The Specialty of the House Read online

  ‘Mr Crabtree. In the financial journals you study so assiduously you will find my name – my own name – repeated endlessly. I have a finger in many pies, Mr Crabtree, and it always prods the plum. To use the more blatant adjectives, I am wealthy and powerful far beyond your wildest dreams – granting that you are capable of wild dreams – and a man does not attain that position by idling his time away on pointless jokes, or in passing the time of day with hirelings. My time is limited, Mr Crabtree. If you cannot answer my question, say so, and let it go at that!’

  ‘I don’t believe I can,’ said Mr Crabtree piteously.

  ‘You should have said that at once,’ Mr Spelvin replied, ‘and spared me my moment of choler. Frankly, I did not believe you could answer my question, and if you had, it would have been a most disillusioning experience. You see, Mr Crabtree, I envy, I deeply envy, your serenity of existence where such questions never even enter. Unfortunately, I am not in that position. At one point in my career, I made a mistake, the only mistake that has ever marked my rise to fortune. This, in time, came to the attention of a man who combines ruthlessness and cleverness to a dangerous degree, and I have been in the power of that man ever since. He is, in fact, a blackmailer, a common blackmailer who has come to set too high a price on his wares, and so, must now pay for them himself.’

  ‘You intend,’ said Mr Crabtree hoarsely, ‘to kill him?’

  Mr Spelvin threw out a plump hand in protest. ‘If a fly rested on the palm of that hand,’ he said sharply, ‘I could not find the power to close my fingers and crush the life from it. To be blunt, Mr Crabtree, I am totally incapable of committing an act of violence, and while that may be an admirable quality in many ways, it is merely an embarrassment now, since the man must certainly be killed.’ Mr Spelvin paused. ‘Nor is this a task for a paid assassin. If I resorted to one, I would most assuredly be exchanging one blackmailer for another, and that is altogether impractical.’ Mr Spelvin paused again. ‘So, Mr Crabtree, you can see there is only one conclusion to be drawn: the responsibility for destroying my tormentor rests entirely on you.’

  ‘Me!’ cried Mr Crabtree. ‘Why, I could never – no, never!’

  ‘Oh, come,’ said Mr Spelvin brusquely. ‘You are working yourself into a dangerous state. Before you carry it any further, Mr Crabtree, I should like to make clear that your failure to carry out my request means that when you leave this office today, you leave it permanently. I cannot tolerate an employee who does not understand his position.’

  ‘Not tolerate!’ said Mr Crabtree. ‘But that is not right, that is not right at all, Mr Spelvin. I’ve been working hard.’ His spectacles blurred. He fumbled with them, cleaned them carefully, replaced them on his nose. ‘And to leave me with such a secret. I don’t see it; I don’t see it at all. Why,’ he said in alarm, ‘it’s a matter for the police!’

  To his horror Mr Spelvin’s face turned alarmingly red, and the huge body started to shake in a convulsion of mirth that rang deafeningly through the room.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he managed to gasp at last. ‘Forgive me, my dear fellow. I was merely visualizing the scene in which you go to the authorities and tell them of the incredible demands put upon you by your employer.’

  ‘You must understand,’ said Mr Crabtree, ‘I am not threatening you, Mr Spelvin. It is only …’

  ‘Threatening me? Mr Crabtree, tell me, what connection do you think there is between us in the eyes of the world?’

  ‘Connection? I work for you, Mr Spelvin. I’m an employee here. I …’

  Mr Spelvin smiled blandly. ‘What a curious delusion,’ he said, ‘when one can see that you are merely a shabby little man engaged in some pitiful little enterprise that could not possibly be of interest to me.’

  ‘But you employed me yourself, Mr Spelvin! I wrote a letter of application!’

  ‘You did,’ said Mr Spelvin, ‘but unfortunately the position was already filled, as I informed you in my very polite letter of explanation. You look incredulous, Mr Crabtree, so let me inform you that your letter and a copy of my reply rest securely in my files should the matter ever be called to question.’

  ‘But this office! These furnishings! My subscriptions!’

