The Case of the Smoking Chimney

Chapter 9

George Karper had just turned fifty. His face was smooth and unwrinkled. His hair, although touched here and there with silver, remained dark, wavy, and abundant. His eyes were grey and studious, his smile delightful, and he had the figure which wears clothes to advantage, neither too thin nor too fat, long of arm and leg, slender of waist, with a well-built chest.

Only about the mouth was there a suggestion of tight-lipped ruthlessness, and at times his eyes seemed studiously thoughtful, as though translating some conversational opening into terms of his own advantage.

Karper was waiting in the booth when Stanwood came in. His eyes flicked in a quick appraisal of Stanwood’s face. It was only a brief glance, but Stanwood felt that the one glance had been sufficient to suit Karper’s purpose. He had been appraised, ticketed, and a price tag placed on him.

“Sit down, Stanwood. I wanted to talk with you.”

Stanwood took a seat, looked across at Karper, and felt his eyes shift suddenly away from the other’s face.

The one thing meant more to Stanwood than anything that had previously happened in connexion with his defalcation. He knew that Karper knew, or at least suspected, and Stanwood couldn’t look the other man in the eyes to save his life. It was the first time he had ever flinched from meeting another man’s eyes.

Karper began as soon as the soup had made its appearance and the waitress had withdrawn and dropped the brown curtain into place. “Stanwood, I want some information.”

Stanwood kept quiet.

Karper said quietly: “There’d be some money in it for you — quite a bit of money. Perhaps you could use a little ready cash, eh?”

Stanwood felt his heart give a sudden, quick leap, then felt colour in his face. He tried to keep from showing any eagerness. Holding the water glass in his hand so that he could take a quick sip of water in case he felt his voice was betraying him, he asked: “What do you want?”

Karper said: “Something you can furnish me. No one else will know about it, something that need concern only the two of us.”

Stanwood said: “I couldn’t do anything that would betray the interests of my employer.”

“Oh, certainly not,” Karper agreed.

There followed a period of silence while the waitress brought food. Karper let Stanwood alone with his tumultuous thoughts.

That silent pressure bothered Stanwood. He ate half of what he had ordered, pushed his plate away, and asked: “Well, what is it you want?” The voice was crisp enough, but the lighting of a cigarette gave Stanwood an excuse as he spoke to avoid Karper’s eyes.

Karper said: “The low-down on that Petrie oil business — all of it.”

Stanwood said: “That would be impossible.”

“Impossible,” Karper pointed out, “is a very definite and a very final word.”

Stanwood shifted his position.

“Nothing is impossible,” Karper went on.

Again there was an interval of silence.

Karper said suavely: “Let us forget that word ‘impossible’. Let’s look at it this way. Everything has its price. Sometimes the thing that is desired is so valuable that no price seems high enough. Then we say casually that it is impossible. Whereas it’s all a matter of price.”

“Price?” Stanwood asked.

“Exactly.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Stanwood said, knowing all the time that he did understand.

Karper said: “A friend of mine whom I mentioned over the telephone is quite a student of the psychology of gambling. He says it’s quite possible to tell when a man is gambling merely for amusement, when he’s gambling because he hopes to win, and when he’s gambling because he’s desperate... Interesting subject, don’t you think? Because we’re all gamblers more or less... I’m frank to admit that I want this information so that I can gamble, but I want to take some of the risks out of the gamble. That is, as far as possible.”

Stanwood suddenly met Karper’s eyes. “How much?” he asked.

“Five thousand.”

“It isn’t enough.”

Karper stared steadily, hypnotically. “You could run it up on the tables so that it would be enough.”

Stanwood shook his head. “If I’m going to sell out, I get what I need.”

“How much do you need?”

“Eighteen thousand dollars.”

Karper said: “That’s out of the question.”

Suddenly Stanwood found that he could hold Karper’s eyes. He said: “I’m not entirely a damn fool, Karper. I may be weak, but I’m not dumb — at least, not that dumb. That information would be worth a lot of money to you.”

“Not that much.”

Stanwood got up and reached for his hat. “All right then,” he said, “it’s your lunch. You pay the bill.”

“Wait a minute,” Karper said, surprised respect in his voice.

Stanwood remained standing.

“Sit down,” Karper commanded.

Stanwood hesitated perceptibly, then sat down on the extreme edge of the bench, still holding his hat.

Karper said: “I’m not representing all these surface rights. My own interests are limited. I can’t afford to pay eighteen thousand. I might go to seven. The wheel owes you eighteen thousand. You can’t get it back because you haven’t enough operating capital to force the law of averages to work for you. Seven thousand would give you enough to win back what you’ve lost.”

Stanwood looked at his wristwatch. “We’ll have time,” he said, “before I go back to drop around to your bank and arrange for a transfer of eighteen thousand dollars.”

“Eight thousand,” Karper said. “That’s the limit.”

Stanwood cleared his throat. “That wouldn’t do me any good, even if I won, unless Mr. Pressman didn’t return to the office for a day or two.”

Karper said: “We have time to go to the bank before my two o’clock appointment — if we start now.”

Karper let Stanwood see cold finality in his eyes.

Stanwood cleared his throat.

“All right,” he said in a dry voice, “let’s go.”