Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 39, No. 5, November 1976

Rubout by Edward Wellen

J. Alden Mortimer was on his way to a well earned luxury voyage — when a single incident out of his own past served to dry dock him for the rest of his life.

Someone brushed against J. Alden Mortimer but Mortimer remained too intent on seeing his baggage quickly and safely aboard the cruise ship to spare more than the most fleeting glance of annoyance.

He spoke sharply to the lug gage handler who was taking the bags out of the trunk of the taxi. “Hurry!... Careful!”

He knew he must seem overly fussy to anyone watching but he didn’t care. Time to relax once he and his belongings were under way. “Make sure they’re right side up.”

Too late — the stupid handler had grounded a suitcase wrong. Mortimer feared the gritty pier floor would scratch or even destroy the elegant initials.

Small consolation to take it out of the tip. Mortimer hated this last-minute rush. It got what should be a good experience off to a bad start. The worst of it was he had allowed lots of time, yet the taxi driver, who to hear him tell it knew how to run the country if not the world, had managed to lock them into an infuriatingly long traffic tieup and had delivered him here only minutes before sailing.

Up the gangplank. Aboard at last. Mortimer knew his stateroom’s location by heart and led the way. He had picked the stateroom himself, determining from a model of the liner in the steamship line’s own office the best location, taking into account the prevailing winds. The empirical British had known a thing or two about comfortable sailing — hadn’t the word posh come into being from Port Outbound, Starboard Homeward? — and he could have done worse than follow their example. No telling but that even a modern luxury liner’s air conditioning might break down in torrid zone waters, so he had chosen the cool and shady side.

With a satisfied smile, he strode toward his stateroom, heading his safari of one plus bearer through a jungle of bustle and confusion. A man who knew where he was going had the edge on the uncertain ones. He imagined a slight sway to the huge vessel but walked with the assurance of a man who had long since got his sea-legs. Still, he looked forward to a bit of air conditioning right now. This last-minuteness had put him in something of a sweat.

He found his stateroom without trouble and his satisfied smile increased. The door stood half open and the smile uncreased. Someone already occupied his stateroom.

An old man, from what Mortimer could see of him. A scarf muffled him to his dark glasses. He had settled in among a smother of fruit and candy and flowers and books. A room stewardess was seeing to the old man’s comfort and it was she who looked up in surprise at Mortimer and company and who spoke up in the old man’s behalf.

“Good afternoon, sir. What stateroom are you looking for?”

Mortimer backed up a step for another glance at the face of the door, then stepped forward again. “This room.” He winced at the bother they would have to put the old man to in resettling him wherever he belonged, but right was right.

“I’m afraid there’s been a mistake. You see, this room is mine. I definitely booked for this room.” He folded his arms and spaced his feet farther apart.

His firmness proved too much for the stewardess to deal with on her own. She put in a call for the ship’s purser. While they waited for the purser Mortimer nodded for the bearer to put down his bags and paid the man off — not forgetting he had promised himself to lessen the tip.

The ship’s purser appeared, a harried man who carried it well. He heard Mortimer out, then pursed his lips. “May I see your confirmation, sir?”

Smiling gladly but stiffly, mortified that he hadn’t thought of it himself, Mortimer felt his pockets for the telltale bulge. “Of course.” Only now, and fleetingly, did it strike him as strange that no one had asked him before for ticket or boarding pass. But no doubt that had been due to his being, and behaving like, a man who knew where he was going. All other thought, however, fled as his more and more frantic pats paced a more and more rapidly beating heart. “I seem to have lost—”

His mind flashed back to the someone who had brushed against him down on the pier. A pickpocket!

“Look, purser, someone stole my wallet and my ticket. But you should find the name J. Alden Mortimer on your passenger list.”

The purser looked terribly patient. “Sir, the first thing I did when the room stewardess phoned me was examine the passenger list. The name J. Alden Mortimer does not appear on it. Shall we move along toward the gangplank? Time is short.”

“ ‘Does not appear?’ Are you sure? You must have missed it.”

“Very well, sir. I’m sure, but I’ll look again.” He took out a typed list. “This is the final list, ready for the shipboard printer to print.” He ran his eyes down the names, let Mortimer look over his shoulder. He shook his head. “Sorry, sir, but it’s as I said. No Mortimer. So if you’ll—”

“There must be some mistake.”

“That’s right, there must be. I’m afraid, sir, it’s yours. You’re not down on the passenger list for this stateroom or any other. This gentleman is, for this very stateroom. So—”

“You still have time to phone your steamship office. They must have a record of my booking. I know damn well they cashed my check. You can do that.”

The purser looked to heaven — or toward the captain’s station — for strength or forgiveness. He had an air of I-only-have-a-hundred-million-last-minute-nuisances-to-take-care-of-and-now-this extra nuisance turns up!

“Yes, I suppose I can do that.” He snatched up the room phone and barked through to the line’s headquarters. He repeated, for his own satisfaction and Mortimer’s benefit, the answer he got. “No reservation for a J. Alden Mortimer, for this sailing or any other? Thank you.” He hung up.

He signaled and two stewards approached. Mortimer noted that they were burly. The purser brightened as the public address system began shooing visitors from the ship.

“Sorry, sir.” He did not look sorry. “You’ll have to leave. We’re about to put to sea.”

“But—”

The purser turned a deaf ear to Mortimer and a talking nod to the pair of stewards. The stewards walked Mortimer and his luggage along the deck and down the gangplank. They released him outside the small wooden enclosure on the pier. They returned to the head of the gangplank and stood there watchfully.

People crowding the pier and lining the rails stared at him. Did they think the ship’s personnel had caught him trying to stow away? Maybe they thought the line’s security force had forestalled a notorious gambler? Didn’t they know he was J. Alden Mortimer?

He moved forward a few steps toward the foot of the gangplank. The stewards stiffened. He stopped. He stood unaware that he blocked the way, that the last of the departing visitors rubbed him right and left squeezing past.

The last of the last, a man in his early forties, murmured an apology in pushing by, then hesitated, turned and came back to Mortimer’s side. Mortimer watched disbelievingly as the gangplank lifted and the ship made ready to move away without him. He grew aware the man was eyeing him curiously. The man gave a half-smile.

“Are you feeling all right?”

Mortimer did not answer.

The man nodded. “I know. Partings aren’t easy. I’ve been seeing someone off myself. Look, I’m driving back uptown. Maybe I can drop you off?”

Mortimer let the man lead him to a chauffeured limousine parked on the pier and sit him inside. Mortimer started.

“My luggage!”

“Oh?” The man followed Mortimer’s finger. He looked puzzled but sighed to his chauffeur, who retrieved the bags and stowed them in the trunk of the car. The man settled back beside Mortimer. “Now. Where would you like to go?”

Around the world, the way he had planned and paid for. “I don’t know.”

The man frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I!” It all burst from Mortimer — the old man occupying his stateroom, the missing wallet and ticket, the lying passenger list, the ignominious walking of the gangplank.

The man listened with growing wonder. “Strange — very strange. I’m a businessman myself and I know that’s no way to run a passenger line.” His eyes slid toward Mortimer. “If what you say is so.” He watched Mortimer swell and stopped him from bursting again. “I apologize. Of course, you’re telling the truth. I know you couldn’t have made it up.” He looked thoughtful. “But you have to go somewhere. Where have you been staying?”

Mortimer told him the hotel.

The man reached for the mouthpiece of the speaking tube and gave the chauffeur the name. The chauffeur nodded and the limousine sat them smoothly back. The man smiled reassuringly at Mortimer.

“Maybe we’ll find you left your papers at your hotel.”

For a second, Mortimer sparked into life. Then, “No, I’m sure I had them on me. My wallet, my credit cards, my travelers checks, my passport, my cruise ticket. Someone picked my pocket.”

“Yes, well, we still may come up with something there.”

They came up with worse than nothing.

There was no record that a J. Alden Mortimer had stayed the night. The man stood by, lending moral support and physical presence as Mortimer besieged the desk. The manager reinforced the clerk.

“You can see for yourself, sir. There is no record.”

Mortimer looked around wildly but found no face to grasp at to back him up. That was understandable. He had only overnighted here — even if these people denied it — after flying from the Midwest and this was a whole new day crew. But that there was no record of his stay — that was not understandable.

He found himself sitting again in the limousine. He stared at the back of the chauffeur’s head. The chauffeur sat patiently awaiting orders. Mortimer realized the car’s owner was speaking — speaking to him.

“Time we introduced ourselves, don’t you think? My name’s Borg.” He waited as if that might mean something to Mortimer, then smiled his half-smile and shrugged slightly. “Frank Borg. I know your name’s Mortimer.”

“J. Alden Mortimer.”

“Are you still set on the cruise, Mr. Mortimer? If we straighten this out you can catch up with the ship at an early port.”

Mortimer warmed at the “we.” “I’d like to, if only to tell that purser a thing or two.” From looking forward he looked back. “The cruise was something I planned with my wife.” He grimaced. “My ex-wife.” As he plunged on his stare defied Borg to smile. “After thirty-five years of marriage, she left me for another man.”

He frowned. “I can’t understand that. I don’t mean about her, though that took me by surprise too. I mean about him. He’s much younger and, I guess, good looking — what they called in the old days a gigolo type — and he could have his pick of pretty girls with money. What he sees in Emma I’ll never know.” He thought Borg looked embarrassed to be hearing all this but he felt he had to open himself to the one sympathetic ear. “As for Emma, her time of life I suppose.”

“But about the cruise. Right after she left, a conglomerate took over my firm. I manufactured heraldic plaques — not much volume but high-priced goods. The conglomerate paid me a surprisingly good price — I saw to it Emma heard how good — but eased me out of all responsibility. I found myself at loose ends. Didn’t know what to do with myself. Then I remembered the plans we had made — dreamed of, rather — and so—”

“And so the cruise.” Borg glanced at his wristwatch. It was easy to see Borg was a man of decision, modern and efficient as the digital timepiece. He picked up his earphone, called his office, and spoke to his secretary. “Cancel all my appointments for the rest of the day.” He hung up, turned to Mortimer, smiled his half-smile. “Now for our next move.”

Mortimer gaped at him. “Why are you doing this?”

“Oh, I’m not as unselfish as you think. If a thing such as this can happen to someone of obvious consequence, like yourself, it can happen to anyone.” His jaw set. “I mean to see this through to the end. Don’t worry, we’ll find out what’s behind this.”

Mortimer felt the tears start and looked his gratitude. He left their next move up to Borg. He was certain it would be a good one.

Borg, taking up the speaking tube, was like a skipper ordering full steam ahead. “Police headquarters.”

The chauffeur nodded and they got under way. Mortimer’s heart lifted. He had known he could count on Borg.

Borg proved to be a man with pull. They got full and fast cooperation from the head of detectives on down. But the deeper the detectives dug, the deeper the pit Mortimer found himself in. He felt himself sink out of existence.

For a solid hour, two detectives manned phones and placed calls to the police department in Mortimer’s home city, to the city and county clerks, to names Mortimer gave them. And each call, instead of bolstering his identity, turned up another blank.

There was no record of a J. Alden Mortimer. No one had ever heard of a J. Alden Mortimer.

J. Alden Mortimer told himself with great calmness, This is only a nightmare. I’m going to wake up soon.

Dimly, through the blurry air and the blood hammer in his veins, he saw a detective hang up with finality and take Borg aside and he heard the words. “I don’t know what this guy’s game is, Mr. Borg, but I wouldn’t have anything more to do with him if I were you. Personally, I figure he’s a nut case. I’m for sending him to Bellevue.”

Borg sidewised a glance at Mortimer and gave the detective a quick hard shake of the head. “No, he’s not crazy. Upset, yes. Confused, yes. But not crazy.” He grew brisk. “Thanks for your help and your suggestion, but I can’t abandon him now.”

Tears came again to Mortimer’s eyes as Borg crossed the room to his side and took his elbow.

This time the limousine pulled up at a drab apartment house.

“Here we are.”

Mortimer stirred at Borg’s voice, eyed the building vaguely, then remembered that Borg had said something about his needing a place to stay till this was all straightened out. He moved at Borg’s touch and joined him on the sidewalk.

He stood for a moment, uncertain. Could it be that he had lost his memory of who he really was and had imagined himself a non-existent J. Alden Mortimer?

No. Borg believed in him. He turned to Borg.

“I don’t know how I can ever repay you, Mr. Borg.”

Borg brushed thanks aside. “This way.”

He led Mortimer down into a basement apartment. The way took them past a nakedness of pipes and meters and a huge boiler that rumbled. The room itself seemed little more than a cell. The furnishings were equally Spartan. But what seized Mortimer’s gaze was the heap of documents on the deal table.

He recognized his wallet, his passport, his traveler’s checks, his cruise ticket, his credit cards...

He stared at Borg, as the room whirled and brought Borg into focus. “What have you been doing to me? You knew all along that I’m J. Alden Mortimer.”

Borg gestured at the heap. “That’s J. Alden Mortimer. Birth, school, employment records, bank, social security, tax records, marriage license, driver’s license, library card. You’re not J. Alden Mortimer, because there’s nothing left in any file anywhere to say there ever was a J. Alden Mortimer.”

He looked Mortimer up and down with an undertaker’s eyes. “I see you standing in front of me, a living, breathing man. But without those papers you’re nobody — nothing!”

“But why?” Hollow voice, hollowness at the heart.

There was a thunderous silence as Borg looked deep into Mortimer’s eyes. Then it was Borg’s turn to burst forth. “My father is George Borg — the old man you found in your stateroom.” He saw Mortimer mouth the name and nodded. “That’s right, George Borg. Remember the name now? Thirty years ago, he was the school janitor in my home town — and yours.

“You were on the Board of Education. It was budget time and he was cleaning up in the hall outside the meeting room. I was twelve, and I had brought him a thermos of coffee from home, and we were standing in the hall when we heard you and the cozy group of board members decide how to cut up the pie and hand out contracts. You wanted to institute the awarding of plaques.

“One of the other members reminded you the budget was tight and the janitor ha,d been putting in for a new boiler. You said, ‘Him? What does what he wants matter? He’s a nobody!’

“I heard the others laugh, and I couldn’t look at my father. Well, the company you had stock in, and later became head of, put in the winning bid to provide plaques for athletes and good citizenship. And two months after the meeting the boiler blew up.

“It scalded and half-blinded my father. You and the others denied he had ever asked for a new boiler. You saw to it the verdict was carelessness on my father’s part. Not only didn’t he get just compensation, but the scars didn’t make him pleasant for children to look at. He lost his job and we moved away.

“But I had made up my mind even before that to get back at you some day. I made up my mind the night of the board meeting.”

For God’s sake, why? Mortimer could not voice it but he could look it, and Borg answered.

“Because that’s when you scarred me for life. You had shamed him in front of me — ‘He’s a nobody!’ — and you had wounded my pride in him.”

The chauffeur brought in Mortimer’s luggage, set it down, stood by. Mortimer noted dully that the initials were gone. He felt sure all identifying marks would be missing from the contents.

Borg had control of himself once more. He even gave Mortimer a half-smile. “I suppose I should thank you. Would I have had the will to rise in the world if it weren’t for my wanting to... rub you out? But it’s been a bittersweet rise. I’ve had to do things I’m not proud of.” Bleakness showed through for a moment. “Maybe someone hates me as much as I’ve hated you.”

His voice went flat and drove on. “Anyway, I’ve been watching you through the years, rubbing you out little by little.” He nodded at the heap of documents. “And now, here you are. No identity. No assets. True, my conglomerate gave you a good price for your company. But you no longer have bank deposits or brokerage accounts. You’re alone in the world. No friends. No wife — I saw to that. Even your daughter is lost to you.”

“You know about—?”

“Know about her taking up with a far-out religion that required her to renounce home and family? I gave generously to the sect. They were happy to indoctrinate her so that you would never hear from her again.

“And now for the end of J. Alden Mortimer.” Borg nodded at the chauffeur.

The chauffeur scooped up all the documents from the table. He toted them out to the boiler and kicked open the firebox. Mortimer’s eyes were fixed on the flames. He lowered his head to charge the chauffeur.

“No!”

Borg stepped unhurriedly between. He caught hold of Mortimer. They were no match. Mortimer stopped struggling and apathetically watched his identity turn to smoke.

The chauffeur closed the firebox and left the basement, released J. Alden Mortimer.

Mortimer spoke emptily to the floor. “What happens now?”

“Nothing. You can stay here, rent-free, for as long as you live. You’ll get a monthly allowance. But only if you answer to the name Blank. Are you listening? Do you hear me, Mr. Blank?”

Mortimer’s eyes blazed, then the fire in them died. He spoke slowly, dully. “Yes. My name is Blank.”

The chauffeur reappeared, toting a heavy shrouded object.

Borg gave a little start. “Oh, yes, a small present for you.”

He gestured for the chauffeur to set it down. With a last look around, he followed the chauffeur out.

Mortimer stared at the closed door, then wandered around the room, casting aimless glances at his surroundings. He stopped to gaze at the “small present,” bent to unveil it. He still had a glimmer of curiosity.

A blank tombstone...

The solid basement floor seemed suddenly to rock like the deck of a ship at sea in a storm.