“They was old friends, see, real old friends from way back, like. Then one of them gets in this jam, see, and the other two guys — they ain’t got much money, you understand, in fact they’re broke, see — but anyways, they hock their shirt, see, and go out and hire this big-shot mouthpiece he costs a fortune, but the old guys they don’t care, and the mouthpiece, he springs the guy, see, but it leaves the three old guys broker than a ’26 Model T and then what do you think happens?”
“They all go play potsie,” Clarence said, and yawned again.
“Naw,” Harold said a trifle disdainfully. It was not often that he held the advantage over Clarence where facts were concerned. “Naw. Instead they get a wad of dough from some funny-named bunch, some foundation, whatever that is. For bein’ so self-sacrificin’, see?” He looked up, his eyes shining, glistening with emotion. “Tell the truth, Clare, ain’t that nice?”
Clarence was about to snort in derision when he suddenly felt that old familiar tingle. Was Opportunity attempting to rap on his door again, and was he trying to stuff his ears with cotton-wool? He put down his mug of beer — not with regret — and held out his hand demandingly.
“Let me see the paper.”
There was a note of finality in the smaller man’s voice that Harold recognized. He sighed in defeat and held the newspaper out, clutching it for one last instant to extract a condition.
“Read it out loud to me, huh, Clare? Huh?”
“Okay, okay.” Clarence took the paper, folded it lengthwise in subway fashion to eliminate the possible intrusion of any truss ads, studied the pictures of the three old men a moment, shuddering a bit at the color of the fat one’s garment — for Clarence was a bit of a Beau Brummel himself — and then began.
“Gibraltah, Septembah 12:
“The winnahs of lest yeah’s Jahvis—”
Harold giggled. “No, do it straight, Clare.”
“It’s a British newspaper, so I thought you wanted it authentic,” Clarence said. He was feeling better. Even the slight possibility of old man Opportunity’s being in the neighborhood had that effect on him, and he had a strong hunch that at most old Opportunity wasn’t any farther away than a few doors down the street. “Well, all right, if you insist. You’re from Chicago, originally, aren’t you? Well, get ready — here it is in pure Cicero.”
“Aw, no,” Harold said, serious now. “Just read it straight, please, huh, Clare?”
Clarence sighed. “You certainly make it difficult,” he said, “but all right. Here it is:
“Gibraltar, September 12:
The winners of last year’s Jarvis
Greater-Love-Hath-No-Man Foundation award for selfless consideration of one’s fellow man, named for Harley P. Jarvis, whose life was saved when a native bearer sprang between him and a charging rogue elephant just moments after Jarvis had been forced to whip the fellow, are at present enjoying the warm sunshine of Gibraltar after a pleasant cruise on the luxurious steamer S.S. Sunderland, and are planning upon returning to England on Friday next by way of Air Gibraltar.”
Clarence paused, frowning.
“Friday next,” he said half to himself, and checked the date line of the story again. He glanced at his wrist watch for the current date. “Hey! That’s tomorrow.”
He thought for several more moments, and then continued.
“Readers of this journal are undoubtedly familiar with the piteous but heart-warming story of the three old men, devoted friends and the founders of the prestigious Mystery Authors Club of Great Britain, but for those who purchase the Times or other lesser journals, we are pleased to repeat the touching history.
“Last year, one of the steadfast trio, Clifford Simpson (at the left in the accompanying photograph) was falsely accused of murder and might well have been unjustly — but just as thoroughly — hanged had it not been for his two friends, William Carruthers and Timothy Briggs (center and right respectively in the accompanying photograph). Not once did their faith in their friend’s innocence waver! Not once did they allow the overwhelming circumstantial evidence or their own extreme poverty to distract them from the vital task of seeing to their friend’s release from his gyves.
“(He wasn’t actually gyved, of course — Ed.)
“Although poor as church mice, the two old men sold their meager possessions, and by means which, out of pride, they refuse to reveal to this day, they managed to employ the famous barrister. Sir Percival Pugh. Sir Percival, although known to be adamant in demanding and receiving extremely high fees, somehow was paid — at what sacrifice by the three friends we may never know. But having extracted his pound of flesh. Sir Percival, with his admitted genius, proved to one and all that Mr. Simpson had been the innocent victim of circumstance, and deserved praise rather than censure for his role in the unfortunate affair.
“As a result of the self-sacrifice of the friends, each for the other, they were jointly awarded last year’s laurels from the Jarvis Greater-Love-Hath-No-Man Foundation and with the huge sum which accompanies this prestigious award, the three old friends — old both in years as well as in the uplifting experience nurtured over more than five decades — are spending a few days in Gibraltar after enjoying a pleasant cruise on the S.S. Sunderland.
“We can only raise our editorial hats and say: Gentlemen, welcome back! Friday next we shall be pleased to have you once again on British soil! England is proud of you!”
Clarence put the newspaper down and frowned off into space for several moments, after which his frown turned into a pleasant though thoughtful smile. His mind, accustomed to producing intricate plans at short notice, was already busily working on the present problem, and he had no doubt it would come up with something appropriate at the proper time, if not before. Harold, watching his friend for comment, misinterpreted the smile.
“Nice, huh, Clare? Them old guys stickin’ together like that?”
“Yes,” Clarence said, and went on planning.
“Like that time in Quentin, we had these two guys, always fightin’, and then one day—”
Clarence looked at him.
“I said, yes,” he said in a tone that ended the discussion. At the moment there was no time for thoughts to be disrupted. It was, though, as Harold had said, very nice, indeed. Three old men with more money than they needed for their obviously limited years... It was not that Clarence lacked sufficient funds at the moment; actually, his Arab customer had paid the first two installments on the sale of the Golden Gate Bridge before he became suspicious when he saw that police cars were not required to pay at the toll booth; he was sure that was not what free enterprise was all about. No, it was not that Clarence lacked money. It was simply that he felt there was no sense in giving old man Opportunity a free ride, in letting old O sit around with his hands in his pockets when there was money to be made. One never knew when a little extra cash might come in handily. Besides, there were just so many bridges in the world, and there was no guarantee that oil would come out of the ground forever.
Admittedly, time was short if the three old men were returning on the morrow, but this of itself did not bother Clarence. He was sure he would come up with some scheme in the required time. Of course, the scenario would have to be adaptable to the cast of characters. One had to recognize, for example, that the promise of exorbitant profits sometime in the distant future for some non-existent oil well soon to be drilled would scarcely hold much lure for men of an advanced age. And asking them to invest in a pornographic movie studio in order to meet nubile young actresses was probably equally pointless. Nor even getting them in some crap game in an alley using his educated dice; at their age they undoubtedly had trouble sitting, let alone squatting or kneeling.