What's So Funny (30 page)

Pembroke stopped, and Eppick turned to see what Mr. Hemlow was staring at. Out there, in a small clearing beside the road, on green tarpaulins, were two armies of chessmen, one the brightest crimson, the other deepest black.

“Beautiful,” Mr. Hemlow breathed. “No one would guess what lies beneath that paint. On, Pembroke.”

Pembroke drove on.

Fiona, seated on the next settee, had wanted to ask the same question, but was still somewhat intimidated by Jay Tumbril, particularly here in his own office, and so had kept silent.

“In my experience,” Tumbril answered, “arrest is sudden, but release takes a little longer.”

“It’s nearly six o’clock,” Mrs. W pointed out. “They’ve had nearly two
hours
to let poor Brian go.”

Tumbril started, “Yes, but —” and was interrupted by his phone. “Maybe this is Michael now,” he said, reaching for it.

While Fiona, Mrs. W, and Tumbril waited here in Tumbril’s office, another Feinberg beastie, not so wee, named Michael, a cadaverous seven–footer in a black suit that made him look like an exclamation point, had been sent to retrieve Brian from the police, after Tumbril had phoned to explain the situation to the assistant district attorney who’d been assigned the case. Now, into the phone, Tumbril said, “Yes, Felicity? Good, put him on. Michael, what’s the delay there?
What?
Jacques is absolutely certain of this? Put Roanoke on.” That being the name of the assistant DA. Tumbril raised baffled eyebrows at Mrs. W, then said into the phone, “Mr. Roanoke? Jay Tumbril here. Are you certain Jacques Perly’s certain? Well, if you don’t mind, we’d like to be on our way there as well. Mrs. Livia Northwood Wheeler, with her assistant, and I shall come along personally. We’ll get downtown just as rapidly as we can.”

Breaking the connection, Tumbril pressed another button on the phone and said, “Felicity, call us a car. Soonest.”

Mrs. W, increasingly irritated and impatient, said, “Jay? What is this? What’s going on? Where’s Brian?”

“Jacques Perly,” Tumbril said, “the private investigator whose office —”

“Yes, we know who he is. What about him?”

Tumbril spread his hands. “He says he has proof positive Clanson was part of the gang.”

Fiona said, “That’s ridiculous.”

“Jacques is on his way to the DA’s office with photographs.”

Sounding like Queen Elizabeth the First in a testy mood, Mrs. W said, “I will wish to see these photographs.”

“We all will,” Tumbril assured her. “That’s why I ordered the car.”

“Just a minute, Jacques,” Tumbril said, and approached the balding neat metal–bespectacled man behind the room’s standard–issue gray metal desk. “Mr. Roanoke?”

Roanoke rose, hand extended. He was as calm as Perly was excited. “Mr. Tumbril,” he suggested, as they shook hands.

Tumbril gestured. “Ms. Livia Northwood Wheeler. Her assistant, Fiona Hemlow.”

“Please sit,” Roanoke offered, and took his own advice.

But nobody else did, because Perly, having vibrated through the introduction ritual, now said, “I cannot believe this! And you didn’t even
consult
me!”

“If you have evidence, Jacques,” Tumbril told him, “I assure you we all want to see it.”

“Didn’t even consult.”

“We’re here now, Jacques.”

“I’ve turned the photos over to Noah,” Perly said, with a quick brushing–away gesture toward Roanoke.

Who said, “Please, ladies. Those chairs aren’t terribly comfortable, but they’re better than standing.”

Along the wall to the left of the entrance were three gray metal armless chairs with green cushioned seats, the sort of chairs you’d associate with Department of Motor Vehicles waiting rooms rather than doctors’ waiting rooms. Since Mrs. W now took the one farthest left, Fiona took the one farthest right, as Roanoke handed a manila folder to Jay, who opened it and said, “Jacques, I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me what I’m looking at here.”

“As you know, Jay,” Perly said, “we’ve had our suspicions about young Clanson for some time now, so much so that I began an investigation of the fellow.”

Mrs. W almost but didn’t quite pop back up onto her feet. “You did what? To Brian? On whose authority?”

“Jay’s,” Perly told her. “As your attorney.”

“Without telling
me.
And who was supposed to
pay
for this?”

“Mrs. Wheeler,” Perly said, “I am sure you will find the result well worth the expense.”

“Oh, are you.”

“Jacques,” Tumbril said, “I’d still like some help here.”

“All right,” Perly said. “Here’s the sequence. On Saturday night, an agent of mine kept tabs on this fellow Clanson, and late that night — just twenty–four hours before the robbery! — photographed him casing my building!”

Tumbril nodded at the folder open in his hands. “Oh, is this him in the backseat?”

“And that is my building, just beyond him. What my man did,” Perly said, “when he saw what neighborhood Clanson was headed toward, was to take a faster route, and be in position when the car went by.”

“Then this next picture,” Tumbril said, “is him and some others getting out of the car. We’re farther away here, hard to make it out.”

“My man did what he could with a telephoto lens. But I can tell you that’s a low–life bar farther down my street. Meeting the rest of the gang there, no doubt.”

Mrs. W said, “Jay, let me see those pictures.”

As Jay handed her the folder, Fiona slid one chair to the left, so she could look at the photos, too, and Perly said, “Unfortunately, my man couldn’t get clear pictures of the others in the car, but he said one was a tough–looking older woman, some sort of harridan, a real Ma Barker type, probably the brains of the gang.”

Fiona looked at the photos. In awe, she raised her eyes to look at the stony profile of Mrs. W as that lady said to Perly, with icy calm, “A tough–looking older woman? A harridan? A Ma Barker type?”

“When we get our hands on her,” Perly said, “and we will, I can guarantee you she’ll have a record as long as your arm.”

Now Mrs. W did stand, though not precipitately or with apparent excitement. She stood as a thoughtful judge might stand when about to pronounce a death sentence. “The vehicle Brian is riding in, Mr. Perly,” she said, “is mine.
I
am the harridan seated next to him.”

Perly blinked at her. “What?”

“The third member of our nefarious gang in my limousine, Mr. Perly,” Mrs. W went on, “is Fiona here, my assistant. We had come from a party given by Brian’s television station, and we were on our way to a lounge considered at the moment to be the most desirable social venue in the entire city.”

Perry’s mouth had sagged open during Mrs. W’s speech, but nothing had come out of it, so now it closed again. He continued to stare at Mrs. W as though all cerebral function behind those eyes had come to a halt.

Tumbril, clearing his throat, said, “Livia, I don’t think Jacques is usually in that neighborhood at night.”

“He doesn’t seem to be all there by day, either,” Mrs. W said, turning her icy gaze on Tumbril. “And if you intend to pay him for this harassment of an innocent boy, Jay, it shall come from
your
pocket, because you are no longer my lawyer.”

“Livia, you don’t want to —”

“Mr. Roanoke,” Mrs. W said, turning toward that interested observer, her manner still steely but less aggressive, “we would like Brian returned to us now.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Noah Roanoke said.

Closing the book, nodding his red–bereted head this way and that, Mr. Hemlow said, “What Poe calls draughts is what we know as the game of checkers.”

Kelp said, “I like checkers.”

Eppick said, “That’s easy. Everybody likes checkers. Shall I put the book back on the shelf, Mr. Hemlow?”

“Thank you.”

“My Mom used to read to me,” Stan said. “When I was a kid. Mostly biographies of race car drivers.”

“It’s good when a family shares an interest,” Mr. Hemlow said.

No hostess in her right mind would have put together a guest list for dinner like this and hope to make it work, but somehow it wasn’t being too bad. Since nobody wanted to do the seven–hour round trip from and to New York in one day, it had been agreed that Mr. Hemlow would open the compound and he himself would spend the night in his ground floor bedroom in the main house with one or two staff members for assistance, while the other six would sleep in the simple but comfortable guesthouse, then head back to the city in the morning. Mr. Hemlow’s staff, all local part–timers but loyal over the long term to a generous boss, would make dinner and breakfast, and now, as the group waited for dinner, they were chatting together, not too easily, in the main living room.

