THE “WHYDUNIT”
Why would a man come into a crowded, expensive restaurant and promptly offer large sums of money to the other patrons if they will agree to certain outlandish requests, such as a woman cutting off some of her hair or a distinguished husband and wife throwing a pie one into the face of the other? Edward Wellen neatly answers this question in “Face Value,” a tricky, twisty “whydunit” McGuffin. At home in both the mystery and fantasy/science-fiction genres, Mr. Wellen is a prolific and multitalented East Coast writer whose work is consistently fresh and enjoyable, and therefore anthologized with enviable regularity. B.P.
He looked like money, but that can fool you. He sported the tie and dinner jacket the Penguin Club lent an otherwise welcome patron who hadn’t had a chance to change into the proper attire. He sat at the table the head waiter reserved for the hundred-dollar tipper. But, watching the guy, I had reservations of my own.
He spoke to his waiter, handed him a clutch of banknotes, and looked on with a faintly amused expression as the waiter wound through the room to whisper into the ear of every brunette. Each in tum looked up in shock and outrage, then around to where the waiter indicated, and received a pleasant nod. And the guy got two takers; ignoring scowling escorts, two women took off their shoes, handed them to the waiter, and got a hundred bucks in exchange.
I smiled. Publicity stunt. A brassy redhead volunteered her green alligator pumps, but the guy regretfully told her he had all he needed—and paid her to cut off all her hair with a pair of pastry shears. A top-heavy blonde, her voice loud and clear in a trough of hush, said, “You’d think a person would have more pride,” and the guy strode over and paid her a hundred bucks to give him her bra. I still felt it wasn’t for real—the setup, I mean.
When he came back to his table, I got up and went over there. He was frowning at his wristwatch and looked up quickly. I put my hand on the back of an empty chair.
“Mind?”
His voice was cheerful, but he didn’t smile. “Matter of fact, I do.”
I sat down anyway. “Know who I am?”
He gazed at me. “No.”
“A columnist for the Telegraph-Adams.”
“I’m not hunting publicity.”
“I see. You’re trying to hide your light under a bushel.”
“I’m not trying to hide anything.”
“What are you trying to do?”
“Prove something.”
“That you collect fetishes?”
He glanced at the shoes, the hair, the bra, and smiled. His lean face had the lines of a man pushing thirty, but they were laugh lines and the smile gave him sudden warmth and youth. “No, that everyone has a price.” He toyed with his Gibson.
“What are you really buying?”
“Face.” His eyes lit up and he gestured with his head. I turned and saw a waiter captain conveying a fiftyish couple to their table, the orchid corsage on the woman’s bosom like the figurehead on a stately prow, the polished gray head of the man raked back like the funnel of a liner.
The guy leaned toward me. “Ever see such a dignified pair?”
I had to admit they looked, studying the menu together, like a heraldic lion and lioness supporting a coat of arms. The pearl onion was a third eye holding on them as the guy finished his Gibson. He rose without saying anything else to me and headed for their table. He was sweating, and I wondered why this one bit seemed more important to him than the others. But then, some people sweat when they drink.
The gray-haired man heard the abrupt hush, looked around, saw all gazes on him. He reddened slightly, once-overed himself and his companion, drew reassurance. He spotted the guy bearing down on them, and put on a waiting, inquiring expression.
The guy stood smiling down at the gray-haired man. “Good evening. Too bad you missed the floor show.”
The man was a throat-clearer. “Oh? I did not know there was a floor show.”
“Stick around. There’s more coming, and you’re in it.’’
The note of challenge—light, but there—got through to the gray-haired man, but he kept his composure. “I’m afraid there’s a misunderstanding. We’re Mr. and Mrs. Harvey Shelby.”
The guy gave a polite tilt of acknowledgment, then a deprecating smile. “And I’m Neil Purley.”
“Sorry, but that name doesn’t mean anything to me.”
“It could mean thousands of dollars.”
“How’s that?”
Purley turned to the waiter at his elbow. “Think you can round up a custard pie and deliver it to this table?”
“Yes sir, Mr. Purley.”
Shelby’s pale blue eyes grew hostile. “We don’t want custard pie.” He turned to his wife. “Do we, dear?” He turned back. “We’ve made up our minds what we’re having. We certainly don’t want custard pie.”
Purley gave him a friendly, confident wink. “You will.”
“Oh?” Shelby’s voice was calm, but his face hardened. “See here, young fellow, you’re spoiling what was to have been a happy occasion—an anniversary celebration.”
“Say I offered you a thousand dollars. Would you take the custard pie?”
“Oh, come now.”
“Would you?”
“I certainly don’t need a thousand dollars. The whole thing is absurd. Kindly leave us alone.”
“Would you for two thousand?”
“You must be joking. No one would pay two thousand dollars to see someone else eat a custard pie.”
The waiter returned and set a custard pie on the table. Purley nodded and handed him a C-note.
“Thank you, Mr. Purley.”
Shelby stared at the pie, then at his wife. ‘‘No, sir. I do not wish to eat this. Take it away.”
