goes well and the luck holds, I’ll be able to deliver to you the goods you wanted. Everything is arranged. I’ve taken precautions. I won’t put down here what they are for reasons I’m going to explain. I hope this gets to you so that you’ll have an idea what kind of trouble we’ve run into.

  “I have been followed for several days. I knew that days ago and went with care. I promise you, I did not lead them anywhere that mattered. I didn’t know who they were, you understand, until last night when two of them jumped me in an alley and tried to get information by force. I had luck in the shape of some U.S. Navy personnel who came by, a little bit drunk and asking no questions.

  “So I got out of that with more information than they got out of me, which I promise you, was nothing.

  “One of the men is named Varney. I knew who he was. The other one I don’t know by name, but he belongs to the same organization; that I know. Now first, I want to warn you, Mr. Fairchild. They knew all about the child. They knew as much as I did, when I started out. So I suggest you watch it there, because it looks as if they must have an informer close enough to you to be passing this on.

  That’s one reason I’m not putting down any more than they already know. It’s a big operation; there’s plenty of money for payoffs. They’ll go all out. I can’t even be sure this letter is ever going to get to you.

  “In case it does, here is what seems to be the situation. Varney works for a man named Maximilian Kootz.”

  “That’s k-o-o-t-z,” spelled Harry’s daddy, and then read on.

  “This Kootz (as your son can tell you) is or was one of the so-called biggest men of this generation of criminals. These big fish are usually pretty cool and aloof, but Kootz made a mistake and did his own killing for once, and they caught him cold. His case has been in and out of the courts for a couple of years, anyhow. But now it’s supposed to be the end of the line. He’s due to die in the gas chamber—and ask your oldest son. They convicted him in your son’s own state. And that’s the root of the matter.

  “Here’s what they have in mind. Kootz’s people want to get their hands on your little girl because you want her. And if they get her, they’ll try to pressure you and, through you, your son for a stay of execution for this Kootz. Maybe even a commutation of sentence. Or, for all I know, a full pardon. This is a wild throw on their part. They’ll threaten to kill or torture her. Work on you. I don’t know whether it would work or not. I don’t care.

  “The point is, Mr. Fairchild, I don’t want those people to get their dirty hands on that little girl for any reason whatsoever. I’m sorry now that I was smart enough to find her. She was doing okay where she was. But it’s too late now, just to leave her be.

  “I’ve made arrangements, as I said, and taken precautions. But now you understand why I don’t put them in writing.

  “I hope and pray you will get this, because I may need more luck than there is.”

  “He’s scratched out a line,” said Harry’s daddy, on a higher pitch. Then his voice steadied lower and he went on. But Harry swallowed hard.

  “Well,” read his father, “I guess I can tell you a little bit about her. Her name is Barbara. (They know that much.) She is a real cute little girl, healthy and smart and very well-behaved, a daughter to be proud of. What bothers me—she’s never known anything as brutal and cruel as these people who are after her. And believe me, I would do anything … anything … rather than have her suffer for things that haven’t anything to do with her, and shouldn’t have.

  “For God’s sakes, Mr. Fairchild, take care of your little girl.”

  A note had come into his father’s voice that Harry had heard one time before, on the day that his mother had died.

  Harry said sharply, “Varney, eh? He was in L.A. on Friday morning.”

  But his father was saying, “Wait. Tom’s here. Here’s Tom.”

  His brother, the governor, said, “Harry? I’ll read you the postscript ‘P.S. They got her name out of the mother, who at least gave her a name. But they got too rough. The mother’s hysterical, in a mental clinic. But they didn’t get where the child was, because her mother didn’t happen to know. B.’”

  “Nice people,” said Harry, encompassing many.

  “You bet,” said his brother. “And now we know, don’t we?”

  “That’s all you know? No due … where she is?”

  “Nothing.”

  “There is this big fat criminal?”

  “There is. Where have you been? Now I am, in all conscience, against capital punishment, as you may know, but if the human race needs to be rid of any one member …”

  “He’s for it, eh?” Harry cut in.

  “End of the line, as your friend puts it. Oh, they’ve fought. I’ve been offered bribes. I’ve even been threatened already. But they couldn’t touch me. Duly elected and sworn.”

  “Cut the political philosophy, Tom, will you please?”

  “You bet I will” said his brother vigorously. “It looks to me like I’m going to resign my office.”

  “What!”

  “All right, Harry. What else? It’s a double bind, isn’t it?” His brother’s voice had lost its more melodious cadences. “Can’t succumb to personal pressure and call myself fit to hold the office But suppose this man goes to the gas chamber, as scheduled, and then it comes out … as it will … don’t ever think it won’t … that I didn’t give a damn for the life and safety of a seven-year-old girl, supposed to be my own blood at that. The ‘peepul’ is a sentimental slob, old boy, and votes are ninety-eight percent emotional. So there it goes, doesn’t it? Anyway”—now his brother’s voice had an offhand note that snapped Harry to attention—“I can’t do that to Daddy. So what’s the solution? I bow out, and make it very, very public. Then what do they gain by touching this child? That’ll fix it. Agreed?”

