All Grass Isn't Green

2

Eight-seventeen Billinger Street was an apartment house which had been converted from a three-story residence.

At one time that section of the city had been the site of imposing homes, but that had been many, many years ago.

The city had grown and engulfed the district. The luxurious homes had run downhill, then had been converted into rooming houses, or apartments with beauty parlors, small offices and nondescript stores on the ground floor.

I detoured a single-chair barbershop, found the stairs, climbed to the second floor, located Apartment 43 and stood for a moment at the door listening.

From Apartment 42, which adjoined it on the south, I could hear the steady clack of a typewriter, then an intermittent pause, then more clacking on the typewriter. From Apartment 43 there wasn’t a sound.

I tapped gently on the door. There was no answer.

The typewriter in Apartment 42 was clacking away again.

I stood there in the semi-dark hallway, undecided. I put my hand on the doorknob of Apartment 43. The latch clicked back. I pushed gently on the door for an inch or two. The door opened soundlessly.

I closed the door again and knocked, this time a little more firmly.

There was no answer.

I turned the knob, opened the door and looked inside.

It was a furnished apartment and someone had gone places in a hurry. There were a couple of empty cardboard cartons on the floor, and some old newspapers. Drawers had been pulled out, emptied, and left open. It was a one-room affair with a little kitchenette off to my right and an open door to a bath at the far end. There was a curtained closet, the curtain had been pulled back, exposing a wall bed. Empty wire clothes hangers were swinging dejectedly from a metal rod.

I wanted to go in and look around, but I had a feeling that it wasn’t wise. I backed out and gently closed the door.

The typewriter in 42 had quit clacking. I heard steps, coming to the door.

I raised my hand and knocked hard and loud on the door of 43.

The door of Apartment 42 opened. A woman in her late twenties, or perhaps early thirties, stood there at me appraisingly.

I smiled reassuringly at her and said, “I’m knocking forty-three,” and with that raised my hand and knock again.

“Are you Colburn Hale’s publisher?” she asked.

I turned to regard her searchingly. “Why do ask?”

“Because Cole is expecting his publisher.”

“I see,” I said.

“You haven’t answered my question,” she observed.

“Should I?” I asked.

“I think so.”

“Why don’t you ask Mr. Hide when he comes back?” I said.

“Because I don’t think he’s coming back — perhaps I could help you?”

“Perhaps you could.”

“Will you kindly tell me what’s going on?” she asked.

I raised my eyebrows. “Is something going on?”

“You know it is. People came here in the middle of the night. They opened and closed drawers, put things in cardboard cartons, carried them downstairs.”

“What time?”

“Around one o’clock in the morning.”

“Did you see them?” I asked.

“I couldn’t stand it any longer,” she said. “I couldn’t sleep with those people tramping back and forth, and I finally got up, put on a robe and opened the door, but they’d gone by that time.”

“What time?”

“About one-thirty.”

“How many people were there?”

“Two, I think.”

“Colburn Hale and a friend?”

“I didn’t have the chance to hear what was said. I didn’t recognize Cole’s voice. It might have been two other people for all I know. Now then, I’ll ask you again, are you Cole’s publisher?”

“No, I’m not,” I said, “but I’m interested in talking to him before he talks to his publisher.”

“Then you’re a literary agent?” she asked.

“Well, not exactly, but — well, I can’t tell you any more than that I’d like to talk to Hale before he talks to his publisher.”

“Maybe you’re making him an offer for a motion picture contract,” she said.

I moved my shoulders in a deprecatory gesture and said, “That’s your version.”

She looked me over and said, “Would you like to come in for a minute?”

I looked dubiously at Hale’s door. “I guess he’s not home,” I said. “You don’t have any idea when he’ll return?”

“I think he moved out. I don’t think he’s coming back.”

“Behind in the rent?”

“I understand he pays his rent in advance from the twentieth to the twentieth. You don’t get behind with your rent in this place. You either come up with the money or out you go.”

“Hard-boiled like that, eh?” I asked.

“Very hard-boiled.”

I followed her into her apartment. I was a little more pretentious than the apartment next door. Doors indicated a wall bed. There were a table, a battered typewriter desk, a portable typewriter and pages of a manuscript.

“You’re a writer?” I asked.

She indicated a straight-backed chair. “Please sit down,” she said. “Yes, I’m a writer, and if you’re a publisher... well, I’d like to talk with you.”

“Frankly,” I told her, “I’m not a publisher. I don’t even know whether I could help you or not. What kind of material do you write?”

“I’m writing a novel,” she said, “and I think it’s a good one.”

“How far along are you with it?”

“I’m a little over halfway.”

“Good characters?” I asked.

“They stand out.”

“Character conflict?”

“Lots of it. I have suspense. I have people confronted with dilemmas which are going to require decisions, and the reader is going to be vitally interested in what those decisions are going to be.”

“That’s very interesting,” I said. “How well do you know Colburn Hale?”

“Fairly well. He’s been here only five or six weeks.”

“What made you think I was his publisher?”

“I knew he was expecting a visit from his publisher and he had been working terribly hard on his novel, pounding away on the typewriter. He was a very good hunt-and-peck typist.”

“Any idea what his novel was about?”

“No, we just decided we wouldn’t tell each other our plots. And I have a basic rule. I never tell the details of a plot to anyone. I think it’s bad luck.”

I nodded sympathetically. “You and Hale were quite friendly?” I asked.

“Just neighbors,” she said. “He had a girl friend.”

“So?” I asked.

“Nanncie Beaver,” she said. “I’m going to run over and see her sometime this afternoon and see what she knows. You see, we don’t have telephones.”

“A neighbor?” I asked.

“Up on eight-thirty,” she said. “That’s just a few doors up the street. She has Apartment Sixty-two B. I hope — I hope she knows.”

“Is there any reason why she wouldn’t?”

“You know how men are,” she said suddenly.

“How are they?” I asked.

She flared up with sudden bitterness. “They like to play around and then if there are any — any responsibilities they duck out. They take a powder. They’re gone. You can’t find them.”

“You think Colburn Hale was like that?”

“I think all men are like that.”

“Including publishers?”

Her eyes softened somewhat and surveyed me from head to foot. “If you’re a publisher,” she said, “you’re different. And somehow I think you are a publisher regardless of what you say.”

“I’d like to be a publisher,” I said.

“A subsidy publisher?”

I shook my head. “No, not that.”

“You haven’t told me your name.”

“You haven’t told me yours.”

“I’m Marge Fulton,” she said.

“I’m Donald Lam,” I told her. “I’ll be back again to see if Colburn Hale has come in. If he does come in, and you happen to hear him, will you tell him that Donald Lam is anxious to see him?”

“And what shall I tell him Donald Lam wants to see him about?”

I hesitated for several seconds, as though debating whether to tell her, then I said, “I think I’d better tell him firsthand. I don’t want to be rude, but I think it would be better that way.”

I got up and walked to the door. “Thanks a lot, Miss Fulton. You’ve been very helpful.”

“Will I see you again?”

“Probably,” I said.

“I think I’m writing a honey of a novel,” she said.

“I’ll bet you are,” I told her.

She stood in the doorway watching me down the stairs.

I had a secondhand portable typewriter in my car. It fitted snugly into its case, and I got this portable out, climbed the stairs at 830 Billinger Street and found Apartment 62B was on the second floor. I tapped on the door and got no answer. I tentatively tried the knob. The door was locked. I stepped back a few paces and knocked on the door of Apartment 61B.

The woman who opened the door was a faded blonde with traces of pouches under her eyes, but she was slim waisted and attractive. She was wearing a blouse and slacks, and I had evidently disappointed her because her facial expression showed that she had been expecting someone whom she wanted to see and I was a letdown.

I said, “You’ll pardon me, ma’am, but I’ve got to raise some money in a hurry. I’ve got a typewriter here, a first-class portable that I’d like to sell.”

She looked at me, then at the typewriter, and her eyes showed quick interest. “How much do you want for it?”

I said, “My name is Donald Lam. I’m a writer. I want money. I’d like to have you try out this typewriter and make me an offer. I’m desperately in need of cash. You can have this machine at a bargain.”

She said, “I already have a typewriter.”

“Not like this one,” I told her. “This is in first-class shape, perfect alignment, and the work it turns out is — impressive.”

I saw that interested her.

“Write a manuscript on this typewriter,” I went on, “and it will stand out from the run-of-the-mill typing. Any editor will give it his respectful attention.”

“How did you know I wrote?” she asked.

“I thought I heard the sound of a typewriter as I was walking down the corridor.”

“Who referred you to me?”

“No one. I’m in a spot where I need cash, and I’m going to sell this typewriter to somebody before I leave the building.”

“For cash?”

“For cash.”

She shook her head and said, “Lots of people in this building use typewriters, but mighty few of them have the kind of cash that you would want.”

I said, “Would it be too much to ask you to try out this typewriter? I might make a trade, taking your machine, giving you this one and taking some cash to boot.”

“How much to boot?”

“I’d have to see your machine first.”

She looked at her wrist watch. “Come in,” she said.

The apartment was a two-room affair with a partial division screening off the kitchenette. A portable typewriter sat on a rather battered card table with a folding chair in front of it. There were pages of manuscript on the card table and the apartment gave evidences of having been well lived in. It wasn’t exactly sloppy, but it wasn’t neat.

“You’re living here alone?” I asked.

Her eyes suddenly became suspicious. “That’s neither here nor there. Let’s look at your portable,” she said, picking her portable up off the card table and setting it on a chair.

I opened my portable and put it on the card table.

She put some paper in and tried it out. She had the hunt-and-peck system, but she was good at it.

“What do you write?” I asked. “Novels, articles, short stories?”

“Anything,” she said. “I am Annaemae Clinton.”

I looked around a bit. There were writers’ magazines and a book containing a list of markets. There was a pile of envelopes on a shelf which I surmised contained rejected stories which had been returned from the editors.

She swiftly picked up the pages of manuscript that were on the card table, took them over to the chair which held the typewriter and put them face down on top of the typewriter.

“This is a pretty good machine,” she said.

“It’s in perfect condition.”

“What kind of a trade?” she asked.

“I’d want to take a look at your machine.”

She went over to the chair, picked up the manuscript pages from on top of the typewriter, moved them over to a bookcase, brought the typewriter over, shoved my machine out of the way and put her typewriter down on the card table. Then she rather grudgingly handed me a sheet of paper.

The typewriter was an ancient affair which ran like a threshing machine and the type was pretty much out of fine. In addition to which the typefaces were dirty. The e and the a gave pretty poor impressions.

“Well?” she asked.

I said. “I’ll take your typewriter, give you mine, and take forty dollars in cash.”

She thought it over for a while, then said, “Let me try your machine again.”

She did more typing this time. I could see she wanted it.

“Twenty-five dollars,” she said.

“Forty,” I told her. “This machine is like new.”

“Thirty.”

“Make it thirty-five and it’s a deal.”

“You’re a hard man to do business with.”

“I need the money, but I’ve got a good typewriter here. Your machine needs lots of work done on it.”

“I know that.”

She was silent for a while, then said, “Would you take fifteen dollars down and twenty dollars in two weeks?”

I shook my head. “I need money.”

She sighed reluctantly. “I can’t cut the mustard,” she said.

“All right,” I told her. “I’ll try next door. Who’s your neighbor in Apartment Sixty-two B?”

“There isn’t any.”

“Not rented?”

“It was, but she moved out, a woman by the name of Beaver, Nanncie Beaver. She spelled her first name N-a-n-n-c-i-e.”

“A writer?”

“I guess so. She used to do a lot of clacking on the typewriter. I didn’t ever see her by-line on anything.”

“Sociable?”

“Not particularly — but a nice sort. She moved all at once. I didn’t know anything about it until yesterday when she moved out.”

“Boyfriends?”

“I wouldn’t know. We live our own lives up here. There’s a couple in Sixty B, name of Austin. I don’t know what they do. I think he has a job somewhere. I don’t know if she writes. I never hear a typewriter over there. I think she’s some sort of an artist. They keep very much to themselves. When you come right down to it, that’s the way people live in this section.”

She thought for a moment and then added, “And — it’s, the only way to live.”

“Did Miss. Beaver give you any hint she was moving out?” I asked.

“No, I didn’t know anything about it until she started moving out cardboard boxes and suitcases.”

“Transfer man?”

“Taxicab,” she said. “She made some with the driver to help her.”

“That’s strange about the cardboard boxes and the suitcases,” I said.

“Well, she had cardboard cartons. There must have been a half a dozen of them that were sealed with tape and had stationery pasted on the side. She took those first and then in about thirty minutes came back and got the suitcases.”

“Taxi driver helped her all the time?”

“Yes.”

“A Yellow Cab?”

“Yes, at least I think so.”

“Same taxi driver?”

“I wouldn’t know. Heavens! Why are you so interested in Nanncie Beaver?”

“I’m darned if I know,” I told her, “but I’m a great one to try and put two and two together and understand people. I regard everyone as a potential story. What you have told me just arouses my curiosity.”

“Well, she’s gone. You can’t sell her a typewriter now.”

“You don’t think she’ll be back?”

She shook her head. “Tell me, what’s the best deal you’ll make on a trade?”

I looked at her typewriter again. “I can’t offer you very much encouragement. This is in bad shape. It needs cleaning, oiling, a general overhaul.”

“I know. I keep putting things off, and when you’re freelancing on articles and things, you don’t have much money. I can’t get along without the machine — and I don’t have much money — so I’ can’t afford to put it in the shop. Some of my checks I get for stories are for less than five dollars... the cheaper magazines, you know.”

“Tough luck,” I said. “Perhaps if your manuscripts looked — well, more professional, you could make better deals.”

“That’s what I was thinking. That’s why I wanted to see what kind of a trade you’d make — but I can’t go without eats, and rent is due in two weeks.”

“I can’t better the proposition I’ve made you,” I said.

“You don’t feel you could take fifteen dollars down and then come back in two weeks and get twenty dollars. I’ve had a story accepted. I’ll have the twenty for sure.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I couldn’t do it. Who else is in the building that you know that might be interested in typewriters?”

“No one,” she said. “There are only four apartments on this floor. The fourth apartment is rented by some kind of a business woman. She’s up and off to work every morning. I don’t know anything about the people on the upper floor.”

I put my typewriter back in its case.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll try the building next door. Do you know anything about it?”

She shook her head. “We don’t pay much attention to our neighbors,” she said. “We have our friends and that’s that. I sure would like to have that typewriter.”

“I wish I could afford to sell it on the basis of the offer you’ve made, but I have my own living to think of.”

“Do you write?”

“Once in a while.”

“You look prosperous. You look as if you didn’t have trouble selling.”

“Can you tell that by looking at me?”

“Yes, there’s an incisive something about you, atmosphere of assurance. You take us free-lance writers that get beaten down with rejections and after a while there’s a general aura of frustration and futility which clings to us. I’ve seen it happen to others and I think happening with me.”

“Tell you what I’ll do,” I told her. “You’ve been good sport. I’ll take a chance. Give me fifteen dollars and your typewriter, and I’ll come back in two weeks for twenty.”

“Will you do that?” she asked, her face lighting up.

I nodded.

“Oh, that’s wonderful! I’ve been thinking about appearance of my work lately. It does look sort of — well, amateurish.”

“A fresh ribbon wouldn’t hurt any on your typewriter,” I said.

“Fresh ribbons cost money,” she said, “and money doesn’t grow on bushes.”

She went into a closet, fumbled around for a while, then came out with two fives and five dollars in one-dollar bills.

I handed her my typewriter, put her typewriter in its case, and said, “Remember, I’ll be back in two weeks. I hope the new machine brings you luck.”

“It will. It will! I know it will!” she said. “I’m feeling better already. You said your name was Lam?”

“Donald Lam.”

“I’ll have the money for you, Donald. I just know I will. I’m assured of that sale. I feel it in my bones. I would have done a little bit better on this first installment, only I have to eat and I’m saving out enough for hamburger. You can’t do good work when you’re really hungry.”

“That’s right.”

She saw me to the door, then on impulse put her arms around me and kissed me on, the cheek, “I think you’re very wonderful,” she said.

I took her battered-up typewriter and went back to my car, thinking over the information I had obtained about Nanncie Beaver.

Two trips in a taxicab. Cardboard cartons, one trip, which lasted less than half an hour; and then suitcases on the second trip, and she didn’t come back after the second trip.

I went back to the directory and found the card that was marked MANAGER.

I went to the manager’s apartment. She was past middle age, heavy and cynical. “Do you have a vacancy?” I asked.

“I’m going to have one, Sixty-two B on the second floor. It’s a nice apartment.”

“Can I take a look at it?”

“Not right now. It isn’t cleaned up yet. The tenant just moved out yesterday and left things in something of a mess.”

“I’ll make allowances for that.”

“I can’t go up with you now. I’m expecting a long-distance call.”

“Let me have the key and I’ll take a look,” I said,

“What do you do?” she asked.

“I’m a writer.”

She shook her head. “Writers are pretty poor payers. They mean all right, but they can’t come up with the money when they don’t have it, and there’s lots of times when they don’t have it.”

“What do you want for the apartment?” I asked.

“Fifty-five dollars,” she said.

I said, “I’m a little different form the average writer. I would be able to give you the first month’s rent down and fifty-five dollars for the last month’s rent. Anytime I didn’t pay up you could take the rent out of that second fifty-five dollars.”

“Well, now, that’s something different,” she said. “You must be a very successful writer.”

“I’m getting by,” I told her.

She handed me a key. “Remember, the apartment is in an awful mess. I’m going to have it cleaned later today.”

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll make allowances.”

I went back up the stairs and into Apartment 62B.

It was in something of a mess. Papers were strewn around on the floor. Other papers had been hastily crumpled and thrown into the wastebasket. Some of the drawers were half open.

I smoothed out the crumpled papers. Most of them were the type of form letter that is sent out on direct mail advertising. One of the papers was typed and listed series of articles, three books, with the title and the author, and then the list went on: half a package of first-page typewriter paper, a full package of copy paper, pencils, pens, erasers, typewriter ribbons, envelopes, writers’ market data.

There was nothing to tell me why she’d pulled that piece of paper out of the typewriter, crumpled it up and thrown it in the wastebasket.

At the top was the name — NANNCIE ARMSTRONG, Box 5.

I took the paper, folded it up, left the apartment, gave the keys to the manager and said I was thinking it over and that I’d like to see the apartment after it was cleaned up.

I drove to my apartment, got the classified telephone book, and looked under STORAGE.

There was a storage company, the International, which had a branch within about five blocks of Billinger Street, where Nanncie Beaver had lived.

I went back out to the car and drove over to the Yellow Cab Company. The dispatching operator said. “I had a cab yesterday that picked up some cardboard cartons at eight-thirty Billinger Street and took them to the International Storage branch that is about five blocks away... Was there trouble?”

“Quite the contrary,” I said. “I found that cab driver very alert, very competent, very courteous. I have some other things I want done and I’d like to get him.”

“That cab might be rather hard to locate,” the operator said.

“Your cabs report in on what they’re doing.” I said. “This cab reported in that it was on Billinger Street and was taking a bunch of cartons to the International Storage Company; then the cab picked me up with my suitcases.”

Since I knew that the cab drivers reported by address and not by customer, I knew the dispatcher had no way of knowing whether the customer had been a man or a woman.

I pushed a five-dollar bill through the wicket. “It’s quite important to me,” I said. “If a box of chocolates would help refresh your recollection, this would give the needed stimulus.”

“That won’t be necessary,” she said.

“It might help.” I told her.

She almost absent-mindedly reached for the five-dollar bill. “It might take a little while to look this up,” she said.

“I’ll wait.”

“I... wait a minute, I’ve got it right here. It was cab two twenty-seven A. These drivers work in shifts, you know. The cabs keep busy all the time, theoretically twenty-four hours a day. One cab driver returns the cab to the garage, the next driver picks it up.”

“I know,” I said, “but this driver was on duty in the morning and...”

“Then he’d probably be on duty at this hour.” she said.

“Could you locate him,” I asked, “and have him go back to Eight-thirty Billinger Street? I’ll be waiting there for him.”

“You want to get this particular cab?”

“This particular driver,” I said.

“All right,” she told me, making a note. “I’ll notify him. You’ll be waiting there?”

“I’ll be waiting there at the foot of the stairs.”

I drove my car back to 830 Billinger Street and wait twenty-five minutes before a Yellow cab drove up.

The driver got out and looked around.

“You did a job for me yesterday,” I said, “moving some cartons to the International Storage Company.”

He looked at me thoughtfully. “It wasn’t for you,” said. “It was...”

“I know,” I told him. “It was for my assistant, Nanncie Beaver, who was moving out of Apartment Sixty-two B. Now then, there’s been a mix-up on some of the stuff that she took with her and some of the cartons that were left at the storage company. I’m going to have to check and you can help me. First, we’ll go to the International.”

He took the ten dollars I handed him and said, “Is this on the up and up?”

“Of course it’s on the up and up. I’m just trying to get some stuff straightened out. I think Nanncie made mistake in packing up in the apartment and put a manuscript in which I’m interested in one of the boxes that was stored.”

“Okay,” he said, “let’s go.”

He pulled down the flag and I rode with him to the branch of the International Storage Company.

“Just wait here,” I said. “I won’t be long.”

I walked in and told the girl at the desk, “My assistant brought in a bunch of cartons from our apartment at Eight-thirty Billinger Street yesterday. The cab driver out there made the delivery. She signed the papers. There’s been a mix-up in the number of boxes. I want to find the bill of lading, or whatever it is you issue, and check on the number of boxes.”

She took it as a matter of course. “What name?” she asked.

“Nanncie Armstrong,” I said taking a shot in the dark.

She ran down an alphabetical list, said, “Here it is. There were six cardboard cartons.”

“Only six?”

“Only six.”

“Then six A is missing,” I said. “I’ll have to try to locate it. Thank you very much.”

I could see that there was just a faint hint of suspicion in the girl’s eyes, so I didn’t press my luck. I went back to the taxicab and said, “There’s been a mix-up somewhere. We’ll go back to Eight-thirty Billinger Street.”

On the road back, I said, “You took my assistant and her suitcases somewhere after she had stored the boxes?”

“That’s right.”

“Airport?” I asked.

He turned around with sudden suspicion. “Not the airport,” he said.

I laughed and said, “She’s always trying to save money. I suppose she went by bus. I told her to take the plane.”

“I took her to the bus depot,” he admitted.

I didn’t ask any more questions but paid off the meter when he stopped at Billinger Street and started for the stairs. “I’ve got to find that extra box somewhere,” I told him. “I suppose Nanncie left it with the manager for me to pick up. We’re giving up the apartment, you know.”

“So I gathered,” he said, then looked at the tip I had given him, nodded his head, said, “Okay,” and then drove away.

I got in my car, drove to my apartment and picked up a cardboard carton, took some old newspapers and three or four books that I didn’t care much about, sealed everything in the box and typewrote a sheet, NANNCIE ARMSTRONG, Box 6A.

I made up a detailed fake inventory and taped sheet of paper on the carton.

I then went back to the International Storage Company and came in lugging my dummy box with a cheerful smile on my face.

“All right,” I said, “I chased down the box that was lost. This is box number six A. Put it with the others you will, please.”

She took the box.

I said, “I presume there may be a little more to pay on the storage.”

“It won’t amount to much. We get two months’ storage in advance on jobs of this sort. There were six packs and she paid for them — there’ll only be fifty cents due a package this size, which we’ll put in with the others.”

“Fine,” I told her, handed her fifty cents, and started for the door, then checked my step as though struck an afterthought.

I walked back and said, “I’m sorry, but I’m going have to have a receipt.”

“But Miss Armstrong has the receipt,” she said.

“I know, for six cartons. Now there are seven, counting this one which is numbered six A.”

She frowned a minute, then said, “All right, I’ll make out a separate receipt.”

She took a piece of paper, scribbled “One cardboard carton added to Nanncie Armstrong’s account, General Delivery, Calexico, California,” marked “50¢ paid,” sign the receipt with her initials and handed it to me.

“You can put this with the others and it’ll be all right,” she said.

I thanked her and walked out.

Nanncie Armstrong had taken a Greyhound Bus. She had given an address, General Delivery, in Calexico. She didn’t have a car of her own. Colburn Hale hadn’t the faintest sign of a backtrack, but putting two and two together, it was a good bet that he and Nanncie Beaver were planning a meeting.

I drove back to my apartment, picked up a suitcase, threw it in the back of the agency heap and started for Calexico.