Sci Fiction Classics Volume 4 (53 page)

He broke off as he realized he was alone. His visitors had risen in the
same incredibly rapid movement and gone out the door.

"Most unfortunate," he heard the tall man say as they walked through the
outer office. "The location would have been perfect. So far from the
center of things."

"Not to mention," the tiny man added, "the building's appearance. So very
unpresentable. Too bad."

He raced after them, catching up in the corridor that opened into the
lobby. Two things brought him to a dead stop. One was the strong feeling
that it was beneath a newly appointed resident agent's dignity to haul
prospective customers back into an office which they had just quit so
abruptly. After all, this was no cut-rate clothing shop—it was the
McGowan Building.

The other was the sudden realization that the tall man was alone. There
was no sign of the tiny man. Except—possibly—for the
substantial bulge in the right-hand pocket of the tall man's overcoat
…

"A pair of cranks," he told himself as he swung around and walked back to
the office. "Not legitimate clients at all."

He insisted on Miss Kerstenberg's listening to the entire story, despite
Professor Scoggins's stern injunctions against overfraternization with the
minor clerical help. She cluck-clucked and tsk-tsked and stared earnestly
at him through her thick glasses.

"Cranks, wouldn't you say, Miss Kerstenberg?" he asked her when he'd
finished. "Hardly legitimate clients, eh?"

"I wouldn't know, Mr. Blake," she replied, inflexibly unpresumptuous. She
rolled a sheet of letterhead stationery into her typewriter. "Do you want
the Hopkinson mailing to go out this afternoon?"

"What? Oh, I guess so. I mean, of course. By all means this afternoon,
Miss Kerstenberg. And I want to see it for a double-check before you mail
it."

He strode into his own office and huddled behind the desk. The whole
business had upset him very much. His first big rental possibility. And
that little man—Bohu was his name?—and that bulging pocket—

Not until quite late in the afternoon was he able to concentrate on his
work. And that was when he got the phone call.

"Blake?" the voice crackled. "This is Gladstone Jimm."

"
Yes,
Mr. Jimm." Blake sat up stiffly in his swivel chair.
Gladstone was the oldest of the Sons.

"Blake, what's is this about your refusing to rent space?"

"My
what?
I beg your pardon, Mr. Jimm, but I—"

"Blake, two gentlemen just walked into the home office. Their names are
Tooley and Booley. They tell me they tried unsuccessfully to rent the
thirteenth floor of the McGowan Building from you. They tell me that you
admitted the space was vacant, but that you consistently refused to let
them have it. What's this all about, Blake? Why do you think the firm
appointed you resident agent, Blake, to turn away prospective tenants? I
might as well let you know that none of us up here in the home office like
this one little bit, Blake."

"I'd have been very happy to rent the thirteenth floor to them," Blake
wailed. "Only trouble, sir, you see, there's—"

"What trouble are you referring to, Blake? Spit it out, man, spit it
out.
"

"There
is
no thirteenth floor, Mr. Jimm."

"What?"

"The McGowan Building is one of those buildings that has no thirteenth
floor." Laboriously, carefully, he went through the whole thing again. He
even drew an outline picture of the building on his desk pad as he spoke.

"Hum," said Gladstone Jimm when he'd finished. "Well, I'll say this,
Blake. The explanation, at least, is in your favor." And he hung up.

Blake found himself quivering. "Cranks," he muttered fiercely. "Definitely
cranks. Definitely not legitimate tenants."

When he arrived at his office door early next morning, he found Mr. Tohu
and Mr. Bohu waiting for him. The tall man held out a key.

"Under the terms of our lease, Mr. Blake, a key to our main office must be
in the possession of the resident agent for the building. We just had our
locksmith make up this copy. I trust it is satisfactory?"

Sydney Blake leaned against the wall, waiting for his bones to reacquire
marrow. "Lease?" he whispered. "Did the home office give you a lease?"

"Yes," said the tall man. "Without much trouble, we were able to achieve a
what-do-you-call-it."

"A meeting of minds," the tiny man supplied from the region of his
companion's knees. "A feast of reason. A flow of soul. There are no
sticklers for numerical subtleties in your home office, young man."

