Pin Money

"I think Howard has got hold of a very bold concept here, J. L.," Weatherby Fallstone III said enthusiastically. "Very strong."

He paused, smiling at Howard Grafton across the long table.

"Pioneering," he went on, "ground-breaking. Completely new; I don't think we've ever done anything quite like it. I want to roll it around in my mouth for a while and get the taste of it."

He watched the imperceptible shadowing of J. L. Girton's face. Very neat, Fallstone, he thought. Like nothing we've done in the past, like nothing J. L. Girton has approved or devised, like none of the old stuff. Newer and better than J. L. Let's see Grafton weasel out of that one.

"I think Weatherby is giving me too much credit," Grafton said carefully. "Actually, it's a recombination of a few ideas J. L. sketched out as early as 1958. If it seems fresh and new—why, that's a tribute to the vitality of the concepts it was taken from."

Mousetrapped, Fallstone thought, that slick son of a bitch.

"I can see that," he said, "the basic fundamentals don't change.

"I think you have a winner, Howard," he went on generously.

"Sound creative thinking, Howard," J. L. said decisively. "How does it strike you, Eldon?"

The white head of the vice-president in charge of client relations bobbed sharply and he blinked once or twice. Eldon Smith had not quite been asleep, but it would be hard to prove it to the men watching him, carefully and without charity.

"Perhaps," he said slowly, "perhaps we should sleep on it."

"I thought you had done that already, Eldon."

"Not at all, J. L. I find that closing my eyes helps me to visualize."

J. L. looked at him coldly. Then he smiled around the table.

"That about wraps it up. Thank you, gentlemen."

The executives of J. L. Girton and Associates began to file out quietly.

"Oh, Howard," J. L. said, "stay around for a minute. You, too, Weatherby."

"A good plan, Howard," J. L. said, when the three men were alone. "I like to see a man who can work creatively without getting himself out of touch with sound, tested concepts."

Grafton's round, bland, white face looked as though sincerity and gratitude had been applied to it like a face cream; he looked J. L. straight in the eye.

"Thank you, J. L.," he said modestly. "I only hope I can pull it off."

Then he looked at Fallstone out of the corner of his eye. This is a big one, he thought; I'll bet that skinny bastard's chewing nails.

"It'll be tough," J. L. said, "a real challenge. That's why I asked Weatherby to stay. He's going to beef up the old team, and between the two of you, I can look forward to a bang-up job."

"Grand, J. L.," Fallstone said enthusiastically. "Between us, we'll turn these ideas into something solid."

"Well, boys, get cracking on it. When you have a working plan of operation, let Frank Baker work out the housekeeping details."

The two men paused in the doorway for a moment in an elaborate charade of friendly courtesy. Then Fallstone, the larger man, put his hand on Grafton's shoulder in so affectionate a way that it was impossible to take offense, and started to propel him through the door.

"Oh, by the way," J. L. said. "I think you should know one thing—close the door a minute, Weatherby. Eldon Smith will be retiring at the end of the year. Past his prime, I'm afraid. All right, that's all I wanted to say."

Howard Grafton's office was closest and he got to it a few seconds before Weatherby Fallstone reached his identical cube—identical in square feet, in furnishings, in windows. But mine is closer to J. L.'s, Grafton thought for a moment before he realized that the choice of offices between the two men had been originally decided prosaically by the toss of a coin, with much good-natured joking and even, on the part of the winner, the offer to give first choice to the loser, "if it meant so much to him."

Grafton sat there quietly. A few feet down the hall, he knew, Fallstone was sitting in the same Mark II, executive-model swivel chair, with (imitation) leather upholstering, and thinking just about the same thoughts. It was about as clear as anything ever was at J. L. Girton and Associates. They were being told, as directly as they ever would, that sometime before the end of the year, when old Eldon Smith was retired, one of them would be the new vice-president in charge of client relations. And they were being told to get in there and compete, that J. L. had his eye on each of them. Short, chubby, genial Grafton versus tall, thin, enthusiastic Fallstone.

When Grafton got home that night, he told his wife about it. Lenore Grafton was small and curved and blonde. Someday she would be too fat, but at the moment, she had reached a ripe perfection. She was quite a lot smarter than her husband, but some of her intelligence was wasted on the constant need to keep him unaware of this fact.

"I think we had better have J. L. and his wife out to dinner pretty soon," she said. "With that frightful woman, he must be dying for a decent meal."

