Rules of Civility (36 page)

Obviously, Tinker had read many of the Rules on Mr. Washington's list quite closely. Maybe he had just never gotten this far.

 

On Tuesday morning, I woke early and walked all the way to work at a Bitsy Houghton pace. The sky was autumn blue and the streets bustled with honest men on their way to earn an honest wage. The Fifth Avenue high-rises shimmered to the envy of the outer boroughs. On the corner of Forty-second Street I gave the whistling newsie two bits for the
Times
(keep the change, kid) and then the Condé Nast elevator whisked me up twenty-five floors faster than it would have taken to fall them.

As I walked across the bullpen with my paper under my arm (and the newsie's whistle on my lips), I noticed out of the corner of my eye that singing-telegrammed Fesindorf stood when I passed. Then Cabot and Spindler did the same. Across the room I could see Alley at her desk typing at full clip. She caught my eye with a hint of caution. Through the glass walls of his office, I could see Mason Tate dipping his chocolate into his coffee.

At my desk, in place of my chair, I found a wheelchair with a red cross emblazoned on the back.

FALL

CHAPTER TWENTY

Hell Hath No Fury

I read a lot of Agatha Christies that fall of 1938—maybe all of them. The Hercule Poirots, the Miss Marples.
Death on the Nile
.
The Mysterious Affair at Styles
. Murders
. . . on the Links
,
. . . at the Vicarage
, and,
... on the Orient Express
. I read them on the subway, at the deli, and in my bed alone.

You can make what claims you will about the psychological nuance of Proust or the narrative scope of Tolstoy, but you can't argue that Mrs. Christie fails to please. Her books are tremendously satisfying.

Yes, they're formulaic. But that's one of the reasons they are so satisfying. With every character, every room, every murder weapon feeling at once newly crafted and familiar as rote (the role of the postimperialist uncle from India here being played by the spinster from South Wales, and the mismatched bookends standing in for the jar of fox poison on the upper shelf of the gardener's shed), Mrs. Christie doles out her little surprises at the carefully calibrated pace of a nanny dispensing sweets to the children in her care.

But I think there is another reason they please—a reason that is at least as important, if not more so—and that is that in Agatha Christie's universe everyone eventually gets what they deserve.

Inheritance or penury, love or loss, a blow to the head or the hangman's noose, in the pages of Agatha Christie's books men and women, whatever their ages, whatever their caste, are ultimately brought face-to-face with a destiny that suits them. Poirot and Marple are not really central characters in the traditional sense. They are simply the agencies of an intricate moral equilibrium that was established by the Primary Mover at the dawn of time.

For the most part, in the course of our daily lives we abide the abundant evidence that no such universal justice exists. Like a cart horse, we plod along the cobblestones dragging our masters' wares with our heads down and our blinders in place, waiting patiently for the next cube of sugar. But there are certain times when chance suddenly provides the justice that Agatha Christies promise. We look around at the characters cast in our own lives—our heiresses and gardeners, our vicars and nannies, our late-arriving guests who are not exactly what they seem—and discover that before the end of the weekend all assembled will get their just deserts.

But when we do so, we rarely remember to count ourselves among their company.

That Tuesday morning in September, when Mason Tate showed his concerns for my health, I didn't bother trying to apologize. I certainly didn't bother trying to explain. I just sat down in my wheelchair and started typing. Because I could tell exactly where I stood—about three feet from the trapdoor in the floorboards.

In Mason Tate's world, there was no room for extenuating circumstances or divided loyalties; so, there wasn't going to be much patience with displays of jauntiness or wit or other signals of the self-assured. I was just going to have to shoulder the yoke and accept whatever additional humiliations the boss had in store for me, until I had earned my way back into his good graces.

So that's what I did. I arrived a little earlier. I avoided the watercooler. I listened to Mr. Tate's critiques of others without a smirk. And Friday evening when Alley went to the automat, like any good penitent from the Middle Ages I went home and copied out rules of grammar and usage:

As if on cue:
There was a knock at my door
.

It was three succinct raps, too precious to be Detective Tilson or the Western Union boy. I opened the door to find Anne Grandyn's secretary standing in the hall. He was wearing a three-piece suit, every button buttoned.

—Good evening, Miss
Kon
tent.

—Kon
tent
.

—Yes. Of course. Kon
tent
.

Though as disciplined as a Prussian soldier, Bryce couldn't resist eyeing my apartment over my shoulder. The sum of what little he saw lent a hint of satisfaction to his terse little smile.

—Yes? I prompted.

—I apologize for bothering you at
home . . .

He added a sort of grave inflection to the word
home
to indicate his sympathies.

—But Mrs. Grandyn wanted you to have this as soon as possible.

He flicked two fingers forward revealing a small envelope. I plucked it free and weighed it in the air.

—Too important to trust to the post office?

—Mrs. Grandyn was hoping for an immediate response.

—She couldn't phone?

—On the contrary. We tried telephoning. Many times. But it seems . . . Bryce gestured to where the unhooked phone still sat on the floor.

—Ah.

I opened the envelope. Inside was a handwritten note.
Please come and see me tomorrow at four. I think it's important that we speak.
She signed it,
Respectfully, A. Grandyn
, and concluded with the postscript:
I've ordered olives.

—Can I tell Mrs. Grandyn to expect you? Bryce asked.

—I'm afraid that I shall have to think on it.