The auction was held outside in the exercise yard of the prison and there were a lot of people there. As Flint said, “Who the hell wants to buy a prison? They must be mad.”
Only Horace answered. “You could make a nice place of it — nice garden—”
“Shut up,” said Jim O’Leary. “It gives me the creeps just being in this yard. Think of all the poor souls who’ve slogged around here, longing for a butt to smoke.”
The bidding was brisk and went quickly up to £7,000. There it lagged a bit, then got its second wind, and finally, Milky Waye had it knocked down to him at £11,000.
As the crowd dispersed, the auctioneer said to Milky Waye, “If your principal will just sign these papers... and give me his check for the deposit... Thank you. Here are the keys — we’ll get the deeds and all that settled later. There may be a little delay because I’m short-handed at the moment — staff trouble, you know. Wonderful little property — full of possibilities...”
“Oh, full...” said Milky.
Then the five of them stood about, waiting for the crowd to go, the bunch of cell keys in Flint’s hands. When the last person had left, Flint stumped off toward the top cells with the others following him. He unlocked the door and held the rest back.
“Floor won’t hold us all,” he said, and then added with a grin, “Don’t want any misfortune at the last moment, do we?”
But that was exactly what he got.
He went gingerly over the floor and got up on the bed. The end of the string was still tied to the ventilator grille. He pulled it up — all two feet of it — and there at the other end was the wash-leather bag.
Flint jerked it free and went back to the others, who crowded round to see the diamonds. But already thunderclouds had gathered on Flint’s face. The only thing in the bag was a large sheet of mauve notepaper, carefully folded and smelling of scent.
“No diamonds — I’ve been robbed!” stormed Flint.
“Perhaps you’ve got the wrong cell?” suggested Horace.
“Shut up,” said Jim O’Leary.
“Read the blasted letter,” said Solly Badrubal, “though why should I be anxious for bad news?”
“It’s a woman’s writing,” said Milky. “That’s a bad sign.”
“It’s Lottie’s,” said Flint, and then more weakly, holding the letter out to Milky, “You read it — I can’t...”
“You really should get some glasses,” said Horace.
“Shut up,” said Milky, and he began to read the note, which said:
Darling Flint,
I know this will distress you, but it is so much better to be honest and hurt a person than to be dishonest and store up unhappiness for us both. It is not just your wooden leg — after all, many a woman has truly loved a man with physical disabilities—
“This,” said Milky, “was not composed by Lottie. It is not her style. She had help.”
He went on:
— but it is rather your blemishes of character, particularly your quick temper, which have decided me. I think I knew this from the moment you came to the tea dance and were so brutal to sweet Duncan Brown—
“Who the hell,” said Flint, “is Duncan Brown?”
“Search me,” said Solly.
“I know,” said Horace. “He’s that tall, dark-haired chap who wears a Donegal tweed suit — the one from the auctioneer’s office. We had a long talk together. Yes, Duncan Brown — that’s his name.”
Milky was saying, “Just listen to the rest of it—”
From that moment I knew you were not the man for me. Duncan and I love each other — for a long time I was not sure, but when I fainted in here, meaning to do all you said, he was so kind and chivalrous, so wonderfully tender and understanding, that those few moments in his arms—
“Enough!” roared Flint. “She’s bilked me.”
“They are,” said Milky, finishing the reading of the note to himself, “honeymooning in the Bahamas. And I guess that’s why the auctioneer is short-staffed.”
Flint turned — a broken man — and stumped away, saying, “I need a whiskey. A very large one. And what the hell do I do now — with a prison on my hands?”
Well, of course, if Life is full of disappointments, it also has its compensations. Nothing is so bad as it looks. In fact, in this case, it was much better.
Flint tried to sell the prison but never got a decent offer for it. In the end he converted it into a private hotel for “special” guests recuperating from misfortune or just wanting to be anonymous for a while. Most of them were members of the Minerva Club who wanted to get quietly away into the country, and all of them appreciated the irony of living comfortably in a converted jail.
Flint — with occasional help from Horace — made over the exercise yard into a garden, and discovered that he had green fingers, that he had no further longing for “the perfect woman,” and that at last he had found a home which, not only in appearance but in association, was full of the rich memories of the past.
Helen McCloy
Number Ten Q Street
A new and different kind of crime story — of bootlegging, addiction, subversion in the future... and surely a most unusual story from the creator of psychiatrist-detective Dr. Basil Willing... or is it?
When Tom began to snore, Ella switched off the TV and moved quietly toward the hall closet. He had drunk six cans of neo-beer, one right after another. That was usually enough to put him out for a good hour, and one hour should be enough.
She pulled open the door of the closet. The hinges didn’t squeak. She had oiled them this morning when Tom was out at the bowling alley. Or was it the poolroom? She could never remember which were Tom’s bowling days and which were his pool days.
She slid her arms into the sleeves of her coat and buttoned the collar high under her chin. She reached for her handbag and — oh, God! — the car keys fell on the floor with a loud jangle.
Tom stirred, without opening his eyes, and muttered, “Ella?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Whereya goin’?”
“Nowhere, dear. Just out for a breath of fresh air.”
“Ge’me packa cigs, willya?”
“Yes, dear.”
“An’ leave on Giann’l Twenny-four.”
Ella switched on the TV. A crash of canned laughter filled the room. Tom began to snore again, but this time she left the TV on. Perhaps it would function as a lullaby, keeping him quiet until she got back.
She closed the door softly behind her and walked toward the automatic elevator. When it was first installed, she had used the fire-stairs, even though she lived on the tenth floor. Others, who shared her phobia, did the same until the management found out. Now all the doors to the fire-stairs were locked.
“Suppose there’s a fire?” Ella had asked the man in charge of maintenance.
“I’ll come around with the keys.”
“Suppose there isn’t time?”
“Can’t be helped. Can’t have you folks sabotaging General Elevators.”
“Not using one elevator is sabotaging General Elevators?”
“That’s for sure. If everybody went back to using stairs, General Elevators would go out of business and where would our economy be then?”
So she had to use the unmanned elevator in which she firmly believed that anything could happen. She could be stuck between floors, alone, sealed inside a mechanism she didn’t understand. Or she could be attacked and beaten by some of the bored and idle boys who were always drifting in and out of the building. Not for money. Just for fun. Automatic elevators were a favorite place for such beatings. No one really blamed the boys. What could anyone expect when there were no schools beyond third grade for those who lacked engineering aptitude? The only skill most people needed was ad-literacy and that could be acquired in three years.