Lively Game of Death (7 page)

“Then you think he
is
the spy.”

“Very likely. But I want to work out all the details before I accuse him in front of Scott.”

I walked slowly out of the room, thinking it over. At the door, I stopped before closing it behind me. “What exactly do you want me to do?” I asked.

“Nothing elaborate,” Hilary instructed. “Just step across the hall and check with the neighboring firms. See whether they know anything about visitors to Goetz Sales. Ask if they know where Whelan is. Anything you think they can tell us that may be important.”

“Wait a minute,” I objected. “How the hell am I going to get into other showrooms when I’m wearing an exhibitor’s badge?”

“You’ll figure something,” she shrugged, turning around and beginning to fish papers from a desk drawer.

That didn’t thrill me, either: disturbing evidence at the scene of a crime. I decided I’d be less ulcerous on the other side of the door, so I made its acquaintance.

I
N CASE IT SEEMS
that my main concern at that moment was to play John Q. Public by phoning the cops, let me clarify my position: the only reason I was worried was that I didn’t want to end up with my name and face in the police log and the newspapers.

The way I figured it, I could easily get slammed for obstructing justice, at the very least. And if those damned Scrabble tiles in my pocket meant anything as dire as I was dreading, I wasn’t sure that the charge might not turn into accessory after the fact.

Under the circumstances, I didn’t want to leave Hilary alone in there too long, so my initial plan was just to check the very closest showrooms, which would be easy, because 1111 Broadway is not a wide building, and its corridors contain few enough offices. On top of that, the tenth floor had only recently been completed, and several of the spaces had not yet been rented. In the corridor Goetz Sales was in there were only two other firms: PeeJayCo., next door to Goetz Sales, and Bell’s Toys and Accessories, right across the hall.

I later learned that Goetz and Bell used to have smaller showrooms in FAB, and had moved to 1111 about a year ago. PeeJayCo. was a recent addition to the tenth floor.

I stepped down the hall to the latter firm, noting as I walked that buyer traffic was light on this floor, compared with 1111’s ninth level, where crowds streamed back and forth across the ligamentary bridge. When I reached the door of PeeJayCo., I was surprised to see the lights were off. Two companies not in business on Toy Fair morning? It must be a new kind of commercial disease, I thought.

I tried the handle; it was locked. Peering in, I could see the length of the room—a single narrow corridor, maybe ten-by-thirty, with one long business table down the center with chairs around it; on the walls were shelves with a sparse assortment of toys and games competing for space with large signs claiming the firm to be the “youngest, most inventive supplier in the trade.” Though I have small claim to pass judgment on the merits of a new toy, I’m something of a strategy game nut and, from what I could see of the sample products in the dark office, the claims may have been justified. The ratio of games to toys was about three-to-one, so I could see where the owner’s sympathies lay.

The only toy that held my attention was a racer, set apart on a pedestal in the middle of the long table. No, it bore absolutely no resemblance to Tricky Tires. But it was intriguing, because the printed poster standing next to it proclaimed the toy to be a unique automatic plaything that could run for long stretches of time on a flat surface in various patterns. The secret? A little metal programmed dowel that, when inserted into the toy’s fuel tank, fed any of a number of “run” circuits to the motor. Batteries not included.

There wasn’t much point hanging around the locked room, so I ambled back the way I came to room 1005, Bell’s Toys and Accessories (“If it Sells, it’s Bell’s,” a slogan which I detested, was festooned around the door on bunting). The accessories were swimming-pool equipment; Bell dealt mostly in above-ground pools and their necessary adjuncts: ladders, filters, skimmers, purifying chemical, and so on. The toys referred to in the company name were outdoor inflatables—water toys, such as punch bags and floating air mats with comic-strip characters and other simplistic designs imprinted in primary colors on the exteriors.

I got as far as the front desk, but the angular receptionist politely halted me when she saw the inappropriate badge on my lapel.

“This is the way it is,” I lied to her, “I’m supposed to meet Sid Goetz and talk about the possibility of doing his PR, but I can’t get in his showroom. It’s not open.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” she said, trying to ignore me with all the pleasantness in the world, “and I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

“Look,” I asked, “can’t you give me an idea what this Goetz is like? Maybe I’m wasting my time waiting. Does he make it a habit of breaking his appointments?”

