The Carnelian Cube

Thirteen:

The Colonel meant business. Finch had no more than bathed, dressed and visited Dr. Proctor for treatment of the wounds inflicted by Magnolia, than he was summoned to the library to be presented with a contract naming Richard Fitzhugh Lee as his publisher and literary agent, and awarding the boss 93% of the proceeds of the venture in recognition of his services. Save for the insertion of the publisher as the party of first interest, this was not so very different from other book contracts Finch had encountered. He signed gladly, and over the handshake that bound the bargain asked the Colonel whether the hall afforded a few volumes of verse. "I'll need them to select lines for more montages."

"Well, suh, now that you mention it, we are deficient in that form of literature here, a deficiency I expect to see you more than make good. All we have are collected works of J. Gordon Coogler, the great poet of the Southland, a personal acquaintance and object of veneration to my revered sire." He paused and blew his nose with energy into an immense bandanna to indicate emotion. "Memphis is not a poetical town. I suggest that you wait upon Theodore Harriman at the office of the Nonpareil newspaper. You will wish to see him anyways about the details of the publication of your own volume, and he has a collection that gives him the name of being the second most eccentric man in Memphis, yes, indeedy."

"Who is the most eccentric?"

The Colonel's expression became one of outraged dignity. "Suh, not even the license of a poet can excuse deliberate insult to the head of the Society. But I accept it as the insult of plain dumb' ignorance, and have the honor to inform you-all that I am the most eccentric, of co'se."

It occurred to Finch that he had not altogether re-established his position, and the impression was confirmed the following morning, when he found that instead of having either of the limousines, he was to go to town in the asthmatic bus that limped past the gates of Pegasus Hati.

It was his first real contact with the world beyond that structure, and he found the experience diverting, if a trifle hectic. The bus conductor was chewing tobacco and ejecting the juice with wonderful and nerve-racking accuracy out the window, past the knees of his passengers. The other half of Finch's seat was filled by a lady of ample proportions, strongly perfumed with garlic, who gave him one or two sidelong glances as the bus trundled forward, announced they were soul-mates and tried to seize him around the neck.

The other passengers took an immediate and excited interest. When Finch attempted to repulse the damsel, he was upbraided by a clerically-garbed gentleman, who turned round in the seat ahead to say that accepting the embraces of a pure woman was the fulfillment of God's law, and would increase his expectation of life. This drew fire from the bus-driver, who was apparently an atheist. He stopped his vehicle to take part in the argument, which had reached a stage of personalities just preceding that of blows when Finch managed to slip out the emergency exit during the confusion to continue his journey on foot.

He had not gone more than a couple of blocks before he discovered that this was probably a mistake. *People stopped to stare at him till he began to wonder whether he had all his clothes on, but it was not until he had passed the First National Bank and was close to the Nonpareil office that he learned the reason. A metallic voice, rising to tornado intensity, brought him to a halt. It came from a sound-truck, which bore down directly taward him, shouting: "Read Arthur Finch's new poems! Out October first! Read Arthur Finch's new ..." The whole flank of the vehicle was occupied by a billboard, with an atrocious, but he feared recognizable, sketch of himself, surrounded by monstrous captions: "THE POET LAUREATE OF MEMPHIS! SHAKESPEARE OF THE SOUTHERN CULTURAL RENAISSANCE!"

The Colonel was a fast worker.

His mouth opening like the mouth of a carp, Finch shrank back against the building as the truck came to a halt, nearly in front of him. Toward the curb he could see a good-looking girl in bright blue stockings who looked at the frightful poster, then at him, then started purposefully in his direction. But she never arrived.

BOOM!

A blast of air slammed him against the stonework amid a tinkling rain of glass. People screamed and ran, spreading from the entrance to the First National Bank, and out of it into the suddenly lonesome street came two men, each with a suitcase in one hand and a gun in the other. As Finch struggled to his feet, a portly cop in a gold-braided coat of many colors went past, tugging at his pocket. One of the gunmen fired; down went the officer, and the robbers climbed into a.getaway car, which moved off at a pace that seemed curiously languid.

A voice behind Finch said: "You're Finch, the poet, ain't you? Thought you'd show up."

He swung round to see, in front of a glass door that said "NO-PAR-IL" (with two letters missing) a figure tall but stooped, with long nose, thin vulpine face, ending in a tiny whisker—

"Terry!" cried Finch.

"Airedale!" retorted the tall man. "Come on in. Unless you're casing the joint for Lee's torpedoes. But I ain't got nothing he'd want."

Finch's arm was seized and he was steered into a hole-in-the-wall ground level office, where his guide dropped him in a chair and himself took another behind the desk with a plate that announced its owner as Theo. Harriman, Editor. Outside the clang of an ambulance was audible.

"There's a bank robbery!" Finch said wildly.

"Surprise," said Theo. Harriman, with an accent of heavy irony. "Never mind the act, though. I wouldn't turn in one of the old buzzard's lookouts for anything, and besides, he's got the fix on everything in this town."

