That was what he called our landlady, Mrs Hufnagel. It was an apt nickname; she stood five eleven and was at least a welterweight.
'Yes, she did,' I said. 'It's Dutch apple, and very good.
Homemade.'
'Uh-huh,' he said, looking at me and grinning. 'She's real friendly to you, ain't she?'
'Isn't she friendly to you? '
'She don't bake me no pies. You going to the party?'
'What party?'
'Saturday night. Katrinka invited all the tenants.'
'I haven't been invited.'
'You will be.'
'What's the occasion?'
'Valentine's Day — she says. But I got my own ideas about that.'
'You're talking in riddles tonight, Captain.'
He watched me assemble paper and kindling in the fireplace.
'You ain't doing that right!' he roared. 'Pile up your kindling crisscross.'
'I do it like this. It always works.'
The fire caught this time, too. We were watching it, wineglasses in hand, when there came a rapid knocking on the door.
' 'allo, 'allo!' carolled Mme Kadinsky. 'Joshy? You are een there?'
'Don't let her in,' growled the Captain.
'Madame Kadinsky,' I said, smiling at her. 'Nice to see you. Do come in.'
She tapped my cheek. 'You promised to call me Zora, you naughty boy.' Then she was inside the room, moving with quick little steps. 'But you already have company.
The Captain Shink.'
'Shank,' he growled.
'I am interrupting somesing?' She laughed gaily.
'Not at all,' I told her. 'We're just having a glass of wine. Let me get you a glass.'
'Joshy,' she said, 'you are going to the party Saturday night?'
'I haven't been invited.'
Like Bramwell Shank, she said, 'You will be.' They both smiled.
'What's going on with you two?'
Zora put a hand to her cheek, rolled her eyes.
'He don't know,' Shank said.
'Tell me!' I burst out.
'Powerful Katrinka has her eye on you for Cleo,' the Captain said.
They departed soon after, and I went into the kitchen to make my omelette. I suppose I felt a kind of smirky pride; I am as vain as the next man. The whole thing was ridiculous, of course. Cleo Hufnagel seemed a pleasant, soft-spoken young woman. We smiled and exchanged greetings. But more was impossible. Cleo was at least five ten, and taller in heels.
But my thoughts kept returning to the Great Hufnagel Plot. When the knock came I knew at once who it was. It was Mrs Hufnagel bearing a plate covered with a paper napkin.
'Mrs Hufnagel! What a surprise! Won't you come in?'
' W e l l. . just for a minute. I don't want to disturb you.'
'Not at all,' I said. 'Would you like a cup of coffee?'
'No, nothing, thanks,' she said. 'We just finished dinner. My, that was a fine meal Cleo cooked. Swiss steak with mashed potatoes, fresh stringbeans, and the best gravy ever. Have you had your coffee yet?'
I said truthfully that I hadn't.
'Well, Cleo baked these chocolate chip cookies and we thought you might enjoy some with your coffee.'
'Mrs Hufnagel, you're too generous.'
'Try one,' she commanded.
Obediently I bit into a cookie.
'Delicious,' I said.
'Yes,' she said, sighing. 'That Cleo — so talented in the kitchen. She'll make some man a wonderful wife.'
'I'm sure she will,' I murmured. 'Would you like the 45
plate back now? I can put the cookies in a tin.'
'No rush,' she said. 'You can return it whenever you like. Actually, Mr Bigg, the cookies were just one of the reasons I came up. I also wanted to invite you to a party Cleo and I are having Saturday night.'
5
The Purple Cow smelled of spilled beer and cheap cigars, even at 11.30 a.m. The men at the bar hunched glowering over their drinks, awaiting the end of the world. I found Marty in the last booth on the left. He sat facing the door, fingers laced around a stein of beer. In the dim light he appeared to be about forty-five, skinny, with a pitted complexion and a pale, small moustache.
He watched me approach without interest. I stopped alongside his booth.
'Marty?' I said.
'Yeah?'
'I'm from Mr Leopold Tabatchnick.'
He showed his teeth. 'Who are you, the office boy?'
I slid into the booth opposite him.
'I am Mr Tabatchnick's executive assistant, acting on his behalf.'
'That's sweet,' he said.
'Could you tell me what this is all about?' I asked. 'You claim you — '
'Want a drink?' he interrupted.
'No,' I said. 'Thank you.'
'For what?' he said. 'I wasn't going to pay for it.'
'You claim you have information affecting the estate of the late Solomon Kipper. Is that correct?'
'I don't claim it. I got it.'
'Could you tell me the nature of this information?'
'You kidding? That's what I'm selling.'
I sighed and sat back.
'Then I'm afraid we've reached an impasse,' I said.
'Surely you don't expect us to make an offer for something we know nothing about.'
He leaned towards me across the table. He had very sour breath. His eyes seemed almost colourless, and I noticed the lobe of his left ear was missing. He was dressed in a tweed cap, green anorak, maroon shirt, and flowered pink tie. The parka was stained, there was a stubble of whitish beard, and his nails were rimmed with black. His voice was even more gluey than it had sounded on the phone.
'Listen, sonny,' he said, 'I ain't asking you to make an offer; I'm going to tell you how much I want. Second of all, I ain't telling you what I got because then I got nothing to sell. That makes sense, don't it? I'll tell you this much: what I got is going to upset the applecart. With what I got, the Kipper will ain't worth the paper it's printed on.'
'And how much are you asking for this information?'
'Fifty thousand,' he said promptly. 'Take it or leave it.'
I think I succeeded in hiding my shock.
'That's a great deal of money,' I said slowly.
