I said I was and waited, for I have done enough business with millionaires to know if there’s one thing they hate more than being bitten by a dog it’s to listen to any other voice except their own.
‘From the Universal Services?’ he went on, making sure of his facts.
‘That’s right, Mr. Cerf.’
He gave a little grunt and stared doubtfully at me. He began to say something, but changed his mind, and instead went over to the window and peered out for no reason at all so far as I could see unless maybe he had paid for the view and wanted value for money.
Then suddenly he said without turning, ‘About this organization of yours. I have some idea what you do, but I have had it only second-hand. I’d like details.’
‘Sure,’ I said, wishing I had ten dollars for every time I’d run through this spiel. ‘Maybe it’ll interest you to hear how the organization began. Someone once told me millionaires want service: The richer you are the more dependent you are on other people, this guy said, and he was right. When I came out of the army I had no prospects and no money but I remembered what this guy had told me. I decided to give the millionaires a service to end all services. The result is Universal Services that celebrates its third birthday next week. I’m not pretending the idea has turned out to be a ball of fire. It hasn’t, but it’s made me a little money and it’s been a lot of fun.
‘My organization will take on any job any client wants done. It doesn’t matter what the job is so long as it’s legal and ethicaclass="underline" from arranging a divorce to procuring a white elephant. Since we’ve started, I and my staff have handled blackmailers, watched drug addicts, taken a bunch of college kids on a world tour, fanned out illegitimate babies, bagged a grizzly bear for a client who wanted to boast he had shot one, and ironed out a little trouble for a young woman who walked in her sleep once too often. Those are the kind of things we do because they are the kind of things people want done and can’t do themselves. Once I accept a client I protect him. Once the fee is paid, and it’s a big one, there are no other expenses and no other payments. It’s a millionaire’s service, and every job we do carries with it a guarantee of secrecy.’
While I was pausing for breath, he said impatiently, ‘Yes, I heard it was something like that.’ He came away from the window. ‘Sit down. What will you drink?’
I sat down and said I wouldn’t drink anything, but maybe he knew I was kidding because he went over to a well-equipped cocktail cabinet and mixed two highballs with the ease and speed of constant practice. One of these he put within my reach. The other he held in his hand and stared at as if he wasn’t sure what he was to do with it.
‘If there’s anything I can handle for you,’ I said to get him going, ‘I’ll be glad to do it, and you can be sure of a confidential and efficient service.’
He looked up, frowning.
‘I wouldn’t have sent for you if I hadn’t been sure of that,’ he said curtly. ‘I have a job for you. It is nothing out of the way. At least, nothing out of the way to you. It is to me, I’m afraid.’
While he went off into another long, brooding silence, I sampled the highball. It was strong enough to knock over a fair-sized mule.
‘But before I go into details I would like your reactions to an odd discovery I have made,’ he said suddenly. ‘Come with me. I want to show you something.’
He took me into a big airy bedroom, halfway along the corridor: a woman’s room I guessed from the elaborate toilet-set on the dressing table and the various feminine bric-a-brac lying around.
He went to one of the big built-in cupboards, an impressive affair of walnut and bevelled glass, opened the door and dragged out a pigskin suitcase. This he dumped on the floor at my feet and then stood away.
‘Open it,’ he said abruptly, ‘and take a look at the contents.’
I squatted down on my heels, slid back the two catches and opened the case. It was half-full of the oddest collection of articles I have ever seen in one throw. There were cigarette-cases, a number of leather wallets, a couple of diamond rings, three shoes that didn’t match, a collection of spoons with the names of a number of swank restaurants embossed on them, a half a dozen cigarette-lighters, some of them bearing initials, several pairs of silk stockings with the price tags still attached, a pair of scissors, a couple of pocket-knives, one with a gold handle, three fountain-pens and a statuette of a naked woman in jade.
I pawed over this odd collection, and then as Cerf didn’t volunteer any information I put the stuff back and returned the suitcase to the cupboard.
‘That was what I wanted you to see,’ he said in a flat voice. ‘We may as well return to the other room.’ When we were back in the study, and had sat down, he asked, ‘Well, what do you make of it?’
‘If it wasn’t for the odd shoes and the spoons I wouldn’t make anything of it,’ I said. ‘But as it is, it could be a kleptomaniac’s hoard. I don’t say it is, but it could be.’
‘Yes, that’s what it looks like to me,’ he said, and drew in a deep breath.
‘Unless, of course, it’s some kind of joke,’ I suggested.
‘It’s no joke.’ His voice went acid. ‘My wife and I have had numerous invitations to private houses since our marriage. Most of those articles come from people we know. The statuette in jade belongs to Mrs. Sydney Clegg. I remember seeing it in one of her rooms. The gold penknife is the property of Wilbur Rhyskind, the novelist. The spoons come from some of the restaurants we have visited. No, I’m afraid it’s no joke.’
‘Is this what you want me to work on?’
Before replying he took out a cigar, pierced and lit it with a hand that was noticeably unsteady.
‘Yes, I want you to work on it,’ he said at last.
There was a long pause.
‘This is a very unsettling and unpleasant discovery,’ he went on, frowning at his cigar. ‘The fact is I don’t know a great deal about my wife.’ The words came slowly and the harsh voice was deliberate and impersonal. ‘She was a mannequin at Simeon’s in San Francisco. I met her at a dress show.’ He paused to smooth down his already smooth hair. “We were married within three weeks of our meeting, about four months ago. The wedding was a quiet one: secret if you like. The news is only just beginning to leak out.’
‘Why was the wedding secret?’
He sat forward and stubbed out his cigar. It was an expressive movement and told me he was in the mood to crack skulls.
‘My daughter is a highly strung, neurotic sort of girl. Her mother was devoted to her. It was a great shock to Natalie when she died. Anita — that’s my present wife — and I decided for Natalie’s sake to have a quiet wedding.’
I chewed this over.
‘I take it your daughter and Mrs. Cerf don’t exactly get along together?’
‘No, they don’t get along together,’ he returned, and the corners of his mouth turned down. ‘But that’s neither here nor there. What I want to find out is whether my wife is a kleptomaniac.’
‘Have you asked Mrs. Cerf for an explanation?’
It was pretty obvious by the blank way he stared at me the idea hadn’t occurred to him.
‘Certainly not, and I don’t intend to. She’s not a particularly easy person to handle.’
‘This might be an attempt to discredit Mrs. Cerf. I don’t know if you have considered that angle. It would be easy to plant that stuff in her cupboard.’
He sat very still, looking at me.
‘And who do you suggest would do such a thing?’ he asked in a voice like the splintering of ice.
‘You would know that better than I. It’s my job to point out the angles. You and Mrs. Cerf and your daughter didn’t get on. It’s an angle.’