"And a pretty face to look at," Grafton said with elaborate casualness. He was remembering the time he had stepped into the kitchen at the party and had seen J. L. and Lenore, still holding an ice tray in one hand, pressed back against the sink. They had been too busy to see him and he had drawn back and come in again a minute or so later with a good deal of preliminary noise.

Lenore looked at him levelly for a moment, as if she were receiving a message she was not sure she wanted to get. Then she went to the desk at the far end of the room and picked up her Florentine leather engagement pad.

"Any time after this week," she said. "I'll call her then; we don't want to push too fast."

For J. L. Girton and Lenore, at least, the dinner party was a great success. She was discreet enough, but she talked with him as much as with all the other guests combined. She sat girlishly on the floor at the foot of J. L.'s chair, laughing at his jokes or reacting to his autobiographical anecdotes with an open-eyed admiration and an interest that more than once caused her to lean forward so that he could get the maximum effect of her décolletage. Even when she was not with him, she was seated across the room from him at such an angle that her excellent legs in the short, swirling discothèque dress were never out of his sight.

Grafton, as a result, had to focus the bulk of his duties as a host on Mrs. Girton, a scrawny, faded, complaining shrew. It says a lot for his charm and geniality that he was able to bring her through the evening without her really noticing her husband's behavior.

Lenore did not like New York in the summer. The heat and crowds wilted her, she said. There was nothing new at the theaters; the city was full of tourists; the stores were doing nothing but remaindering their past mistakes. She liked to play golf or tennis, or lie in the sun at the beach and then cool off in the Sound, or even just stay in her air-conditioned house and read.

Thus, Grafton was a little surprised when she started coming into New York once or twice a week—for two months during one of the hottest summers the city had ever had. She came into town before noon, as she told him, window-shopped a little, lunched and spent the afternoon at a museum or, occasionally, a movie. Sometimes she took a train back just before his; at other times, she stayed in and they had dinner together. He did not want to know too much about what she was doing in town, so he did not ask many questions. He did not want to think about it any more than he wanted to think about the fact that J. L. seemed to be having more luncheons with clients than ever before and apparently had decided to improve his golf game by taking off several afternoons a week. Only once did he move obliquely toward the subject, and that was after several drinks before dinner one Friday evening.

"I'm a little worried about how I stand with J. L.," he said. "I don't seem to be seeing him as much as usual. He's always out of the office."

"I wouldn't worry too much about it, Howie. I think he appreciates you very much; and what's more, I think you're going to get the job."

That, however, was before the dinner party at the Fallstones'. Lenore was not at her best there. Her nose was red and swollen and runny with a summer cold, and her voice was hoarse. Grafton was alone with her a lot that evening; and even though they left early, he had plenty of time to watch Marcia Fallstone (continued on page 195)Pin Money(continued from page 104) work on J. L. She was tall and slim and very darkly elegant, and J. L. was a rabbit to her cobra.

"That son of a bitch," he said to himself as they drove home.

During the next weeks, J. L. continued his leisurely pace of work, but Lenore was no longer coming into town. One afternoon in the corridor, Grafton passed Fallstone's open door and saw him chatting with Frank Baker.

"Well worth seeing," Fallstone said. "Marcia and I saw it last night. She's bored up in the country; but this way, when she comes in, we can have a night or two on the town each week."

"That son of a bitch," Grafton said to himself again, knowing that it was still a stalemate. When, a week or so later, J. L. abruptly reverted to his normal lengthy office hours, Grafton was sure of it.

It was still summer, but it was coming to an end, and sometimes the nights were chilly without the heat on. Grafton stared morosely into his fifth martini, not wanting to look at his wife in her backless red dress.

"I'm cold, Howie," she said. "Will you get me that stole—the Italian one. I don't want to catch a cold."

"Don't want to catch a cold," he mimicked her savagely, his voice thick with rage. "Why didn't you take care of yourself a month ago, for Chrissake! You can get pneumonia, for all I care."

She looked at him coolly and speculalively for a moment, as if she were examining a new form of life, but she said nothing. He could see the slight, almost imperceptible smile as she turned and left the room. And then Howard Grafton knew that the vice-presidency was not just something he wanted very badly, but something he would have to have because there was nothing else left to him.

