The Collection (140 page)

His grip on the weapon was tight with desperation and one
thumb chanced to touch and move the safety lever. The automatic roared so
loudly and suddenly that the unexpected recoil knocked it out of the insurance
agent's hands.

But there was a look of surprise on the face of the stocky
man, and there was a hole in his chest. He turned slowly as he fell, and Mr.
Smith felt slightly ill to see that there was a hole, much larger, in the
middle of the kidnaper's back.

Mr. Smith rose a bit unsteadily and hurried back to the car
to help Mr. Kessler down to the ground. Over the crackling roar of the flames
they could now hear the wail of approaching sirens.

The gray-haired man glanced apprehensively at the fallen
kidnaper. “Is he—?”

Mr. Smith nodded. “I didn't mean to shoot — but I
told
them they were in a hazardous occupation. Someone must have seen the blaze and
reported it. Some of those sirens sound like police cars. They'll be glad to
know you're safe, Mr. Kessler. They've been—”

Five minutes later, the gray-haired man was surrounded by a
ring of excited policemen. “Yes,” he was saying, “three of them. The insurance
chap says the other two are dead in the cellar. Yes, he did it all. No, I don't
know his name yet but that reward—”

The police chief turned and crossed the grass toward the
little man in the rumpled banker's-gray suit and the gold-rimmed glasses.
Outlined in the red glare of the blazing house, he was talking volubly to the
fireman on the front end of the biggest hose.

“And because we sell both life
and
fire insurance, we
have special consideration for firemen. So instead of charging higher rates for
them, as most companies do, we offer a very special policy, with low premiums
and double indemnities, and—”

The chief waited politely. At long last he turned to a
grinning sergeant. “If that little guy
ever
gets through talking,” he
said, “tell him about the reward and get his name.

I've got to get back to town before morning.”

Good morning, Mr. Gupstein. My name is Wilson. Some of my
friends around at police headquarters call me Slip Wilson; you know how those
things get started.

You see, Mr. Gupstein, my regular lawyer gave me your name
and suggested I see you if I needed anything while he was away. And I need
legal advice.

No, my lawyer isn't on vacation, or not exactly. He's in
jail, Mr. Gupstein.

But here's what I want to know. I've got a diamond stickpin
with a stone about the size of a flashlight bulb. I want to find out if I can
make a deal for nearly what it's worth or whether I'll have to push it through
a fence for whatever I can get. The difference ought to amount to maybe a
couple of grand, Mr. Gupstein.

How'd I get it? Well, in a manner of speaking, Mr.

Gupstein, it was given to me by a teacup. But that's hard
for you to understand so maybe I'd better start farther back.

I first saw this guy in the elevator at Brandon's. He was a
big bozo, about six feet between the straps of his spats and the band of his
derby. And big all over. He wasn't over twenty-five years old either.

But what made me notice him was his glims. He had the
biggest, softest baby-blue eyes I ever saw. Honest, they made him look like a
cherub out of a stained-glass window. I guess I mean a cherub — you know, one
of those plump little brats with wings sprouting from behind the ears?

No, Mr. Gupstein, he didn't have wings from behind his ears.
I just mean he had that kind of eyes and that kind of a look in his face.

We both got off at the main floor, and I happened to reach
into my pocket for a fag. And they weren't there. I'd just put my cigarette
case in that pocket when I'd got in the elevator, too. So I quick dived a hand
into my inside pocket.

Yeah, my billfold was gone too.

I don't know whether you can imagine just how that made me
feel, Mr. Gupstein. Me, Slip Wilson, being picked clean like a visiting
fireman! I hadn't even been bumped into, either, and the elevator hadn't been
crowded. And I'd thought I was good!

Huh? Yeah, Mr. Gupstein, that's my profession. Until I got
out of that elevator, I thought I was the best leather-goods worker this side
of the Hudson Tunnel. You can figure how I felt. Me, Slip Wilson, picked
cleaner than a mackerel in a home for undernourished cats.

Well, I took a quick gander around and I spotted my
companion of the elevator ride disappearing through the door to the street. I
hightailed after him.

