Ellery Queen's Double Dozen, page 31
“Oh, I see,” said Mrs. Gourock. “But if Mejjid prized it so highly, why didn’t he keep it at home?”
“He took it home with him every evening, after I had brought it back—but it is in the nature of a certain type to derive a thrill from imperiling what they value most. So, with me to trust, Mejjid could enjoy every day the sensation of the reckless gambler whose fortune trembles on the turn of a card, and his overwhelming joy when he is dealt another ace to his pair of aces; although, with me to trust, he could be sure that he risked nothing. I hope I make myself clear?”
“Yes. So I suppose you had a copy made, and—”
“No, dear lady!” said Hadad sharply—while the commentator in his head said: That is just the sort of thing you would have done, you exceedingly horrible woman! “I said ‘My honor was involved.’ Even if it had not been, Mejjid would not have been fooled by a substitute.”
“I’d just have walked off with it instead of giving it back,” said Mrs. Gourock.
Hadad was shocked. “That, sweet lady, is not Hadad’s way. I will tell you what I did. Every day or so, you see, I bought the bedspread at Mejjid’s auction. I was one of those shills that get the unmistakable bargains, you understand. Mejjid had provided me with a checkbook of the Jersey Provincial bank. The check I signed was, of course, worthless—I signed myself M. Mehrabi, sometimes, or T. F. Hafiz, or Aram Aramian—any name but mine.
“So came the fatal afternoon when I bid for the Mektoub bedspread for the last time. The auctioneer introduced it as a ‘rare piece of Persian tapestry, in perfect condition, dating back to the year 1580 A.D.’
“The auctioneer flogged that crowd and yipped at them like a cowboy rounding up cattle. ‘Twenty-five, twenty-five, who’ll say forty?—Thirty, thirty-five, forty!—Forty, forty, do I hear fifty?—Fifty-five, fifty-five, sixty!—Seventy, seventy, who said eighty?—Eighty, ninety, ninety, and five, ninety-five, one hundred, one hundred’—‘Two hundred,’ I said, and someone cried ‘—and fifty!’ ‘Two hundred and fifty,’ cried the auctioneer, ‘who says two seventy-five?—Three, I hear three, three, three!—And twenty-five, three twenty-five, three twenty-five, three fifty!’
“He became very brisk then, talked very fast, ‘Three fifty, three fifty—going, going—gone to the gentleman over there for three hundred and fifty dollars!—and if you can find a tapestry to equal that on Fifth Avenue for $3,000, I’ll eat my hat!. . .Right now let’s see that pair of antique brass candlesticks. . .’
“I took the tapestry with trembling hands, for if the bid ding, by some chance, had gone $so higher, my plan would have come to nothing—although the virtue of this same plan was that it could wait another day, or week, or month, if need be. I wrote my check on the Jersey Provincial bank, but this time I signed it with my own name—Mansur Hadad. Then I carried the tapestry away, while the crowd gave its slightly stimulated interest to the next lot.
“I went to my room, and waited. As I expected, Mejjid rang me somewhat later, and shouted, ‘Why weren’t you here at six?’ I replied, ‘Because I preferred not to be there at six.’ I’m coming over,’ he said. So he did. He asked for his Mektoub bedspread. I told him, ‘It’s mine.’ Something in my manner must have alarmed him, for he became sweet as honey. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘I understand—you’re playing a little joke on poor old Mejjid. You want a raise, and this is your funny little way of asking for it. He-he-he! Eh?’
“I said to him, ‘Mejjid, you son of a dog, you brother of seventeen vile sisters—I cannot properly tell you what I called him, and in any case it loses in the translation—you have seen the last of the Mektoub. Go away, before I beat you about the head with a stick. The transaction is complete. The Mektoub bedspread is mine.’
“He said, ‘I don’t think you understand American law, little fellow. You have stolen my property and swindled me, and I can send you to prison for a number of years.’
“Feigning innocence, I said, ‘The other checks were not good, because I signed them with false names. But this one is good, because I signed it with my own.’