The next day after work, he stopped off at the Biltmore bar and began drinking seriously. He did not go home that night, but stayed in a hotel. He was late to work the next morning and his head throbbed all day. It was something to him, but not enough, to observe that Weatherby Fallstone had an equally bad hangover.

That night at home, Grafton shut himself up in the library with a fifth of Scotch and tried to think. He would go to Fallstone and put it to him straight: They would toss a coin and the loser would resign from J. L. Girton and Associates. Like hell, he thought; no deal with that dishonest bastard! He would hire private detectives and get a dossier on Fallstone and give it to J. L. It took him 30 seconds to get rid of that idea—he didn't have the money; J. L. might react by getting rid of him; Fallstone's detectives, if he in turn hired some, could do just as good a job on Grafton. He toyed with the possibility of feeding the juiciest bits to a Broadway columnist, but who the hell would print them? Nobody had heard of either of them. He could not kill Fallstone himself, he didn't know how, and he was afraid. He didn't know how to hire someone to do it, and he was afraid of that, too. At the end of three quarters of the bottle, he knew that there was nothing he could do but sweat it out.

He was sweating even more after the Friday-morning think meeting. Fallstone had been praised by J. L. no less than three times, while one of Grafton's pet schemes had been dismissed as "not thought out yet." He had also been re-buked by J. L. for talking too long, for interrupting Fallstone and finally for in attention. When J. L.'s secretary buzzed him early in the afternoon, his hands began to shake and there was a gnawing at his stomach. He chewed three antacid tablets quickly and went into J. L.'s office.

"Oh, Howie," J. L. said, "you know that gadget you have, the one that makes soda water in the siphon. Bring it along when you come out tomorrow; the washer on mine is rotted and it takes a couple of days to get a replacement."

"Sure thing, J. L.," he said.

I can't stand much more of this, Grafton thought as he drove toward J. L.'s country place the next evening. Lenore was next to him, infinitely desirable in low-cut green satin that matched her eyes; but the soda-water machine was on the seat between them like a drawn sword. She looked straight ahead. When he spoke, she answered him briefly and politely; but she never spoke first.

I have an ulcer, Grafton thought; I am beginning to drink too much; my wife hates me; and I am going to lose my job, because I am going to have to quit when they choose Fallstone. I can't stand much more of this, I'll have to do something.

It did not help matters that they arrived simultaneously with the Fallstones. He clapped a hand sincerely to Fallstone's shoulder and it was then he saw the nervous tic, as Fallstone's left cheek jumped as if it had its own life. Behind him, the two women, having uttered little shrieks of delight, were depositing kisses a fraction of an inch away from each other's cheeks. Grafton embraced Marcia Fallstone, careful not to crush her dress. When he laid his cheek against hers, he was surprised at the flush of heat. As the Fallstones went on ahead of him, he noticed how polite they were to each other—almost as polite as Lenore and myself, he thought, with a surge of hope.

It was only after the cocktails and the buffet that Grafton, going up to the bar for his second after-dinner highball, noticed the genial, twinkling little man in the outrageous tartan jacket and the striped shirt and the clashing tie.

"Wonderful party," the little man said. "I should get out more often. Have you known Mr. Girton long, Mr.——?"

"Grafton. I'm in J. L.'s firm, Mr.——?"

"Dee, Dr. Dee. Doctor of letters, that is, sacred and profane."

The little man emitted a series of high-pitched whinnies.

"Sacred and profane," he repeated. "A little joke of mine—because of my business."

"What's that?" Grafton asked. Some-how, without his being aware of it, Dr. Dee had propelled him out a side door onto the large patio by the swimming pool.

"A little store for religious articles— books, pictures, icons, whatever you want."

"Where does the 'profane' come in?"

Dr. Dee lowered his voice.

"As you know, Mr. Grafton, there are many sorts of religions, and who are we to say which is the right one? If a customer wants a mandrake root, or a little bag to wear around his neck, well, who am I to say him nay? He can get it in the back room. Or perhaps he may believe that I can help him get the girl he wants, with a love potion; or possibly he may desire me to destroy an enemy. I do not tell him it will work—it is against the law for me to say that—but if he wishes to believe it will work, then I will sell it to him in the back room."

"Are they expensive?"

"The religious books? No, they are very reasonably priced."

"I mean the others."

"They are quite expensive. But then, I do not ask for payment at the time of sale. Only later, when the customer is satisfied."

"Don't you have trouble collecting?"