  Harry was feeling stunned. He was guessing that his father must be in worse shape than could be stated in his presence.

  Suddenly his brother Dick was speaking. “What a mess, eh? Now listen, Harry, have you got a glimmer at all?”

  “I may have.” Harry’s lips felt tight.

  “Then don’t pay any attent
ion to Tom. For one thing, they haven’t got her yet. Or we’d have heard from them direct. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  “So before Tom starts making a noble jackass of himself, why don’t you just find the kiddie? That’s what you’re trying to do, isn’t it?”

  “Agreed”

  “Then you are our little old white hope, baby brother. Don’t bother to tell me it isn’t much of a hope, but tell me if it’s any.” Then the doctor added, on a different note, and there was warning again, “Daddy needs to know.”

  “I’d call it a hope,” said Harry slowly.

  “It’s hope, eh? Okay. I’ll give the governor tranquilizers or something, and we’ll all sit still while you get on with it. Now, how will you proceed?”

  “Ah, no,” said Harry. “Listen, Dick, give some thought to this informer, will you?”

  “You believe that?”

  “Bernie told me the same thing.”

  “So if he said it twice, it’s got to be true? I thought it took three …”

  “Are you trying to tell me you don’t believe any of it?”

  “No, no. Somebody’s after the kiddie. I’d as soon they didn’t get her.”

  “What’s Bernie’s partner up to?” Harry was sharp. “Does he know enough to be careful?”

  “Oh, well—seems they got him.”

  “GOT him?”

  “Beat him up. Oh, he’s okay, in a manner of speaking. Didn’t know a thing to tell. Luckily for us, but not for him, I guess. Hospitalized, in Honolulu.”

  “What about the police?” Harry was feeling outraged by all this violence.

  “What about them? We told them, here, the whole rigmarole. And it will leak. One reason Tom feels himself in a spot, you see? The cops would like to ask this Varney a few pointed questions. Wait a minute, Daddy wants you. Take it easy, Harry.” There was the tag, the tip-off, the warning again. Harry knew that his father must be in a bad way.

  His father said, “No description. Not the faintest clue. We don’t know who’s with her. How can the police find my little girl, even if they felt like trying, when she could be anywhere in the whole damn world? Where are you, Harry? Is she in Ireland?”

  “No, no,” said Harry. “No, no.”

  “Then what are you doing?”

  “No, no,” said Harry. “Never think it. She’s not in Ireland.” Harry was shaken by the notion that the enemy was listening in. “I’ll call you back, Daddy. Same time, your time, tomorrow.”

  But his father said, “I put her on this spot. I did it. Don’t you think I know that? She was doing all right where she was. But too late, now. These people … a little girl seven years of age.”

  “Listen, Daddy,” said Harry. “I don’t have much, but I do have something. Don’t get your hopes up too high, but not all the way down, either. Let me see what I can do.”

  He cut the connection. His daddy was in great distress. Harry could guess that his brothers had used him and his mysterious shenanigans to temper the old man’s mood of anguish and despair. A white hope, eh? Fat chance they really thought that.

  But it came to him slowly that (after all) perhaps he was the best hope, of whatever color.

  In Los Angeles, where it was midday, the doctor said, “Well, that’s that. So I’m off again. Little cutting and sawing on my plate this afternoon. As usual. Give Harry a chance, I say. Agreed?”

  Tom, sitting with his noble head resting on his hand, waved the other hand. “Over to Harry. Agreed.”

  Mei was weeping softly. Elaine was weeping rather more noisily.

  “Shut up, Elaine,” the governor said smoothly.

  The old man in the bed said, “That’s right. If you women can’t stop bawling, go somewhere else. I am going to state that my son George is not as dumb as the rest of you think he is. Just because he’s never done …”

  “He’s our baby,” said Dick cheerfully. “And I’ll say this—he wouldn’t kid us, now. He’s got a glimmer, all right.”

  “I’m sure he has,” the old man said.

  The doctor was watching keenly and now he flicked a glance at his brother and nodded.

  “So get on with the day’s work, I say,” Dick continued. “Mei? How come you’re not at work? Want a ride?”

  “Oh, Doctor, I …”

  “Come on,” said Dick. “I went to the trouble of getting you a job and I don’t approve of goofing off. So shake a leg. Half a day’s work is better than none. I’ll give you a ride, because I’ve got to go there anyway.”

  “Go ahead, Mei,” said Paul Fairchild. “And you, Elaine, will you please—”

  “Oh, Uncle Paul,” wept Elaine, “it can’t be the people the man says in the letter. I’m sure it must be somebody else.”

  “You go and boss the help, or something,” said the old man sternly. “I don’t have to put up with all this weeping and wailing. They haven’t got her yet. By George, they haven’t got her yet.”

  He was looking better.

