Sidney Sheldon 3-Book Collection: If Tomorrow Comes, Nothing Lasts Forever, The Best Laid Plans

Budge looked up and snapped his fingers, and a waiter came hurrying over to the table. ‘Dominick, bring Mr Stevens some paper and a pen.’

It was produced almost instantly.

‘We can wrap up this little deal right here,’ Budge said to Jeff. ‘You just make out this paper, giving us the rights, and we’ll sign it, and in the morning you’ll have a certified cheque for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. How does that suit you?’

Jeff was biting his lower lip. ‘Budge, I promised Mr Barlett –’

‘Fuck Barlett,’ Budge snarled. ‘Are you married to his sister or mine? Now write.’

‘We don’t have a patent on this, and –’

‘Write, goddamn it!’ Budge shoved the pen in Jeff’s hand.

Reluctantly, Jeff began to write. ‘This will transfer all my rights, title and interest to a mathematical computer called SUCABA, to the buyers, Donald “Budge” Hollander, Ed Zeller, Alan Thompson and Mike Quincy, for the consideration of two million dollars, with a payment of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars on signing. SUCABA has been extensively tested, is inexpensive, trouble-free, and uses less power than any computer currently on the market. SUCABA will require no maintenance or parts for a minimum period of ten years.’ They were all looking over Jeff’s shoulder as he wrote.

‘Jesus!’ Ed Zeller said. ‘Ten years! There’s not a computer on the market that can claim that!’

Jeff continued. ‘The buyers understand that neither Professor Vernon Ackerman nor I holds a patent on SUCABA –’

‘We’ll take care of all that,’ Alan Thompson interrupted impatiently. ‘I’ve got one hell of a patent attorney.’

Jeff kept writing. ‘I have explained to the buyers that SUCABA may have no value of any kind, and that neither Professor Vernon Ackerman nor I makes any representations or warranties about SUCABA except as written above.’ He signed it and held up the paper. ‘Is that satisfactory?’

‘You sure about the ten years?’ Budge asked.

‘Guaranteed. I’ll just make a copy of this,’ Jeff said. They watched as he carefully made a copy of what he had written.

Budge snatched the papers out of Jeff’s hand and signed them. Zeller, Quincy and Thompson followed suit.

Budge was beaming. ‘A copy for us and a copy for you. Old Seymour Jarrett and Charlie Bartlett are sure going to have egg on their faces, huh, boys? I can’t wait until they hear that they got screwed out of this deal.’

The following morning Budge handed Jeff a certified cheque for $250,000.

‘Where’s the computer?’ Budge asked.

‘I arranged for it to be delivered here at the club at noon. I thought it only fitting that we should all be together when you receive it.’

Budge clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You know, Jeff, you’re a smart fellow. See you at lunch.’

At the stroke of noon a messenger carrying a box appeared in the dining room of the Pilgrim Club and was ushered to Budge’s table, where he was seated with Zeller, Thompson, and Quincy.

‘Here it is!’ Budge exclaimed. ‘Jesus! The damned thing’s even portable.’

‘Should we wait for Jeff?’ Thompson asked.

‘Fuck him. This belongs to us now.’ Budge ripped the paper away from the box. Inside was a nest of straw. Carefully, almost reverently, he lifted out the object that lay in the nest. The men sat there, staring at it. It was a square frame about a foot in diameter, holding a series of wires across which were strung rows of beads. There was a long silence.

‘What is it?’ Quincy finally asked.

Alan Thompson said, ‘It’s an abacus. One of those things Orientals use to count –’ The expression on his face changed. ‘Jesus! SUCABA is abacus spelled backwards!’ He turned to Budge. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’

Zeller was sputtering. ‘Low power, trouble-free, uses less power than any computer currently on the market … Stop the goddamned cheque!’

There was a concerted rush to the telephone.

‘Your certified cheque?’ the head bookkeeper said. ‘There’s nothing to worry about. Mr Stevens cashed it this morning.’

Pickens, the butler, was very sorry, indeed, but Mr Stevens had packed and left. ‘He mentioned something about an extended journey.’

That afternoon, a frantic Budge finally managed to reach Professor Vernon Ackerman.

‘Of course. Jeff Stevens. A charming man. Your brother-in-law, you say?’

‘Professor, what were you and Jeff discussing?’

‘I suppose it’s no secret. Jeff is eager to write a book about me. He has convinced me that the world wants to know the human being behind the scientist …’

Seymour Jarrett was reticent. ‘Why do you want to know what Mr Stevens and I discussed? Are you a rival stamp collector?’

‘No, I –’

‘Well, it won’t do you any good to snoop around. There’s only one stamp like it in existence, and Mr Stevens has agreed to sell it to me when he acquires it.’

And he slammed down the receiver.

Budge knew what Charlie Bartlett was going to say before the words were out. ‘Jeff Stevens? Oh, yes. I collect antique cars. Jeff knows where this ’37 Packard four-door convertible in mint condition –’

This time it was Budge who hung up.

‘Don’t worry,’ Budge told his partners. ‘We’ll get our money back and put the son of a bitch away for the rest of his life. There are laws against fraud.’

The group’s next stop was at the office of Scott Fogarty.

‘He took us for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars,’ Budge told the attorney. ‘I want him put behind bars for the rest of his life. Get a warrant out for –’

‘Do you have the contract with you, Budge?’

‘It’s right here.’ He handed Fogarty the paper Jeff had written out.

The lawyer scanned it quickly, then read it again, slowly. ‘Did he forge your names to this paper?’

‘Why, no,’ Mike Quincy said. ‘We signed it.’

‘Did you read it first?’

Ed Zeller angrily said, ‘Of course we read it. Do you think we’re stupid?’

‘I’ll let you be the judge of that, gentlemen. You signed a contract stating that you were informed that what you were purchasing with a down payment of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars was an object that had not been patented and could be completely worthless. In the legal parlance of an old professor of mine, “You’ve been royally fucked.”’