Hit Parade

“Rabbit punch.”



“Always a popular favorite.”



“At first I thought I’d killed him. I figured it was better to hit him too hard than not hard enough. Because I didn’t want him to know what was happening.”



“But the blow didn’t kill him.”



“No, he was alive when he went out the window.”



“But not for long. Six stories?”



“Six stories.”



“With no overhangs or canopies to break his fall.”



“That was the pavement’s job,” he said.



“And the cops? Were you in town long enough for them to get around to you?”



“I went to them myself,” he said.



“Jesus, that’s a first.”



“As soon as I heard about Bingham’s death, and that didn’t take long. I told them how I’d spent some time with him over the weekend, and that it’d be my guess that he’d received bad news from his doctor, because he would say things like why was he buying these stamps when he couldn’t look forward to owning them for very long. And he’d sort of hinted at suicide, talking about meeting fate head-on instead of waiting for it to come up on him from behind.”



“How’d this go over?”



“Well, the detective I talked to wrote everything down, but it just seemed to be confirming what he’d already decided. It was pretty much open and shut, Dot.”



“The window was open,” she said, “and the door was shut.”



“That’s about it. A very candid suicide note in his own hand, signed and dated, and weighted down with his watch and his class ring. And, alongside it, all the stamps he’d bought over the weekend, plus a wallet full of cash.”



“That’s enough to fool just about anybody,” she allowed. “Except for Len Horvath, who thinks you’re the greatest thing since Google. He said he can’t wait until somebody pisses him off so he can use you again.”



“He actually said that?”



“No, of course not. But he’s a happy man, and he sent us the cash to prove it. I have to say he’s not the only one you managed to impress, Keller. Getting him to write the note, that’s kind of rich.”



“You gave me the idea.”



“How do you figure that?”



“You said maybe he’d kill himself. Out of disappointment at losing the blue ribbon.”



“I said that? I don’t even remember, but I’ll take your word for it. Did he lose the blue ribbon?”



“No, he won.”



“But he found something else to be disappointed about. That’s what gave you the idea? My idle remark?”



“Plus an idle remark of Bingham’s, saying I could be a confidence man or a stock swindler. And I realized that I felt like a con man, pretending to be his friend while I was getting ready to take him out, and then I thought, well, what would a con man do?” He frowned. “It was interesting, manipulating things, making it all work out, but I wouldn’t want to be a con man full-time. I really did like him, you know.”



“But you didn’t let that stop you.”



“Well, no. And if I did, then what? It only meant Horvath would bite the bullet and find a way to do the job in Detroit. Tunnel under Bingham’s house and blow him up, like Bingham suggested. Or send in a private army to overwhelm the bodyguards. Bingham knew it was all over. He didn’t want to go back to Detroit.”



“And you fixed it so he didn’t have to.”



“Well,” he said.



“I’ve got a bundle of cash for you. Horvath was quick, and so was FedEx. I’d tell you to buy some stamps, but you already did that.” She pointed at an envelope. “So you can put this toward your retirement fund.”



He glanced at the soundless television set, where stock symbols and prices crawled across the screen beneath two men holding a furious silent argument. “How’re we doing?” he asked.



“In the market? We have good days and we have bad days, but lately the good days are running ahead of the bad ones.”



“What are you going to do with your share?”



“I might just stick it in the market,” she said, “and see if I can fatten it up a little.”



He pushed the envelope across the table. “Do the same with mine,” he said. “Otherwise I’ll spend it.”



“If you’re sure. I was thinking we should diversify into some overseas companies. India and Korea are booming.”



“Whatever you say.”



She put a hand on the envelope, drew it closer to her. She said, “Keller? Those stamps he bought at auction, that you just left on the table with the suicide note. Weren’t you tempted?”



“No, not at all.”



“Because it’s your hobby.”



“That’s right.”



“I guess I get it,” she said. “There was an envelope he gave you, except you called it something else.”



“A cover.”



“There you go. From Martinique, right? What did it cost him?”



“It’s worth somewhere between eight and ten thousand. I don’t know if he paid that much.”



“And you’re keeping it.”



“Well, sure. It was a present.”



“I see.”



“And something to remember him by.”



“I guess,” she said. “But don’t you usually try to forget them as quickly and completely as possible? Don’t you do that mental exercise, fading their image to black and white and then graying it out? Letting it get smaller and smaller until it disappears?”



“Usually.”



“Oh. Are you all right, Keller?”



“I think so,” he said.



KELLER’S LEGACY



48



When Keller turned the corner, he saw Dot standing on the front porch. A white flowerpot was suspended from the ceiling on either side of the old-fashioned glider, and each held a spider plant, and she was watering them. She turned at his approach, and her eyes widened, but she took a moment to finish watering the plants.



“This one,” she said, “is growing faster than the other. See? It’s got more babies, it’s going to reach the floor sooner. I wonder if I should trim it and keep them both the same length.”



“Why?”



“In the interest of symmetry,” she said, “except I’m not sure it’s good for the plant. What did you do, walk from the train station?”



“It’s a nice day.”



“I guess that’s a yes. Except how did you get here so fast? I left a message on your machine less than an hour ago, and by the time you got it and caught a train at Grand Central…” She frowned. “It doesn’t add up. What did you do, call in and pick up your messages?”



“I went out for breakfast,” he said, “and I read the paper and did the crossword puzzle, and then I was going to call you but I figured I’d take a chance and just come up. I never thought to check for messages.”



“You came up on your own. There’s a stamp you want to buy, so you want some of the money from our brokerage account.”



He shook his head.



“You sensed that I was trying to reach you, and that’s what drew you here. No? Well, I’m all out of guesses, Keller. Come on inside and tell me about it.”



At the kitchen table, he drew a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. Without unfolding it he said, “I’ve been thinking. I’ve got my share of whatever’s in our brokerage account, but aside from that most of my net worth is tied up in stamps. There are ten albums, plus a small carton of odds and ends.”



“In your apartment.”



“That’s right. Now here’s what I want you to do. If something should happen to me, go straight to my apartment. You still have the key I gave you, don’t you?”



“Somewhere.”



“If you’re not sure where it is-”



“I know right where it is, Keller. It’s hanging on a hook by the back door. You want to tell me what all this is about?”



“What you’ll do,” he said, “is go to my apartment and let yourself in. You’ll probably want a helper, because they’re hefty albums and it’s a lot to carry. Just take them right on out of there and bring them back here.”



“And then I suppose I’ll have to kill my helper and bury him in the backyard, because dead men tell no tales.”



“I’m serious about this, Dot.”



“I can see that, and I wish I knew why.”



“I was thinking about that guy. Sheridan Bingham.”



“The one who went out the window.”



“He’d made arrangements. His stamp collection was going to Wayne State University, and they would sell it. Well, what would happen to my collection? It would just sit there until somebody cleared out my apartment, and then God knows what would become of it.”



“And you want me to display it or something? Add stamps to it?”



“What do you care about stamps? You can sell it and do whatever you want with the money.”



“But-”



“I haven’t got anybody else to leave anything to,” he said, “and I haven’t got anything else to leave, aside from the brokerage account. And you’d get that, wouldn’t you?”



“Officially,” she said, “we’re joint tenants with right of survivorship. So yes, it’d come to me. Keller, why the hell are we having this conversation?”



“Peace of mind,” he said.



“My mind was at peace before you brought this up,” she said, “and now it’s not, so I have to say I think the whole thing’s counterproductive.”



“Just let me finish going through this.” He unfolded the sheet of paper. “Three dealers,” he said. “What you do, you call all three and offer them the opportunity to inspect the collection and make an offer. I wrote out a description of the material. Schedule them on different days, because it’ll take them a while to look through everything and come up with a price.” He went on, explaining how to negotiate with the dealers, and what sort of offer she might realistically expect. With really expensive items, a dealer could work on a narrow margin; with common stamps, you could recover only a very small fraction of the cost when you sold. On balance he figured his collection would probably bring a fourth to a third of catalog value, but it was hard to say for sure.



“If you think of stamps as an investment,” he said, “you’re better off putting the money in the market, or even in the savings bank. But if you think of it as a hobby, a leisure-time pursuit, well, you get a certain amount back, and that’s not true of fly-fishing.”



“On the other hand,” she said, “you can eat what you catch. Unless you’re one of those catch-and-release guys. Keller? What brought this up, and don’t tell me about Sheridan Bingham.”



“Well, something could happen.”



“Have you got a bad feeling, Keller? A premonition?”