"May I see the lease?" Blake managed to get out.

The tall man reached into his right-hand overcoat pocket and brought up a
familiar-looking folded piece of paper.

It was the regulation lease. For the thirteenth floor in the McGowan
Building. But there was one small difference.

Gladstone Jimm had inserted a rider:
… the landlord is renting a
floor that both the tenant and landlord know does not exist, but the title
to which has an intrinsic value to the tenant; which value is equal to the
rent he will pay …

Blake sighed with relief. "That's different. Why didn't you tell me that
all you wanted was the title to the floor? I was under the impression that
you intended to occupy the premises."

"We do intend to occupy the premises." The tall man pocketed the lease.
"We've paid a month's rent in advance for them."

"And," added the tiny man, "a month's security."

"And," finished the tall man, "an extra month's rent as fee to the agent.
We most certainly do intend to occupy the premises."

"But how"—Blake giggled a little hysterically—"are you going
to occupy premises that aren't even—"

"Good morning, young man," they said in unison and moved toward the
elevators.

He watched them enter one.

"Thirteen, please," they told the elevator operator. The elevator door
closed. Miss Kerstenberg walked past him and into the office, chirping a
dutiful "Good morning, Mr. Blake." Blake barely nodded at her. He kept his
eyes on the elevator door. After a while it opened again, and the fat
little operator lounged out and began a conversation with the starter.

Blake couldn't help himself. He ran to the elevator. He stared inside. It
was empty.

"Listen," he said, grabbing the fat little operator by one sleeve of his
dingy uniform. "Those two men you just took up, what floor did they get
off at?"

"The one they wanted. Thirteen. Why?"

"There isn't any thirteenth floor. No thirteenth floor at all!"

The fat little elevator operator shrugged. "Look, Mr. Blake, I do my job.
Someone says 'thirteenth floor,' I take 'em to the thirteenth floor.
Someone says 'twenty-first floor,' I take 'em—"

Blake walked into the elevator. "Take me there," he ordered.

"The twenty-first floor? Sure."

"No, you—you—" Blake realized that the starter and the
elevator operator were grinning at each other sympathetically. "Not the
twenty-first floor," he went on more calmly, "the thirteenth. Take me to
the thirteenth floor."

The operator worked his switch and the door moaned itself shut. They went
up. All of the McGowan Building elevators were very slow, and Blake had no
trouble reading the floor numbers through the little window in the
elevator door.

… ten … eleven … twelve … fourteen …
fifteen … sixteen …

They stopped. The elevator operator scratched his head with his visored
cap. Blake glared at him triumphantly. They went down.

… fifteen … fourteen … twelve … eleven
… ten … nine …

"Well?" Blake asked him.

The man shrugged. "It don't seem to be there now."

"Now? Now? It's
never
been there. So where did you take those men?"

"Oh, them. I told you: the thirteenth floor."

"But I just proved to you there is
no thirteenth floor!
"

"So what? You got the college education, Mr. Blake, not me. I just do my
job. If you don't like it, all I can say is I just do my job. Someone gets
in the elevator and says 'thirteenth floor,' I take—"

"I know! You take them to the thirteenth floor. But there is
no
thirteenth floor, you idiot! I can show you the blueprints of the
building, the original blueprints, and I dare you, I defy you to show me a
thirteenth floor. If you can show me a thirteenth floor …"

His voice trailed off as they realized they were back in the lobby and had
attracted a small crowd.

"Look, Mr. Blake," the elevator man suggested. "If you're not satisfied,
how's about I call up the delegate from the union and you and him have a
talk? How's about that, huh?"

Blake threw up his arms helplessly and stamped back to his office. Behind
him he heard the starter ask the elevator operator, "What was he getting
in such an uproar about, Barney?"

"Aa-aah, that guy," the operator said. "He was blaming me for the
blueprints of the building. If you ask me, he's got too much college
education. What have I got to do with the blueprints?"

"I don't know," the starter sighed. "I sure as hell don't know."

"I'll ask you another question," the operator went on, with a little more
certainty, now that he saw his oratorical way, so to speak. "What have the
building blueprints got to do with
me?
"

Blake closed the office door and leaned against it. He ran his fingers
through his thinning hair.

