A man's voice with a rather tough New York accent answered the telephone.
"Hello," Vic said. "I'm calling in regard to your employee Harold Carpenter, or the man who's going by that name on his present job."
"Oh? Yes, I know who you're talkin' about." The man sounded courteous enough, in spite of his ugly accent.
"We don't wish his services any longer," Vic said. "Oh. Awright. What's the trouble?"
"Trouble?"
"I mean, is there any trouble or complaints?"
"Oh, no. Except that the man he's supposed to be getting information about knows he's a detective and isn't letting anything out."
"I see. Are you Mr.—Mr. Donald Wilson of Little Wesley, Massachusetts?"
"No, I am not."
"Who are you?"
"I'm the man he's supposed to be watching."
Silence for a moment. "You are Victor Van Allen?"
"Correct," Vic said. "So—either send a fresh man up or give it up. I suggest you give it up, because I'm paying the bill, and if this nonsense keeps on I'm just going to refuse to pay it. And I don't think the money'll come from anywhere else." Another silence. "Do you understand?"
"Yes, Mr. Van Allen."
"Good. If there're any further bills, you may send them to me direct, if you care to. I suppose you have my address?"
"Yes, Mr. Van Allen."
"Righto. That's all. Thank you. Oh, just a minute!"
"Yes?"
"Send Mr. Carpenter a wire discontinuing this assignment, will you, right away? I'll be willing to pay for that."
"All right, Mr. Van Allen."
They hung up.
Melinda came in at seven-fifteen that evening, after cocktailing with Harold, she said.
"Did Harold get his telegram?" Vic asked.
"What telegram?"
"The telegram from the Confidential Detective Service taking him off the job."
Melinda's mouth opened, but her face showed more anger than surprise. "What do you know about it?" she asked aggressively. "Wilson spilled the beans," Vic said. "What's the matter with Wilson, anyway? Why doesn't he stick to his typewriter?"
Trixie was listening, goggle-eyed, sitting on the living room floor.
"'When' did he?" Melinda demanded.
"This noon. I ran into him and Ralph on the street. A more terrified, silly-looking pair I've never seen."
"What did he tell you?" Melinda asked, consternation on her face.
"I simply asked him," Vic began patiently, "if Mr. Carpenter was a detective. 'Wasn't' he? I asked them both. And when Wilson said yes, which didn't take much pressure because he seemed to be scared out of his wits, I asked him what agency he worked for. And he told me, and I called them up and asked them to relieve Mr. Carpenter of his assignment. I'm tired of paying the bills."
Melinda threw her pocketbook at the sofa and took off her coat. "I see," she said. "Was it the bills that—" She stopped.
He felt almost sorry for her in her defeat. "No, my dear. Horace told me several days ago that Carpenter knows nothing about Columbia University. Horace does, you see, and right in the Psychology Department. I don't know whether he's made an arrangement of some kind with Kennington or not to let him pursue his research there. It doesn't interest me."
Melinda stalked into the kitchen. She was going to get drunk tonight, Vic knew. And whatever she had drunk with Carpenter had probably laid a very solid foundation for it. And for a monumental hangover tomorrow. Vic sighed and continued his paper. "Want a drink?" Melinda called from the kitchen.
"No, thanks."
"You're so healthy these days," she said as she came in with her own drink. "The picture of health and physical fitness. Well, it may interest you to know that Mr. Carpenter is a psychiatrist. He may not have graduated from anywhere," she said, on a defensive note, "but he knows a few things."
Vic said with slow, measured disgust, "I don't expect to see him again." After a moment or so, when Melinda had said nothing, Vic asked, "Why? Has he been psychoanalyzing you?"
"No."
"That's too bad. He might have enlightened me about you. I admit I don't understand you."
"I understand 'you'," she snapped.
"Then why get a psychologist up here to look at me? What 'is' he, anyway, a psychologist or a detective?"
"He's both," she said angrily. She was walking about, sipping a dark-beige highball.
"Um-hm. And what does he have to say about me?" "He says you're a borderline case of schizophrenia."
"Oh," Vic said. "Tell him I said he was a borderline. Nothing more. He's something betwixt and between, something you step over and forget."
Melinda snorted. "He seems to be able to get you worked up—''
"Daddy, what's schizomenia mean?" Trixie asked, still rapt, her arms around her knees.
"It's an enlightening conversation for the child," Melinda said mincingly.
"She's heard worse." Vic cleared his throat. "Schizophrenia, hon, means a split personality. It is a mental disease characterized by a loss of contact with one's environment and by dissolution of the personality. There. Understand? And it looks like your old Daddy's got it."
"A-a-aw," Trixie said, laughing as if he were kidding her. "How do you know?"
"Because Mr. Carpenter says I have."
"How does Mr. Carpenter know you have?" Trixie asked, grinning, loving it. It was like the nonsense stories Vic told her about imaginary animals, and she would ask him could they fly, could they read, could they cook, could they sew, could they dress themselves, and sometimes they could and sometimes they couldn't.
"Because Mr. Carpenter is a psychologist," Vic replied. "What's a psychologist?"Trixie asked.
"Oh, Christ, Vic, stop it!" Melinda said, whirling around from the other side of the room to face him.
"We shall continue this conversation at some other time," Vic said, smiling at his daughter.
Melinda did get very drunk that night. She made two telephone calls that Vic managed not to listen to by going into the kitchen where it was impossible to
