7
The trio followed the man with the suitcase along the corridor, then up a stairway, then along the deck. A moment later he entered the small lounge where after-midnight snacks were served.
Max, 99 and Fang tagged after him. When they entered the lounge they saw the man seating himself at a table. Like the man from Boston, he was small and round. He wore a jolly expression.
“What a disguise!” Max said, impressed. “You’d never know, would you, that, actually, that fellow is tall and thin and dark-complected and wears a beard.”
“He could have fooled me,” 99 admitted,
“We’ll sit at the counter,” Max said.
“Why don’t we sit at a near-by table?” 99 asked.
“It isn’t cool,” Max said.
They went to the counter and Max and 99 sat down on and Fang hopped up on a stool.
“What’ll it be?” the counterman asked.
“Nothing, thank you,” Max said. “We’re just tailing a suspect.”
The counterman nodded and went back to washing glasses.
“What’ll we do now, Max?” 99 asked.
“Observe,” Max replied. “Casually turn in that direction and-oops!”
Max found himself facing the little round man with the jolly expression.
“I think we’ve met before,” the man smiled. “In the corridor a moment ago, wasn’t it?”
Max played it cool. “That’s possible,” he said. “I don’t recall the incident, but you may be right.”
“I bumped into you,” the man said.
“It must have been someone else,” Max said.
“No, no, it was you.” He raised an arm. “Remember? I was carrying this suitcase.”
Max shrugged. “I’ll take your word for it,” he said. “But, frankly, I still think it was someone else.”
“I was wondering…” the man said. “I was sitting over there at that table alone… would you care to join me?”
“Well… we don’t want to butt in,” Max said.
“I would consider it a favor.”
“We don’t usually sit with strangers,” Max said.
“Who’s a stranger? We met in the corridor a few minutes ago. Please-join me.”
“Well…”
“Oh, let’s, Max,” 99 said.
“Well, if Fang and 99 want to…”
“Rorff!”
“Maybe you didn’t say you wanted to-but you were thinking it. Cool can be overdone, Fang.”
“See?” the man beamed. “We’re friends! I know your names-Max, 99 and Fang. And, my name is Henry L. McHenry-call me Hank. So, who’s strangers?”
Max, 99 and Fang followed Hank to his table. When they were seated, Hank ordered snacks for all of them- cocoa and cookies for himself and Max and 99, and peanut butter on rye for Fang.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I carry this suitcase around with me wherever I go,” Hank said.
Max looked at him blankly. “What suitcase is that?”
Hank pointed to the suitcase, which he had placed on the floor next to his chair. “That suitcase.”
Oh, that suitcase. No, I can’t say that I noticed it,” Max said.
“It’s a nice color-green,” 99 offered.
“You ought to see it with jingle bells hanging on it,” Hank said.
“Rorff!”
“Eat your peanut butter and rye!” Max snapped.
“That suitcase-there’s a story connected with that,” Hank said. “It’s not just an ordinary suitcase. There’s something inside that would knock your eyes out. If you could see it.”
“This is very good cocoa,” Max said, sipping.
“Maybe you’d like to hear the story,” Hank suggested.
“About cocoa?” Max said. “No, I know the story about cocoa. The beans are picked when they’re very, very tender, then carried down the mountain on mule back, where a covey of Italian maidens are waiting, barefoot, to stomp them into powder. The powder is then-”
“No, no, I mean the story of the suitcase,” Hank interrupted.
“I’ve probably heard that story, too,” Max said. “I hear a lot of stories.”
“But this is unique. A fantastic story.”
“Max, let’s listen,” 99 said. “It will kill some time, at least.”
Max sighed. “All right… tell away.”
“Well, it begins over twenty years ago,” Hank said, settling back. “I was a buck private in the army of occupation, stationed in Paris.”
“I think I’ve heard this story,” Max said.
Hank shook his head. “You couldn’t have. I’ve never told it before. But, somehow, I have confidence in you.” He settled back again. “It was a wonderful life for a buck private,” he said, smiling, remembering. “Paris was heaven. The people of Paris were destitute. They would do anything for a candy bar.”
“Sounds nice,” Max said.
“Delightful. War isn’t all fighting and killing, you know. It has its nice side, too-taking advantage of the destitute civilians.”
“Not everyone is sensitive enough to see that, though,” Max commented.
“But I was,” Hank went on. “I was young, I had feelings, I knew a good thing when I saw it. Well, to make a long story short, one day I met an old Parisian-a really desperate old man-who owned a Picasso. A painting, you know. A very valuable painting. This dirty old Parisian had once been a very rich and very honored man. But he had lost everything-except, of course, the Picasso-in the war. He was starving, his family was starving-oh, it was horrible.”
“You took pity on him,” Max said.
“Yes. I said to myself, ‘What does a man, a man who is starving, a man whose family is starving, what does a man like this need with a valuable Picasso?’ ”
“You were all heart in those days,” Max said.
“How true. There I was with a candy bar, and all this sad old man had was a valuable Picasso.”
“So you traded him on the spot.”
“Exactly. It was the least I could do. My candy bar for his Picasso.”
A tear escaped 99’s eye. “That’s sweet,” she murmured.
“Well, to make a long story short,” Hank went on, “when I returned to the States, I sold the Picasso for one- hundred thousand dollars.”
“That’s a very heartwarming story,” Max said. “Now, if you’ll excuse-”
“Oh, that’s only the beginning,” Hank said.
“What happened next?” 99 asked.
“Well, to make a long story short, I invested my one-hundred thousand dollars in hula-hoops. Do you remember hula-hoops? They were very big in those days. It was a big plastic hoop, and you got inside it-the hoop- then you twirled it around your waist. Great fun!”
“As I recall, the market for hula-hoops fizzled out all of a sudden, didn’t it?” Max said.
“Yes. I was stuck with a hundred-thousand dollars worth of hula-hoops-wholesale. But I wasn’t discouraged. I invented a new pastime. I called it Giant Ring Toss. I bought up a lot of old telephone poles-on credit-and, with each telephone pole, I sold a half-dozen hula-hoops. The idea of the game was to stand back and toss hula-hoops at the telephone pole. Great fun!”
“Sounds like a big seller,” Max said.
