The Fabulous Clipjoint by Fredric Brown (free ebook reader TXT) 📕

The Central Mutual turned out to be a moderate-sized branch office of a company whose headquarters were in St. Louis. It was a break for us; the smaller the office the more likely they were to remember Pop.

We asked for the manager and were taken into his office. Uncle Am did the talking and explained who we were.

The manager said, “No, I don’t recall him offhand, but I’ll have our records checked. You say the policy hasn’t turned up yet. That won’t matter, if it’s on our records, and paid up.” He smiled slightly, deprecatingly. “We’re not a racket, you know. The policy is merely our client’s record of a contract that exists and will be kept, whether or not his copy is lost or destroyed.”

Uncle Am said, “I understand that. What we’re interested in is whether you recall any circumstances about the policy—for instance, just why its existence was kept a secret from his family. He must have given a reason, some reason, to the agent who sold him the policy.”

The manager said, “Just a minute.” He went out into the general office and came back a few minutes later. He said, “The head clerk is looking up the file. He’ll bring it in personally, and maybe he’ll be able to recall the insured.”

My uncle asked, “How unusual is it for a man to keep a policy secret that way?”

“It’s not unique. It is highly unusual. The only other case I can recall offhand is that of a man who had a touch of persecution complex. He was afraid his relatives might do away with him if they knew he was insured. Yet, paradoxically, he loved them and wished to provide for them in case of his death. Uh—I didn’t mean to imply that in this case—”

“Of course not,” Uncle Am said.

A tall gray-haired man came into the office with a file folder in his hand. He said, “Here’s the Wallace Hunter file, Mr. Bradbury. Yes, I recall him. Always came into the office to make his payments. There’s a notation clipped to the file that no notices were to be sent out.”

The manager took the file folder. He asked, “Ever talk to him, Henry? Ever ask him why the notices were not to be mailed, for instance?”

The tall man shook his head. “No, Mr. Bradbury.”

“All right, Henry.”

The tall man went out.

The manager was leafing through the file. He said, “Yes, it’s paid up. There are two small loans against it—made to meet premium payments. They’ll be deducted from the face of the policy, but they won’t amount to much.” He turned another couple of pages. He said, “Oh, the policy wasn’t sold from this office. It was transferred here from Gary, Indiana.”

“Would they have any records on it there?”

“No, aside from a duplicate of this file at the main office in St. Louis, there are no other records. This file was transferred here from Gary at the time Mr. Hunter moved to Chicago. I see by the dates that was just a few weeks after the policy was taken out.”

Uncle Am asked, “Would the policy itself show any details not given in that file?”

“No, the policy is a standard straight-life form, with the name and amount and date filled in. Pasted inside it is a photostatic copy of the application for the policy—but the original of that photostat is here in this file. You may see that if you wish.”

He handed Uncle Am the file, opened to a form filled in with pen and ink, and I walked over behind Uncle Am’s chair so I could read it over his shoulder. I made a mental note of the date of the application, and the signature of the agent who sold it—Paul B. Anderz.

Uncle Am asked, “Do you know if this agent, Anderz, is still working out of your Gary office?”

“No, I don’t. We can write them and find out.”

Uncle Am said, “Never mind, thanks anyway. You’ll want a copy of the death certificate, of course?”

“Yes, before we can issue a check to the beneficiary. This young man’s mother, I take it.”

“His stepmother.” Uncle Am handed back the folder and stood up. “Thanks a lot. Oh, by the way—was the policy paid quarterly?”

The manager did some leafing through the folder again. He said, “Yes, after the first payment. He paid a year’s premium in advance with the original application.”

Uncle Am thanked him again, and we left.

“Gary?” I asked.

“Yeah. We can get there on the el, can’t we?”

“Less than an hour, I think.” I thought for a minute. “Gosh, less than an hour from the Loop, and yet I never went back there after we left.”

“Did Wally or Madge ever go back? For a visit, or anything?”

I thought, and then shook my head. “Not that I remember. I don’t believe any of us ever went back there. Of course, I was only thirteen when we came from there to Chicago, but I think I’d remember.”

“Tell me—wait, let’s wait till we’re on the train.”

He didn’t say any more till we had a seat on the Gary Express. Then he said, “All right, kid, let go. Relax, and tell me everything you can remember about Gary.”

I said, “I went to Twelfth Street School. So did Gardie. I was in the eighth grade and she was in the fourth. When we left, I mean. We lived in a little frame house on Holman Street, three blocks from the school. The school had a band, and I wanted to get in it. They lent instruments and I borrowed a trombone. I was getting so I could read simple stuff on it, but Mom hated it. She called it ‘that damn horn,’ and I had to go out in the woodshed to practice. Then when we came to Chicago we lived in a flat and I couldn’t have practiced even if Mom had liked it, so I—”

“Forget the trombone,” Uncle Am said. “Get back to Gary.”

I said, “We had a car part of the time, and part of the time we didn’t. Pop worked at two or three different printing shops at one time or another. He was out of work for a while with arthritis in his arms and we went way in debt. I don’t think we ever quite got out. I have a hunch we left so suddenly because we were running out on some of the debts we still had.”

“You left suddenly?”

“It seems to me we did. I mean, I don’t remember it being talked over. All of a sudden the van was there loading our furniture, and Pop had a job in Chicago and we had to leave right— Wait a minute—”

“Take your time, kid. I think you’re getting at something. My God, Ed, what a sap I’ve been.”

“You? How?”

He laughed. “I’ve been overlooking my best witness because I was too close to see him. Forget it. Get back to Gary.”

I said, “I remember now. Something that was funny at the time, but I’d clean forgotten until I started talking about moving. I didn’t know we were moving to Chicago until we got here. Pop said we were moving to Joliet; that’s about twenty-five miles from Gary, same as Chicago, but west instead of northwest, and I remember telling all my kid friends we were going to Joliet—and then it turned out to be Chicago. Pop said he’d got a good job in Chicago and changed his mind about taking the one in Joliet. I remember, it seemed kind of funny to me, even then.”

Uncle Am had his eyes closed. He said, “Go on, kid. Dig as deep as you can. You’re doing swell.”

“After we got to Chicago, we moved in right where we’re still living. But Pop couldn’t have been telling the truth about the job in Chicago, because he was around home the first few weeks after we came to Chi. Not all the time; but enough so I know he wasn’t working. Then he got the