  ‘Mr Crabtree, Mr Crabtree,’ said Mr Spelvin, shaking his head heavily, ‘did you ever question the source of your weekly income? The manager of this building, the dealers in supplies, the publishers who deliver their journals to you were no more interested in my identity than you were. It is, I grant, a bit irregular for me to deal exclusively in currency sent through the mails in your name, but have no fears for me, Mr Crabtree. Prompt payments are the opiate of the businessman.’

  ‘But my reports!’ said Mr Crabtree, who was seriously starting to doubt his own existence.

  ‘To be sure, the reports. I daresay that the ingenious Mr Crabtree, after receiving my unfavorable reply to his application, decided to go into business for himself. He thereupon instituted a service of financial reports and even attempted to make me one of his clients! I rebuffed him sharply, I can tell you (I have his first report and a copy of my reply to it), but he foolishly persists in his efforts. Foolishly, I say, because his reports are absolutely useless to me; I have no interest in any of the corporations he discusses, and why he should imagine I would have is beyond my reckoning. Frankly, I suspect the man is an eccentric of the worst type, but since I have had dealings with many of that type I merely disregard him, and destroy his daily reports on their arrival.’

  ‘Destroy them?’ said Mr Crabtree, stupefied.

  ‘You have no cause for complaint, I hope,’ said Mr Spelvin with some annoyance. ‘To find a man of your character, Mr Crabtree, it was necessary for me to specify hard work in my advertisement. I am only living up to my part of the bargain in providing it, and I fail to see where the final disposition of it is any of your concern.’

  ‘A man of my character,’ echoed Mr Crabtree helplessly, ‘to commit murder?’

  ‘And why not?’ The wide mouth tightened ominously. ‘Let me enlighten you, Mr Crabtree. I have spent a pleasant and profitable share of my life in observing the human species, as a scientist might study insects under glass. And I have come to one conclusion, Mr Crabtree, one above all others which has contributed to the making of my own success. I have come to the conclusion that to the majority of our species it is the function that is important, not the motives, nor the consequences.

  ‘My advertisement, Mr Crabtree, was calculated to enlist the services of one like that; a perfect representative of the type, in fact. From the moment you answered that advertisement to the present, you have been living up to all my expectations: you have been functioning flawlessly with no thought of either motive or consequence.

  ‘Now murder has been made part of your function. I have honored you with an explanation of its motives; the consequences are clearly defined. Either you continue to function as you always have, or, to put it in a nutshell, you are out of a job.’

  ‘A job!’ said Mr Crabtree wildly. ‘What does a job matter to a man in prison! Or to a man being hanged!’

  ‘Oh, come,’ remarked Mr Spelvin placidly. ‘Do you think I’d lead you into a trap which might snare me as well? I am afraid you are being obtuse, my dear man. If you are not, you must realize clearly that my own security is tied in the same package as yours. And nothing less than your permanent presence in this office and your steadfast application to your work is the guarantee of that security.’

  ‘That may be easy to say when you’re hiding under an assumed name,’ said Mr Crabtree hollowly.

  ‘I assure you, Mr Crabtree, my position in the world is such that my identity can be unearthed with small effort. But I must also remind you that should you carry out my request you will then be a criminal and, consequently, very discreet.

  ‘On the other hand, if you do not carry out my request – and you have complete freedom of choice in that – any charges you may bring against me will be dangerous only to you. The world, Mr Crabtree,
knows nothing about our relationship, and nothing about my affair with the gentleman who has been victimizing me and must now become my victim. Neither his demise nor your charges could ever touch me, Mr Crabtree.

  ‘Discovering my identity, as I said, would not be difficult. But using that information, Mr Crabtree, can only lead you to a prison or an institution for the deranged.’

  Mr Crabtree felt the last dregs of his strength seeping from him. ‘You have thought of everything,’ he said.

  ‘Everything, Mr Crabtree. When you entered my scheme of things, it was only to put my plan into operation; but long before that I was hard at work weighing, measuring, evaluating every step of that plan. For example, this room, this very room, has been chosen only after a long and weary search as perfect for my purpose. Its furnishings have been selected and arranged to further that purpose. How? Let me explain that.