A block farther on, where it wasn't so crowded, I caught up
and asked him for a match. I'd forgotten for the moment that my cigarettes were
gone and I didn't have anything to light with it, but he didn't seem to notice
the difference.

I made a crack about the weather, and since we seemed to be
going in the same direction, friendship ripened into thirst and I asked him to
stop in at a tavern for a drink.

He paid for it, too, out of a wallet that needed reducing
exercises. We agreed that the Scotch was lousy, so I invited him around to my
apartment so I could show him the merits of my favorite brand. Funny, but we
seemed to hit it off together from the start like bacon and eggs.

When we got there, he flops into my favorite chair, nearly
breaking the springs, and makes himself at home.

“I say, old chap,” he says. “We haven't introduced
ourselves. My name is Cadwallader Van Aylslea.”

Well, Mr. Gupstein, you've heard of the Van Aylsleas; they
own half this island and have a mortgage on more. Every time Old Man Van
Aylslea stubs his toe getting out of bed after breakfast, the market drops ten
points.

So I grinned sarcastic at him. “Glad to know you,
Cadwallader,” I said. “I'm the Rajah of Rangoon.”

Without batting an eye, he pipes up that he's glad to know
me and how are things in my native land. For the first time, Mr. Gupstein, I
began to suspect.

I'd been looking right into those baby-blue glims, and I
could see he wasn't spoofing. He took himself at face value and he took me that
way too. And I began to add up a few other little things he'd said, and I saw
he was off his trolley.

But trolley or no, I wanted my money back. So I sort of
accidentally got a couple of kayo drops tangled in his next Scotch. And I
steered clear of doubtful topics of conversation until he leaned back in the
chair and blinked a few times, and then closed his eyes and exposed his tonsils
to the afternoon breeze.

I waited a few minutes to be sure, and then I put everything
in his pockets into a neat little pile on the table.

Listen, Mr. Gupstein. There were seven billfolds, four of
them fat ones. There were five watches, my cigarette case, and an assortment of
junk ranging from a pair of pink garters to a bag of glass marbles. Not
mentioning jewelry.

The billfolds added up to almost a grand, and what of the
other stuff was valuable would have brought half of that from any fence this
side of Maiden Lane.

To top it off there is a rock in his cravat that looks to be
worth ten times all the rest of the haul put together. I'd noticed it before,
of course, but it hadn't occurred to me that it might be the McCoy. But when I
looked at it close, you could have knocked me down with a busted flush. It
wasn't just a diamond, Mr. Gupstein. It was blue-white and flawless.

I put it with the rest and sat there looking at the pile
goggle-eyed. If that was one day's haul, he was one of the seven wonders of the
Bronx.

And all I had to do was let him sleep. All I had to do was
wrap up my toothbrush, fill my pockets with the dough and the jewelry on the
table, and head for Bermuda. With a grand in cash to buy pancakes until I could
get a market for the rock.

All I had to do was blow. And I didn't.

I guess curiosity has hooked better guys than me, Mr.

Gupstein. I wanted to know what it was all about. I had a
roscoe that I never carried, and I got it out of mothballs, looked to the
priming, and sat down. I was determined to find out who and what he was, and
damn the torpedoes.

I guess his big bulk helped him to throw off the
shut-eye-juice sooner than most. It wasn't but an hour before he sat up and
opened his eyes and began to rub his forehead.

“Funny,” he muttered. “Sorry, but I must have dropped off.
Horribly rude.”

Then he lamped the pile of boodle on the table, and I
tightened the grip of my roscoe. But he merely blinked.

“Where'd all this stuff come from, Rajah?” His voice sounded
as puzzled as his eyes looked. “Why, some of it is mine.” He reached over and
picked up the fattest wallet, the diamond tiepin, and a few other trifles.

“It came out of your pockets, my fine-feathered friend,” I
assured him. “Before that, it seems to have come from a number of places.”

He sighed. Then he looked at me like a dog that knows it
needs a beating. “All right, Rajah,” he said. “I may as well admit it. I'm a
kleptomaniac. I take things and don't even know it. That's why I'm not allowed
out at home. This morning I got away from them.”

The eyes had me again. He was telling the truth, and he
looked like a kid that expected to be told to go sit in a corner.

