“Sure,” said Harry.
“Tony will go with you. When there’s red tape there should always be a lawyer.”
“Sure,” said Harry.
Tony Mitchell grinned. “I’ve set up a date for ten A.M. Wednesday, Doctor. That all right with you?”
“Sure,” said Harry.
Fifteen
Monday was the first day of August, and on Monday the first day of August, at ten minutes past two, the phone rang in the office of Dr. Harrison Brown and the operator said, “I have a person-to-person call from San Francisco for Dr. Harrison Brown.” His girl transferred the call, and Dr. Harrison Brown said, “This is Dr. Harrison Brown.”
“One moment, please. Go ahead, please.”
A voice said, “Dr. Harrison Brown?” It was a thick voice, deeply male, with a rasp in it.
“This is Dr. Brown.” He could feel the sweat spring out.
“Hi, Doc. This is Jackie Jill’s uncle, her Uncle Joe. Remember me? You treated me last year when I was in New York. Hiya, Doc.”
A snake of fear crept along the spine of Dr. Harrison Brown. He sat up straight. “Yes?” he said. “Yes?”
“I need a favor, Doc.”
“A favor?” He groped for a tissue, swabbed his forehead.
“My brother Ben died last week. In New York. He was cremated, see—”
“Yes?”
“It says in my brother’s will that he wants his ashes thrown into the ocean, the Atlantic Ocean.”
“I see.”
“I know this is a lot to ask, but I’m gonna be stuck here in Frisco for a long time and I couldn’t think of nobody in New York but you. Suppose you could pick up the package of ashes, the urn, or whatever it is, Doc, and as a special favor carry out my brother’s last wishes? I’d be awful grateful.”
Harry moistened his lips. “Where is it? Where do I pick it up?”
“Well, the funeral parlor is up in Yonkers. You know, where they got the race track, the trotters? It ain’t far from the track. Allerton Avenue. Smith and Smith Funeral Chapel. Ask for the head undertaker, Franklin Gregory Archibald Smith. Would you do this for me, Doc?”
“When? What time?”
“Tomorrow, one o’clock. I called Mr. Smith and I told him you’d probably be coming. After all, I did do you that favor, that time I was in New York, lending you the thousand bucks. Say, come to think of it, I could kill two birds with one stone, like they say. I heard you were doing pretty good now, Doc — could you possibly pay up that thousand you owe me? I mean now?”
“Yes.”
“Great. I ain’t paid Smith and Smith yet for the funeral, and they won’t release my brother’s ashes till they get their money. By a coincidence, it comes to just a thousand bucks. You could pay them for me and pick up the ashes and we’d be all square. Okay, Doc?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“I guess you better make it cash. Can you make it cash?”
“Yes. What name? The deceased, I mean?”
“Oh, my brother. I told you — Benny. Benjamin A. Smith. Common name, huh, Doc? Undertakers named Smith, stiff named Smith. Poor old Ben — he lingered a long time with that cancer. Well! We all set, Doc? You got the name and address?”
“I marked them down.”
“One o’clock tomorrow. Don’t forget to bring the money. And I thank you very much.”
And the wire went dead as Uncle Joe, in San Francisco, hung up.
That afternoon Dr. Harrison Brown called an associate, Dr. Manley Lamper, and arranged for Dr. Lamper to take over his practice during the months of September and October. He also drew up a letter notifying his patients that he would be away for the months of September and October and that his practice would be handled during that period by Dr. Manley Lamper, address and telephone number. He instructed his girl to go through the files and send a copy of the letter to all his patients, and to make a note to refer all calls beginning September first to Dr. Lamper.
The next morning, on his way to the office, he stopped into his bank and came out with a plain envelope containing ten $100 bills.
Sixteen
It was a two-story red brick on a nice street in Yonkers, chiefly residential. There were shade trees over the sidewalks, and neat houses with green lawns, and some stores: a supermarket, a laundry, a beauty parlor, a drugstore, a florist’s, and the funeral parlor. He drove past slowly and backed into a space at the curb a hundred feet away. Before he got out of the car he touched the envelope in the inner pocket of his jacket.
He walked back without haste along the sunny street to the brick building. It had a gray marble front and wide glass doors. He pushed through the doors and found himself in a cool room with a soft gray carpet, a long gray table, gray chairs and benches, and some potted palms. At the far end of the room a blond young man sat at a small gray desk. The blond young man rose at once and came forward. He said softly, “Sir?”
“I’d like to see Mr. Franklin Gregory Archibald Smith.”
“What name, sir?”
“My name?”
“Please, sir.”
Harry said, “Smith.”
The young man smiled, exhibiting lively white teeth.
“You have an appointment?”
“Yes.”
“Please sit down, won’t you?”
The young man walked sedately to the end of the room... through two glass doors similar to those at the entrance, but narrower. Harry remained standing.
The young man returned in thirty seconds.
“This way, sir.”
Harry followed him through the narrow glass doors and along a windowless corridor to an office also furnished in gray: gray carpet, gray leather armchairs, gray steel desk, gray Venetian blinds tightly closed.
“Come in, sir.” A thin man with a long wrinkled face and sparse black hair rose from behind the steel desk. His hair was obviously a toupee. His rather high voice was, to Harry’s surprise, that of a cultivated man. He wore an expensive black suit and a black tie with a gray pearl stickpin. “All right, Adam.”
The blond young man went out, shutting the door.
“I’m Franklin Gregory Archibald Smith,” the mortician said. “Please sit down — Mr. Smith, did you say?”
“Harry Smith,” said Harry Brown.
The thin man smiled and gestured to the armchair beside the desk.
Harry sat. The tall man sat.
“Common name,” the tall man remarked.
“Yes,” said Harry.
“Well,” said Mr. Smith. “What can I do for you, Mr. Smith?”
“I’m here on an errand.”
“Errand?”
“For Uncle Joe.”
“Joe?”
“Uncle Joe from San Francisco.”
“Oh, yes?” said the thin mortician. He waited.
“I’m to pick up the ashes of Uncle Joe’s brother Benny. Benjamin A. Smith?”
“Oh, yes?” said the mortician again. He still did not move.
“Oh,” said Harry. He took the envelope out of his pocket. “Here’s the money Uncle Joe owes you.”
This time the man moved. He extended a bony hand for the envelope, opened it, took out the bills, and counted them. He returned the money to the envelope, unlocked a drawer of the steel desk, dropped the envelope into the drawer, locked the drawer and pocketed the key. Then he rose.
He said in his high voice, “Wait here, please,” and left the room. He had a long gliding stride that made him look as if he were walking on tiptoe.
Harry sat. The room was cool. He stirred uneasily.
Was it a swindle? Why not? Smith could give him an urn containing ashes, and what could he do about it? Go to the police? The thought made him laugh, and he felt better.
The man returned with an oblong package. It was wrapped in ordinary wrapping paper, seams secured by wide strips of gummed tape, and bound with heavy cord.