"Yes, I'm sure I shall," Hale replied disinterestedly.
He wrote an address on a card and gave it to Cummings. "Ask the renting agent there for the floor plan. Go to some first-rate furniture place and buy what is needed for each room. Insist on floor samples. I can't wait for them to make the furniture. However, if I do not like what you buy, I shall return it and order something more suitable. I want everything delivered by five o'clock. That should be ample time. You have slightly less than three hours."
"Yes, sir," said Cummings. His frozen face was as nearly pleased as it ever could be. Hale had discovered that giving others responsibility for arranging everything was the surest way of taking their minds off money. "How shall I arrange payment, sir?"
"My secretary will take care of it. You, Hamilton, settle matters with the gas and electric company." He drew out the remainder of the fifty dollars, counted it, and asked the owner of the agency to change a dollar bill. He still had the original penny. To that he added three quarters, and gave the rest to Hamilton. "That's all I can spare at the moment. Make that do as a deposit."
Hamilton gravely accepted the money. "Will that be all, sir?"
"Certainly not. Bring the staff to the address I gave Cummings. Order food. Have the chef prepare dinner for seven thirty; whatever his specialty is. By that time I want all the furniture in order."
He passed time strolling; it was a few minutes after four when he returned to the apartment house. He glanced at the car standing at the curb, and called the chauffeur downstairs. Getting in, he said: "North shore of Long Island. Schedule the ride so we shall return by seven."
Hale lolled on the broad seat, deliberately unconscious of the car's smoothness and luxurious upholstery. They purred over the Queensboro Bridge. The day lost its chill brightness; darkness seeped through the air. Driving in complete silence, the chauffeur had glanced several times at the clock on the instrument board. Then, without a word, he turned the car and headed back to New York.
At seven, having neither enjoyed nor disliked the ride, Hale strode through his new home. The butler followed him at a respectful distance, proud, in a dignified, inarticulate way, of his speed and taste.
"Quite nice," Hale said, as one would applaud a clever dog. "I doubt if I shall have to exchange a thing."
"I am glad you like it, sir," said Cummings, frozenly delighted.
Hamilton appeared. "Would you care to dress for dinner, sir? I couldn't find your wardrobe."
"Not tonight, Hamilton. Everything is too unsettled."
"Then, sir," Cummings said, "the chef has informed me that dinner is ready. He has made terrapin. His terrapin, sir, is famous. Mr. Astor admitted it."
Hale sat down at the enormous table. "Ah, terrapin. Fine. But I want no cocktails or hors d'oeuvres. Just a very large glass of tomato juice."
He drank it. For once Cummings was almost startled when, a few minutes later, Hale stood up.
"Aren't you going to finish your dinner, sir?" he asked, dismayed.
"I don't believe I will. I feel the need of a stroll. For some reason my appetite has left me."
"The excitement of moving, no doubt, sir," Cummings said with reserved sympathy. "Will you want the car?"
"No. Just my coat and hat. Perhaps my appetite will return."
"Oh, yes, sir, I'm sure it will."
Very competent, Hale thought tranquilly. Everything ran smoothly at his slightest desire. Hamilton was helping him on with his coat. The elevator had already been called.
He went down and walked east to Lexington, where he took the subway. If he had allowed himself any emotion, he would probably have regretted his decision not to spend the night in a soft bed. But he did not. His one anxiety was to find a pawnshop open at that hour on the Bowery, where he got out.
They were all open. He entered one, and said: "I want to exchange all my clothes."
The owner stared suspiciously at him. "Take off your coat," he ordered nastily. Then he walked all around, inspecting the suit. "No bloodstains?"
"Bloodstains?" Hale asked. "Of course not."
"Well, it's up to you, mister. If you wanna swap a swell outfit like 'at, I'm not kicking, see? Go ahead and pick out the one you want."
Hale quickly chose a suit, hat, and overcoat. When he came out, even the predatory pawnshop owner felt uneasy. He said: "You can get a better fit than that off the rack."
"No, this'll do," replied Hale decisively. "But, of course, I want the difference in value."
"Oh," said the pawnbroker, putting his hands behind his back. "How much?"
"A dollar and a quarter."
"Huh?" The pawnbroker recovered from his surprise and snatched a dollar and a quarter out of the cash drawer, shoved it under the cage, and incredulously watched Hale pocket it. "Come again, mister," he invited as Hale turned away.
"Not much chance. But where can I put an ad in the paper? Is there a place around here?"
"The candy store at the corner takes ads. You better hurry. It's kinda late for the morning papers."
Hale could feel the broker's relief when he left without changing his mind. He smiled; there was small chance of that. In the candy store he asked for a form and a pencil.
"You're too late on the classifieds for the morning papers," said the old man. "You can make an afternoon paper, though."
"O.K.," said Hale. "The Globe will do."
He wrote:
To none but Lucifer: Of all the inhabitants of the Inferno, none but Lucifer and I know that Hell is Hell.
— William Hale.
The old proprietor counted the words, stopped in the middle and glanced at Hale, started at the beginning again and counted them through, and said: "That'll be a dollar and a quarter."
"I know," said Hale. "I figured that out several years ago."
He left, grinning, and headed for the flop house. That was the final step in his plan. Everything he had done had led inevitably up to that advertisement.
Chapter V
The place amazed Hale. Just what he had expected was not very clear. But it would have seemed more fitting if it had been luxurious, enormous, of course, dark with furtive shadows, the air heavy with deadening incense. And there should have been only one person present — a lank, intent, mocking figure in flowing black, whose piercing eyes would probe the mind's foulest impulses, whose mouth would sneer perpetually.
Hale stepped out of the shaky elevator into the loft. It was enormous, as lofts usually are. But it was glaringly bright, deafeningly noisy, and full of hard-working men and girls. The floor was rough and unvarnished. All down the length of the huge room, office workers typed, ran calculators, and roved among hundreds of steel filing cabinets.
For the first time, Hale felt uncertain. He was sure that the wrong person had answered his advertisement. But he had addressed it, as emphatically as possible, to one individual only. Nobody else could have made enough sense out of it to answer it.
He approached the harried switchboard operator. "You answered my ad in the Globe."
"Hello," she said into the transmitter. "Alexander P. Johnson. I'm sorry, Mr. Johnson is very busy. I'll connect you with one of his assistants."
"My name is William Hale," he said more loudly.
"Hello, Finchley? Mr. Johnson is still interested in the Osterman case ... He knows he committed suicide ... He wants the inside on their financial condition and what they're going to do with the daughter ... Keep in touch there —"
Hale shoved the clipped advertisement at her, jiggling it until her eyes focused on it. "Mr. Johnson's expecting you," she rattled off finally. "Room down at the other end." She pointed at the beaverboard inclosure at the opposite end of the loft, and resumed her steady talking into the telephone and yanking and inserting plugs.