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Harriet pounced. “Oh, so you’re going with John?”

Susie’s lips twitched. “I hardly think so. I’m not feeling very well.”

Harriet went into the kitchen, poured two cups of coffee. “John knows Oleg up at the lab. He’s a technician of some kind.”

“Who? John Boce?”

“Good heavens, no. John Boce doesn’t know a calipers from a turnip. He’s an accountant.” She handed Susie the coffee, seated herself in the armchair. “I don’t think Mary quit at the library,” mused Harriet. “I could call John Thompson and find out. Except that he hides out over weekends... Perhaps Mary eloped with John Thompson.” She looked at Susie questioningly.

“Nothing’s impossible,” said Susie. And just sipped her coffee.

Presently Harriet rose. “Well, I suppose I should go...”

Susie made not even a polite attempt to dissuade her; Harriet departed. For a moment after the door closed, Susie sat still. Then she put the cup down and began to cry.

Harriet, returning to her own apartment, saw John Boce enter the court from the street. He held up a beefy arm in salute, and Harriet leaned invitingly over the rail. Boce was a big man: pale, complacent, moon-faced. His clothes were untidy; he had a belly; his eyes squinted shrewdly through gold-rimmed glasses; his nose was long and lumpy. He was generous with his time and cautious with his money. To Harriet’s annoyance, he failed to slacken his pace. She stalked into her apartment.

The accountant walked to the far end of the court, stopped in front of Apartment 3, knocked a cheerful rat-a-tat-tat. He waited, knocked again: rat-a-tat-tat-a-tat-tat.

Mervyn Gray opened the door. He was barefoot and wore a dark-blue bathrobe.

“So I woke you,” said Boce, bluff and jocular. “Why not sleep nights?” He entered the apartment, looked around for the most comfortable chair, plumped into it with a fat grunt.

Mervyn sat down on the couch, rubbing his eyes. “I suppose you have some good reason for annoying me.”

“It’s noon, my boy, noon,” said Boce. His face suddenly became lugubrious. “I do have something of a problem, now that you mention it.”

“Please take it somewhere else.”

The accountant grasped the arms of the chair, gave them a series of quick slaps. “Here’s the situation. There’s a party scheduled for tonight. I thought maybe you’d let me use one of your cars. Our car, in fact.”

“Why don’t you pay me for it?” growled Mervyn. “Then you’d own it. And you wouldn’t feel guilty when you want to use it.”

“I don’t feel guilty, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

“The money is what’s worrying me. Do you want the car or not? If not—”

“Don’t be hasty. I want it, but I also want to beat you down a few bucks.”

“Down from two hundred dollars? Harriet’s convinced you I’m crazy. I can get two fifty from a dealer.”

“As trade-in on a new Cad.”

Mervyn shrugged. “Forget it. Go find yourself something better.”

“Just a minute. I agree that the car is basically sound. But even you’ll admit that it’s got a few deficiencies. The top is torn. That ignition business.”

“You never need worry about losing your key.”

“That’s no worry. I like keys. And there’s a funny tick in the valves. And the paint is only adequate.”

“Which is why the price isn’t four hundred.”

John Boce stared in shock, then laughed a great hoho laugh. “Your sense of humor, absolutely deadpan!”

“I’m a clown,” said Mervyn. “Listen, tomorrow I put an ad in the paper. Now would you get the hell out of here?”

“Not so fast. There’s this party tonight. I want to give the old convertible one final test before I make up my mind.”

“You’ve been testing and checking and retesting and rechecking for three months. Don’t you have any shame?”

“Mervyn, I’m a poor man. I’ve got to nurse every dime.”

Mervyn went into the kitchenette, came back to the living room with a can of beer. Ignoring Boce’s thirsty stare, he drank.

“You cheap son of a gun,” said Boce. He lurched to his feet, went to the refrigerator, found a can of beer, opened it, returned to the chair. “Sometimes I wonder about you, Mervyn.” After a moment he said, “You know about Mary?”

“What about her?”

“She and Susie had a spat. Mary took off for Los Angeles.”

Mervyn tilted his can of beer. “A permanent separation?”

“Good Lord, I hope not. What would life be without Mary? So squeezable, so huggable, so kissable. Wow!”

“Fat lecher.”

Boce eyed Mervyn intently.

“Sarcastic bastard. Sometimes I half suspect you’re not kidding.”

“Every time I try to kid somebody I end up kidding myself.”

“That’s what I mean. You’re likely to talk yourself into thinking of me as a fat lecher.”

Mervyn reflected a moment. “It’s certainly a danger.”

“Be positive. Refer to me as fair, generous, big-hearted John.”

“I see you’re still after my Chevy.”

“I’ll pay you one fifty cash, and I’ll fix the ignition lock and patch the top.”

“O.K. If you’ll throw in your wristwatch.”

“My three-hundred-dollar Rolex?” Boce looked at his wrist, which was bare. He blinked. “Have I lost it? No, it’s in the bathroom. It must be in the bathroom. I had it last night... Oh, well, it was just a spare.” He rose to his feet. “Since you won’t sell me your car—”

“I won’t give you my car.”

“...and you won’t lend it to me, and since I’m escorting your girl to this party, Mary having absconded—”

“My girl? Who?”

“Susie.”

“Take the young hellion, and welcome!”

“In view of all the circumstances, I suppose I’ll have to urge you to come with us.”

“I’ll say this for the invitation, it’s spontaneous.”

Boce made an airy gesture. “Don’t question the good things of life. Snatch them as they fly past.”

Mervyn lay back on the couch. “I thought you had a big romance going with Harriet.” He grinned. “Susie says that Harriet plans to accept you when you propose.”

“Haha! When and if! First of all I plan to marry Mary Hazelwood.”

“It would be nice,” Mervyn agreed.

“If it weren’t for Mary, I could really go for little sister Susie. She’s clean and bright and — well, virginal.” He glanced sidewise toward Mervyn. “Isn’t she?”

“How should I know? I’ve never attempted to determine the point.”

“I thought — well, I wish I had your natural advantages.”

“Diet. Exercise. And less beer, especially mine.”

“I’ll lay myself bare,” said Boce. “I’m fat to protect my self-respect. Now Mary laughs at me, pulls my nose, rumples my hair. I might be her uncle. Well, I tell myself, why not? I am fat and avuncular. But suppose I diet, exercise, run, jump, drink my own beer, finally lose a hundred pounds. I become proud of myself. I’m trim, athletic, have a lean profile. Then what? Mary still laughs at me, she still pulls my nose, rumples my hair. So what do I tell myself?”

“That Mary doesn’t want a man, she wants an uncle. Which is what I decided three months ago.”

Boce nodded gloomily. “So the old Mervyn Gray magic failed to ring the bell.”

“I never even got my finger on it.”

The accountant was silent. He finished his beer. “Well? Are you accepting the invitation to this party? You and your car?”

“I may not stay very long. Where is it?”

“Up the hill, at Oleg Malinski’s. Do you know him?”

“No.”

“He’s an optical engineer, a genius. Tonight he’s barbecuing a sheep. There’ll be a crowd, so we’d better get there early.”