Part 4 (1/2)

”That's for you,” he said.

”For me?”

”Yes, I thought you knew.”

I shook my head and there was something in the room that was very close to fear. It was a sombre room, two walls filled with books, and on the third heavily draped windows flanking a marble fireplace.

”Well,” he said, ”it's yours. Why don't you take it?”

I walked to the desk and picked up the envelope. It was unsealed and I flipped up the flap. Inside was a thick sheaf of currency.

”Fifteen hundred dollars,” said Gerald Sherwood. ”I presume that is the right amount.”

”I don't know anything,” I told him, ”about fifteen hundred dollars. I was simply told by phone that I should talk with you.”

He puckered up his face, and looked at me intently, almost as if he might not believe me.

”On a phone like that,” I told him, pointing to the second phone that stood on the desk.

He nodded tiredly. ”Yes,” he said, ”and how long have you had the phone?”

”Just this afternoon. Ed Adler came and took out my other phone, the regular phone, because I couldn't pay for it. I went for a walk, to sort of think things over, and when I came back this other phone was ringing.”

He waved a hand. ”Take the envelope,” he said. ”Put it in your pocket. It is not my money. It belongs to you.”

I laid the envelope back on top the desk. I needed fifteen hundred dollars. I needed any kind of money, no matter where it came from. But I couldn't take that envelope. I don't know why I couldn't.

”All right,” he said, ”sit down.”

A chair stood angled in front of the desk and I sat down in it.

He lifted the lid of a box on the desk. ”A cigar?” he asked.

”I don't smoke,” I told him.

”A drink, perhaps?”

”Yes. I would like a drink.”

”Bourbon?”

”Bourbon would be fine.”

He went to a cellaret that stood in a corner and put ice into two gla.s.ses.

”How do you drink it, Brad?”

”Just ice, if you don't mind.”

He chuckled. ”It's the only civilized way to drink the stuff” he said.

I sat, looking at the rows of books that ran from floor to ceiling. Many of them were in sets and, from the looks of them, in expensive bindings.

It must be wonderful, I thought, to be, not exactly rich, but to have enough so you didn't have to worry when there was some little thing you wanted, not to have to wonder if it would be all right if you spent the money for it. To be able to live in a house like this, to line the walls with books and have rich draperies and to have more than just one bottle of booze and a place to keep it other than a kitchen shelf.

He handed me the gla.s.s of whisky and walked around the desk. He sat down in the chair behind it. Raising his gla.s.s, he took a couple of thirsty gulps, then set the gla.s.s down on the desk top.

”Brad,” he asked, ”how much do you know?”

”Not a thing,” I said. ”Only what I told you. I talked with someone on the phone. They offered me a job.”

”And you took the job?”

”No,” I said, ”I didn't, but I may. I could use a job. But what they whoever it was had to say didn't make much sense.”

”They?”

Well, either there were three of them-or one who used three different voices. Strange as it may sound to you, it seemed to me as if it were one person who used different voices.”

He picked up the gla.s.s and gulped at it again. He held it up to the light and saw in what seemed to be astonishment that it was nearly empty. He hoisted himself out of the chair and went to get the bottle. He slopped liquor in his gla.s.s and held the bottle out to me.

”I haven't started yet,” I told him.

He put the bottle on the desk and sat down again.

”OK,” he said, ”you've come and talked with me. It's all right to take the job. Pick up your money and get out of here. More than likely Nancy's out there waiting. Take her to a show or something.”

”And that's all?” I asked. ”That is all,” he said.

”You changed your mind,” I told him. ”Changed my mind?”

”You were about to tell me something. Then you decided not to.”

He looked at me levelly and hard. ”I suppose you're right,” he said. ”It really makes no difference.”

”It does to me,” I told him. ”Because I can see you're scared.”

I thought he might get sore. Most men do when you tell them they are scared.

He didn't. He just sat there, his face unchanging.

Then he said: ”Start on that drink, for Christ's sake. You make me nervous, just roosting there and hanging onto it.”

I had forgotten all about the drink. I had a slug.

”Probably,” he said, ”you are thinking a lot of things that aren't true. You more than likely think that I'm mixed up in some dirty kind of business. I wonder, would you believe me If I told you I don't really know what kind of business I'm mixed up in.”

”I think I would,” I said. ”That is, if you say so.”

”I've had a lot of trouble in life,” he said, ”but that's not unusual. Most people do have a lot of trouble, one way or the other. Mine came in a bunch. Trouble has a way of doing that.”