"Miss Kerstenberg," he said at last in a strangled voice. "What do you
think? Those cranks that were here yesterday—those two crazy old men—the
home office went and rented the thirteenth floor to them!"

She looked up from her typewriter. "It
did?
"

"And believe it or not, they just went upstairs and took possession of
their offices."

She smiled at him, a rapid woman-smile. "How
nice,
" she said. And
went back to her typing.

The morning after
that,
what Blake saw in the lobby sent him
scurrying to the telephone. He dialed the home office. "Mr. Gladstone
Jimm," he demanded breathlessly.

"Listen, Mr. Jimm. This is Sydney Blake at the McGowan. Mr. Jimm, this is
getting serious! They're moving in furniture today. Office furniture. And
I just saw some men go upstairs to install telephones. Mr. Jimm, they're
really moving in!"

Gladstone Jimm was instantly alert. He gave the matter his full attention.
"Who's moving in, my boy? Tanzen Realty Corporation? Or is it the Blair
Brothers again? I was saying only last week: things have been far too
quiet in the real estate field; I've felt in my bones that last year's
Code of Fair Practices wouldn't be standing up much longer. Try to raid
our properties, will they?" He snorted long and belligerently. "Well, the
old firm has a few tricks up its sleeve yet. First, make certain that all
important papers—tenant lists, rent receipts, don't overlook
anything, son—are in the safe. We'll have three attorneys and a
court order down there in half an hour. Meanwhile, you keep—"

"You don't understand, sir. It's those new tenants. The ones you rented
the thirteenth floor to."

Gladstone Jimm ground to a full stop and considered the matter. Ah. He
understood. He began to beat swords into ploughshares.

"You mean—those fellows—um, Toombs and Boole?"

"That's right, sir. There are desks and chairs and filing cabinets going
upstairs. There are men from the telephone and electric companies. They're
all going up to the thirteenth floor. Only, Mr. Jimm,
there isn't any
thirteenth floor!
"

A pause. Then: "Any of the other tenants in the building been complaining,
Blake?"

"No, Mr. Jimm, but—"

"Have Toot and Boob committed any sort of nuisance?"

"No, not at all. It's just that I—"

"It's just that you have been paying precious little attention to
business! Blake, I like you, but I feel it is my duty to warn you that you
are getting off on the wrong foot. You've been resident agent at the
McGowan for almost a week now and the only bit of important business
involving the property had to be transacted by the home office. That's not
going to look good on your record, Blake, it's not going to look good at
all. Do you still have those big vacancies on the third, sixteenth, and
nineteenth floors?"

"Yes, Mr. Jimm. I've been planning to—"

"Planning isn't enough, Blake. Planning is only the first step. After
that, there must be action!
Action,
Blake: A-C-T-I-O-N. Why don't
you try this little stunt: Letter the word action on a sign, letter it in
bright red, and hang it opposite your desk where you'll see it every time
you look up. Then, on the reverse side, list all the vacancies in your
building. Every time you find yourself staring at that sign, ask yourself
how many vacancies are still listed on the back. And then, Blake, take
action!"

"Yes, sir," Blake said, very weakly.

"Meanwhile, no more of this nonsense about law-abiding, rent-paying
tenants. If they leave you alone, you leave them alone. That's an order,
Blake."

"I understand that, Mr. Jimm."

He sat for a long while looking at the cradled telephone. Then he rose and
walked out to the lobby and into an elevator. There was a peculiar and
unaccustomed jauntiness to him, a recklessness to his stride that could be
worn only by a man deliberately disobeying a direct order from the
reigning head of Wellington Jimm & Sons, Inc., Real Estate.

Two hours later he crept back, his shoulders bent, his mouth loose with
defeat.

Whenever Blake had been in an elevator full of telephone linemen and
furniture movers on their way to the thirteenth floor, there had been no
thirteenth floor. But as soon as, a little irritated, they had changed
elevators, leaving him behind, so far as he could tell, they had gone
right up to their destination. It was obvious. For him there was no
thirteenth floor. There probably never would be.