Today, however, Tom the Postal Clerk had nothing undercover to talk about. Instead, he looked closely at Albert and said, “You got a cold, Mr. White?”
“It’s just the sniffles,” Albert said.
“You look son of rheumy around the eyes.”
“It’s nothing,” Albert said. “Just the sniffles.”
“It’s the season for it,” said Tom the Postal Clerk.
Albert agreed it was the season for it, left the Post Office, and went to City Hall Luncheonette, where he told Sally the Waitress, “I think the roast beef today.”
(Albert’s wife, Elizabeth, would gladly have made a lunch for him, and Albert would gladly have eaten it, except that Mr. Clement did not believe that law clerks — even fortyyear-old law clerks with steel-rim glasses and receding hairlines and expanding waistlines — should sit at their desks in their offices and cat sandwiches from a paper bag. Therefore the daily noontime walk to City Hall Luncheonette, which served food that was adequate without being as scrumptious as the menu claimed.)
While Sally the Waitress went off to order the roast beef, Albert walked back to the men’s room to wash up and also to continue the normal routine of Post Office Day. He took from his right-side jacket pocket the letter which Tom the Postal Clerk had just given him, carefully ripped it open, and took from it the bulky wad of documents it contained. This package went into the fresh envelope he had just typed before leaving the office. He sealed the new envelope and returned it to his inner jacket pocket, then ripped the old envelope into very small pieces and flushed the pieces down the toilet. He then washed his hands, went out to sit at his normal table, and ate a passable lunch of peas, french fries, rye bread, coffee, and roast beef.
He had first stumbled across the originals of these documents eight years ago, one day when Mr. Clement was detained in court and Albert had required to know a certain fact which was on a certain piece of paper. With no ulterior motive he had searched Mr. Clement’s desk, had noticed that one drawer seemed somewhat shorter than the others, had taken it out to look behind it, had seen the green metal box back there, had given in to curiosity, and within the green metal box had learned that Mr. Clement was very, very rich and had become so by grossly dishonest means.
Mr. Clement was an old man, a bony white-haired firebrand who still struck awe in those who met him. And not always merely awe; he carried a cane with a silver knob atop it, and had been known to flail away with it at persons who had been ungracious or rude to him in streets, buses, stores, or wherever he happened to be. His law business leaned heavily to estates and the affairs of small local corporations. The documents in the green metal box proved that Mr. Clement had stolen widely and viciously from these estates and corporations, had salted most of the money away in bank accounts under false names, and was now a millionaire several times over.
A confusing medley of thoughts had run through Albert’s mind on finding these documents. First, he was stunned and disappointed to learn of Mr. Clement’s perfidy; although the old man’s irascibility had kept Albert from ever really liking him, he had respected and admired him, and now he was finding his respect and admiration to have been misplaced. Second, he was terrified at the thought of what Mr. Clement would do if he learned of Albert’s discovery; surely these documents limned a man ruthless enough to stop at nothing if he thought exposure were near. And third amazing himself he thought of blackmail.
In those first kaleidoscopic moments, Albert White found himself yearning for things the existence of which he had hardly ever before noticed. Acapulco. Beautiful women. White dinner jackets. Sports cars. Highballs. Penthouses. Wouldn’t Mr. Clement pay for all those things, in order to keep Albert’s mouth shut?
Of course he would. If there were no better way to shut Albert’s mouth. The thought of potential better ways made Albert shudder.
Still, he wanted all those things. Ease and luxury. Travel. Adventure. Sinning expensively. All that jazz.
At intervals over the next few months Albert snuck documents out of the green metal box and had them photostated. He continued until he had enough evidence to put Mr. Clement behind bars until the twenty-second century. He hid this evidence in the garage behind the little house he shared with his wife, Elizabeth, and for the next four years he didn’t do a thing.
He needed a plan. He needed some way to arrange things so that the evidence would go to the authorities if anything happened to him, and also so that he could convince Mr. Clement that he had the evidence and the authorities would get it unless, and also so that Mr. Clement couldn’t get his hands on it himself. A tall order. But four years Albert had no way to fill it.
But then he read a short story by a writer named Richard Hardwick, outlining the method Albert eventually came to use, with the documents mailed to himself c/o General Delivery and a crusading reporter for the return address. Albert promptly initiated the scheme himself, pruned his evidential documents down to manageable proportions, sent them circulating through the postal system, and saw that everything worked just as Hardwick had said it would.
Now all that was left was to approach Mr. Clement, detail the evidence and the precautions, arrange satisfactory terms, and sit back to enjoy evermore a life of luxury.
Uh huh.
The same day that Albert dropped the envelope into the mailbox for the very first time he also went to beard Mr. Clement in his den; that is, in his inner office. Albert knocked at the door before entering, as he had been taught years and years ago when he’d first obtained this employment, stepped inside, and said, “Mr. Clement?”
Mr. Clement raised his bony face, glared at Albert with his stony eyes, and said, “Yes, Albert? What is it?”
Albert said, “Those Duckworth leases. Do you want them this afternoon?”
“Naturally I want them this afternoon. I told you yesterday I would want them this afternoon.”
“Yes, sir,” said Albert, and retreated.
Back at his desk, he sat and blinked in some confusion at the far wall. He had opened his mouth, back there in Mr. Clement’s office, with the full intention of saying “Mr. Clement, I know all.” It had been with baffled consternation that he had heard himself say instead, “Those Duckworth leases.” Besides the fact that he hadn’t intended to say, “Those Duckworth leases,” there was the additional fact that he had already. known Mr. Clement would want the Duckworth leases this afternoon. Not only a wrong question, but a useless question as well.
“I was afraid of him, that’s all,” Albert told himself. “And there’s no reason to be afraid. I do have the goods on him, and he doesn’t dare touch me.”
Later that same day Albert tried again. It was, as a matter of fact, when he brought the Duckworth leases in. He placed them on the desk, stood around a few seconds, then coughed hesitantly and said, “Mr. Clement?”
Mr. Clement glowered. “What is it this time?”
“I’m not feeling too well, Mr. Clement. I’d like to take the rest of the afternoon off, please.”
“Have you typed the Wilcox papers?”
“No, sir, not yet.”
“Type them up, and then you can go.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
A saddened Albert left Mr. Clement’s office, knowing he had failed again and knowing also there was no point his trying any more today; he’d only go on failing. So he merely typed the Wilcox papers, tidied his desk, and went home an hour early, explaining to Elizabeth that he’d felt a bit queasy at the office, which was perfectly true.
In the fifteen months that followed, Albert made frequent attempts to inform Mr. Clement that he was in the process of being blackmailed, but somehow or other when he opened his mouth it was always some other sentence that came out. Sometimes, at night, he practiced in front of a mirror, outlining the situation and his demands with admirable clarity and brevity. Other times he wrote the speeches out and set himself to memorize them, but the prepared speeches were always too verbose and unwieldy.