John D. MacDonald
The Dead Dream
After spending six months back in the law office the whole thing had dimmed in my mind so that it began to seem like one of those screwy dreams that return in fragments. Uncle Sam had tapped me on the shoulder three years before and lifted me out of the firm where I am so junior a partner that there isn’t any room left on the glass in the door for my name.
Because of a fairly rugged build and a congenital inability to say “No,” I had drifted into an organization called O.S.S. When they got through dropping me out of airplanes and landing me behind Jap lines by sub, they gave me some colored ribbons and sent me home. At first I had believed what I read in the magazines about readjustment. But the easy way I dropped back into the slot proved it was strictly for the birds. I had settled back into the maze of corporation legal problems with only the ambition to get my name up on that glass door. I had no desire to run into the screwball fringe who had apparently composed the bulk of the Oh So Social.
I sat and looked out of my window at a day that was as grey as the clothes in the soap ads and wondered whether I ought to call this Sonia Zathrem back and tell her I couldn’t make it. I could only vaguely remember her as a scrawny black-haired dish with a strident voice and big words. She had been one of the cocktail set overseas, perching on the edges of chairs and stating baldly that the anthropological history of the Thais was a clear indication that subversive propaganda should be directed against their mass mother-complex. I had to track down some precedents in Massachusetts law to clear one of the subsidiaries of one of our clients from a state tax evasion charge, and I wanted to get it over with. But, being one of those guys who can’t say no, I had agreed to meet the Zathrem dish in a hotel lobby...
I was standing looking blankly around when she walked up to me and smiled. “Hello, Billy,” she said; only she pronounced it Beelee. She had changed her hair, wearing it very long with curled under bangs at the eyebrow level. It was blue-black and shining like the best anthracite. On one side of the top of it was something which could have either been a couple of flowers or a hat. She was in black with a big chunk of jade held in a gold claw just at the point where she started to fill out the black clothes in a startling manner.
I closed my mouth long enough to give out with the usual clichés: “Why, hello, Sonia! It’s nice to see you again.” And it was surprisingly nice. Somehow, her big dark eyes peering out at me from under that hair and her wide cheekbones made me think of a pixie looking out from under a hedge — a well-stacked pixie.
We didn’t get down to cases until she had led me across the way to a quiet cocktail bar — a place of dim lights, blue glass and red leather. Just walking with her and noticing the eyes of the casual males wander away and then jump back made me feel good. We took a table in the back, well away from the other tables.
I was glad to see her order a martini. I ordered one, too, and beamed at her with the approval which you always hand out to people who make the entertainment problem simpler. I can mix the best martini in town.
She wasted no time getting to the point. “You probably wonder why I phoned you. We didn’t know each other very well overseas, but when I first saw you I liked your looks. I guess you’re the only person I met in the organization who seemed completely sane.” I curtsied mentally at the doubtful compliment and watched her hands. They were long, thin hands, with twisted fingers, but strangely attractive.
“Even your name sounds so solid and honest — William Quinn,” she continued, smiling at me in a way that didn’t let me know whether or not I was being taken on a ride.
“Once knew a guy named Quinn who slipped his dear old mother a mickey,” I said, and she chuckled, a throaty bubbling sound like slow water swirling around grey rocks. Don’t ask me what I think of women who giggle.
“Now, Billy, I shall tell you why I need you. Just say yes or no quickly when I have finished. You are a lawyer. I can’t go to the police. My mother died in Hungary just before the first war. My father was wealthy. He converted his holdings to cash and left the country with me and my half-brother, Anton. We were both small. I was two and Anton was six. While I was overseas my father died. He and Anton had not spoken for nearly five years. He left his money all to me, about four hundred thousand dollars. Anton is married. Both he and his wife resent me. I have tried to be friendly with them. Three nights ago Anton invited me up to his apartment. There was a light and Anton said many cruel and untrue things to me. He said that I had turned my father against him. His wife said nothing. He and his wife went out to the kitchen, leaving me sitting in the front room of their apartment. I was anxious to find out if they expected me to leave. I wanted to leave, but I thought it would be better to talk to them first. I walked to the kitchen. I walk quietly, not realizing that I am doing so. As I get to the door of the kitchen. I hear Maria. Anton’s wife say, ‘Do not quarrel with her, Anton. I promise you she will not live to enjoy the money.’ There was something about her voice that sent a chill all the way through me. I walked quietly back and left the apartment.
“For three days I have been getting more worried about it. That woman meant what she said to Anton. I can’t sleep. I can’t do my work well. It is too much in the family for me to go to the police. I need the help of someone who is as strong and sane as you, Billy. Will you help me?”
She finished and leaned back in her chair. Her lips had stained the tip of her cigarette crimson. The grey smoke curled up and her eyes looked across at me. She acted as though she had loaded her pack of trouble on my shoulders and could relax. I didn’t want to jump too quickly. In fact, I didn’t want to jump at all.
But there’s something about a woman trusting you and relying on you...
I gave a slow nod and was touched and embarrassed to see tears gather on the lower lids of her big eyes. Quinn, the world’s prize sucker. I ordered another drink and got factual.
“What do you do, Sonia?”
“Do cuts and design work for limited editions for Hawley House. Some type-face design and some experimentation with printing methods, inks and all that. General handy girl.”
I recognized the name of the firm. In fact I had once laid twenty bucks on the line to get hold of their two-volume editions of the works of a minor novelist who has always been major for my money.
“And Anton?” I asked.
A little knot of puzzlement appeared in the clear white expanse between her heavy black eyebrows. “He’s a draftsman and designer for a good firm of architects. I know his work is good, because I’ve seen it, but he never seems to get anywhere with the firm. I think he still gets the same pay he did four years ago. His wife, Maria, works for a dress designer. She gets at least as much as he does. Between the two of them they live fairly well.”
I couldn’t get anything else of any value. I began to feel a little like one of the characters the books call “private eyes”. After martini number four, I decided that the first plan had better be taken care of while we were still in condition. I took her back to the office. I grabbed her arm just above the elbow when we crossed the street. As we got to the far curb she smiled up into my face and I felt a glow.
The office girls were gone, but Sonia told me she could run a typewriter. I dug up some paper and some carbon and had her write out a statement of exactly what she had told me. Then I wrote out a statement and a letter to the District Attorney’s office. We got both the statements notarized at a drug store, then I sealed them up in an envelope and enclosed it in another envelope addressed to the D.A. I stated in the letter that the sealed statements should be retained by the D.A.’s office until such time as I either got in touch with them and asked them to open them, or called for them in person.