Boone, Ill. Tuesday, P.M.My dearest Louise:Louise, the goddamndest thing happened here about an hour ago.I was killing time here in the office trying to keep warm; was pushed back in the old swivel chair with my feet on the desk, as a matter of fact, when this husky stranger eased in.For several minutes I had been trying to decide where to go for lunch, unable to choose between chasing across the street to Thompson's or going over to Milkshake Mike's on the other side of the courthouse square.* * *That's the way The CHINESE DOLL starts.If you're kind of reader who peeks of the end, restrain yourself. You'll lose the fun of the chose from Boone to Chicago and back, of the ride in the train to Croyden and back by ambulance to Boone, of uncovering a very neat double-cross; and, above off, of proving that you're as smart on the author.There's a trick here that Mr. Tucker has planted, and planted well. You ought to be able to figure it out for yourself, but don't blame us if you can't.
Boone, Ill.
Tuesday, P.M.
My Dearest Louise:
Louise, the damndest thing happened here about an hour ago.
I was killing time here in the office trying to keep warm; was pushed back in the old swivel chair with my feet on the desk as a matter of fact, when this husky stranger eased in.
For several minutes I had been trying to decide where to go for lunch, unable to choose between chasing across the street to Thompson’s or going over to Milkshake Mike’s on the other side of the Courthouse square.
But now I can’t eat anything.
When this big stranger walked in I stared at him in a professional, disinterested sort of way and was reminded of your Uncle Jeff living out in Utah. This man looked a good deal like your uncle except that he was barrel-chested and powerful where Uncle Jeff was a run-down, weazened little squirt. It would require two and a half Uncle Jeffs to fill the man’s shoes and there would still be enough left over to make a caricature.
You know the type; you undoubtedly meet men like him in your business. He was large in girth and latent power, large in pocketbook potential, perhaps, and large in ideas of how he wanted the world to revolve about him. If you or any other newspaper reporter met him you’d label him a capitalist, or maybe a powerful lobbyist-something like that. But I didn’t think so.
He made my office seem small by merely standing there in the doorway. In that first, cursory glance at him I noticed that, and took my feet off the desk. And then I looked again.
He had weight, visible and invisible. He was used to swinging that weight around, visible and invisible. Not that he seemed a professional politician — he didn’t. But he wore his hat, his expensive suit, and his quiet assurance of hidden power each with the same degree of confidence; he knew that each fitted him.
Yes, I removed my feet from the desk and sat up.
By this time the stranger had closed the office door behind him, but he hadn’t advanced into the room. Instead, and almost imperceptibly, he had moved sideways from the door so that the pane of frosted glass was no longer at his back. I couldn’t fail to notice that: it told me things about him. Exhaling slowly, he leaned against the paint-chipped wall and examined the office with calculating eyes.
As usual, the place was a wreck.
I had been doing some typing on my book on
The morning’s mail, all unopened except for your latest letter, was atop the books. Your violin case was on the floor where you walked out and forgot it three years ago. I keep it there for sentimental reasons; there is no violin in it, of course, but I file your letters there. Those two individual parts of you go well together.
Everything in the office was as I had left it the night before-meaning the janitor hadn’t touched the room. I blew pipe ashes off the desk and looked at the stranger again.
“You’re Horne, aren’t you?” he asked. “Charles Horne?”
Of course I was Charles Home. I knew it and he knew it; he didn’t have to ask to make sure. That kind of a man always tried to make sure, beforehand. He was stalling for time, time to size me up and permit his breathing to return to normal. I’m on the second floor you know, the stairs may have winded him.
I didn’t believe he and I had ever met before and that was to be wondered at in a low-bracket city like Boone. I had supposed that in my five or six years in business here I had come to know everybody, including the editors of the labor paper that are changed every month. I was familiar with all of the City Hall crowd, knew every clerk and deputy in the Courthouse, and he didn’t belong in either place.
“My name is Evans,” he offered finally without putting out his hand. “Harry W. Evans. I’m from out of town.”
“That’s what I thought,” I said. There was a chair a few feet from where he stood against the wall. “I haven’t seen you around. Sit down.”
He shook his head, slowly. “I’ll stand.” And he did. He also kept his hat and coat on.
“I’ve only a few minutes.” He studied me intently. “Some of the boys tell me you can be relied upon. They said you were straight. Honest.” He also thought I was a skinny, dumb-looking creature who might pass for a private detective in a custard-pie comedy, but he didn’t say so with his lips.
“Tell the boys thanks,” I returned. “And I am, mostly. What boys?”
He hesitated a moment and breathed more evenly again. Finally he said, “Croyden.”
