At eleven o’clock, a ringing sound roused her. She had fallen asleep and first looked towards the telephone, then realized it was the doorbell.
The man in the doorway took off his hat when she appeared, but that was his only courteous gesture. He stepped inside without invitation, closing the door behind him. He was short and his face had the hot, quick-burned look of sunlamp treatments. His thick hair was glossy, and his clothes had too many sharp corners.
“You Ruth Moody?” he said.
“Yes.” She was more annoyed than frightened.
He smiled, uncovering tobacco-stained teeth. “I got a little business to talk over, Mrs. Moody.” He nodded toward the living room. “Can we go inside?”
“What sort of business? If you’re selling something—”
“I’m buying, Mrs. Moody.” He chuckled. “All right if I sit down?” He was already sitting down, on the sofa, lifting his trousers at the knees to preserve the knife-edge crease. “I think you better listen,” he said carefully. “It’s about your husband.”
Her hand clutched at her houserobe, and she took a seat across the width of the room.
“What do you mean?”
“I know something about your husband,” he said. “And I know a lot more about you. Put them together — they can spell trouble.” He laid his hat down on the cushion beside him.
“Mrs. Moody,” he continued, “how would you like to make a thousand dollars?”
“What?” Ruth asked, puzzled.
“You heard right. I got a little proposition for you. If you go along, you’ll get a thousand bucks in the mail. If you don’t — well, your husband might have a hard time making ends meet. You get what I mean?”
“No!”
“Let me put it this way. If you were a man’s boss, and you found out that the man’s wife was a shoplifter—”
Ruth’s hands flew to her mouth.
“There. You see what I mean? It makes a difference, don’t it? I mean, these days a man’s family is important in his work. Gotta think of the firm’s reputation, and all that. You see what I mean, don’t you?”
“How did you know?” Ruth said miserably. “Who told you that?”
“Don’t ask me that, Mrs. Moody. Let’s just say I got sources. But don’t get upset. It’s a sickness, you know, like pneumonia, or hay fever. You can’t help yourself—”
Ruth looked at the man hard. Then she said: “How much do you want?”
He waved his hand. “I don’t want your nickels and dimes, Mrs. Moody. Didn’t I tell you? I’m here to buy.”
“Buy what?”
“Your services. All you got to do is play along with us, and you can have a thousand bucks. Take my word for it, you got nothing to lose.”
“What do you want me to do?” Ruth said.
“I can’t spell it out for you. But I got a friend, see? He’ll tell you the details. All you gotta do now is put on your hat and coat and come with me. My friend’ll outline the whole deal. It’s real easy, believe me. You won’t regret it for a minute—”
She stood up. “I’m not going with you!”
“Suit yourself.” He seemed genuinely unconcerned. “We’re not desperate for your help, Mrs. Moody. But we thought we’d give you a break.” He sighed, got up, and took his hat off the sofa. “But if you don’t want to play along—”
“You don’t really mean this.”
He smiled, reached into an inner pocket and withdrew a small business card. He read a penciled notation.
“Otto Mavius and Company, 420 Fifth Avenue. That’s where your husband works, right?”
“But I’m not dressed!” she said frantically. “I can’t come with you now!”
“I can wait, Mrs. Moody. I’m in no hurry.”
They looked at each other for a while; then Ruth whirled and ran towards the bedroom.
In half an hour, they were in a taxi, and the man with the sunburn was giving the name of a modest downtown hotel to the driver. Ruth slumped in the other corner of the cab, not looking at him, her arms folded tightly against her chest to conceal the trembling of her body. The man was inclined to silence, too, eyes fixed thoughtfully out of the side window. But when the cab pulled up to the undistinguished entrance to the hotel, his face brightened.
At the door of Room 408, the man said, “You just relax, Mrs. Moody. You’ll like my friend. He’s a gentleman.”
The gentleman was wearing a brocaded houserobe, and smoking a Turkish cigarette. He had made himself at home in Room 408, but the room had an air of sudden arrivals and quick exits. He was seated on the lumpy sofa, using an oblong coffee table as an impromptu desk. There were papers scattered in front of him and he was scrawling something on the top sheet, his tongue poking out of his mouth exploring his upper lip.
He looked up when Ruth and the sunburned man entered, his pale, youngish face suddenly cordial. He finished what he was writing, put down the pen, and invited them inside.
“You must be Ruth Moody,” he said pleasantly. “Come sit on the sofa. It’s the only comfortable thing in the place.” He looked at the other man. “Why don’t you fix Mrs. Moody a drink?”
“Sure. What would you like, Mrs. Moody?”
“Could I have some coffee?”
“Certainly,” the gentleman said; he nodded to the sunburned man to get it. The man went to a table still cluttered with the remains of a hotel breakfast.
“Now then, Mrs. Moody.” The gentleman leaned back and folded his hands over one knee. “Did my friend tell you very much about our plan?”
“No.”
“That’s just as well. Let me outline it for you.”
He put out his cigarette.
“It’s very simple,” he continued airily, watching the other man place the coffee before her. “We happen to know that you’re a kleptomaniac, Mrs. Moody. Now, now. Don’t get upset over it. Both my friend and I are aware that doesn’t make you a criminal. We respect your illness. Don’t we?”
The sunburned man nodded.
“So,” the gentleman said, “we’d like to make you a little offer. We hope you won’t refuse, because if you do—”
“I told her, Harry.”
“Good. Then I needn’t go into that part. But the important thing I want you to remember, Mrs. Moody, is that no matter what happens, you’re safe. Do you understand that? You can’t be arrested for what we want you to do.”
She gasped. “Arrested?”
“Yes. You see, legally, you’re not liable for your little thefts. Surely, you’ve found that out already. You steal because you have to; no other reason. If you’re caught — well, you merely return what’s been stolen, and that’s that.”
“I don’t understand this.” Her voice was going shrill, and she fought to control it.
“Please. Let me explain. We know that you’ve been picked up three times.”
She sipped the luke-warm coffee, her arm trembling as she raised the cup.
“This means that you’re already a recognized klepto, Mrs. Moody. The stores and the police know all about you. If you were caught stealing something else — something, shall I say, a little more valuable than spools of thread...”
Her eyes widened, and the other man chuckled.
“I think you see our point now, Mrs. Moody. Now let me explain our plan in detail.”
He picked up a sheet of paper from the coffee table.
“Here is exactly what you have to do. At twelve-fifteen tomorrow afternoon, you’re to enter a shop called Travells, on Forty-seventh Street. You may not know the place; it’s a rather soignée jewelers, not exactly Tiffany’s perhaps, but well-recognized in its own right. You are to approach a certain counter, which I will diagram for you, and engage the attention of the salesman. You will ask to see a certain tray — I’ll designate that, too — and then, a moment or so after you are examining that tray, there will be a disturbance in the store.”