“But he is missing, you see, and I’m all at sixes and sevens. That’s why I called you.”
“Well, I certainly appreciate your confi...”
“Instead of anyone important,” Nanny said. “I figured if I called anyone important, Mr. Ganucci might find out what happened.”
“Oh.”
“So I figured I would call someone who is very small potatoes.”
“I see.”
“You were the smallest potatoes I could think of offhand.”
All the clocks in the living room suddenly began tolling the hour, causing Nanny to wince, bonging and chiming and tinkling together, while unrelentingly ticking and tocking. And since it was eleven o’clock, and since presumably there would be a great deal of bonging and chiming and tinkling before they could resume their conversation, Benny seized the opportunity to reflect upon what she had just said. Yes, he had to admit he was very small potatoes as compared to some of the other fellows. Well, most of the other fellows. (If there was one thing Benny admired about himself, it was his uncompromising honesty.) But the fact that he was unimportant did not overly disturb him. He had once been very big in Chicago; he attributed his status now only to a little mistake he had made back in 1966. But who does not make mistakes, Benny asked himself, who indeed? The clocks continued their racket, as though clamoring to be fed. Nanny had covered her delicate ears with both hands and was now waiting for the din to subside. It did so all at once, just as it had begun. The living room was silent again, except for the incessant ticking and tocking.
“Beastly clocks,” she said. “As if there isn’t enough trouble in the world.”
“Let’s get back to your trouble,” Benny said. “When did you discover he was missing?”
“At eight o’clock this morning. I went into his bedroom, and he wasn’t there.”
“Is he usually there?”
“In bed? At eight o’clock in the morning? Yes, of course he’s usually there.”
“But he was not there this morning.”
“He was not there. And he is still not there. Nor anywhere in the house. Nor anywhere on the grounds, so far as I can tell.”
“Maybe he’s hiding or something,” Benny suggested.
“I don’t think so. He’s not very playful that way. He’s a rather serious little bastard.”
“How old is he now, anyway?” Benny asked.
“He was ten years old last month.”
“I see.”
“His father gave him a watch for his birthday.”
“I see.”
“While at the same time paying tribute to a man he respects and admires,” Nanny said.
“I see,” Benny said, not wishing to pry. “I thought maybe if Lewis was slightly older, he might have a little girl friend, and maybe he went to visit her or something.”
“No,” Nanny said.
“No, I guess not.”
“No. Lewis is missing. He is purely and simply missing. If Mr. Ganucci finds out about this...”
“Now, now,” Benny said, “Ganooch is in Italy, I don’t see how he can possibly find out about it, do you? Besides, Lewis will probably turn up any minute now and all your troubles will be over.”
“I do hope so. The little bastard has me worried silly.”
“My brother one time,” Benny said reassuringly, “when we were both little kids in Chicago, was missing all day long. Angelo. My brother.”
“Where was he?”
“Who?”
“Your brother.”
“Angelo? In a garbage can, how do you like that?” Benny slapped his thigh, and burst out laughing. “He was hiding in a garbage can in the backyard! He stunk terrible when he finally came in the house.”
“But he did finally come back?”
“Oh, sure. The same way little Lewis’ll finally come back. You know how kids are, always looking for adventure.”
“Well, Lewis isn’t normally too adventurous,” Nanny said.
“Even so. He probably got it in his head to take a walk or something. You got big grounds here, he may be out in the woods or something, watching ants or something. You know how kids are.”
“Yes,” Nanny said dubiously.
“So don’t worry, everything’ll be okay. Would it be all right if I used the telephone?”
“Yes, certainly. There’s one in Mr. Ganucci’s study.”
She rose gracefully and led him out of the living room, and across the hall to where she slid open two heavily paneled doors. The study was quietly and tastefully furnished, the air redolent of good leather and musty books. Sunshine flowed through the leaded bay window at one end of the room, touching the leather-topped desk before it with a golden, mote-filled shaft of light.
“The telephone is there on Mr. Ganucci’s desk,” Nanny said. “I’ll step out a moment, if you don’t mind. The mail generally comes at eleven.”
She closed the doors behind her and left Benny alone. He wandered to the bookshelves that lined one complete wall of the room, studying Ganooch’s library, all of it bound in hand-tooled leather, and then turned away abruptly and went to the desk. He sat in the brown swivel chair, the leather sighing beneath him as he sank into it, reached for the phone, and quickly dialed his apartment in Manhattan. Jeanette Kay answered on the third ring.
“Hello?” she said.
“This is Benny,” he said. “Were you asleep?”
“No,” she said. “I got up a little while ago.”
“Did you see my note?”
“What note?”
“I left a note on the refrigerator door.”
“No, I didn’t see it.”
“Did you go to the refrigerator?”
“I’m standing right by the refrigerator this very minute,” Jeanette Kay said.
“Well, do you see the note?”
“Yes, I see it. What does it say?”
“It says I’m going up to Larchmont.”
“Oh. Okay. When are you going?”
“I’m here now.”
“Where?”
“In Larchmont.”
“Oh. I thought you said you were going to Larchmont.”
“When I wrote the note, I wasn’t here yet, I was about to leave for here.”
“Oh,” Jeanette Kay said. She hesitated a moment, and then said, “That’s what I hate about reading.”
“Anyway, I’ll be through here soon, but I got to go to Harlem to pick up the work, so I won’t be home till sometime this afternoon.”
“Okay,” Jeanette Kay said. “Are we going out tonight?”
“Would you like to go out tonight?”
“I don’t know. What day is it?”
“It’s Wednesday.”
“Wednesday is Beverly Hillbillies.”
“No, that’s Monday.”
“It’s Wednesday, too, Ben, don’t tell me.”
“Well, what do you think?”
“I’ll see how I feel,” she said. “They’re all reruns now, anyway.”
“Okay, I’ll talk to you later.”
“G’by,” she said, and hung up. Benny replaced the receiver on the cradle, luxuriated in the feel of the leather chair for one last delicious moment, and then rose and walked swiftly to the sliding doors. He was stepping into the entrance foyer when Nanny came through the front door with the mail. Her hands were trembling.
“What is it?” Benny asked immediately.
Nanny was speechless. She handed the stack of mail to him, and he leafed through it quickly: a bill from the electric company, another from Diners’ Club, a third from Lord & Taylor’s, a postcard with a beautiful picture on it—
He quickly turned the card over to read it:
Benny shrugged. It was a nice enough card, well written and informative. Aside from Ganooch’s promise to see Nanny at the end of the month (by which time little Lewis would most certainly have come out of his garbage can or wherever it was he had hidden), Benny could see nothing in it that might have so obviously upset her. Upset she was, no question about it. She stood leaning limply against the entrance door, trembling, one hand to her mouth, her eyes wide in fright. Benny looked at the last envelope in his hand. It was a strange envelope to be finding in the morning mail, primarily because there was neither a stamp nor an address on it. He lifted the flap, pulled out a sheet of writing paper, unfolded it, and read the words pasted to it: