Horne grunted skeptically. “If you had an attorney he wouldn’t have permitted you to come here. He would have contacted me. Now skedaddle.”
“Mr. Horne! You are a confidential investigator, are you not? You are for hire by reputable citizens, are you not? Obtaining evidence for divorce is a legitimate procedure, is is not?” He was shaking in near-anger. “Just whom do you believe you are, my dear chap?”
Horne stood up, wishing the pipe was hot so that he could blow smoke in the worm’s face.
“I’m the guy that’s going to push your face in if you don’t get out of here.” His voice was level and cold.
“By the devils of hell! I’ll have your license!”
Horne felt a distinct surge of sympathy for the worm’s wife. Unless justice was a mockery she was certainly entitled to sleep in someone else’s bed, almost anyone else’s bed. But she should have had better sense than to marry a worm; no one but another worm should mate with a worm, what with all the good men running around loose.
The very first morning she woke up and found a worm sleeping with her she should have slugged him, or fed him cyanide in his oatmeal. Maybe she would yet. In which case, Horne decided, he would get on the jury and free the woman.
He answered, “People have tried to get my license before this.”
“I promise you, Horne, it will be different this time! I mean it. I have some authority around here. I can do things to you.”
“And I,” Horne responded moodily, stalking around the desk, “can do some damned unpleasant things to you. Beginning with that fat face. Get out!”
The fat face propelled itself rapidly backwards. It was a wrathful red as it backed through the door.
“You will,” the lips in the face sneered, “hear from me!”
Horne walked across the room and kicked the door shut.
Confidential Services did not include getting the necessary details on adulterous wives or any other sort of wife. Horne had once possessed and lost a wife and because of that fact would not be a party to any similar occurrence.
An unclocked length of time after that the office door had opened again to admit the mail carrier. There were some letters from the Union Workman’s Mutual, in Chicago; routine forms over the signature of E. E. Everetts, the district supervisor, which Horne read briefly and filed. He had the local agency for the insurance company’s confidential stuff.
On policy applications of more than five thousand dollars it was his job to dig up the past, present and future of the applicant. There is more to an insurance policy than meets the eye. For instance, there is the actuary.
An actuary is an honest to goodness counterpart of an expert crystal-gazer. By constant use of the files covering hundreds of thousands of applicants and hundreds of thousands of deaths, complete with the data and dates they contain, he can predict to a gnat’s eye the date, place and manner of a policyholder’s death — almost. And let a man die of liver trouble at age forty when he shouldn’t have died of liver trouble (considering his drinking habits, his occupation, and such) until at least age sixty, someone will make a cautious check.
When tens of thousands of people in stated categories have died in a certain way, it is simple to calculate the risk of one more applicant in that category.
Between the agent writing the policy application and his questions, and the doctor examining the applicant and his thumpings, and skeleton-in-the-closet rattlers such as Charles Horne, a man’s life story pretty well becomes company property when he signs up. All this gathered-up information goes into the home office files where it is fondled and played with by that great big father spider called the actuary.
And that had been the extent of the day’s work thrust upon Charles Horne, Confidential Services.
He stepped back to the window and looked down into the street at the parked automobile.
The redhead was playing a practical joke.
Without noise she had lifted the hood of the car and was attaching the small, red package to the ignition circuit. The man watching her grinned with pleasure and expectancy.
The screech-and-smoke bomb is a marvelous little gadget for scaring the dying daylights out of the guy who steps on the starter. Even those who have been bit before invariably fall for the gag a second time, and tumble out of the car on the double when the hidden bomb begins to spout smoke and screech.
The girl fastened it into place quickly and replaced the hood. Then, coolly flicking the accumulated ash from her lipstick-tinted cigarette, she glanced up and down Wilsey Street for oncoming traffic, and finding none, crossed to the opposite sidewalk. She sauntered along the walk towards the carline, pausing once to inspect a shop-window, and then on again. Near the corner she passed from the line of sight of the man in the upper window. He could have leaned over the sill to watch her, but didn’t.
Instead he switched his gaze back to the parked automobile and began patiently to await the owner. Behind him the telephone rang. When he answered someone said, oh sorry, you must be the wrong number. It happened all the time. His phone number was similar to that of a feminine-wear shop. The license number of the car held his attention again. It read: D-1000000. One million, although no commas were used.
The sound of the streetcar coming back along; Main Street on its eastbound, return trip made itself distantly heard. Boone boasted just two carlines, again a tossup between the designation of a large town or small city, depending upon the public’s point of view. One line ran the east and west lengths of Main Street, crossing Wilsey only half a block away. The second line traveled the north and south lengths of Lincoln Avenue; the two lines intersecting at the center of town a few blocks from Wilsey Street.
The city light department suddenly made up its collective mind and the street lights came on. The amber glass clusters spread a pleasant glow the width and depth of the downtown business district. The parked automobile was between two light standards, the inflated license number showing up plainly in the reflected illumination.
Charles Horne turned his ear to catch the noise of the streetcar. Oddly somewhat quieter for a gladsome change, it had barely come to a full stop for Wilsey Street before the conductor clanged the bell and it was in motion again. Still keeping an eye on the automobile, he found time to wonder why the redhead hadn’t stayed to watch the fun. After that risk and trouble any jokester was entitled to see the results.
A well-dressed man appeared far down the block to the right. He was wearing a white suit which was momentarily tinted with amber as he passed beneath each street light.
Horne leaned across the sill. Hunch said this was the owner of the car. The figure was somehow vaguely familiar. He hitched the chair closer to the window and rested both elbows on the sill to see the circus.
The man approached the automobile, pulled at his ear and squinted uncertainly at the doused parking lights, finally reached into a coat pocket for the ignition key. The waiting detective sucked in his breath as recognition smote him.
It was the anonymous caller of early morning, the worm with the adulterous wife. Even from the distance his presence suddenly became repugnant.
Excitedly, with rapidly mounting pleasure, Horne hitched his chair nearer the window. This was certainly going to be good. A shadowy movement immediately beneath him caught his attention. He put his head out and stared down.
Someone else was waiting to watch the results of the joke, someone other than the recent redhead because it was wearing long pants.