“Four thousand?”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Say I’m being illogical. But illogic is what distinguishes humans from machines, isn’t it? Among other factors.”
Shelby glanced at his wife. She fanned herself with the menu. Shelby licked his lips. “Well, now. You’re sure there’s nothing wrong with this pie? This is no trick?”
“Nothing wrong with the pie.”
“No, sir,” the waiter said.
“Well, now.” Shelby laughed hollowly, a laugh that didn’t stick to the ribs. “I don’t see that a bite of custard pie ever hurt anyone. Looks delicious, in fact.” He glanced up sharply. “You said four thousand dollars.”
“I did.”
“You have four thousand dollars?”
Purley plucked four G-notes from his wallet and stroked them into the waiter’s convulsive palm.
Shelby studied the bills, then the pie. “Do you mean that we eat it now, or as dessert?”
“I didn’t say you should eat it. I mean you should throw it.”
Shelby flushed. “Ridiculous. Waiter, take this thing away. And you, sir, leave this table.” He looked around. “Where’s the manager?”
“Five thousand.”
Shelby turned to his wife. “Shall we leave, dear?”
Mrs. Shelby slowly picked up her gloves and bag. Shelby squeaked his chair back.
“Six thousand.”
Shelby sat still. He watched his wife, turned to Purley. “And what would I throw the pie at?”
Purley shrugged and said pleasantly, “Either she throws it in your face or you throw it in hers. Decide between you.”
Shelby shook his head and half rose. “Seven thousand.”
Shelby’s brow took on a gloss. He spoke to himself. “After all, a wipe with a damp cloth and it would be as if nothing had happened.”
“That’s right.” Purley nodded encouragingly.
Shelby sat down. He took a deep drag on a nonexistent cigarette. He looked at his wife. Mrs. Shelby sat tight-lipped, fanning herself more and more rapidly with the menu.
Then she stopped fanning, smiled. “Why not. dear?”
Shelby sighed a sigh of release. “Why not. All in fun. Make this a real celebration.” He turned to Purley. “Seven thousand dollars?”
“Make it ten,” Purley said. He cheerfully added six G-notes to those in the waiter’s palm. “Let’s say I’m betting you ten thousand you won’t do it.”
Shelby slid the pie nearer his wife and took off his glasses. “You, dear.” He fitted his napkin around his neck.
Mrs. Shelby gently put down the menu, stood up, lifted the pie, hefted it, took a stance. With a strained smile Shelby stared at her, braced himself, closed his eyes. Mrs. Shelby threw the pie in his face. When they led him out to the men’s room, the ten grand in his clutch and applause echoing in his wake, she had already gone out and was having the doorman whistle up a taxi.
Purley came back to his table. He looked happy but spent. He asked the waiter for his check.
“Yes sir, Mr. Purley.”
I was still disbelieving this whole thing. “The party’s over?”
He looked at me as if wondering about my price range, and I felt a bit uneasy. But he smiled slightly and said, “The party’s over.”
“When’s the next one?”
“Won’t be a next one.”
“Why not?”
“No publicity, remember? And you’re a columnist.”
“Off the record. That’s a promise.”
His smile widened suddenly. “All right. Know who Harvey Shelby is?”
“No.”
“My boss. My ex-boss, I should say.”
“After what you just did, I would think so.”
“Before that. I got my two weeks’ notice this morning.”
“You worked for him and he didn’t know you?”
“That’s just it,” Purley said. “It’s a big firm, and I was only a faceless guy—one who’s now being replaced by a new computer. I waited in his outer office, but he wouldn’t see me. I heard his secretary on the phone, reserving his table here. So I returned to my desk for the last time and processed a ten-thousand-dollar check through the machine—made it out to cash and charged it to Shelby’s expense account.”
“You mean that was his own ten grand you used to make a fool out of him?”
“Yes.” He shrugged. “Or the stockholders.”
“Technically, it’s still stealing. How can you be sure they won’t catch you for it?”
“Shelby won’t raise a fuss. That would draw attention to the way he got the money back—and to the fact that his anniversary celebration also went on his expense account. The computer is trained not to ask embarrassing questions about his expense account.”
I shook my head. “The whole thing strikes me as a pretty bizarre form of revenge.”
“Not at all. Don’t you see the irony?” Purley smiled down as if into his reflection in a drink. “A more efficient electronic brain replaced me, a computer that can do anything a human brain can do. Except scheme. There’s just no way a computer can beat a man at thinking up a way like mine to steal money for the purpose of returning it.”
“Maybe not, but where does that leave you now?”
“Somewhat flatter. The other expenses—” he gestured to the shoes, the hair, the bra, “—came out of my savings and severance. I’m not hurting financially, and besides, it was worth it.” He frowned slightly. “But I’m hardly in Shelby’s bracket. I’ll have to look for another job soon: operating computers, I think. If you can’t lick ’em, join ’em.” His eyes lit up and I swear I almost heard a whir. “If a man and a computer put their brains together in the right way…”
I couldn’t read his face, much less his mind, but I had the feeling I could be in at the birth of something big. A man could program a computer to steal money for the purpose of stealing. The right man might be able to program a computer to steal the world…