  George Fairchild, commonly known as Harry, had been calling from the hotel suite where Jean Cunliffe—for appearance’s sake “assumed” by the hotel to be his sister—was tucked away in one of the bedrooms, sound asleep.

  Harry began to thank his prophetic soul that he had made this arrangement. These people were not nice, too much beating up was going on. And the fact was, Jean Cunliffe had also been doing all right where she was, until Harry Fairchild had come along and put her on a spot. Harry was understanding how his father felt, a little bit too well. Oh, damn it.

  But he had to thank his prophetic soul that he had done nothing overt, in the tag end of this long, hard day. He had been pretty sly. He had simply taken this suite, and then decreed a slow, leg-stretching ramble on the streets of the fair city, in the course of which Harry had turned, as if impulsively, into a bookstore and ordered up nearly a dozen books on the history, geography, legends and what-had-they about Ireland, both North and South. He had played the role of the scholarly tourist to perfection. In fact, it suited him, it fitted him. He had begun to suspect that perhaps he was a scholar, and not necessarily just an amateur. Perhaps he ought to take up a scholarly hobby rather more seriously. He was taken down with a conviction of inferiority, yet hope. And excitement.

  He had even discussed it languorously during a meal of sorts, after which Jean was so groggy that he had decreed bed for her (at what was, by Los Angeles time, late morning). But, by then, the books had been delivered, and when Jean had staggered docilely off, Harry had fallen upon them like a wolf.

  Muttering “The trained mind looks in the index,” he had done so, and in the third volume that came to his hand there it was. “Castle Ballycoo. Modern. Ca 1700. Retaining the name of a vanished village.”

  Ah, but there was the name of the new village. So Harry had fallen upon the map and he knew where it was and how to get there. “Green. Girl. Deirdre. Irish. Ballycoo.” Very simple, really, once you had the missing word. So Harry had called down and cheerfully arranged for the hotel to produce a car, at a reasonably convenient morning hour.

  Then he had felt ready to call Los Angeles.

  Now, having called, and having heard the news, Harry began to disrobe, being dead for sleep himself. He reflected that the pressures on him had been gaining weight rather steadily. He had begun all this pretty much for Bernie’s sake, who hadn’t wanted to die for nothing, who had given him the word. It had been Harry’s somewhat sentimental old-school-tie fancy, which he could afford but which he needn’t mention. This had been reinforced by his daddy’s wish to find the child and (Harry faced it) also by his brothers’ skepticism.

  But it had been growing upon him for some time that perhaps he had better find the child for the child’s sake. And it now appeared that he had better, and furthermore had better do it for his brother Tom’s sake, too. Tom might not have been serious about abandoning his career for the sake of an unknown, unseen, unproven little sister. Yet …

  The old man was in distress. And if y
ou had to put it bluntly and crudely, they were all his loving sons, Tom, Dick and Harry. Furthermore (his brothers’ wives having turned out the way they had) the old man had no grandchildren. Oh, it put the pressure on!

  Damn it! Obviously Harry couldn’t take up serious scholarship tomorrow. Or even the next day. Oh, no! First he had to gallop about, being the white hope of his whole family, chasing piggy banks!

  “Fine thing,” Harry muttered around his toothbrush.

  There was absolutely nothing he could do about it anymore tonight. Best our hero rested his brain and bones. Damn it, maybe he ought to have walked on ledges across the faces of buildings, been bold, quick and ruthless in the cause—although there had been no sign of any followers to Dublin … that he had seen, that is.

  Quick? His mind flashed back. Yah! Damn it, he had omitted to ask for the date set for the execution of this Kootz, whoever he was. Supposing that this monster perished on schedule, according to the law? Wouldn’t that take the pressure off? “They” could scarcely expect even the government to resurrect him. Was Harry, then, working against time? No, no, what he meant was, were the villains so doing? As for old white-hope-Harry … he didn’t even know what time it was.

  Never mind. Go to bed. Harry resolved to lay off this bad habit of cursing himself. What did he know? Well, he knew, now, that the man in the brown suit, one Victor Varney, was a villain-in-chief. But wait, wasn’t it odd that they had not caught one single glimpse of him since he had floated away on the moving stairs at the air terminal, years and years ago?

  Could there be more than one set of villains?

  Who, for instance, was Dorinda? Who was the man in the felt hat? And where the devil was the man in the brown suit?

  The man was in a blue suit. He was, however, in the act of taking it off, in a hotel room across the Green.

  In Los Angeles Dr. Fairchild swooped into St. Bart’s parking lot and neatly into his reserved slot. Mei thanked him and walked gracefully away toward the service entrance.

  She changed into her working uniform and went up to the eighth floor. She was an aide; she fetched and carried. Mei had been fetching and carrying a large part of her life. She was glad of the work the kind doctor had found for her. She had called for help, but not charity. She would stay in that house only until the trouble was over. She went along the north wing, looking straight ahead of her. Still, the doctor was right. Best to do one’s daily work.