“‘Give me the Mektoub, and we’ll forget this folly,’ he said. ‘Ignorance of the law is no excuse. You have broken the law, but I will forgive you.’
“‘The only law I have broken,’ I said, ‘is the law that prohibits the keeping of pigs in houses. Go!’
“He said, ‘I suppose, in your ignorance, you imagine that I fear a scandal. Ha! I have connections, you little crook, connections—I am wired in, if you understand the phrase.’
“‘I do not,’ I said. ‘Unless you refer to the fencing farmers use in America to restrain beasts.’
“‘I’ll have you in jail tonight,’ he shouted, and ran out. Sure enough, in a very short time he returned with a policeman in uniform and another in plainclothes, and had me arrested on a charge of swindling him by passing a worthless check.
“He begged to the last for the Mektoub bedspread. ‘Give it to me, and all’s forgotten and forgiven,’ he cried piteously, until the detective whispered something about compounding a felony.
“I said, ‘It is where you’ll never find it.’ As a matter of fact, Mejjid was standing on it, for I had laid it under the cheap hooked rug that was on the floor of my little room. So I went to jail—”
Mrs. Gourock cried, “No! For how long?”
Hadad replied, “For exactly sixteen hours. Mejjid, you see, was so perfectly certain that this last check, like all the others, was so much stage money, he acted impulsively.
“He did not know that I had opened an account in my right name at the Jersey Provincial bank and, by starving myself and living like a worm, had saved $380. That check was good. I had legitimately bought the Mektoub bedspread. It was mine! At all events, it was not Mejjid’s. Then I sued him for false arrest.
“He settled out of court for $10,000. ‘Your account is paid, O perverter of innocence,’ I told him. And with this money, I went into business on my own, dealing in nothing but goods of the most superlative and unquestionable quality and value, adhering always to the honest truth thereafter, so that my brief career as accomplice to Mejjid is behind me—finished—a dream. Mejjid himself, though apparently hale and hearty, suddenly became decrepit, a vegetable, and I married his widow. Now I have told you everything.”
“Tell me,” said Mrs. Gourock, “is there really any truth in that Mektoub bedspread story? I mean, about making its owner like. . .?”
Hadad shrugged. “That is not for me to say.”
“Why not? It’s yours, isn’t it? And why do you keep it in a frame?”
“Dear lady,” said Hadad, “youth needs no enchantments youth is its own magic. I have had my moments. Now I keep the Mektoub bedspread in a glazed frame, because it might be more than my life is worth to take it out.”
“Why?”
“Madam, I am afraid of it—I have a weak heart. Now, concerning this rug for your husband’s study. . .”
“Eh? Oh, that. You choose one,” said Mrs. Gourock.
“I have a very rich old Bokhara—the perfect thing for leather bound books, lamplight, and contemplation—that I can let you have for $3,500.”
“Yes, I suppose so. All right, I’ll have that. Wrap it up,” said Mrs. Gourock, “but do you know, I’m interested in curios. Antiques with a history. You know?”
“Alas, I deal only in carpets and tapestries,” said Hadad. “How much would you want for that Mektoub bedspread?”
“What? I beg your pardon! Its intrinsic value—about $15,000—aside, it has other significances, my good lady,” said Hadad, with something like indignation, his hands on his heart.
“Now look—” said Mrs. Gourock, moving. “Listen—” An hour later, gasping painfully, Hadad swallowed a pill.
“Pray talk no more, ma’am, I have no more strength to argue,” he said. “For heaven’s sake, take the accursed Mektoub! Give me $20,000 and take it away!”
Mrs. Gourock took out her checkbook.
“After all, perhaps I am getting a little too tired for even such memories as the Mektoub invokes,” said Hadad. “With the Bokhara, it will be $23,500. Do you want the frame, madam?”
“I think so. No, I do not want the frame.”
“Dikran, take the Mektoub out of the frame. Now, where shall I send these, good lady?”
“Here’s my address,” she said, writing on a pad. “Send”—she paused—“wait a moment. Let’s get this straight: send the Bok hara rug to Mr. Ingram Gourock, at that address—and put the Mektoub in my car, I’ll take it with me.”
