On the morning of Monday, April 23rd (the date seemed unimportant
at the time), I took the early morning train into New York. Spring
had done its fell work and the club car was full of middle-aged
business-men, with dark circles under their eyes, prepared to fight
at the drop of a hat anyone who said they weren't as young as they
felt. With Jimmie's perfume still in my nostrils, I hadn't the heart
to deride them, so I did the next best thing and talked them into a
poker-game.
By the time we pulled into Grand Central I was eighteen dollars and
seventy cents ahead, thanks to a full-house just before we reached
125th Street.
Instead of joining my fellow-brokers in their Gadarene rush for the
downtown subway express, I strolled north along Park Avenue to the Pond
Club.
At the Pond Club I found Tammy engaged, as ever, in polishing the
glasses behind his gleaming little bar.
"My! Mr. Tompkins," he exclaimed. "You look as though you'd just made a
million dollars," he told me. "The usual, sir?"
"It was nearly three millions, Tammy, and accept no substitutes. What I
need is concentrated protein. How about a couple of dozen Cotuits and
some black coffee?"
The steward raised his eyebrows knowingly.
"I'll mix you one of my Second Day Specials, sir," he said. "Funny
thing about that drink. One night, young Mr. Ferguson--he's a new
member, sir--was feeling merry and felt a sudden sense of compassion
for the statue of Civic Virtue in front of the City Hall. Of course,
I've never seen it but they tell me that it's a very fine work of art,
by a person named Mac Monnies, I believe. He wasn't a member of the
club, of course, but that's what I understand the name to be. So Mr.
Ferguson would have nothing for it but to take one of my Second Day
Specials down to the Civic Virtue and give him a drink. It seemed that
Mr. Ferguson felt quite sorry for the statue down there in front of
LaGuardia without any company. So he took a cab downtown and poured the
drink down the mouth of the statue for a joke, like. But here's the odd
thing, sir. They had to throw a canvas over the statue and send for a
man with a hacksaw before the Mayor decided it was proper to expose it
to the citizens again."
"Then bring me a double Second Day Special, without cold chisels or
hacksaws, if you please," I ordered.
He smirked knowingly but had the tact of good club servants to say
nothing. I sipped his concoction, which tasted entirely unlike the
egg-nog it outwardly resembled. A moment later, I tried another sip. It
was not at all unpleasant, so I drained the glass. This, I decided, was
exactly what I needed, so I drank the second one without drawing breath.
"Ah-h-h!" I beamed. "That is much better. Now if anybody phones me, say
I'm not here, unless it's one of my friends."
"Would that be true of that Mrs. R., sir?" he inquired. "That lady with
the red hair you told me about, Mr. Tompkins?"
"If Mrs. Rutherford calls," I said, "let me know."
He smiled slyly. "Then I was to deliver a message to you from her, sir.
She wants you to call her at the apartment, she said. Circle 8-7326,
the number is. She said it was important."
I dialed the number. Virginia answered.
"Winnie?" Her voice was cool and amused. "You'd better come up here in
a hurry. It's urgent."
"Where is here?" I asked.
"At our place, the apartment," she said.
"Better give me the address," I suggested. "I can't seem to remember."
"Winnie, that particular joke is getting tiresome. You know perfectly
well it's 172 East 72nd Street and the third floor front. The name,
naturally, is Smith."
"John Smith?" I inquired.
"Natch! And hurry, unless you want to be in worse trouble than you can
imagine."
I signaled to Tammy. "One more Second Day Special, please."
He looked worried. "Are you quite sure, sir," he demurred. "Two is as
much as I've ever seen a man take."
He returned to his mystery and produced the fatal brew. I drank it
slowly. By Godfrey! this was more like it. I tossed him a five-dollar
bill.
"Just remember that you haven't seen me," I told him.
"Quite, Mr. Tompkins."
I managed to snag an uptown taxi and rolled in comfort to 172 East 72nd
Street.
I pressed the button marked Smith and was rewarded by a clicking of the
latch. I climbed the stairs and on the third story tapped the little
brass knocker. The door opened and Virginia appeared clad somewhat in a
white silk dressing-gown and with her red hair sizzling out at me.
"Come in, stranger," she said.
She closed the door and settled herself comfortably, with a cigarette,
on the suspiciously broad day-bed. I sat down in a very deep easy
chair, facing her, and lighted a cigarette too.
"Well?" I inquired.
"Winnie," she began, "you know I never try to interfere with your
private life or try to ask questions, but don't you think this farce
has gone on long enough?"
I flicked some ash on the carpet and tried to look inscrutable.
"You know what you are doing, of course," she continued, "and your
performance in Washington was magnificent, but just between ourselves,
can't you relax?"
Although the windows were open, the room seemed oppressively warm. I
threw back my coat and confronted her without speaking.
"Of course," Virginia continued, "I know we've got to be discreet.
There can always be dictaphones and detectives and it seems that the
F.B.I. knows all about this place, but can't you just--"
She jumped up and faced me. With an angry movement, she snatched off
her dressing-gown and flung it on the floor.
"There!" she said. "Is there anything _wrong_ with me? Am I repulsive?
Or don't you care?"
It must have been the three specials that lifted me from the easy chair
and whisked me across the room to the embattled red head, but it must
have been my guardian angel that prompted my next move. I pulled out my
fountain pen and wrote rapidly on the back of an envelope: "I suspect
that we are watched."
