‘Pardon me,’ a voice whispered out of the shadows, ‘has this guy really won a hundred and forty thousand bucks?’
‘Yes, sir, I have won them,’ Dr Hasselbacher said firmly before Wormold could reply, ‘I have won them as certainly as you exist, my almost unseen friend. You would not exist if I didn’t believe you existed, nor would those dollars. I believe, therefore you are.’
‘What do you mean I wouldn’t exist?’
‘You exist only in my thoughts, my friend. If I left this room..
‘You’re nuts.’
‘Prove you exist, then.’
‘What do you mean, prove? Of course I exist. I’ve got a first-class business in real estate: a wife and a couple of kids in Miami: I flew here this morning by Delta: I’m drinking this Scotch, aren’t I?’ The voice contained a hint of tears.
‘Poor fellow,’ Dr Hasselbacher said, ‘you deserve a more imaginative creator than I have been. Why didn’t I do better for you than Miami and real estate? Something of imagination. A name to be remembered.’ ‘What’s wrong with my name?’
The parachutists at both ends of the bar were tense with disapproval; one shouldn’t show nerves before the jump.
‘Nothing that I cannot remedy by taking a little thought.’
‘You ask anyone in Miami about Harry Morgan…’
‘I really should have done better than that. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ Dr Hasselbacher said, ‘I’ll go out of the bar for a minute and eliminate you. Then I’ll come back with an improved version.’
‘What do you mean, an improved version?’
‘Now if my friend, Mr Wormold here, had invented you, you would have been a happier man. He would have given you an Oxford education, a name like Pennyfeather…’
‘What do you mean, Pennyfeather? You’ve been drinking.’ ‘Of course I’ve been drinking. Drink blurs the imagination. That’s why I thought you up in so banal a way: Miami and real estate, flying Delta. Pennyfeather would have come from Europe by K. L. M., he would be drinking his national drink, a pink gin.’
‘I’m drinking Scotch and I like it.’
‘You think you’re drinking Scotch. Or rather, to be accurate, I have imagined you drinking Scotch. But we’re going to change all that,’ Dr Hasselbacher said cheerily. ‘I’ll just go out in the hall for a minute and think up some real improvements.’
‘You can’t monkey around with me,’ the man said with anxiety. Dr Hasselbacher drained his drink, laid a dollar on the bar, and rose with uncertain dignity. ‘You’ll thank me for this,’ he said. ‘What shall it be? Trust me and Mr Wormold here. A painter, a poet -or would you prefer a life of adventure, a gun-runner, a Secret Service agent?’
He bowed from the doorway to the agitated shadow. ‘I apologize for the real estate.’
The voice said nervously, seeking reassurance, ‘He’s drunk or nuts,’ but the parachutists made no reply.
Wormold said, ‘Well, I’ll be saying good night, Hasselbacher. I’m late.’
‘The least I can do, Mr Wormold, is to accompany you and explain how I
came to delay you. I’m sure when I tell your friend of my good fortune he will
understand.’
‘It’s not necessary. It’s really not necessary,’ Wormold said. Hawthorne, he knew, would jump to conclusions. A reasonable Hawthorne, if such existed, was bad enough, but a suspicious Hawthorne… His mind boggled at the thought.
He made towards the lift with Dr Hasselbacher trailing behind. Ignoring a red signal light and a warning Mind the Step, Dr Hasselbacher stumbled. ‘Oh dear,’ he said, ‘my ankle.’
‘Go home, Hasselbacher,’ Wormold said with desperation. He stepped into the lift, but Dr Hasselbacher, putting on a turn of speed, entered too. He said, ‘There’s no pain that money won’t cure. It’s a long time since I’ve had such a good evening.’
‘Sixth floor,’ Wormold said. ‘I want to be alone, Hasselbacher.’
‘Why? Excuse me. I have the hiccups.’
‘This is a private meeting.’
‘A lovely woman, Mr Wormold? You shall have some of my winnings to help you stoop to folly.’
‘Of course it isn’t a woman. It’s business, that’s all.’
‘Private business?’
‘I told you so.’
‘What can be so private about a vacuum cleaner, Mr Wormold?’
‘A new agency,’ Wormold said, and the liftman announced, ‘Sixth floor.’ Wormold was a length ahead and his brain was clearer than Hasselbacher’s. The rooms were built as prison-cells round a rectangular balcony; on the ground floor two bald heads gleamed upwards like traffic globes. He limped to the corner of the balcony where the stairs were, and Dr Hasselbacher limped after him but Wormold was practised in limping. ‘Mr Wormold,’ Dr Hasselbacher called, ‘Mr Wormold, I’d be happy to invest a hundred thousand of my dollars…’
Wormold got to the bottom of the stairs while Dr Hasselbacher was still manoeuvring the first step; 501 was close by. He unlocked the door. A small table-lamp showed him an empty sitting room. He closed the door very softly -Dr Hasselbacher had not yet reached the bottom of the stairs. He stood listening and heard Dr Hasselbacher’s hop, skip and hiccup pass the door and recede. Wormold thought, I feel like a spy, I behave like a spy. This is absurd. What am I going to say to Hasselbacher in the morning? The bedroom door was closed and he began to move towards it. Then he stopped. Let sleeping dogs lie. If Hawthorne wanted him, let Hawthorne find him without his stir, but a curiosity about Hawthorne induced him to make a parting examination of the room. On the writing desk were two books identical copies of Lamb’s Tales from Shakespeare. A memo pad on which perhaps Hawthorne had made notes for their meeting read, ‘1. Salary .2. Expenses .3. Transmission .4. Charles Lamb .5. Ink.’ He was just about to open the Lamb when a voice said, ‘Put up your hands.
Arriba los manos.’
‘Las manos,’ Wormold corrected him. He was relieved to see that it was Hawthorne.
‘Oh, it’s only you,’ Hawthorne said.
‘I’m a bit late. I’m sorry. I was out with Hasselbacher.’ Hawthorne was wearing mauve silk pyjamas with a monogram H. R. H. on the pocket. This gave him a royal air. He said, ‘I fell asleep and then I heard you moving around.’ It was as though he had been caught without his slang; he hadn’t yet had time to put it on with his clothes. He said, ‘You’ve moved the Lamb,’ accusingly as though he were in charge of a Salvation Army chapel. ‘I’m sorry. I was just looking round.’
‘Never mind. It shows you have the right instinct.’
‘You seem fond of that particular book.’
‘One copy is for you.’
‘But I’ve read it,’ Wormold said, ‘years ago, and I don’t like Lamb.’
‘It’s not meant for reading. Have you never heard of a book-code?’
‘As a matter of fact -no.’
‘In a minute I’ll show you how to work it. I keep one copy. All you have to do when you communicate with me is to indicate the page and line where you begin the coding. Of course it’s not so hard to break as a machine-code, but it’s hard enough for the mere Hasselbachers.’
‘I wish you’d get Dr Hasselbacher out of your head.’
‘When we have your office here properly organized with sufficient
security a combination-safe, radio, trained staff, all the gimmicks, then of
course we can abandon a primitive code like this, but except for an expert
cryptologist it’s damned hard to break without knowing the name and edition of the book.’
‘Why did you choose Lamb?’
‘It was the only book I could find in duplicate except Uncle Tom’s Cabin. I was in a hurry and had to get something at the C. T. S. bookshop in Kingston before I left. Oh, there was something too called The Lit Lamp: A Manual of Evening Devotion, but I thought somehow it might look conspicuous on your shelves if you weren’t a religious man.’