“Yes? Yes?” The children chanted. “And——?”
“And they lived crappily ever after,” Archie concluded.
“What happened to Ian Phlegming?” Seymour wanted know.
“He went into the Bond business,” Archie told him seriously.
“I didn’t like that story,” Samantha complained. “It didn’t have enough violence in it.”
“After they were married, he beat her bloody every night,” Archie reassured her.
“With a chain and a whip?” Samantha looked pleased. “And she stomped all over him with her magic sneakers,” Archie declared.
“I think I’d like the sequel even better,” Samantha decided, and Seymour nodded agreement. “Tell it to us now!” they demanded in unison.
“No!” Dixie put her foot down. “It’s been very nice of Mr. Jones to tell you even one story. Don’t take advantage. You’re both to go to bed immediately. I mean it, now!”
“Oh, all right.” Seymour started reluctantly for the bedroom with Samantha trailing behind.
The little girl turned in the doorway, ran back to Archie, and planted a big kiss on his cheek. “I like you lots better than the last man we took pictures of,” she told him. “He was so mean! He tried to break Daddy’s camera. And he smacked Seymour on the tushy. And he called Mommy names. And when I asked him to tell me a story, he just turned redder and redder and couldn’t even think of one. You're much nicer.”
“Thank you, sweetie.” Archie returned her kiss and watched her toddle off to bed. “Nice kids,” he told Howard and Dixie. “What do you suppose they’ll be when they grow up?”
“Oh, that’s all settled,” Howard assured him. “Seymour’s going to be a professional ex-Communist. Pretty soon now, he’ll join the party. Then, when he grows up, he’ll recant and write a book about how he was duped into it. Then he'll start making appearances before Congressional committees. And maybe the movie industry or the publishing industry will hire him as an expert on how to keep their products from being infiltrated with propaganda. It’s really a very lucrative field. There's no limit to how far he can go. One really hot case with the H.U.A.C. and his future will be made.
“And it’s patriotic, too,” Dixie added. “A professional turncoat has real status in today‘s society.”
“What about Samantha?” Archie wondered.
“Well, she could do worse than following in her mother’s footsteps.” Dixie dimpled prettily. “Still, I do worry about her sometimes. She has this inclination toward modesty, and it could hamper her.”
“An unfortunate trait,” Howard agreed. “But I do feel that she’ll outgrow it.” He settled himself beside Dixie on the sofa and took a deep breath. “Your interest in our children is very heartwarming, Mr. Jones, but we really should get down to business now. This being a rather slow time of year for us, we’re prepared to offer you a special on the pictures taken of you. Fifty thousand dollars, negatives included. In cash, of course.”
“Not a ruble!” Archie had taken a stand, and he stuck to it. “Besides,” he added, “how do I know you won’t make duplicates of the negatives?”
“We’re an established firm, Mr. Jones,” Howard told him with an injured air. “We don’t do business that way. Our reputation speaks for itself.”
“So all I’ve got to do is look you up in Dunn & Bradstreet, huh? Sorry, but no sale! I suspect you've been bleeding the professor for quite a while. Somehow I just don’t buy that he got off with the initial payment. Wifey here gave that away before.”
“That was a different case. He was paying off in installments,” Howard pointed out. “He couldn’t draw upon assets such as yours and your family’s.”
“No sale!” Archie got to his feet. “Absolutely no sale!”
“Then I'm afraid we shall have to negotiate with your stepfather.”
“He’ll tell you what I tell you: Go to hell!”
“We shall see.”
“That you will.” Archie decided to try a bluff. “But if you take my advice, you’ll give me the negs right now. Because if you don’t, my next stop after I leave here will be the local police station where I’ll swear out a complaint against a pair of blackmailers.”
“I think not,” Howard said thoughtfully. “Somehow, I think not. If you were going to holler for the gendarmes, I suspect you would have done it before now.”
“Okay, take your chances.” Archie turned on his heel and headed for the door.
“Good night, Mr. Jones,” Howard called after him. “We’ll be seeing you.”
“Good night,” Archie called back mechanically.
He did a slow burn as he threaded his way out of the project-maze. But when he emerged on First Avenue, he managed to dismiss the Kupps from his mind for the time being. He didn’t think they’d had anything to do with killing Professor Beaumarchais. Why would they have slaughtered the goose that laid the golden greenbacks?
There were two names left on Archie’s list: Helen Steinberg and Helen Giammori. He weighed them. Somehow, he decided, the Helen he was seeking had looked more Jewish than Italian. A diffficult distinction, but that’s the way he called it.
It was almost dawn when the cab dropped him off in front of the Central Park West address. One look at the doorman and Archie knew he’d have trouble getting past him to the Steinberg apartment. His Beatle haircut was against him, among other things. So he scooted down the side street until he found the alleyway running past the rear of the building.
Luck was with Archie. The basement door was open. He entered. Gray darkness was only slightly relieved by a few bleak light bulbs plugged into the concrete cellar ceiling. They squinted down on him as he trudged through the chalkdust air toward a bank of elevators. When he reached them, he poked a button at random.
Smooth whirring sounds were followed by diamond-shaped light as the cage came purringly to rest in the basement. Almost, Archie goofed it right then. His hand was already reaching out for the doorknob when he spotted the uniformed operator reaching out to grab it from the inside.
Archie dived behind a boiler, a shower of smut descending over him as a result of the rapid movement. He flattened himself there, almost twisting his nose off to keep from sneezing, as the lift jockey peered blinkingly into the grayness or the source of the signal which had prompted his descent. After a moment, he shrugged, closed the door, and the car ascended.
So the elevator was out. “KERCHOO!” Ah! What blessed relief! Archie started for the staircase, wondering if he could slip up five flights to the Steinberg apartment without being detected. He’d almost reached it when he spotted something that made him change his plans.
A dumbwaiter! Archie pegged the sliding door set into the wall correctly. He pulled it open and craned his head to look up the shaft. Pitch black. He could barely make out the ropes grazing the tip of his nose.
He pulled on the ropes and they creaked. There was a feeling of something heavy slowly descending. A few moments later he pulled his head in to allow the dumbwaiter platform to settle at the basement level.
The cage had three open sides and one solid wall which faced the back wall of the shaft. The ropes ran through the upper and lower platforms, but there was plenty of space left over for garbage and/or grocery deliveries. It was empty now, and Archie managed to climb onto it, legs spread wide and bent at the knees to encircle the ropes, chin tucked into neck and torso bent to fit tightly into the space. He managed to get a grip on the ropes with each hand and started to pull himself upwards.