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  Among Bernie’s other effects, there was a small notebook which he had kept in some strange cryptograph of his own. His secretary couldn’t read it. The police had tried her on it. So it began to look as if there existed no formal or even informal record of the “dope” that Bernie had been trying to deliver.

  Unless it was in a pig. In a pig, that had been sold in an airport.

  Persons unknown, for what reason Harry couldn’t imagine, were after that “dope” with violence, theft, or anything else that might serve.

  But it was in a pig! And who could say where the pig was?

  Then Jean Cunliffe opened her blue eyes and said, “The place was full of kids last night, and you see,” she explained, “children want the one in hand. Children don’t always believe in the fact that the one from stock is going to be just the same.” She bit her lip in the middle and her smile flew up on both sides.

  “You didn’t suspect me of being a child, naturally,” said Harry bitterly. “I understand that. Go on.”

  “Oh, I like children, on the whole,” said Jean condescendingly. “Now please don’t interrupt me. I am remembering that I sold three of those pigs. Because I remember remembering the colors so that I could conscientiously substitute the same colors in your order.”

  He took no umbrage. His eyelids may have flattened a little.

  “All right,” said Jean. “There was a pink pig, and there was a little girl who screamed and howled and stamped her feet and had to have that pink pig, even though her parents were knocking themselves out to convince her that a breakable ceramic piggy bank was not an ideal toy to take on a European tour,” she wound up, out of breath.

  Harry had a pencil in his hand, and he wrote on the paper napkin, “Pink. Girl. Europe.” He met Jean’s eyes. She was defying him to speak, but he did not.

  “Of course, I don’t know the name,” she said, “but they wanted me to hurry. They told me not to bother to wrap. Their plane was boarding. Their tour was leaving. One of those guided, scheduled, packaged tours, you know. Does that help any?”

  “Could be I can find that one,” he said. “Go on.” Now his smile was real, and a very warming smile it was.

  “I also remember,” said Jean, “because this little pink-pig-purchaser was so mean and ornery, that there was another little girl who had wanted the pink pig in the first place. But she had to make do with green. See, I had to save our one remaining pink for you.”

  Harry scribbled on the napkin. “Girl. Green.”

  “Green was appropriate,” said Jean. “Her name was Deirdre. She was from Ireland.”

  He looked up quickly.

  “I thought it was so pretty. I was listening to her mother’s accent. I knew they were Celts. I had got as far as deciding they weren’t Scots.”

  Harry blinked. She hadn’t said Scotch.

  “Then the other mother asked,” said Jean with a grin. “That’s how. Oh! Oh, wait Now it comes back. The Irish mother said something else. Ballycoo. Bally-coo. A place name?”

  Harry grinned this time. “Good going. Now, that’s possible too, isn’t it?”

  “Is it?” said Jean doubtfully. “Let me see. I’m afraid I’m hazy about the third one. There was a yellow and an ivory, and I sold the yellow. I know that.”

  “Two out of three is fair enough.” He shrugged.

  “No, no. I remember a little bit,” she said. “I thought it was sissy. I mean, I remember thinking that at the time, but I can’t ‘see’ that little boy. But one thing. I do know that his father, or whoever the man was, paid for the yellow pig out of a ten-dollar traveler’s check.”

  She looked sideways at him. And I’m not as dumb as you thought I was, am I, Buster? she was thinking.

  “Where is that traveler’s check now?” he snapped.

  “At the bank, I suppose.”

  “Which bank? Never mind. I’ll find out.” He studied the marks on the paper napkin.

  “Pink. Girl. Europe. Tour.”

  “Girl. Green. Deirdre. Irish. Ballycoo.”

  “Yellow. Boy. Check.”

  “Why in the world did your friend ever put a message in a pig?” she asked softly.

  “You didn’t see him do it?” he countered quickly.

  “No. I guess he could have done it. I can say that much.”

  “That’s what he did, all right.” Harry moved restlessly. “Drink your coffee, Miss … Jean?”

  “Jean Cunliffe.”

  “Miss Cunliffe. And thanks very much. All that you could do turned out to be quite a lot.” Well, he could be charming.

  Jean lifted her cup. She couldn’t help preening herself. She had remembered a lot more than she could have been expected to remember. This affair was really very strange and interesting. She wasn’t at all anxious to finish her coffee and go back to work and hear no more about it. She was reflecting that Harry Fairchild would be called a good-looking man, yet, if you analyzed, there was, in his amiable assortment of features, not one of any classical beauty. His nose, for instance, was too short. He glanced up impatiently. Not to be caught studying him, Jean gazed afar.

  “That’s funny.” She put her cup down carefully. She’d caught a glimpse of something, out in the concourse. “There’s one of the passengers from the same plane last night. What’s he doing here, I wonder.”

  Harry’s neck seemed to stiffen and resist the impulse to turn and look. “Perfect recall, eh?” he said skeptically.

  Jean gave him a look meant to wither. “Since this man pretty much got in on the act and was the first one to kneel down over your friend, I tend to remember him.”

  “Describe him. Where is he?”

  “He is wearing a brown suit,” she said, shortly, “and he is standing right smack outside, looking at the back of your neck.”

  “That’s what he’s doing here?” said Harry softly. A very odd look came over his face, but he still did not turn around. He began to shred the paper napkin in his fingers. “Can you, with a happy, happy smile, tell me all about this man and exactly how he got in on the act last night?”

  Jean beamed upon him. “Why sure,” she said. “He was just trying to be a Samaritan, I guess. Said he was looking for identification. Afterward, he came over and asked me what his poor friend had said to me. There was this old bid … I should say this lady, from the plane, who took it upon herself to tell me he was a liar, but …”

  “A liar?” Harry was taking the paper napkin down to confetti.

  “Oh, I suppose she thought he meant it literally. See, he called your friend his ‘poor friend’ and she said that he was no friend, if,” she continued, “you can disentangle my quotes and my pronouns, Mr. Fairchild, which I will admit is not going to be easy, off paper.”

  “If I follow you,” said Harry, meeting her eyes with a curious sense of companionship, “this chap was just too, too terribly interested? Where was he looking for identification? In Bernie’s pocket?”

  “Where else?” said Jean. “Of course, I heard him tell the policeman he didn’t know your Bernie. He just happened to be there, is what I think.”

  “Be where?”

  “In the next phone booth,” Jean said.

  Harry leaned back and blew breath out. He said, “Where do you live?”

  “In an apartment,” she answered, with cheerful evasion.

  “Do you live with a man? I mean, are you married? Or do you live with your father? Or a couple of large brothers, or somebody?”

  “I live alone,” she said coldly.

  Harry was worrying the confetti to powder. “I should have my head examined,” he said gloomily. “What the dickens am I going to do with you now? Is he still out there?”

  “He is,” she said. “Why should you do anything …?”

  “All right,” he cut in. “We’re going back to the gift shop and you’re going to resign and then …”

  “Hey! Not so fast. I happen to have to work, to pay the rent. You may not—”

  “Ah, but you’ve g
ot a new and better job.” He got up. “You are now first assistant to an idiot. So come along.”

  “What are you talking about?” she said indignantly.

  “You’re working for me. The pay’s not too bad. Say a thousand a week? Is that okay?”

  “Just what,” she said icily, “am I supposed to be doing for you, at those prices?”

  He sat down again. “I don’t suppose you have a passport,” he said moodily.

  “Oh, you don’t?” said Jean.

  “You do?”

  “I do.” He gave her a look that made her think he didn’t believe this. “Even poor folks, these days, often take the three-week high-spot-hitting European jaunt,” she said. “You’d be surprised. I did it last summer. In the winters, see, I go to college.”

  He looked at her gravely. “It might save time. You might be useful. You could recognize those kids?”

  “What kids?”

  “The ones who bought pigs.”

  “Well, the little girls, maybe. I don’t guarantee … Now what …” She pushed her chair back, both hands on the table edge, feeling alarmed. “What do you mean, passport?”

  “O.K. You can choose one,” he said. “You can let me take you to my daddy’s house, and you can stay there, where there are servants all over the place and no danger of white slavery, by the way.” His look withered her. “Or else you can go along and help me spot the right kids.”

  “Go where?”

  “Wherever we have to go. I can find out what tour flew out of here last night at … whatever hour it was. Sevenish? Right? And where the tour is now and where it can be caught up with.” He was standing and pulling at the back of her chair. “Your first duty, Miss Cunliffe, is to find out which bank has that traveler’s check, so that we can locate Pig Number Three. You are vice president in charge of pigs, so come on.”

  Jean got up on shaky legs. “I think you’re crazy.”

  “Just stupid,” he said glumly. “But not quite stupid enough to leave you around to get beaten up, the way Bernie was.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sakes!”

  “What do you suppose,” he said crossly, “that some spy thinks you and I have been talking about all this time? And me taking notes, idiot that I am.” There was no longer anything legible on that paper napkin. Or any napkin, either.

  “What spy? Spying for whom? Why?”

  “Never mind. I’m not going to …”

  “You’re darned right you’re not going to …”

  “Come on,” he cut her off. “Let’s go tell your boss you quit.”

  “Why bother?” she said sarcastically. “Why don’t you just drag me off by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin?”

  “Because it’s not courteous,” said Harry, “and you are sure proving to me that you can’t keep quiet about you-know-whats, can you? Anyway, I’ve got to find out about the check.”

  Jean weathered his reproach and went beside him to the cashier. She had to get out of here anyhow. While he paid, she looked out into the concourse. The man in brown, the big one who had worn the white flowers last night, had bent his head and was pretending (Now why was she even toying with the notion that he was pretending?) to study a timetable.

  When Harry turned she said cordially, “Protect me back to work. Then I’ll be glad to ask about the traveler’s check. I’ll do it for free. How’s that?”

  “Dandy,” said Harry. “And the villain asking, right behind you. Deviosity. That’s what we’ve got to learn and practice.”

  The shop was almost under their noses. They had a walk of about ten feet. The man in the brown suit was watching them idly.

  “Very devious type spy,” Jean said softly. “He’s standing there spying. A double bluff, don’t you think?”

  Harry cast her a look. “Just a clown, eh? All right for you.”

  Chapter Six

  As soon as they were within, he put her aside and went sailing over to where Mrs. Mercer was waiting on a woman. He said, loud and clear, “I guess you’ll be able to get along without Miss Cunliffe, won’t you? She and I have made a little arrangement. I’m sure you’ll explain to the powers that be. Please, Mrs. Mercer? I’m setting her up in a bit of a love nest, you see, and naturally we’d like to get on with it.”

  Mrs. Mercer turned a rich purple. Jean herself was seeing several other colors, including red. The woman customer tittered nervously.

  But Harry Fairchild spun the book of sales slips around and read off the name of the shop’s owners, and the business telephone. “On second thought,” he said kindly, “I’ll phone your boss and do it myself. So please, take no trouble at all. Come along, sugarplum.”

  Jean came closer. She was trying to form a sentence that would say, he’s joking. It isn’t true. But there was Mrs. Mercer, hissing at her like a snake. The look on her face was as mad a look as Jean had ever seen in her life. It had in it all the envious loathing of lusty youth (and somebody else’s sex) that Jean had ever heard rumored. Jean felt herself turning cold. The fact was, she suddenly didn’t want to work here anymore.

  Harry was turning her rather gently. “Just a minute, precious,” said Jean coolly. She went for her purse and then—in the sulphurous evil of the smoldering atmosphere—she let him whisk her out of there.

  “Okay,” said Harry briskly, pretending not to notice that she was absolutely numb. “Now let’s see if we can get rid of him.”

  He hustled her directly over to the man in brown. “You are just the fellow I want to see,” said Harry sternly.

  “Pardon?” The man blinked.

  “This girl tells me,” said Harry, “that you were first on the scene last night, when Bernie Beckenhauer went down. So, if you don’t mind, will you tell me why you stole his baggage check? And just exactly what you did with his baggage?”

