“It looks all right to me,” he said.
Marion peered up at him, anxious and pathetically helpless. “Are you sure?” she asked.
Richard’s reply was a little short. As a matter of fact, there was a hazy something he did not like at all, seeing Marion like that, innocent and graying, a little too trusting, standing beside that gaping hole.
“Quite sure. It’s just where I would have—” He broke off, acutely disturbed by the phrase he seemed to be using, and without knowing why. He changed it to, “It couldn’t be better if I’d chosen the place myself.”
He turned quickly and went back up the stairs, with Marion following. Somebody, Richard darkly felt, was being in rather poor taste. But who? That mound of loose dirt, and the bag of cement besides. There was something about the scene that was not only vulgar, but oppressive.
He had placed his suitcase down beside the kitchen’s outside door when Marion reappeared. She smiled brightly, but his spirits did not lift. Unaccountably, he had another obscure association of ideas. For some reason — for no logical reason — his mind turned to a certain crude, lurid, seamier side that less successful members of his calling undeniably used, to the shadowy half-world of Lonely Hearts clubs, matrimonial bureaus, and throbbing exchanges. Let there be a particularly messy explosion in the realm of matrimony, and the odds were even that one of those Lonely Heart clubmen, or clubwomen, was in back of it.
Richard held such strong views against agencies of this type that he couldn’t abide mention of them, not even in jocular vein. It was one of few subjects upon which he had, at one time or another, quarreled with several of his wives. With all of them, in fact. About divorce, too, he was quite strict. It could easily undermine his career.
“Have you got your sample case, Richard?” Marion asked.
“It’s in the trunk of the car,” he told her. “I’ve got everything. You don’t need to come out.”
“Well…?”
“This is the fifth,” he reminded her. “I’ll be back for dinner on the evening of the sixteenth. Meanwhile, I’ll phone you from time to time and, if anything comes up, you can reach me through the New York answering service.”
“All right, Richard. Have a good trip.”
“Thank you, dear. Take care of yourself and, above all, don’t worry that beautiful head of yours about trifles. Just relax. Let me do all the worrying.”
They kissed, warmly. Then he picked up his suitcase and went down the driveway to the garage. It was a fact, he reflected, that all the worrying was left to him. Marion probably did not appreciate just how much worry there was.
Neither did Bernice, nor Lucille, nor Helen — none of them. But, under the circumstances, he couldn’t ask, he couldn’t even hint, at the credit he really deserved for the many detailed responsibilities he bore.
However, these added cares were not too heavy — they were hazards of his career. Backing his coupé down the driveway, Richard’s moodiness was already gone. In front of the house, he looked up and waved to Marion, now standing in the open doorway, her striking figure undimmed by a simple house-dress. She waved affectionately in return.
His was a full, engrossing life, he decided as he drove along. Some people might even think it fascinating, if not too much so, imagining it filled with dreadful risks. There was a small element of danger, of course. But this only added zest. It offered the faint, tang-laden pinch of adventure, without which, really, his regulated life would be unbearably placid. It was long since far too well rehearsed.
2
Three hours later, shortly before noon, Richard C. Brown passed temporarily out of existence.
The loss of identity required less than a minute. It took place in a busy railroad checkroom in Philadelphia. It required only the time to check in his salesman’s sample-case and order-book — Speedie Sandwich Co., Automatic Cutters, Precision Knives. Then all that was needed was to take out a similar sample-case and order-book for his next incarnation, as a salesman of cosmetic novelties.
He had entered the checkroom in the name of Richard C. Brown. Under that name, he had actually made three lackadaisical stops at three widely separated restaurants that morning. At one of them, he had actually been forced to make a sale, as his order-book showed.
When he came out of the checkroom, he was Robert D. Brown. In that identity, he would make two or three torpid calls at drugstores during the afternoon, plus a few more during the next three days. That was part of the schedule — the most tiresome part, of course. It was a waste of time. But it was time indispensably given up, he felt, to protect his best interests in so many roles.
The business concerns for which he sold — or, at any rate, with whose products he traveled — were small and specialized. No high-pressure salesmen competed for their exclusive territorial rights. The owners of these companies might wonder what type of paralysis afflicted the slow-motion Brown, but, from their standpoint, paying him only on a commission basis, even a few sales were better than none.
As for Mr. Brown, he had other fish to fry. Far more important matters demanded his time and intelligence.
As always, when he made the change from one identity to another, he paused before the first mirror that caught his eye. The hesitation was brief, hardly more than a flicker — it was as though he half expected to find revealed, literally, a new and totally different man. It was as if he expected to see features even more forceful and magnetic, if that were possible, than they had been before.
This time, the mirror was a rectangle in a vending machine. Robert was a little disappointed that the reflection showed no marked change. His face, in spite of its forcefulness, was smooth, oval, a little asymmetrical, just as Richard’s had been. The magnetic eyes that peered back at him from beneath wisps of sandy eyebrows were still pale-blue and gray, much like those of an alert rooster. Even the hair — he removed his hat to make sure — was a downy pink, and still scarce.
Robert D. looked like Richard C. He also looked like Raymond A. Brown of Hartford, and Reynold B. Brown of Boston. In any identity, for that matter, he knew that he resembled a great many men people find it hard to remember.
Then what made him so irresistible to women?
Robert shrugged, puzzled but complacent, and moved away. Probably, he decided, when he stared hard at himself in the mirror, his inner personality simply went into aloof, sensitive retirement.
It was convenient, of course, that his appearance was not too remarkable. It was much, much safer, to be inconspicuous. He looked like any respectable, married, thirty-nine-year-old businessman, hard-working and moderately successful — and why shouldn’t he? The description was true.
There was only one detail in this picture of himself that did not quite satisfy him. His success, in a highly speculative investment field, was far too moderate. At least, it had been thus far, in the fifteen years since his first marriage, when Lucille’s financial assets gave him the means to begin dealing on a large scale in his favorite securities.
The securities he bought were betting slips, in the horse-racing market. Brown — all four of him — did not exactly play the horses. It had long ceased to be play. He studied, he computed, he doped according to the rules of his system, and then made shrewd investments. It was full-time employment, too. No system is so perfect it can’t be improved, he often told himself, after which, he set about computing and doping some more, seeking to plug up all possible leaks, leaks that stubbornly reappeared in his formulae.
On his way to lunch, the real start of his business day, he bought every form-sheet and newspaper with information about the fluctuations that would take place that afternoon, as soon as the tracks opened. In the quiet restaurant where he dined, he was a familiar figure, with his charts, his notes, his record-books.