  ‘When you are seated at your desk, a visitor is confined to the space I now occupy at the window. The visitor is, of course, the gentleman in question. He will enter and stand here with the window entirely open behind him. He will ask you for an envelope a friend has left. This envelope,’ said Mr Spelvin, tossing one to the desk. ‘You will have the envelope in your desk, will find it, and hand it to him. Then, since he is a very methodical man (I have learned that well), he will place the envelope in the inside pocket of his jacket – and at that moment one good thrust will send him out the window. The entire operation should take less than a minute. Immediately after that,’ Mr Spelvin said calmly, ‘you will close the window to the bottom and return to your work.’

  ‘Someone,’ whispered Mr Crabtree, ‘the police …’

  ‘Will find,’ said Mr Spelvin, ‘the body of some poor unfortunate who climbed the stairs across the hallway and hurled himself from the roof above. And they will know this because inside that envelope secured in his pocket is not what the gentleman in question expects to find there, but a neatly typewritten note explaining the sad affair and its motives, an apology for any inconvenience caused (suicides are great ones for apologies, Mr Crabtree), and a most pathetic plea for a quick and peaceful burial. And,’ said Mr Spelvin, gently touching his fingertips together, ‘I do not doubt he will get it.’

  ‘What,’ Mr Crabtree said, ‘what if something went wrong? If the man opened the letter when it was given to him. Or … if something like that happened?’

  Mr Spelvin shrugged. ‘In that case the gentleman in question would merely make his way off quietly and approach me directly about the matter. Realize, Mr Crabtree, that anyone in my friend’s line of work expects occasional little attempts like this, and, while he may not be inclined to think them amusing, he would hardly venture into some precipitous action that might kill the goose who lays the golden eggs. No, Mr Crabtree, if such a possibility as you suggest comes to pass, it means only that I must reset my trap, and even more ingeniously.’

  Mr Spelvin drew a heavy watch from his pocket, studied it, then replaced it carefully. ‘My time is growing short, Mr Crabtree. It is not that I find your company wearing, but my man will be making his appearance shortly, and matters must be entirely in your hands at that time. All I require of you is this: when he arrives, the window will be open.’ Mr Spelvin thrust it up hard and stood for a moment looking appreciatively at the drop below. ‘The envelope will be in your desk.’ He opened the drawer and dropped it in, then closed the drawer firmly. ‘And at the moment of decision, you are free to act one way or the other.’

  ‘Free?’ said Mr Crabtree. ‘You said he would ask for the envelope!’

  ‘He will. He will, indeed. But if you indicate that you know nothing about it, he will quietly make his departure, and later communicate with me. And that will be, in effect, a notice of your resignation from my employ.’

  Mr Spelvin went to the door and rested one hand on the knob. ‘However,’ he said, ‘if I do not hear from him, that will assure me that you have successfully completed your term of probation and are to be henceforth regarded as a capable and faithful employee.’

  ‘But the reports!’ said Mr Crabtree. ‘You destroy them …’

  ‘Of course,’ said Mr Spelvin, a little surprised. ‘But you will continue with your work and send the reports to me as you have always done. I assure you, it does not matter to me that they are meaningless, Mr Crabtree. They are part of a pattern, and your adherence to that pattern, as I have already told you, is the best assurance of my own security.’

  The door opened, closed quietly, and Mr Crabtree found himself alone in the room.

  The shadow of the building opposite lay heavily on his desk. Mr Crabtree looked at his watch, found himself unable to read it in the growing dimness of the room, and stood up to pull the cord of the light over his head. At that moment a peremptory knock sounded on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ said Mr Crabtree.

  The door opened on two figures. One was a small, dapper man, the other a bulky police officer who loomed imposingly over his companion. The small man stepped into the office and, with the gesture of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, withdrew a large wallet from his pocket, snapped it open to show the gleam of a badge, closed it, and slid it back into his pocket.

  ‘Police,’ said the man succinctly. ‘Name’s Sharpe.’

  Mr Crabtree nodded politely. ‘Yes?’ he said.

  ‘Hope you don’t mind,’ said Sharpe briskly. ‘Just a few questions.’

  As if this were a cue, the large policeman came up with an efficient-looking notebook and the stub of a pencil, and stood there poised for action. Mr Crabtree peered over his spectacles at the notebook, and through them at the diminutive Sharpe. ‘No,’ said Mr Crabtree, ‘not at all.’