The receptionist looked around a little anxiously at a rotund individual wearing a light blue-and-white-striped sports jacket over midnight-blue slacks. He was bustling around from client to client, patting backs and dropping hints to his salesmen, all of whom were attired identically to the portly itinerant. He appeared not to notice us, so the woman turned a livelier face back to me than she’d shown prior to turning away.

“Sid Goetz,” she informed me, “is a vicious little man. If you ask me, you should stay away from him.”

“How do you know he’s so bad?”

“Secretaries hear things.”

“Goetz has a secretary?”

“Used to,” she said. “It’s been a long time since he’s been able to hire one. Word gets round.”

“What kind of word?”

“You know
... the sort a girl can’t trust for a minute!”

I eyed her dubiously. Dressed in an unfashionably long, high-cut black dress without ornament or filigree, she looked a little like a temperance lecturer; I placed her in her early fifties. Still, if she wanted to consider herself a “girl” who wouldn’t be safe around Goetz, it was her privilege; I’ve read enough Ibsen to know it doesn’t profit to mess around with life illusions.

“Well,” I persisted, “what did you used to hear about Goetz? Does he have many enemies?”

“Are you kidding? That man is the worst thief in the business! He steals designs, I understand ... everybody hates him!”

“For instance?”

“Well, there was a rumor that he and his wife are not too pally, if you know what I mean. And I’ve met that salesman of his, and believe me, he has no use for him, either. ...”

“Salesman?”

“Harry, I forget his name. Nice young man. Used to be an actor, so I hear.”

I shook my head. “It sounds like Goetz is the last person I’d want to do business with. How about—”

But I was interrupted at that point by the arrival of the roundish individual in the striped coat. Looming up suddenly, he darted a black look at his receptionist, then tried to grab me by the arm and propel me swiftly out of the room. I resisted, and he desisted.

“Come on,” he snapped, pointing to the door. “Beat it! Out!”

“I just wanted some information. Can you—”

“I’ll just bet you want some information!” he snapped at me. “Who’re you working for?” Before I could reply, he swung on the woman, and told her off vehemently. “Don’t you know any better than to talk with somebody with an exhibitor’s badge on? My God, Amelia, you’ve been around here long enough, you ought to know that! Blue badge, you see it? If that is what he’s wearing, then he doesn’t belong!”

“He just wanted some information on Sid Goetz, Mr. Bell.”

“Goetz! That does it!” Bell barked, pushing at me again. “If
that’s
who you’re with—that bastard Goetz!—I’ll ...” He didn’t finish his thought, because he was too busy trying to hustle me out.

I didn’t budge. When he tired of the strong-arm tactics, I explained that I was only thinking about working for the infamous toyman, but was already having second thoughts.

“You’d better,” Bell puffed. “Worst crook you’ll ever meet. Son-of-a-bitch knocked us off a couple of years ago, and the case is still dragging through the courts. ...”

“I understand he has a lot of enemies.”

“How many members are there in the TMA? Better you should ask if he’s got any friends, that’d be easier to count. Go to a TMA meeting sometime, see whether anybody sits next to him. I’ve seen knock-off artists before. Most of them have no interest in industry associations. In fact, they’re usually afraid of them, figure they don’t want the people they’re stealing from to see what they look like. Not Goetz, though! He’s at every single TMA session, just sitting there, listening to any tips that another member might let slip. All the time in the TMA, people are pleading for franker dialogue between members, but it’s lice like Goetz that prevent the honest executives from opening up!”

The TMA, in case you haven’t figured it out, stands for the Toy Manufacturers of America. I asked Bell whether there were any members unusually antagonistic to Goetz. He shook his head.

“Everybody hates Sid about as much as anyone else. Except maybe Pete Jensen, you might make a case for some additional malice on his part.”

“Who’s he?”

“Used to be Goetz’s partner. He’s in business for himself now. The way I understand it, Jensen had a cute little preschool game, showed it to Sid,” Bell said.

“What was he, an inventor?”