And if
that
was true . . .

I sat up suddenly. An electric light seemed to be turned on
inside my head. “Let me see that wallet you say is yours,” I barked at him.

He handed it over like a lamb. I looked at the
identification. Yes, Mr. Gupstein. Cadwallader Van Aylslea.

Plenty of identification to prove it.

“Listen, Rajah,” he was begging. “Don't send me back.

They keep me a prisoner there. Let me stay here with you for
a while anyway before I go back.”

By that time I was pacing up and down the room. I had an
idea, and my idea was having pups.

I looked at him for a long minute before I opened up.

“Listen, Cadwallader,” I told him, “I'll let you stay here
on a few terms. One is that you never go out unless we go together. If you
happen to pinch anything, I'll take care of it and see that it goes back where
it belongs. I'm a whiz at telling where things like that belong, Cadwallader.”

“Gee, that's swell of you. I—”

“And another thing,” I went on. “If and when you're found by
your folks, you'll never mention me. You'll tell them you don't remember where
you've been. Same goes; for cops.

Okay?”

He wrung my hand so hard I thought I'd lose a finger.

I took all the stuff from the table, except what he said was
his, out to the kitchen. I put all the currency in my own billfold, and put the
empties and the junk in the incinerator. I put the jewelry where I usually keep
stuff like that.

All in all, it was still nearly a thousand bucks. And he'd
collected it in a couple of hours or so, I figured. I began to add figures and
count unhatched chickens until I got dizzy.

“Cadwallader,” I said, when I came back to the living room.
“I've got an errand downtown. Want to come with me?”

He did. Until almost dark I led him through crowded stores
and gave him every chance; to acquit himself nobly.

And I kept him clear of counters where he might fill
valuable space in his pockets with cheap junk.

It was something of a shock when I got in the taxi to take
him back home with me, to discover my wallet was gone again. So were my
cigarettes, but I had enough change loose in a trouser pocket to pay the cab.

I grinned to myself, Mr. Gupstein, but it was a grin of
chagrin. Twice in one day I'd been robbed and hadn't known it.

“Now, Cadwallader, my boy,” I said when we were safely in my
apartment, “I'll trouble you for my leather back, and if by any chance you
collared anything else, give it to me and I'll see that it is all returned
where it belongs.”

He began to feel in his pockets and an embarrassed look
spread over his face. He smiled but it was a sickly-looking smile.

“I'm afraid I haven't got your wallet, Rajah,” he said after
he'd felt all around. “If you say it's gone, I must have taken it on the way
downtown, but I haven't it now.”

I remembered all the sugar in that billfold, and, Mr.

Gupstein, I must have let out a howl that could have been
heard on Staten Island if it had been a clear night. I forgot he was more than
twice my size, and I stepped right up and frisked him and I didn't miss a bet.

Then I did it again. Every pocket was as empty as an
alderman's cigar box the day after election. I didn't believe it, but there it
was.

I pushed him back into a chair. I thought of getting my
roscoe but I didn't think I'd need it. I felt mad enough to peel the hide off a
tiger bare-handed.

“What's the gag?” I demanded. “Talk fast.”

He looked like a four-year-old caught with a jam pot.

“Sometimes, Rajah, but not often, my kleptomania works sort
of backward. I put things from my own pockets in other people's. It's something
I've done only a few times, but this must have been one of them. I'm awfully
sorry.”

I sighed and sat down. I looked at him, and I guess I wasn't
mad any longer. It wasn't his fault. He was telling the truth; I could see that
with half an eye. And I could see, too, that he was just about three times as far
off his rocker as I'd given him credit for.

Still and all, Mr. Gupstein, I still liked the guy. I began
to wonder if I was getting mushy above the eyebrows myself.

Oh well, I thought, I can get the dough back by taking him
out a few more times. He'd said his kleptomania didn't go into reverse often.
And if I'd start out broke each time, it couldn't do any harm.

So that was that, but after I'd counted all those chickens
it was a discouraging evening. You can see that, Mr. Gupstein. I got out a deck
of cards and taught him how to play cribbage and he beat me every game until I
began to get bored. I decided to pump him a bit.