"Very little, Mr. Grafton. If the customer is satisfied, then he will believe in me. He would not want to make me wait for my money."

"Dr. Dee," Grafton said, "as you know, I am in advertising. I'm interested in some of your ideas, campaignwise, that is. Perhaps we could get together next week."

"My card, Mr. Grafton. I am open from nine to nine. But not Monday afternoon in the coming week, I fear. I have an appointment with my bootmaker.

"A nuisance," the little man went on, "but I have a slight pedal malformation, and my shoes must be made to order. Believe me, Mr. Grafton, you have no idea what the man charges. One would do better going barefoot."

Grafton glanced down at Dee's shoes. They were high, black and gleamingly polished, and small, almost tiny. There was something odd about their shape, and in a second, Grafton realized what was wrong with them: They were almost as wide as they were long; yet despite this, one got an idea that distorted as they were, they were still somehow padded out. Poor devil, he thought; it must be hell walking on those things, and yet he keeps smiling.

"Thank you, Dr. Dee," Grafton said, taking the card. "Perhaps I'll try you later in the week. It's been a pleasure meeting you."

"Servus, Mr. Grafton."

Later, when they went home, Grafton was not very sober. Lenore had to drive. All the way home, Grafton let his head rest on the back of the seat, feeling a faint spinning and dizziness and an odd air of detachment. Despite the amount he had drunk, he slept very badly, too fuzzy to sort out dreams from thoughts. One moment, Dr. Dee was handing him a large golden key, while Lenore and J. L. Girton applauded; the next moment, he was awake and sweating and running over his anemic checking account. To hell with it, he thought; nobody can do anything like that. But he said there was no charge unless it worked. Maybe he can: I've heard of some screwy things. Nothing to lose, I've tried everything else. If it failed, I wouldn't be out anything; and if it worked, it would be worth whatever he wanted to charge. Then he was asleep again, but in the split second in which he passed from wakefulness to sleep, he had made a decision.

Grafton was tied up with meetings all day Monday, but Tuesday morning he took the Lexington Avenue subway uptown and walked over to Third. Dr. Dee's shop was in the middle of the block, flanked by two large antique stores. The display window was full of Bibles, religious paintings, icons and crucifixes. At one corner was the inscription, in gilt gothic, "Religious articles Dr. John Dee," and below it, the street number.

The store was well patronized, but a clerk who looked like a spoiled priest came forward and greeted him unctuously.

"Is Dr. Dee in? He asked me to call."

"Please follow me, Mr. Grafton."

Grafton looked at him suspiciously.

"The name," the clerk said, "oh, that was quite easy. Very few customers ask to see Dr. Dee personally, and he had told us yesterday that a Mr. Grafton might be dropping in."

Dr. Dee's office was on the second floor, facing the street. Grafton did not quite know what he had been expecting —a stuffed crocodile on the wall, perhaps: skeletons dangling; a cone-shaped black hat with silver stars on it. But the office was actually similar to his own, though rather larger.

Dr. Dee bounced from his chair, with his eyes twinkling, and shook Grafton's hand vigorously.

"Dee-lighted," he said, giggling. "Dee-lighted, a little joke of mine, you get the play on words. But now, Mr. Grafton, to business. I know you are a busy man. Like an old friend of mine in New England. He used to have a sign over his desk, Time Is Money: State Your Business. I, alas, am far too discursive, I fear. But sit down, Mr. Grafton. sit down."

Grafton lowered himself carefully into the Eames chair.

"Dr. Dee," he said, slowly and carefully, "suppose there were two men. each of them with a chance at a big job."

"What a shame," Dr. Dee said. "Heartbreak, jealousy, old friendships broken, insomnia, ulcers, bitter rivalry. What I would give to avoid such conflicts, Mr. Grafton, but I seem to see so many of them in my business."

"Could you fix it, do you have anything that would fix it so that one person wouldn't get the job?"

Dr. Dee reached into a drawer of his executive's desk and pulled out a tiny bottle full of a clear liquid. Instead of a cork, it had a medicine dropper attached.

Grafton stared at it in horror.

"I don't mean that," he said quickly. "It doesn't have to be that. I just want to knock him out of the running. Something that will make him look bad, say crazy things, make a fool of himself at staff meetings. Cut his own throat— figuratively, I mean," he added quickly.

