Disclaimers:  Neither Rysher:  Panzer/Davis nor the estate of Rex Stout need have any worries; I make no money from this, intend no infringement or disrespect, and write this only because these are two of the most stubborn SOBs who've ever refused to shut up in my head.
Written for Crossovers100, prompt # 40 -- Sight.  Beta provided by Alexandra Lynch, Devo, and tarsh.  All mistakes are of course my fault.
Rated:  PG, for language (almost) fit for a maiden aunt.

White Horses & Tails

Despite Archie's usual comments, there's nothing wrong with my cap or my suit.  So what if they're a little rumpled and worn?  That means they don't stand out.  It's part of why I'm a better tail than Archie.  And sure, I've read his books.  I give him grief about the parts he got wrong, or changed to look better in print, although I agree that some words don't belong on paper.  Not in books meant for kids who haven't learned worse yet.

Of course if you don't read his books, you don't know why I mentioned that, so I'll introduce myself.  I'm Saul Panzer.  I'm a private investigator, licensed by the city and state of New York, and I work freelance.  Archie -- Archie Goodwin if you prefer formality -- has mentioned me a few times because when Mr. Wolfe needs extra help, I'm generally the first one they call.  Archie's sharp enough, but there's only one of him and sometimes Mr. Wolfe can't wait.  For Mr. Wolfe, I'll drop other jobs.  It's always a pleasure to see something done right, and he can think circles around the rest of us.

I've only failed Mr. Wolfe five times in all the jobs he's given me.  He says otherwise, but I say they were my failures, not his.  Not counting my work for him, my usual jobs range from child's play to a few complicated beauties, and I've only failed three times on those.  That's how I can charge, and get, twice the going rate -- when I go for the goods, I almost always get them.

Now and then I do a few investigations for myself to keep my hand in.  Most of the things I look into are small things or basic:  financial checks on companies where I might buy stock, background checks on superintendents or contractors for the apartments I rent, or tailing a bank president because I overheard some gossip while I was in line and it made me wonder if my money was safe there.  I've only flubbed one of my own investigations, and I never told Archie about it because I didn't get what I went for.  I didn't think there was going to be anything I could get, but I had to try.  As it turns out, I was right -- I couldn't get it.

The whole thing happened because I remember faces, what they look like, when and where I saw them.  That's why I noticed just how odd Russell Nash was.

I first met Mr. Nash when I was casing antiques stores to shut down a crew of furniture thieves.  A very upset socialite wanted her great-grandfather's heirloom sideboard back, and an even more unhappy refinishing company insisted that their men had been the second crew that arrived to pick up the sideboard.  A little nosing around turned up the information that this wasn't the first time someone had used that scheme on the East Side.  Eight companies had been patsies so far, with what sounded like two women taking it in turn to get a job answering phones and, occasionally, scheduling an extra 'pick up.'

A routine check through antique stores that hadn't been hit yet took me to Nash Antiques.  My eyes told me that they didn't have any of the stolen pieces or any employee who matched the descriptions of the women in question.  Nash knew his business -- one look around the place told me that -- and no one was going to fool that man twice.  I probably wouldn't lay money those thieves could do it once and get away with it.  Sharp, noticing eyes on him, good enough to be a detective's, and a ruthless edge under the manners.

He had a very pretty girl helping him in the shop when I came in, young enough that 'woman' wasn't the right description yet, but it was going to be soon.  A few words with Miss Ellenstein told me that the thieves were in for a bad time if they tried their scam on her.  She was honest, quick, and nobody's doormat, so I marked Nash Antiques off my list and kept going.

It took me a few days to track down the stolen furniture.  Nine pieces, and the idiots stored all of it in one antiques store.  I guess that's one way to restock, but it's a better way to get caught.  I found the stuff, tracked down the sisters who were what brains the group had, and turned them all over to New York's 'finest.'  It took longer to convince the police to release my clients' furniture back than it had to find it.  I finally had to call in Nathaniel Parker, one of the more honest lawyers around.

I'm beginning to see why Archie's stories come out the way they do.  Anyway, that was my first introduction to Russell Nash.

Eight years later I saw him again.  To be precise, I saw Miss Ellenstein first.  Full-grown and if I hadn't been working, I'd have considered asking her out to dinner.  I like intelligent conversation.  Any woman who only needs three questions to figure out that I'm checking an alibi can probably provide it.

She had character behind that pretty face, too.  My suspect's alibi wasn't just useless, it was a complete lie, and he'd made the mistake of thinking she'd back him up just because they went to school together.  I'd give good odds that she was the kind of student who'd help a friend study but didn't believe in letting anyone copy her homework.  She definitely wasn't happy about being drawn into a case by implication; she said she was the only blonde working there.  She was even less happy about Nash Antiques being involved by name.  She didn't just agree to sign a deposition that the guy had never been there that afternoon, she offered to type it up for me while I waited.

While I was waiting (and showing a customer around for her so that she could finish it), Nash came in from whatever meeting he'd been at.  From the cut of his coat and suit, it could have been an estate auction or convincing some bankers he was a good risk.  What caught my attention however was his face.  The man hadn't aged.

