However, his air of rectitude and righteousness had me thoroughly annoyed. His smug air of superiority trapped me into saying: “A hundred bucks that you can’t quit smoking for three months.”
He took the misshapen cigarette from his lips, crushed it out in the ash tray on his desk and said: “You’re on, Joey. One hundred bucks. Three months. Moreover, I offer you spot cash if you win, and shall deduct it from your salary in four installments if you lose. What could be fairer than that?”
I sat down at my desk aware of an empty, apprehensive sensation at the pit of my stomach. I still believed that it was a most difficult task for a heavy smoker to quit the habit overnight. But against that was the awful fact that Sackler would do anything at all for cash. For a hundred bucks he’d probably give up eating and sleeping for three months.
I was still wondering whether I’d tossed my money in the gutter when the outer door opened and a visitor walked in. He was an odd looking character just this side of forty. He wore an old-fashioned derby hat, a suit whose cut had been the rage at the turn of the century, a black tie in which nestled a single pearl pin which looked genuine to my inexpert eye, and a pair of well polished high shoes.
Sackler inspected him as he entered, like Armour’s purchasing agent inspecting a steer. I knew Sackler’s gaze essayed to pierce the man’s outer garments and peer straight into his pocketbook.
Apparently, he liked what he saw there. He assumed his best floor-walker smile, rubbed his hands together and said: “Ah, good morning, sir.”
The stranger nodded. He said: “My name is Wilbur Fleming. I have come to offer you a commission.”
Sackler waved him to the chair facing his desk. Fleming took a silk handkerchief from his pocket and dusted its seat. He sat down carefully as if he half expected to find a tack on the chair.
Then he took a snuff box from his pocket, sniffed a pinch of it delicately and sneezed. He replaced the box and said, half proudly, half defiantly: “You may as well get used to me, sir. I am eccentric. Moreover, I need a stimulant. That west side subway exhausts me.”
Sackler nodded rather uneasily. He had not yet pigeon-holed his client. He had not vet decided how much the traffic would bear when it came to the matter of fixing the fee.
“Now,” said Fleming, “let us get to the point. I have come here because I have heard it said that you are the best private detective agency in the city. Experience has taught me that it is always cheaper to have the best.”
“Cheaper?” repeated Sackler weakly.
“In the long run.”
“Ah,” said Sackler, his spirits picking up, “of course.”
“Now,” said Fleming, “I have two requests to make. You will probably think at least one of them odd. However, since I am willing to pay for my eccentricities I see no reason why you should complain.”
“None at all,” said Sackler like the fourth assistant director talking to De Mille.
“First,” skid Fleming, “I desire to learn the present whereabouts of one Donald Lionel Dworkin, who when I last heard of him was living at 206 East 39th Street in this city.”
Sackler scribbled something on his desk pad. “When was this?”
“Three years ago.”
“And you haven’t heard of him since?”
Fleming shook his head. “And I know no one else who knew him. I know of no relatives. This is a hard job so, naturally, it will pay more money than my second request which is simple.”
Sackler said, “What is it?”
“I want you to find out who said: Love is the isthmus which joins the continents of Heaven and earth.”
Sackler blinked at him. That was a beautiful thought with capital letters and our office was unaccustomed to such sentimental touches.
Sackler said slowly: “You want me to find out who said that?”
Fleming nodded. “I have long wanted to know the author of such a profound saying. But I am very bad at research.”
Sackler scribbled once more on his pad. As he did so Fleming thrust a hand into his breast pocket and withdrew a wallet and two long envelopes. Sackler and I regarded him curiously.
From the wallet he withdrew three bills. I craned my neck and saw that there were two of five hundred dollar denomination; the third bill was a hundred. Sackler stared at the money like a little boy watching a conjuror.
“Now,” said Fleming. He put the two five hundreds into one envelope, sealed it and, picking up Sackler’s pencil, scrawled across the face of it the one word: Dworkin. He put the hundred dollar bill into the second envelope and wrote gravely across its face: Quotation.
He handed both envelopes to Sackler and said with an air of a man who has just finished some arduous business, “There!”
Sackler took the envelopes and said: “There what?”
“It is simple,” said Fleming. “I do not intend to pay for something I do not get.”
Sackler sat still silent. Usually he went right to the heart of the matter immediately a client entered. First he discussed money; then, and only then, would he hear the customer out. But Fleming somehow nonplussed him. He now sat uncertainly with the two envelopes in his hand.
“If within seventy-two hours,” went on Fleming, “you have definite information for me regarding the whereabouts of this Donald Dworkin, the envelope containing the two five hundred dollar bills is yours. That information is worth exactly one thousand dollars to me. If within the same period of time you have discovered for me who wrote the line: Love is the isthmus which joins the continents of Heaven and earth, the second envelope containing the hundred dollars is yours. For this second task I set you is worth but one tenth of the first task. Do you understand clearly?”
Sackler nodded weakly.
“As I have told you,” said Fleming, “I am eccentric. I must insist that you do not bank this money until it has become yours. It belongs to me until you have done what I have asked you to do. You will keep both envelopes in your desk for three days. Then I will call again. If you have succeeded you keep the money, if not you will return both envelopes to me. Is that clearly understood?”
Sackler nodded again. But this time he made some protest.
“But what if I fail? Surely my time is worth something.”
“Your time is worth nothing to me,” said Fleming curtly. “You will either accept my terms or hand me back my money.”
Even the thought of returning money caused Sackler to wince. He jerked the envelopes out of Fleming’s reach and stashed them away in the desk drawer. “I accept,” he said.
Fleming nodded and stood up. “Very well, then. I shall call again in three days to see what you have done.”
“Wait a minute,” said Sackler, picking up a pencil. “What’s your address?” Fleming said abstractedly: “Twenty-four s—” Then broke off shortly on the sibilant. “You won’t need my address. I told you I’d call back in person within three davs.”
He walked slowly to the door and let himself out into the corridor.
I eyed Sackler with envy and distaste. I said: “You are one lucky thus and so.”
“Lucky? Why?”
“Any idiot can find a quotation in the Public Library in twenty minutes and you get a hundred bucks for doing it.”
“True,” said Sackler. “But can any idiot track down Donald Dworkin? That’s where the money lies.”
He leaned back in his swivel chair, fixed his eyes on a spot on the ceiling and gave himself over to deep thought. Once I said: “What are you doing? Looking for Dworkin in a trance?”
He did not answer me. He continued his contemplation of the plaster for a full ten minutes. Then he sighed. He brought the chair back to its normal position and with an abstracted expression on his face fumbled in his pockets.