  “You must be making some kind of mistake,” said the man dourly. His little eyes flickered between the two of them. Jean’s face wasn’t telling him a thing. She was more bewildered than he was.

  “What’s your name?” said Harry imperiously, stepping forward.

  “Who’s asking?” The man stepped backward.

  “Fairchild. Harry Fairchild.”

  “My name is Varney. Victor Varney. I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “On that plane, were you? From Hawaii? Last night? She says you were.”

  “So? What’s the matter with you?”

  “So? What are you doing here now?” Harry was pressing him, moving in on him.

  The man said in disgust, “I think you’re nuts. Excuse me. I got no time whatsoever for nuts.” He turned away. Harry let him go. The man stepped onto the moving stairs. He was wafted down, his stare thoughtfully upon them, until he disappeared.

  Harry said, “I don’t know. I don’t know.” He looked down at Jean, who was trying to get the breath to speak at all. “Deviosity,” he explained. “He may think that, now, he knows everything you told me.”

  “Then he won’t … uh … bother to beat me up?” she gasped.

  “Atta girl,” said Harry admiringly. “Of course, as I say, I don’t know.”

  She let him lead her around to a phone booth. He put her into it and sat her down. So there she was, stuffed in, and barricaded by his body, half-listening to his further antics on the phone.

  She was thinking, well, he is a fun-type madman, anyhow. But that Mercer! What a creep! She shivered a little.

  Harry called the number from the gift shop. He got the name of a bank. The bank was not open yet. By another phone call he got the president’s name. He called the bank’s president at home. Told him a pack of lies. He then hung up and asked her solicitously if she was still breathing.

  She said she hadn’t given it a thought, but she would and let him know.

  Harry opened the door and wagged it like a fan. Then he shut them up again and called the terminal’s authorities for last night’s schedule. He got it. He called a travel bureau for a tour that fit the schedule. He called anoth
er. He found one that knew. He asked for the tour’s itinerary. He discussed it.

  Jean was thinking that she’d have to hunt for another job. She’d find one, of course. And she’d have to get away from Harry Fairchild in a minute. She’d watch it, and not get into a car with him. She had better not even leave the building. She knew the rules for nice girls, more was the pity.

  But when Harry finally finished his telephone marathon and took her arm and walked her away, she was in no fit state to notice the felt hat in the next booth over. Or under it, the inconspicuous little man, as quiet as a mouse in a mouse-hole.

  She had begun to think that Harry Fairchild couldn’t be crazy. He was probably just rich. There was no other explanation.

  He encouraged this idea by whirling her downstairs, through the tunnel, and then along the row of counters, shopping among the international carriers for seats to Europe as soon as possible. At last he found a seller and negotiated for two … not one, but two … to Copenhagen and he inquired about connections on to Amsterdam. Jean made no protests. He could afford his fun. She wasn’t going, of course. She found herself watching for the man in brown. But the long building was sparsely populated. He was nowhere to be seen.

  Harry said, “Well, that gives us four hours to get back here. Can you make it?”

  “No,” she said stonily.

  He began to walk her to an exit. “Don’t be mad. Sure, that was a dirty trick I pulled upstairs. But you’re on salary. Let me get you away from here safely, and then we can discuss …”

  She stopped walking and dragged him to a stop, too. “You won’t take me anywhere at all,” she said sadly.

  “You don’t want to fly off into the wild blue, eh?” he said, ruling swiftly over the total negative. “That was for you to say. He travels fastest, and so on, anyhow. Okay. What I’ve decided to do, then, is hide you somewhere, with a trustworthy bodyguard. But not in my daddy’s house.”

  “No?” she said thinly. “Well! Why ever not?”

  “Because there’s a rat in that house.” They were standing in the middle of the space. He wasn’t touching her. He went on chattily. “I’ll admit that our so-called villain in the brown suit may be only an innocent businessman—if such there be. I’ll admit further that you might be entitled to take your own chances, villains included. But, if I put you in my daddy’s house, where I’m sure there’s a rat, then you’ll surely be set upon and made to spill what you know. I can’t have that. Sorry.”