  ‘You’re Crabtree?’ said Sharpe, and Mr Crabtree started, then remembered the name on the door.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  Sharpe’s cold eyes flickered over him and then took in the room with a contemptuous glance. ‘This your office?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Crabtree.

  ‘You in it all afternoon?’

  ‘Since one o’clock,’ said Mr Crabtree. ‘I go to lunch at twelve and return at one promptly.’

  ‘I’ll bet,’ said Sharpe, then nodded over his shoulder. ‘That door open any time this afternoon?’

  ‘It’s always closed while I am working,’ said Mr Crabtree.

  ‘Then you wouldn’t be able to see anybody going up that stairs across the hall there.’

  ‘No,’ replied Mr Crabtree, ‘I wouldn’t.’

  Sharpe looked at the desk, then ran a reflective thumb along his jaw. ‘I guess you wouldn’t be in a position to see anything happening outside the window either.’

  ‘No, indeed,’ said Mr Crabtree. ‘Not while I’m at work.’

  ‘Now,’ said Sharpe, ‘did you hear something outside of that window this afternoon? Something out of the ordinary, I mean?’

  ‘Out of the ordinary?’ repeated Mr Crabtree vaguely.

  ‘A yell. Somebody yelling. Anything like that?’

  Mr Crabtree puckered his brow. ‘Why, yes,’ he said, ‘yes, I did. And not long ago either. It sounded as if someone had been startled – or frightened. Quite loud, too. It’s always so quiet here I couldn’t help hearing it.’

  Sharpe looked over his shoulder and nodded at the policeman who closed his notebook slowly. ‘That ties it up,’ said Sharpe. ‘The guy made the jump, and the second he did it he changed his mind, so he came down hollering all the way. Well,’ he said, turning to Mr Crabtree in a burst of confidence, ‘I guess you’ve got a right to know what’s going on here. About an hour ago some character jumped off that roof right over your head. Clear case of suicide, note in his pocket and everything, but we like to get all the facts we can.’

  ‘Do you know,’ said Mr Crabtree, ‘who he was?’

  Sharpe shrugged. ‘Another guy with too many troubles. Young, good-looking, pretty snappy dresser. Only thing beats me is why a guy who could afford to dress like that would figure he has more trouble
s than he can handle.’

  The policeman in uniform spoke for the first time. ‘That letter he left,’ he said deferentially, ‘sounds like he was a little crazy.’

  ‘You have to be a little crazy to take that way out,’ said Sharpe.

  ‘You’re a long time dead,’ said the policeman heavily.

  Sharpe held the doorknob momentarily. ‘Sorry to bother you,’ he said to Mr Crabtree, ‘but you know how it is. Anyhow, you’re lucky in a way. Couple of girls downstairs saw him go by and passed right out.’ He winked as he closed the door behind him.

  Mr Crabtree stood looking at the closed door until the sound of heavy footsteps passed out of hearing. Then he seated himself in the chair and pulled himself closer to the desk. Some magazines and sheets of stationery lay there in mild disarray, and he arranged the magazines in a neat pile, stacking them so that all corners met precisely. Mr Crabtree picked up his pen, dipped it into the ink bottle, and steadied the paper before him with his other hand.

  Efficiency Instruments, Ltd, he wrote carefully, shows increased activity …

  Death on Christmas Eve

  As a child I had been vastly impressed by the Boerum house. It was fairly new then, and glossy; a gigantic pile of Victorian rickrack, fretwork, and stained glass, flung together in such chaotic profusion that it was hard to encompass in one glance. Standing before it this early Christmas Eve, however, I could find no echo of that youthful impression. The gloss was long since gone; woodwork, glass, metal, all were merged to a dreary gray, and the shades behind the windows were drawn completely so that the house seemed to present a dozen blindly staring eyes to the passerby.

  When I rapped my stick sharply on the door, Celia opened it.

  ‘There is a doorbell right at hand,’ she said. She was still wearing the long outmoded and badly wrinkled black dress she must have dragged from her mother’s trunk, and she looked, more than ever, the image of old Katrin in her later years: the scrawny body, the tightly compressed lips, the colorless hair drawn back hard enough to pull every wrinkle out of her forehead. She reminded me of a steel trap ready to snap down on anyone who touched her incautiously.