Chase: Roman

said. He was a small, pale, nervous man who wore a neatly clipped moustache and an old-fashioned, floppy-collared white dress shirt. He kept picking things up and putting them down to no end. His name was Brown, and he said he was pleased to meet such a distinguished alumnus. ‘But there have been dozens of requests for your files in recent months, ever since the medal was announced. You must have been contacted for a number of excellent jobs.’
        Chase ignored the indirect question. He said, ‘Do you keep names and addresses of people requesting records?’
        ‘Of course!’ Brown said. ‘We only give information to businessmen.’
        ‘Fine,’ Chase said. ‘Then I'm looking for the man who came in on a Tuesday, this past Tuesday.’
        ‘Just a moment,’ Brown said. He fetched a ledger and brought it to the counter, put it down, then picked it up again and thumbed through it. ‘There was just one gentleman,’ he said.
        ‘Who was he?’
        Brown showed Chase the address as he read it. ‘Eric Blentz, Gateway Mall Tavern. It's in the city.’
        ‘I know where it's at,’ Chase said.
        ‘Has he offered you a position?’
        ‘No.’
        ‘But I thought you said he was bothering you,’ Brown said. He picked up a fountain pen lying on the counter, twisted it in his fingers and put it down again.
        ‘He is, but not to take a job with him.’
        Brown looked at the ledger, still not comprehending that anyone would use privileged information for anything but what it was meant for. ‘If I were you, Mr Chase, I wouldn't accept anything he offered, no matter what the salary.’
        ‘Oh?’
        ‘I don't believe he'd be a pleasant man to work for.’
        ‘You remember him, then?’
        Brown lifted the pen again, replaced it. ‘Naturally,’ he said. ‘We do most of our work by mail. It isn't often that a prospective employer comes here for a report.’
        ‘Do you remember what Blentz looked like?’
        ‘Certainly,’ Brown said. ‘Nearly your height, though not robust at all, very thin, in fact, and with a stoop to his shoulders.’
        ‘How old?’
        ‘Thirty-eight, thirty-nine?’
        ‘His face? Do you remember that?’
        ‘Very ascetic features,’ Brown said. ‘Very quick eyes. He kept looking from one of my girls to the other, then at me, as if he didn't trust us. His cheeks were rather drawn, and he had an unhealthy complexion. A large but not Mediterranean nose, a thin nose, in fact, so thin that the nostrils were like extended ovals.’
        ‘Brown hair?’
        ‘Blond,’ the manager said.
        ‘You said he wouldn't be very pleasant to work for. Why do you think that?’
        Brown said, ‘He was quite sharp with me, and he didn't look like he could be pleasant if he tried. He was always scowling. He was dressed very neatly, with a high polish to his shoes. I don't think there was a hair out of place on his head, as if he used spray or something. And when I asked for his name and business address, he took the pen out of my hand, turned the ledger around and wrote it down because, as he said, everyone always spelled his name wrong, and he wanted it right this time.’
        ‘A perfectionist?’
        ‘He seemed to be.’
        Chase said, ‘How is it that you remember him in such detail?’
        Brown smiled and picked up the pen, put it down, toyed with the ledger for a moment. He said, ‘Evenings and weekends, and especially during the summer, my wife and I run The Footlight, a legitimate theatre in town. I take a role in most of our productions, and I'm always studying people to build a reference of expressions and mannerisms.’
        ‘You must be very good onstage, by now,’ Chase said.
        Brown blushed slightly. ‘Not particularly,’ he admitted. ‘But that kind of thing gets in your blood. We don't make much money on the theatre, but as long as it breaks even, I can indulge myself a little.’
        On his way back to his car, Chase tried to picture Brown on the stage, before an audience, his hands trembling, his face paler than ever, his urge to handle things amplified by the circumstances… He thought he knew the chief reason The Footlight didn't show much profit.
        In the car, Chase opened his notebook and looked over the list of facts, trying to find something that supported the possibility that Judge was Eric Blentz, the saloon owner. To the