No new grey or silver in his hair, no extra wrinkles in his face, not even small ones around the eyes and the corners of the mouth.  He'd put on maybe five pounds, none of it fat, and still moved as lightly as he had when he'd shown me around his store and storeroom before.  His eyes were still sharp, quick, and suspicious.

He placed me in that first glance and cut in on the customer without a wasted word or any hint to the guy that I didn't work there.  He sold the man a silver tea set while Miss Ellenstein finished her deposition, bundled the guy out, and turned to her on an angle that let him watch me.  He read the paper over, frowned, and then nodded.  Didn't say a word to me, didn't try to take the paper.  That finished my business there.  I was tempted to stay but my clients needed to know that the chances of conviction had just changed to something the cops wouldn't like, so I headed back out.

I stopped in ten days later, when that case was done, to let Miss Ellenstein know she probably wouldn't have to testify in court, and left again, still without a date -- she had a new diamond on her left hand and a mile-wide smile.  Nash wasn't there either, which was just as well.  There's no law against a man not aging, and there was a chance he was just one of those guys who doesn't seem to age for a while until you look up and the years have caught up.

Besides, I hadn't decided if, or what, I wanted to ask him about it.

Two years after that, I looked up from the bar at the White Horse Tavern and Nash was standing next to me ordering single malt.  He glanced at me, nodded, and ignored me for the next few minutes.  If you didn't count the line between his eyes, that is.  Not quite a frown, but he was thinking hard and fast, and not a bit of it was getting out where I could see it.  That annoyed me.  I can read a man decently, but Nash might as well have been in one of the old dead languages they teach in the colleges.  I won't say Chinese or Greek; I know a few words in both.  New York's like that.

My bourbon and soda had settled into my bones and I was ready to head for the door when Nash handed me a refill and tilted his head towards a table just opening up.  I made sure his glass was full too, but I went.  Why not?

"Saul Panzer you said."  He didn't make it a question, but he put a disbelieving edge on it that might have made some pull ID or justify themselves.

"So I did.  Nice to see you, Mr. Nash."

He chuckled at that, raspy as if he'd swallowed some gas during the last war.  Maybe he had.  He sounded honestly amused, at least.  That's a hard thing to fake convincingly in a laugh.  "Not on business this time?"

"On my own time, thanks."  I tapped the edge of my glass with a finger and got a nod.  "Looking for an investigator or just stopped in for a drink?"

Nash leaned back, more relaxed now that he was sure I wasn't looking for -- or into -- him.  "They sell good whisky and they don't water it."  He grinned suddenly, mocking himself as much as me, I'd say.  "Interesting part of town you like."

I just sipped my drink.  "If I comment, I'm protesting too much.  If I don't, I look like an idiot.  I don't have any bets down either way."

"Nice evasion."  Nash drank his whisky in one gulp -- no way to treat a single malt that good -- and set the glass down.  "Have a good evening."

I grinned at him as he pulled his gloves on.  "Worried you'd have to shake a tail on your way out?"

"Wondering, not worried."  His own grin was sudden and wicked as Orrie or Archie up to mischief.  "A man likes to know what trouble he's dancing with."

"Sorry, I'm not much for dancing."  I waved at the table.  "Stick around and talk.  Unless you're late for something?"

"My dinner."  He paused, studying me against some balance and measure I didn't know about, then chuckled.  "But the conversation's not dull.  With a name like yours, I won't offer the ham, but I can offer roast beef sandwiches and a horseradish sauce to make your eyes water."

What the hell, I wasn't doing anything else that night and I wanted a little more time to study him before I decided how to ask about his access to the fountain of youth.  And he was right; the conversation was interesting.  "Despite the name, I like a good ham sandwich.  The roast beef sounds even better.  Sure, thanks."

Turned out Russell Nash lived over his shop, and clearly, he made good money, or had inherited a fair bit.  Mr. Wolfe would have coveted his rugs, and Nash liked -- and had -- open spaces.  His apartment took up at least two of the stories over the shop, maybe all three; I could see two, anyway.  He must own the entire building, and not need extra rental income.  Interesting.  The stairs down from the elevator led to an open kitchen, dining room, and living room, and the windows on the living room upped the sale price on the apartment by at least thirty thousand.

He also had some odd tastes, or mixed them oddly.  A cherry table worth a few thousand, matching chairs, and the rugs under them worth a lot more, but he also had antique edged weapons everywhere.  I barely kept my face from changing when I realized what I wasn't seeing.  Several of those weapons weren't confined, but it wasn't a consistent pattern of secured and not, even in the sets of paired daggers or sabers.

Pulling a weapon in a man's house isn't something I do unless I'm willing to use it on him, but I'd be willing to put fifty against five that those weapons were sharp.  I wasn't going to test the theory, however, and I had my own gun with me, so why worry?