“If you are not going directly home, sweet lady, it can be delivered before you arrive—”
“It doesn’t concern you where I. . .Just put it in my car,” said Mrs. Gourock, in some confusion.
When she was gone, Dikran asked, “What shall I put in the frame this time, Mr. Hadad?”
“I will think of something appropriate to its size. First, take this check to the bank at once. And Dikran!”
“Sir?”
“Wipe that silly grin off your face.”
“Yes, Mr. Hadad,” said Dikran.
FRED A. RODEWALD & J. F. PEIRCE
The Man Who Was a Station Wagon
One of the oddest stories Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine has ever published—yes, odd—and charming, and provocative, and meaningful. . .We just couldn’t resist it. . .Can you?
The road was rougher now, the pavement cracked, the chug holes impossible to miss. Mike’s press camera jounced against his leg, and he pushed it from him, then slowed to twenty miles per hour.
This couldn’t be the highway.
His eyes burned from the steady glare, his skin from the dry wind set up by the movement of the car.
Without warning the road gave way to wagon tracks and the dust swirled up behind. Mike braked slowly and reached for his map.
Where the hell was he?
The map told him nothing. The mileage gauge and his sense of direction said that he was about a hundred miles south of the border.
But where?
He took a quick glance at the sun. It seemed to be sitting on the canvas top of his convertible. And now that the hot dry air had stopped, sweat beaded his forehead and ran in rivulets down his body.
He looked around at the hard-baked clay, the torture-shaped mesquite trees.
Not a sign of life—
Then he saw him, an old man as misshapened as any of the mesquites, standing in the drainage ditch that flowed with dust when the wind blew. He would have dismissed him as a scare crow, but there were no cornfields.
Dust was now all that Mike could smell and taste, and he made the convertible crawl the hundred yards to where the tattered figure stood.
Poking his head from the car, Mike called, “¿Habla usted inglés, señor?”
“Sí.”
“How far is Monterrey?”
The old man shrugged, then pointed down the dirt road and across it to the right. “¿Quién sabe? Who can say?” he said.
“Can you tell me where I am?”
“Sí, one kilometer from Rio Escondido.”
Mike couldn’t remember any Rio Escondido on the map. Probably a small place. But at least he seemed to be going in the right general direction.
“Well, thanks. Thanks a lot,” he said. “Can I give you a lift somewhere? Into town maybe?”
“Gracias, señor, but it is not possible. I cannot ride. I am a station wagon.”
“You’re a what?”
“I am a station wagon.”
“Oh? Oh, I see! Well, thanks a lot.”
Mike let out the clutch and the convertible moved forward. “Damned old coot,” he muttered. “Some stupid con game he’s got to bleed the suckers. Well, I’m not that green.”
He glanced in the rearview mirror. The old man was standing exactly as he had left him. “Aw, the bloody hell,” he said and braked to a stop, then backed to where the old man stood.
Mike opened the door and got out, glancing warily about as he did. He lit a cigarette, then held out the pack to the old man. “Cigarette?”
“Gracias, señor, but I cannot smoke. I am a station wagon.”
“Yeah, yeah, I forgot.” Again Mike looked about. “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s your angle?” The old man did not answer. “What’s your racket? Your business—what do you do? Wait, don’t tell me. I know. You’re a station wagon.”
The old man smiled and nodded his head. “Sí. Sí.”
Mike took a drag from his cigarette and looked both ways along the road. Taking a one-dollar bill from his wallet, he stepped over to the ditch and held it out to the old man.
“Look, old man, let’s say I don’t mind paying for information. I know the ropes; I’m willing to play the game. I’ve a little larceny in my blood too—who hasn’t? Now just tell me what your angle is and I’ll slip you the one-spot before your buddies get here.”
The old man ignored the money. “I am a station wagon,” he said.
“I know. I know. Now, here.” Mike took the old man’s hand and put the bill into it, closing the gnarled fingers over the money. “Now,” he said and smiled, “you can level with me. Hurry before they get here and you won’t have to split with them.”
