Maybe he goes to a grocery on Madison and buys an egg. Or a pawnshop on Sixth for a revolver. Orwell, anyhow, I told you I’d find out what your business is.”
“And have you?” Talley asked.
“We have what you need,” Carmichael said. “But how do you know?”
“You’re jumping to conclusions.”
“I’ve got a headache-I didn’t have sunglasses!-and I don’t believe in magic. Listen, Mr. Talley, I’m fed up to the eyebrows and way beyond on queer little shops that sell peculiar things. I know too much about ’em-I’ve written about ’em. A guy walks along the street and sees a funny sort of store and the proprietor won’t serve him-he sells only to pixies-or else he does sell him a magic charm with a double edge. Well-pfui!”
“Mph,” Talley said.
” ‘Mph’ as much as you like. But you can’t get away from logic. Either you’ve got a sound, sensible racket here, or else it’s one of those funny, magic-shop setups-and I don’t believe that. For it isn’t logical.”
“Why not?”
“Because of economics,” Carmichael said flatly. “Grant the idea that you’ve got certain mysterious powers-let’s say you can make telepathic gadgets. All right. Why the devil would you start a business so you could sell the gadgets so you could make money so you could live? You’d simply put on one of your gadgets, read a stockbroker’s mind and buy the right stocks. That’s the intrinsic fallacy in these crazy-shop things-if you’ve got enough stuff on the ball to be able to stock and run such a shop, you wouldn’t need a business in the first place. Why go round Robin Hood’s barn?”
Talley said nothing.
Carmichael smiled crookedly. “‘I often wonder what the vintners buy one half so precious as the stuff they sell,” he quoted. “Well-what do you buy? I know what you sell-eggs and sunglasses.”
“You’re an inquisitive man, Mr. Carmichael,” Talley murmured. “Has it ever occurred to you that this is none of your business?”
“I may be a customer,” Carmichael repeated. “How about that?”
Talley’s cool blue eyes were intent. A new light dawned in them; Talley pursed his lips and scowled.
“I hadn’t thought of that,” he admitted. “You might be. Under the circumstances. Will you excuse me for a moment?”
“Sure,” Carmichael said. Talley went through the curtains.
Outside, traffic drifted idly along Park. As the sun slid down beyond the Hudson, the street lay in a blue shadow that crept imperceptibly up the barricades of the buildings. Carmichael stared at the sign-WE HAVE WHAT YOU NEED-and smiled.
In a back room, Talley put his eye to a binocular plate and moved a calibrated dial. He did this several times. Then, biting his lip-for he was a gentle man-he called his errand boy and gave him directions. After that he returned to Carmichael.
“You’re a customer,” he said. “Under certain conditions.”
“The condition of my bank account, you mean?”
“No,” Talley said. “I’ll give you reduced rates. Understand one thing.
I really do have what you need. You don’t know what you need, but I know. And as it happens-well, I’ll sell you what you need for, let’s say, five dollars.”
Carmichael reached for his wallet. Talley held up a hand.
“Pay me after you’re satisfied. And the money’s the nominal part of the fee. There’s another part. If you’re satisfied, I want you to promise that you’ll never come near this shop again and never mention it to anyone.”
“I see,” Carmichael said slowly. His theories had changed slightly. “It won’t be long before-ah, here he is now.” A buzzing from the back indicated the return of the errand boy. Talley said, “Excuse me,”
and vanished. Soon he returned with a neatly wrapped parcel, which he thrust into Carmichael’s hands.
“Keep this on your person,” Talley said. “Good afternoon.”
Carmichael nodded, pocketed the parcel and went out. Feeling affluent, he hailed a taxi and went to a cocktail bar he knew. There, in the dim light of a booth, he unwrapped the bundle.
Protection money, he decided. Talley was paying him off to keep his mouth shut about the racket, whatever it was. O.K., live and let live. How much would be-Ten thousand? Fifty thousand? How big was the racket? He opened an oblong cardboard box. Within, nestling upon tissue paper, was a pair of shears, the blades protected by a sheath of folded, glued cardboard.
Carmichael said something softly. He drank his highball and ordered another, but left it untasted.
Glancing at his wrist watch, he decided that the Park Avenue shop would be closed by now and Mr.
Peter Talley gone.
“… one half so precious as the stuff they sell.” Carmichael said. “Maybe it’s the scissors of Atropos.
Blah.” He unsheathed the blades and snipped experimentally at the air. Nothing happened. Slightly crimson around the cheekbones, Carmichael reholstered the shears and dropped them into the side pocket of his topcoat. Quite a gag!
He decided to call on Peter Talley tomorrow.
Meanwhile, what? He remembered he had a dinner date with one of the girls at the office, and hastily paid his bill and left. The streets were darkening, and a cold wind blew southward from the Park Carmichael wound his scarf tighter around his throat and made gestures toward passing taxis.
He was considerably annoyed.
Half an hour later a thin man with sad eyes-Jerry Worth, one of the copy writers from his office-greeted him at the bar where Carmichael was killing time. “Waiting for Betsy?” Worth said, nodding toward the restaurant annex. “She sent me to tell you she couldn’t make it. A rush deadline. Apologies and stuff. Where were you today? Things got gummed up a bit. Have a drink with me.”
They worked on a rye. Carmichael was already slightly stiff. The dull crimson around his cheekbones had deepened, and his frown had become set. “What you need,” he remarked. “Double crossing little—”
“Huh?” Worth said.
“Nothing. Drink up. I’ve just decided to get a guy in trouble. If I can.”
“You almost got in trouble yourself today. That trend analysis ~of ores—”
“Eggs. Sunglasses!”
“I got you out of a jam—”
“Shut up,” Carmichael said, and ordered another round. Every time he felt the weight of the shears in his pocket he found his lips moving.
Five shots later Worth said plaintively, “I don’t mind doing good deeds, but I do like to mention them. And you won’t let me. All I want is a little gratitude.”
“All right, mention them,” Carmichael said. “Brag your head off. “Who cares?”
Worth showed satisfaction. “That ore analysis-it was that. You weren’t at the office today, but I caught it. I checked with our records and you had Trans-Steel all wrong. If I hadn’t altered the figures, it would have gone down to the printer—”
“What?”
“The Trans-Steel. They—”
“Oh, you fool,” Carmichael groaned. “I know it didn’t check with the office figures. I meant to put in a notice to have them changed. I got my dope from the source. Why don’t you mind your own business?”
Worth blinked. “I was trying to help.”
“It would have been good for a five-buck raise,” Carmichael said. “After all the research I did to uncover the real dope-Listen, has the stuff gone to bed yet?”
“I dunno. Maybe not. Croft was still checking the copy—”
“O.K.!” Carmichael said. “Next time—” He jerked at his scarf, jumped off the stool and headed for the door, trailed by the protesting Worth. Ten minutes later he was at the office, listening to Croft’s bland explanation that the copy had already been dispatched to the printer.
“Does it matter? Was there-Incidentally, where were you today?”