Finch comprehended enough of this statement to realize he was being accused. "Good God, whatever gave you the idea that I was acting as a lookout for an affair like that?"

"Member of the Pegasus, ain't you? Pretty chummy with Basil Stewart and Impy Smith, who just tipped that box over?"

Finch pulled an ear-lobe. "I suppose I ought to have suspected that much. But look here—if I eat dinner with a minister, does that make me a missionary?"

The editor cocked his head on one side, and in the light across the angle of the jaw it was clear that his resemblance to Terry Armstrong was generalized rather than particular. There was a general air of age and dissipation about the face, culminating in faint pouches under the eyes; the mouth set itself naturally in a twist of wry humor that Terry had lacked. "Quotation," said Harriman, critically, "but fairly apt for an, impromptu. Deserves a jorum. Harem, the bottle."

He stretched an arm back toward the typewriter desk into which a secretary had apparently inserted herself with some difficulty, for she was a bull-blown blonde of at least two hundred pounds. "Now, Theodore—" she began.

"This is an Occasion. The bottle." She sighed reproachfully, unlocked the bottom drawer of her desk, and passed over a half-filled bottle of Bourbon with two dirty glasses. "How did you know who I was?" asked Finch, lifting one arm with the reflection that alcohol was, after all, an antiseptic.

"I listen at key-holes. Even when they're in inside rooms, the noise of that sound truck comes through." Then, catching Finch's shudder: "How's your magnum opus coming? Copy nearly ready for the print-shop?"

"Barely started. I need more material ..." Finch explained his process.

Harriman chuckled. "If I didn't know it couldn't be done, I'd say you slipped over a fast one on our mind-reading first citizen," he said. "However, all things work together for good unto them that love Eddie Guest. Harem! Fetch me a stack of anthologies. Here's a young man smart enough to know that the only method of becoming a poet is taking it in from the outside, and he needs encouragement."

Finch asked: "Are holdups like that a part of the regular program?"

"Only when the Colonel has financial difficulties," said Harriman, cheerfully. "It's his method of collecting taxes to pay for the good government he gives us. Now either the bank will go bust and the depositors will pay for the fun, or the insurance company, in which case the tax will come out of the stockholders. Depends on how he wants to rig the books this time; he owns both of them, anyway."

"Oh." Finch had seen enough of politics to realize the naiveté of asking why an aroused citizenry did not protest. "But if he owns everything, why does he have to use such sensational methods? I should think it would get people annoyed in the long run."

"Prob'ly will some day if he does it too often. Then we'll have a new boss. But he had to have a lot of cash money in a hurry for some reason and didn't make the cleaning he expected on that boat-race. Besides, it keeps people amused." The editor chuckled again, and poured a second round.

"But if he owns that much what did he need of cash in a hurry?"

"Prob'Iy lost a big bet somewhere. Don't kid yourself about our local grand duke. He's a mighty big frog, but Memphis is a small puddle, and if he didn't lay it on the line, the opposition might call in the FBI mob or maybe the Garment Workers' Union gang. Then the place would be crawling with dam yankees till you couldn't call your soul your own and we'd maybe get Someone down here from Nashville to run things, so we take a few stickups like this and hope Our Richard picks the right number on the little wheel next time."

"But wasn't there a man killed?"

"What of it? Everybody has to die some time. Anyway that cop was Jerry Burke—just a big dumb Mick. He's been making a play for one of Basil Stewart's women, and prob'ly figured he'd inherit her under rococo circumstances, in spite of the warning going around last night that the bank was going to be taken today. He should have laid off."

Harriman's secretary returned from the inner rooms with three or four chubby volumes which she deposited on the desk. "Well, thanks for the books and the drink," he said. "I'll be back with a manuscript as soon as I can."

"Don't mention it." The editor flipped a hand. "Anyway, there are plenty of others around here who figure to promote themselves through interest in so-called culture. You'll run into them. The motto is from Macchiavelli: 'Sequi il tuo corso, e lascia dir le gent', which as I figure it, means, 'Take your own road to hell, and let the dopes chatter.'"

Finch paused with the books under his arm. "Oh, you know that one, do you? Did you ever, by any chance, run into any of the works of Apollonios of Tyana?"

"The one who was supposed to have discovered the philosopher's stone? Can't say I have. Why do you ask?"

"You seemed—that is, I thought you might have run across him in your wanderings among old books. I once owned a stone that was supposed to have descended from him—a little cube of red carnelian with an inscription on it, like a paperweight."

"Interesting. Maybe the philosopher's stone itself. If I had it I wouldn't mention it to anybody, though." Harriman turned toward his secretary: "Harem! Put this bottle away, and if ever I get to drinking before noon again, read me that editorial I wrote on temperance, will you?"

Finch had nearly reached Pegasus Hall before remembering that Tiridat had never mentioned having the cube, and he had discovered it only by accident.