Her eyes widened and she quickly grabbed her gown and draped it around
her. I laid my finger to my lips.
"What I came to see you about, Virginia," I said, "is to tell you, once
and for all, that all is over between us."
That was a mistake. She gave me a wink, dropped the gown and came and
sat beside me on the arm of the chair.
"I too, Winfred," she said dramatically, "have become increasingly
distressed by your apparent coldness."
She cuddled down and planted her lips on my ear while her tongue
flicked like a little snake's.
"No," she continued, "the time has come, Winfred, when we must face
the facts, unpleasant though they may be. I was never meant to be a
part-time girl for any man."
Her sharp little teeth nipped my neck savagely.
"Virginia," I said, "what I had to say--what I mean is--"
I never said it. Her mouth was suddenly glued to mine and she melted
into my arms.
"Damn you!" I told her. "There."
The apartment door-bell was buzzing like an accusation.
"Tell them to go away," she murmured. "Say we're not at home."
I disentangled myself, ran to the door and jiggled the button that
released the downstairs catch. "Go and make yourself decent," I told
her. "I'll stall them if you aren't too long."
I listened as the footsteps slowly mounted the stairs. It was a man's
step. Then came a brisk tap on the brass knocker. I opened up. It was
A. J. Harcourt of the F.B.I. He seemed rather surprised to see me.
"Good morning, Mr. Tompkins," he began. "I thought that--"
"Oh, come on in," I urged him. "Mrs. Rutherford will be out in a
moment. I--we...."
He nodded. "You certainly do get around," he admitted. "Last the Bureau
heard you were a patient up in Hartford, and here I find you in--"
"In a love-nest," I suggested. "A den of perfumed sin. A high-priced
hell-hole. I got here about ten minutes ago. Mrs. Rutherford said that
I might be in trouble but she didn't get around to explaining what
trouble."
He grinned. "When a girl speaks of trouble, she means herself," he
orated.
"Oh, is that so?"
Virginia appeared at the entrance to the bathroom, completely though
revealingly clad, and advanced into the room brandishing her sex like
an invisible shillelagh. "And what has the F.B.I. to do with me, Mr.
Harcourt?" she demanded.
Poor Harcourt looked abashed but made a speedy recovery, getting out of
the rough in one stroke.
"Now that Mr. Tompkins is here, Mrs. Rutherford, mam," he said, "I have
nothing to see you about. We heard he had gone to a private asylum in
New England and I was told to see you and ask if you knew any of the
circumstances."
"Oh!" Virginia sat down on the rumpled day-bed. "That sounds rather
like a lie, you know."
"That's not my fault, mam," Harcourt replied. "My chief gives me my
orders and I follow them without being asked for my opinion. If the
Bureau wants to check on Mr. Tompkins through his friends--"
Virginia beamed and dimpled. "You couldn't do better than come to me,"
she admitted.
"Well, here I am," I told him, "and Mrs. Rutherford needn't feel
bothered. What is it now?"
"We just wanted to get the rights of your run-in with the Secret
Service," he told me. "Our liaison there told the Director that you
stood Chief Flynn on his ear and that Flynn threatened to swear out a
lunacy warrant against you. How come?"
I gave him a full account of my encounter with the Secret Service and
ended by producing the certificate of sanity signed by Dr. Folsom.
"There it is," I declaimed.
The Special Agent smiled. "You're nothing if not thorough, Mr.
Tompkins. Have you had any luck filling in that blank period before
Easter? The Bureau would feel much happier if you could remember. Now
don't get me wrong. The case against you is closed. You're off our
books. We believe that you're telling the truth, but just the same it
seems funny you can't remember."
Virginia Rutherford turned on him, like a battleship bringing a battery
of 16-inch guns to bear on a freighter. "Perhaps he has a good reason
for not remembering," she remarked. "Perhaps he went somewhere, with
some one--in skirts!"
"That's just what puzzles us," Harcourt admitted. "We've had fifty
agents from the New York office alone making checks, as far north as
Montreal, in Portland, Boston, Providence, and even Cincinnati and
Richmond. We've checked trains, buses, airlines and the garages, as
well as the hotels, boarding-houses and overnight cabins. There isn't
anybody that can remember seeing Mr. Tompkins, with or without a woman,
during that week."
"Then you're still investigating me?" I asked, while a chill went down
my spine.
The Special Agent shook his head. "Not at all, Mr. Tompkins. Like
I told you, the investigation was called off last week, when we
established your Z-2 identity. This is just the result of the inquiries
we started the week before last."
"And you can't find a trace?" I asked.
"Not a thing," he said.
Mrs. Rutherford turned to me, flung her arms around me and planted a
far from sisterly kiss on my lips. "Winnie, old dear," she observed,
"you are simply incredible."
And she left the apartment.
"Wonder what she meant by that?" Harcourt mused.
"We're probably happier in ignorance," I told him. "Come on, A. J.,
I'll buy a taxi down town. I've got to stop in at my office and gather
some of my unearned income. They tell me we've made nearly three
million dollars in the last ten days."
Harcourt consulted his note book. "The Bureau's figures put it at
two million eight hundred seventy thousand and two hundred forty-six
dollars and seventy-one cents, if you want to know," he said.
"So you _are_ keeping me watched," I remarked.
"What do _you_ think?" asked Special Agent Harcourt of the F.B.I.