"You wish for something that will guarantee that Weatherby Fallstone will not get the vice-presidency when Eldon Smith retires," Dr. Dee said. "Do not be surprised, Mr. Grafton. I always think it better to lay our cards on the table at once."

"How do you know it's Fallstone?" Grafton asked suspiciously.

"My dear Mr. Grafton, I circulate, I attend parties. If I may quote Scripture." Dr. Dee twinkled genially, " 'I go to and fro in the earth and walk up and down in it.' And you would be surprised how many things come to my attention."

Somehow, to Grafton the whole thing was still odd and disturbing, but he asked the inevitable next question, because there was really not much else for him to do now.

"Can you do it?"

"Why, yes, Mr. Grafton. It will be quite easy; I have just the thing."

Dr. Dee reached into the other side of his desk and brought out a small doll. He put it in Grafton's hand. It was made of some remarkably fleshlike plastic, and for a gruesome moment, Grafton thought he felt it move. He turned it over and looked at its face, and then he felt really sick. It was a perfect replica of Weather-by Fallstone, complete to buttondown white oxford, black string tie and gray flannels.

"Do not be alarmed, Mr. Grafton. I rather thought that this was what you would be wanting, so I took the liberty of making it up in advance. This modern plastic is fascinating stuff."

"What do I do with it?"

"Just take an ordinary pin, the kind you get in a new shirt, and apply it as you think most effective. Stuck in the shoulder, it will produce sudden, agonizing bursitis that will guarantee a howl of pain. In the abdomen, a violent ulcer attack. Open the mouth, Mr. Grafton—it is easy; see, the lower jaw moves. Then tickle the throat and he will vomit suddenly in public—most disgusting. Scratch the tongue—can you see the little red tongue?—and he will babble, literally, ba-ba-ba-ba. It will not help him in making a presentation to a client. Or perhaps you would like to tickle his ribs with the pin. He will go off into uncontrollable giggling, like a teenage girl with hysterics. That will surely not recommend him for promotion."

"Is there any particular way to do it?"

"Lightly, lightly, Mr. Grafton. Softee, softee, catchee monkey. Continuous light pressure or stroking with the pinhead, and you can keep it up as long as you want. But do not stick the pin in him and leave it, or you will have a dead man. And I remember how sensitive you are on that point."

"I'll take it," Grafton said, wanting only to leave. "How much?"

"A thousand dollars when you are satisfied."

"You guarantee that this will put Fallstone out of the running?"

"I guarantee it, Mr. Grafton, though it is perhaps illegal to say so."

Grafton put the little doll in the velvet-lined wooden box (like a coffin, he thought) that Dr. Dee provided. Then he put it into his attaché case.

"My account will be payable upon satisfaction, Mr. Grafton."

"Don't worry," Grafton said, feeling the queasiness below his wishbone. "Don't worry, I'll pay it."

Friday was the day of the weekly think meeting. That morning, Grafton decided to have a bad cold. He got Lenore, who was still barely speaking to him, to call the office. Then he lay back in his bed and waited for 11 o'clock to come. At 10:30 Lenore came in quietly with some breakfast. For the first time in weeks her eyes were not veiled and hostile and her face was not set. She put the tray on the bedside table, then she leaned over and kissed him.

"Thanks, honey," he said. "Thanks for both."

"It's all right, Howie. Don't worry about it anymore. It's not worth it. Maybe it never was."

"I'm not going to worry anymore. Either I get it or I don't."

She kissed him again.

"I'm going shopping. Will you be all right?"

"Sure. I feel better. I may come down to the library and read."

When he heard her pull out of the driveway, he quickly called the office and asked for Weatherby Fallstone.

"Weatherby," he said, "I've got a bad cold."

"I'm sorry to hear that, old man. Take care of your health."

"Will you be at the think meeting?"

"Of course. Have one or two crackerjack ideas I want to try out."

"I expect I'll be back Monday. Will you take a few notes and give me a rundown?"

"Glad to, old man."

He hung up, gobbled his breakfast and went down to the study. He sat there with the little doll in one hand and a pin in the other. A few extra pins were on the desk. He called Fallstone again.

"Mr. Fallstone is in a meeting," the secretary told him.

"Never mind, I'll call back later."