The old man let the bill fall into the dust. “I am a station wagon,” he said.
“I’ll be damned!” Mike said. “You really do believe it.” He took a final drag from his cigarette and gave it a flip. “You’re a station wagon?”
“I am a station wagon.”
“Prove it to me! Prove it!”
The old man shook his head sadly. “I am a station wagon,” he said, “but I am not official. I have no license.”
“License? You mean a license plate?” Mike said, pointing to the plate on the rear of the convertible.
“Sí. I am not official, but I am a station wagon.”
“Why don’t you have a license?”
“Carlos will not give it to me. He says I am not a station wagon.”
“Carlos?”
“The official in Rio Escondido.”
“Well, I don’t blame him. You’re not a station wagon,” Mike said. He squatted down in the ditch to retrieve the dollar, and when he stood up the heat hit him. “Damn but it’s hot! Now, look,” he said, “you have eyes, ears, a nose. Sure you do! You’re a person.”
“I am a station wagon.”
“You’re not a station wagon. Listen, you’re like me. Do you understand? You’ve got feet, legs, arms, a head—just like me. You and me, we’re humans. We’re not station wagons. We’re not machines.”
“I am a station wagon.”
“If you’re a station wagon, what am I, a truck? A bus?”
“You are no vehicle.”
“And you’re no station wagon.”
“I am a station wagon.”
“Well, I’ll be double-damned!” Mike said, and ran his fingers through his crew-cut hair. “Okay, now let’s say just for a minute that you are a station wagon—mind, I don’t say you are, but let’s just suppose you are. What are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere?”
“I have no gasoline.”
“Okay, that explains your being here. But why are you standing in the ditch?” Mike took out his handkerchief and wiped his face.
“It was night and a vehicle might strike me.”
“You mean you ran out of gas and you pulled off the road so you wouldn’t be hit by a passing car. Okay, that follows—I’ll buy that. But you said it was night.”
“Sí, it was night.”
Mike made a rapid calculation. “You mean you’ve been standing here in this damned sun for seven hours?”
“Sf.”
“Well, look now,” Mike said, shaking his head, “seven hours in this sun. . .you’re sure I can’t give you a lift?”
“I cannot ride. I am a—”
“Yeah, I know. I know. Well, what can I do to help you? You can’t stay here, not in this heat.”
“You could give me a pull?”
“You mean a tow? With my car?”
“Sí.”
“Sure, I guess so. But can you make it into this town, this Rio Escondido?”
“Sí.”
“Okay,” Mike said, shaking his head.
He crossed to the car and opened the trunk compartment. Taking out a chain he hooked it onto his bumper; then he carried the other end over to the old man. “I’ve got to fasten this onto your bumper,” he said.
The old man held out his hands and grasped the end of the chain that Mike handed him.
“Now when the chain straightens out, when it gets tight, be sure to move. You could get hurt. Understand?”
“Sí. My wheels work fine, but slow. I am an old station wagon.”
“Okay, easy does it then.”
Mike returned to the convertible, climbed behind the wheel, and started the engine. Keeping his eye on the old man through the rearview mirror, he let the car roll forward taking up the slack in the chain, and as the chain grew taut, the old man clambered out of the ditch.
Mike drove, shifting his gaze back and forth from the rear view mirror to the speedometer. Only occasionally did he glance at the road ahead.
The old man seemed to be doing fine. He held the end of the chain tightly in his hands.
Mike felt more relaxed now. He hoped he wasn’t asking for trouble by believing in the old man, by trying to help him. The old coot seemed harmless enough, and he felt a certain responsibility for him. Why? Why?
They had gone about a quarter of a mile when a sharp turn in the road revealed the town some distance ahead.
Rio Escondido? Rio meant river. But Escondido?
He dredged the word up from the past, from high-school. Hidden. Hidden River. If the drainage ditch were any indication, it would be a river of rich red dust.
The mesquites gave way to cornfields. A farmer still grubbed in his field, though it was time for the siesta. The old man be hind the car was moving awkwardly but steadily along. A spotted goat at the side of the road bleated.