Eppick, having returned from putting Poe back in his place, said, “Mr. Hemlow, while we’re waiting for dinner here, maybe this is the time to talk a little about recompense.”

Nodding, Kelp said, “That sounds good.”

“Yes, indeed,” Mr. Hemlow said. “Something to whet the appetite, as it were. As you gentlemen know, I do not intend to sell the set but to keep it, right over there.” And he gestured to where Kelp had earlier opened out the empty chessboard onto a large side table. “Nor,” he added, “is there an accurate figure as to the set’s value.”

“That’s one of the things,” Eppick said, “they we’re gonna be working on in the private eye’s office.”

Tiny tapped a knuckle on his oak chair arm. “The millions, we know that much,” he said. “That’s close enough for us.”

“Yes, of course.” Mr. Hemlow was meeting most of the gang, and especially Tiny, for the first time, and seemed less taken aback than most people when initially rounding a corner to find Tiny Bulcher in their path. It may have been simply that life had already given him so many sharp lefts and rights that he couldn’t actually be jolted any more. In any case, he merely gave Tiny’s comment a benign response and went on to say, “I think we will all agree that, in this particular instance, the value to be considered is not the worth of the chess set but the worth of the skill and ingenuity and determination demonstrated by yourselves.”

Stan said, “A fence would give us ten percent.”

“The issue of a fence,” Mr. Hemlow said, “does not arise, as this was a commissioned work.”

“Unlike most jobs you people pull,” Eppick added, “you aren’t grabbing something to turn around and sell it. This time, you’ve been hired to do a little something in your area of expertise. You’re like employees here.”

Dortmunder said, “So this is the one time I’m not an independent contractor, is that it?”

“In a way,” Eppick said. “But of course, without the retirement. Or the health program.”

Stan said, “Or the softball team.”

“That, too.”

Mr. Hemlow said, “The number I was thinking of, to express my appreciation for a job well done, was twenty thousand dollars a man.”

Tiny did that
tock
on the chair arm again. “No, you weren’t,” he said.

Mr. Hemlow gazed upon Tiny from under his red beret. “I wasn’t?”

“A hundred G,” Tiny said, “isn’t ten percent of millions.”

Eppick said, “It’s ten percent of one million.”

“Let’s not forget those other millions,” Tiny told him.

Mr. Hemlow seemed to chuckle down inside there, unless he was merely having a stroke. Then he said, “I can see why you were chosen to negotiate for the group.”

“He chose himself, if you want to know,” Dortmunder said.

“Nevertheless,” Mr. Hemlow said, “let me see what your friend has to say.” To Tiny he said, “How much do
you
think is fair?”

“Not fair,” Tiny said. “Right. Fifty G a man.”

Even Mr. Hemlow was startled by that one. “A quarter million dollars?”

“Now we’re getting there,” Tiny said.

“I couldn’t possibly,” Mr. Hemlow said, “make an outlay that lavish.”

“We can still give the thing back,” Tiny said. “Let you try with a more economical bunch. Or just melt it down and sell it off ourselves.”

Judson said, “That might be kinda fun, Tiny.”

Mr. Hemlow said, “I could go to twenty–five.”

“The funny thing about the acoustics in this place,” Tiny said, “with the high ceiling and all, sometimes you can’t hear a thing.”

Dortmunder said, “Mr. Hemlow, I really think you gotta come up a little bit here, just so the guys have a sense of self–esteem outa this.”

Mr. Hemlow shuddered all over, even more than usual, while his left leg tapped out a series of SOSes. Then he said, employing the number everybody in the room had known they would end on, “I will give you my absolute top offer, and that is thirty thousand dollars per man. For my
own
self–esteem, I can do no more.”

A little silence. Everybody looked at Tiny, who looked around at everybody else and finally said, “You wanna let it go cheap?”

Kelp said, “We’re not gonna give it back, Tiny, that’s not realistic.”

Stan said, “And taking it apart, carrying it around to people like Stoon and Arnie, that’s too much like work.”

Dortmunder said, “You got a deal, Mr. Hemlow.”

“Good.”

“Dinner,” the maid said.