Chapter 26

On the morning of Monday, April 23rd (the date seemed unimportant at the time), I took the early morning train into New York. Spring had done its fell work and the club car was full of middle-aged business-men, with dark circles under their eyes, prepared to fight at the drop of a hat anyone who said they weren’t as young as they felt. With Jimmie’s perfume still in my nostrils, I hadn’t the heart to deride them, so I did the next best thing and talked them into a poker-game.

By the time we pulled into Grand Central I was eighteen dollars and seventy cents ahead, thanks to a full-house just before we reached 125th Street.

Instead of joining my fellow-brokers in their Gadarene rush for the downtown subway express, I strolled north along Park Avenue to the Pond Club.

At the Pond Club I found Tammy engaged, as ever, in polishing the glasses behind his gleaming little bar.

“My! Mr. Tompkins,” he exclaimed. “You look as though you’d just made a million dollars,” he told me. “The usual, sir?”

“It was nearly three millions, Tammy, and accept no substitutes. What I need is concentrated protein. How about a couple of dozen Cotuits and some black coffee?”

The steward raised his eyebrows knowingly.

“I’ll mix you one of my Second Day Specials, sir,” he said. “Funny thing about that drink. One night, young Mr. Ferguson--he’s a new member, sir--was feeling merry and felt a sudden sense of compassion for the statue of Civic Virtue in front of the City Hall. Of course, I’ve never seen it but they tell me that it’s a very fine work of art, by a person named Mac Monnies, I believe. He wasn’t a member of the club, of course, but that’s what I understand the name to be. So Mr. Ferguson would have nothing for it but to take one of my Second Day Specials down to the Civic Virtue and give him a drink. It seemed that Mr. Ferguson felt quite sorry for the statue down there in front of LaGuardia without any company. So he took a cab downtown and poured the drink down the mouth of the statue for a joke, like. But here’s the odd thing, sir. They had to throw a canvas over the statue and send for a man with a hacksaw before the Mayor decided it was proper to expose it to the citizens again.”

“Then bring me a double Second Day Special, without cold chisels or hacksaws, if you please,” I ordered.

He smirked knowingly but had the tact of good club servants to say nothing. I sipped his concoction, which tasted entirely unlike the egg-nog it outwardly resembled. A moment later, I tried another sip. It was not at all unpleasant, so I drained the glass. This, I decided, was exactly what I needed, so I drank the second one without drawing breath.

“Ah-h-h!” I beamed. “That is much better. Now if anybody phones me, say I’m not here, unless it’s one of my friends.”

“Would that be true of that Mrs. R., sir?” he inquired. “That lady with the red hair you told me about, Mr. Tompkins?”

“If Mrs. Rutherford calls,” I said, “let me know.”

He smiled slyly. “Then I was to deliver a message to you from her, sir. She wants you to call her at the apartment, she said. Circle 8-7326, the number is. She said it was important.”

I dialed the number. Virginia answered.

“Winnie?” Her voice was cool and amused. “You’d better come up here in a hurry. It’s urgent.”

“Where is here?” I asked.

“At our place, the apartment,” she said.

“Better give me the address,” I suggested. “I can’t seem to remember.”

“Winnie, that particular joke is getting tiresome. You know perfectly well it’s 172 East 72nd Street and the third floor front. The name, naturally, is Smith.”

“John Smith?” I inquired.

“Natch! And hurry, unless you want to be in worse trouble than you can imagine.”

I signaled to Tammy. “One more Second Day Special, please.”

He looked worried. “Are you quite sure, sir,” he demurred. “Two is as much as I’ve ever seen a man take.”

He returned to his mystery and produced the fatal brew. I drank it slowly. By Godfrey! this was more like it. I tossed him a five-dollar bill.

“Just remember that you haven’t seen me,” I told him.

“Quite, Mr. Tompkins.”

I managed to snag an uptown taxi and rolled in comfort to 172 East 72nd Street.

I pressed the button marked Smith and was rewarded by a clicking of the latch. I climbed the stairs and on the third story tapped the little brass knocker. The door opened and Virginia appeared clad somewhat in a white silk dressing-gown and with her red hair sizzling out at me.

“Come in, stranger,” she said.

She closed the door and settled herself comfortably, with a cigarette, on the suspiciously broad day-bed. I sat down in a very deep easy chair, facing her, and lighted a cigarette too.

“Well?” I inquired.

“Winnie,” she began, “you know I never try to interfere with your private life or try to ask questions, but don’t you think this farce has gone on long enough?”

I flicked some ash on the carpet and tried to look inscrutable.

“You know what you are doing, of course,” she continued, “and your performance in Washington was magnificent, but just between ourselves, can’t you relax?”

Although the windows were open, the room seemed oppressively warm. I threw back my coat and confronted her without speaking.

“Of course,” Virginia continued, “I know we’ve got to be discreet. There can always be dictaphones and detectives and it seems that the F.B.I. knows all about this place, but can’t you just--”

She jumped up and faced me. With an angry movement, she snatched off her dressing-gown and flung it on the floor.

“There!” she said. “Is there anything wrong with me? Am I repulsive? Or don’t you care?”

It must have been the three specials that lifted me from the easy chair and whisked me across the room to the embattled red head, but it must have been my guardian angel that prompted my next move. I pulled out my fountain pen and wrote rapidly on the back of an envelope: “I suspect that we are watched.”