“Right. Now, Pete was green and Sid knew it, but all the same, he wasn’t totally ignorant. The way I heard it, Sid tried to buy the game outright, but couldn’t. So he offered to make Jensen a ‘partner’ and had him sign all the rights to the game over to the partnership—then Sid managed to squeeze him out.”

“How’d he do that?” I asked.

“That I don’t know. But he swindled him
somehow.”

“A sweet guy!”

“Isn’t that what I’ve been telling you?” Bell exclaimed. “If you’ve got any brains, you’ll keep away from him. And,” he added, screwing up his face into an expression of what, to him, probably was intended to be menace, “if I find out you’re working with him after all and just came in to spy on our new line, I’ll work you over myself.”

I patted him on the shoulder. “Nothing to worry about, Mr. Bell, you’re safe from me.” I started to go, turned back again. “By the way, where can I find this Pete Jensen?”

“Go on over to the Fifth Avenue Club, you’ll catch him half-sloshed. That’s the way I saw him going in there this morning.”

I thanked him and exited, then thought better of it and stuck my head back in the door.

“What now?” Bell grumbled.

“Just wanted to know if you have any idea when the room down the hall will be opening up this morning.”

“What! Goetz Sales?”

“No,” I reassured him, “the other one—PeeJayCo.”

“Why don’t you ask Pete Jensen?” Bell replied. “It’s his company!”

A
T TEN O’CLOCK
any other morning, the bar of the Fifth Avenue Club—just off the main FAB lobby—would be deserted, while the coffee shop down the corridor would be packed. But the influx of nearly ten thousand toy, hobby, and decorations wholesalers and retailers to the Manhattan market that morning provided enough extra bar business to make the club a little less than secluded.

The bar itself overlooks one of the club’s main dining rooms. It was that time of day when the staff begins luncheon preparations, yet several of the tables were already occupied by businessmen with drinks in front of them—much to the annoyance of the waiters working around them. Several toymen had their heads close together, sharing between themselves fat little booklets issued by the TMA to Fair visitors. I guessed them to be out-of-town buyers planning itineraries for the week; the booklets supplied them with the correct showroom numbers for their merchandise sources.

In a far corner, one man sat alone. A wide-mouthed old fashioned glass half-filled with pale amber liquid rested on the blanched table-cover in front of him. The bartender—a freelance toy inventor who mixes drinks in the club as a convenient way to meet prospective customers for his ideas—prided himself on knowing the names and faces of all the tenants in FAB and 1111; he identified the solitary figure as Pete Jensen.

I studied Jensen from a distance, and I liked the first impression I got: a youthful man of perhaps thirty-three or thirty-four, with deep-set eyes that seemed turned in on their possessor; his face, boyish and open in expression, was framed by a trim little college-professor beardlet. He was unobtrusively dapper, quietly polite and soft-spoken—or so I assessed him, and I turned out to be right.

But the crinkles around the edges of his eyes, which I would have judged to be smile lines, were unaccompanied then by mirth or contentment. He looked hopelessly glum, at the nadir of some personal misfortune.

I approached him and asked whether I could sit down. He nodded mutely.

“You’re Pete Jensen, aren’t you?”

He nodded a second time, then took a hearty swallow from the glass. I expected him to set down the drink and ask me who I was. But he showed no curiosity at all. Instead, he subsided within himself, taking no further notice of me.

We sat there a long time. Somehow, I didn’t want to cut into his thoughts. There was something about Jensen so mannerly that it would have been brutal rudeness to disturb him.

At last, he focused on me, still saying nothing. Then he drank again, set the glass down, and spoke in a mellow, apologetic manner, explaining that he was not feeling well and begged to be excused for ignoring me.

I said it was all right, then explained that I had been trying to get hold of Sid Goetz, but had found his showroom locked; I thought maybe Jensen, being a next-door neighbor, might be able to help me.

“Locked? On Toy Fair morning?” he asked, showing his first sign of interest. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. I was just up there. Do you have any idea where Goetz could be?”

“None at all.” He finished the drink in one long gulp. “Are you sure he’s not there? Did you try knocking?”

I nodded. Jensen sat for a moment, saying nothing. Then he shrugged.