John Rath contacted the New York Rapid Transit Corporation by televideo and was put into immediate contact with Mr. Bemis, a plump, tanned man with watchful eyes.
'Alcoholism?' Mr. Bemis repeated, after the problem was explained.
Unobtrusively, he turned on his tape recorder. 'Among our employees?'
Pressing a button beneath his foot, Bemis alerted Transit Security,
Publicity, Intercompany Relations, and the Psychoanalysis Division.
This done, he looked earnestly at Rath. 'Not a chance of it, my dear
sir. Just between us, why does General Motors really want to know?'
Rath smiled bitterly. He should have anticipated this. NYRT and GM had had their differences in the past. Officially, there was cooperation between the two giant corporations. But for all practical purposes—
'The question is in terms of the Public Interest,' Rath said.
'Oh, certainly,' Mr. Bemis replied, with a subtle smile. Glancing at his tattle board, he noticed that several company executives had tapped in on his line. This might mean a promotion, if handled properly.
'The Public Interest of GM,' Mr. Bemis added with polite nastiness. 'The insinuation is, I suppose, that drunken conductors are operating our jetbuses and helis?'
'Of course not. I was searching for a single alcoholic predilection, an individual latency—'
'There's no possibility of it. We at Rapid Transit do not hire people with even the merest tendency in that direction. And may I suggest, sir, that you clean your own house before making implications about others?'
And with that, Mr. Bemis broke the connection.
No one was going to put anything over on him.
'Dead end,' Rath said heavily. He turned and shouted, 'Smith! Did you find any prints?'
Lieutenant Smith, his coat off and sleeves rolled up, bounded over.
'Nothing usable, sir.'
Rath's thin lips tightened. It had been close to seven hours since the customer had taken the Martian machine. There was no telling what harm had been done by now. The customer would be justified in bringing suit against the Company. Not that the money mattered much; it was the bad publicity that was to be avoided at all costs.
'Beg pardon, sir,' Haskins said.
Rath ignored him. What next? Rapid Transit was not going to cooperate. Would the Armed Services make their records available for scansion by somatotype and pigmentation?
'Sir,' Haskins said again.
'What is it?'
'I just remembered the customer's friend's name. It was Magnessen.'
'Are you sure of that?'
'Absolutely,' Haskins said, with the first confidence he had shown in hours. 'I've taken the liberty of looking him up in the telephone book, sir. There's only one Manhattan listing under that name.'
Rath glowered at him from under shaggy eyebrows. 'Haskins, I hope you are not wrong about this. I sincerely hope that.'
'I do too, sir,' Haskins admitted, feeling his knees begin to shake.
'Because if you are,' Rath said, 'I will … Never mind. Let's go!'
By police escort, they arrived at the address in fifteen minutes. It was an ancient brownstone and Magnessen's name was on a second-floor door. They knocked.
The door opened and a stocky, crop-headed, shirt-sleeved man in his thirties stood before them. He turned slightly pale at the sight of so many uniforms, but held his ground.
'What is this?' he demanded.
'You Magnessen?' Lieutenant Smith barked.
'Yeah. What's the beef? If it's about my hi-fi playing too loud, I can tell you that old hag downstairs—'
'May we come in?' Rath asked. 'It's important.'
Magnessen seemed about to refuse, so Rath pushed past him, followed by Smith, Follansby, Haskins, and a small army of policemen. Magnessen turned to face them, bewildered, defiant and more than a little awed.
'Mr. Magnessen,' Rath said, in the pleasantest voice he could muster,
'I hope you'll forgive the intrusion. Let me assure you, it is in the
Public Interest, as well as your own. Do you know a short,
angry-looking, red-haired, red-eyed man?'
'Yes,' Magnessen said slowly and warily.
Haskins let out a sigh of relief.
'Would you tell us his name and address?' asked Rath.
'I suppose you mean—hold it! What's he done?'
'Nothing.'
'Then what you want him for?'
'There's no time for explanations,' Rath said. 'Believe me, it's in his own best interest, too. What is his name?'
Magnessen studied Rath's ugly, honest face, trying to make up his mind.
Lieutenant Smith said, 'Come on, talk, Magnessen, if you know what's good for you. We want the name and we want it quick.'
It was the wrong approach. Magnessen lighted a cigarette, blew smoke in
Smith's direction and inquired, 'You got a warrant, buddy?'
'You bet I have,' Smith said, striding forward. 'I'll warrant you, wise guy.'
'Stop it!' Rath ordered. 'Lieutenant Smith, thank you for your assistance. I won't need you any longer.'
Smith left sulkily, taking his platoon with him.
Rath said, 'I apologize for Smith's over-eagerness. You had better hear the problem.' Briefly but fully, he told the story of the customer and the Martian therapeutic machine.
When he was finished, Magnessen looked more suspicious than ever. 'You say he wants to kill me?'
'Definitely.'
'That's a lie! I don't know what your game is, mister, but you'll never make me believe that. Elwood's my best friend. We been best friends since we was kids. We been in service together. Elwood would cut off his arm for me. And I'd do the same for him.'
'Yes, yes,' Rath said impatiently, 'in a sane frame of mind, he would.
But your friend Elwood—is that his first name or last?'