He gave the think meeting 15 minutes to get under way. Then he began. He started with just a bad headache—not a screaming migraine, he thought, scratching the pin like a feather across the doll's forehead, just a bad hangover. He gave it about ten minutes before he opened the doll's lower jaw and began playing with the tiny tongue. After that he tickled its ribs for a while, and brought the performance to a crescendo by gently scratching its throat. He had a final idea of his own and put a folded handkerchief over the doll's eyes for five minutes. He put the doll back in its box and the box in his attaché case. When Lenore returned, he was reading The New York Times.

On Monday, he went in earlier than the usual executive hour, but his secretary was there to give him the news.

"It was awful, Mr. Grafton. Mr. Fallstone had a fit at the think meeting. He put his head in his hands and groaned, then he started babbling and talking nonsense. Then he started laughing and couldn't stop. And then"—she lowered her voice—"he was sick all over Mr. Girton's desk. They started to take him out and he was yelling he was blind, and they took him to the hospital."

"Terrible. How is he?"

"I heard he was OK, but they have him in some sort of a ward."

He was reading the Times slowly and with relish when the buzzer rang for him. He detoured for a moment en route to J. L.'s office and looked in on Fall-stone's. There was no sign of life. Only piled-up personal belongings—pills, an umbrella, a few textbooks—stacked on the desk where the office boy had put them, gave evidence that anyone had occupied the room.

"I suppose you heard about it," J. L. said, waving him to a seat.

"Terrible."

"I can't understand it. He seemed so rational and calm. Drink, I suppose, poor devil. Well, we can't sit around weeping. Howard, I want you to start working very closely with Eldon. He'll be leaving in two months and there are a lot of loose strings you'll have to tie up."

"I really appreciate this, J. L. You know you can count on me."

He paused for a moment and spoke soberly.

"It's a shame it had to happen this way."

"Nonsense, Howard. Not your fault; now go out and start pitching."

The check he mailed to Dr. Dee that afternoon was more than his checking account held. To cover it, he had to cash a savings bond, quite a large one, and deposit the money. It was just about closing time and the windows were shutting down, but Grafton kept them open long enough to have his check certified. He had had checks bounce before, but somehow he felt that this was not one he would want to have returned marked "Insufficient funds." He sent it registered and special delivery.

• • •

In the next weeks, he learned by bits and pieces that Fallstone had been released from the hospital, that he had been given a generous severance check, that he was cruising the agencies with his scrapbook, that he had been seen very drunk in a bar. After a while, it didn't bother Grafton anymore. He was too busy.

He was alone in his office, working late on a prospectus that old Eldon Smith had completely fouled up, when the pain came. It was like a sword in his belly and he doubled up in agony, sliding from his chair to the floor. There was a moment's respite and it came again. It was then Grafton remembered that all the J. L. Girton and Associates executives had been at the party and it was then he knew that Dr. Dee had talked to other people and not just to him. For an instant there was relief, while in a corner of his memory, a picture flashed of Dr. Dee talking with Fallstone. Then the pain came again.

"Now, there's a young man I like."

He was groaning, stretched out on the floor, when the night watchman came by an hour later; but he was dead by the time they got him to the hospital.

"I can't understand it," J. L. Girton said to Frank Baker. "He was in perfect health. He had everything to live for. A terrible business. Well, Frank, it's up to you now."

"I'll do my best, sir," Baker said with the boyish modesty that was his particular stock in trade.

"Mr. Girton," he went on.

"J. L."

"J. L., I'd like to take an hour or so to tell Betty. It will mean a lot to her. Just imagine. Vice-president."

"Of course, my boy, on your way! And don't forget to remember me to your pretty wife."

Before he went to the apartment, young Frank Baker stopped off at Dr. Dee's shop.

"I have the payment here," he said.

"They just made me vice-president."

"Capital, my boy; I had a very strong feeling you would make good. I took a liking to you the first time we met."

"Can you tell me—are you allowed to, that is—how you managed it?"

"I did nothing much."

"You just made me vice-president, that's all. And just by mental power—just by wishing it for me."

Dr. Dee reached into the drawer and held up a little doll.

"You remember how these work, don't you?"

"Yes, you told me."

"Well, Grafton and Fallstone each had one—of each other. They eliminated each other."

"Dr. Dee, you mean you told both of them they'd get the job and then let me get it? Isn't that, well, kind of unethical?"

"Nothing of the sort, my boy. I told each of them I would see that the other didn't get the job. That's what they asked for, and I kept my word."

Dr. Dee returned the doll to the drawer. "You, on the other hand, asked for the job specifically." He smiled broadly. "And you got it."