I wandered around, examining some of the art and the mineral specimens.  I didn't recognize the crystals that shifted from green to brown and back again as I moved around them, but I had a better example of scrimshaw on display than he did.  His piano and the bust of Mozart beat mine, and I had nothing to match or even compare with the tapestry on his wall.  It should have been down at the Cloisters.

The sound of plates and silverware pulled me away from his art.  The roast beef Nash was offering looked as good as he'd claimed, the horseradish smelled strong enough to make me want some milk, and the rye bread came from a bakery I knew.  "Kosher?"

Nash shrugged and kept slicing.  "There's better rye bread in New York?  How many sandwiches?"

"There might be, but I haven't found it either."  I took a plate and started making a sandwich.  "Three, thanks.  Long day."

Nash nodded.  "I have soup, but it would take a while to warm up.  Hmm."  He left me with a stack of bread and went to rummage through his refrigerator.  He pulled out cheese, olives, radishes, and carrots, came out with a bundle of greens, looked them over, shrugged, and put them next to the roast beef.

"Spinach on a sandwich?"

"Why not?  It's green and crunches."  Nash laid out the makings for his sandwiches quickly -- three slices of bread, layered with horseradish and mayonnaise (store-bought; Fritz and Mr. Wolfe would have disapproved, but they're purists), thick slices of home-cooked beef, equally thick slices of gouda, spinach, thin slices of onion, and more bread on the top.  The olives and radishes filled the spare space on the plate.  Either he'd skipped lunch or the man ate like a dock worker.  Interesting; he still wasn't carrying any spare around the middle.

I followed his example, of course.  It's always interesting to try new combinations and why not trust a man this at home in his own kitchen?  And I'd been out tailing a fast-moving man from seven this morning until an hour ago.  He glanced at me, grinned at some joke that was edged on both sides, and asked, "Milk, beer, something harder?"

I grinned back and said, "I'll trust you," just to see what it got me.

"You're a hard man, Panzer."  Nash pulled out two glasses and the milk, handed one over.  "If you don't mind milk on top of bourbon, that is."

"I'd mind the horseradish on top of it more."  We took our plates over to his table with that incredible view of the city and proceeded to ignore the view in favor of the food.  "The mineral behind that white jade -- what is it?  I've never seen anything change colors quite like that."

"No surprise there.  The tsars didn't like selling alexandrite, and neither do the Communists.  You play the piano?"

I'd look up alexandrite tomorrow.  No hurry, I'd already figured out that Nash was much better off than he let his store show, and it was full of good pieces.  All for sale, though.  That might be part of the slight of hand he was using.

"Not as well as my mother did, but yes.  A piano's good company when you're trying to think."  Nash glanced up over his sandwich, one eyebrow coming up.  Not for effect, the way Archie does.  Nash seemed to have two states:  very expressive, and completely bland except for the eyes.  This time, he was letting me see what he was thinking, maybe because I was a guest, and maybe for some reason that would make even less sense.

He finally nodded and went back to his food.  "I haven't seen you in the Horse before."

I just chuckled.  "It's not my usual bar, but the bourbon's good and I'd just finished a job about a mile from here.  I wanted a walk and a drink, in that order."

Nash let his glance slide from the sandwich on my plate to the one in my hand, not looking for the one I'd already devoured.  "A quiet day and you needed to stretch your legs, hmm?"

Nice mix of sarcasm and humor, at least, and I was right:  the man's sharp.  Another time, I'd almost be tempted to tell Mr. Wolfe to invite him for dinner, just to hear them talk over and around the food.  They'd either get along well enough to make me and Archie worry, or they'd spend the entire meal sparring, which would be instructional in itself.  "Not really."  One quick glance told me that the information exchange was going to have to be even... but that left open some interesting possibilities.  "I needed time to let my thoughts settle.  I've been concentrating all day."

"Ah."  Nash nodded, passed me the milk bottle.  "Do they ever completely settle?"  My smile got loose before I could stop it, and he translated it just fine.  "Mm.  You look like your brain's usually in full gear."

"And you look the same, Mr. Nash."  That got loose before I could stop it, too, and made me wonder how tired I was if I was going to let my mouth run like that.  I had my gun with me, but it turned out I didn't need it.

The animation slid out of Nash's face as my words sank in, but an absent flick of his hand told me to keep eating.  "I'm not sending you hungry from my table for having eyes that work," was all he said.

Nash and I finished eating while he considered what I'd said and several other things, judging from how long it took him.  I don't think he was in Mr. Wolfe's league, but he wasn't a fool, either, and I'd just handed him one hell of a problem.  We loaded the dishes into the sink and Nash let me help with the cleaning-up without a comment.  So much for the conversation he'd thought he was getting with dinner, but he'd been the one who shut up first.

What he finally asked was, "Why did you mention it?"

"Because I've been wondering for a while how you do it."  I leaned against his counter, not quite slouching, and rolled my sleeves back down to button the cuffs again.

"That good a memory, then?"  Nash watched me, drying his hands on the dish towel before he put it back in place; his head cocked to one side for a moment as he considered me.  "Your eyes are sharp enough."

"I get paid to see things as they are, not as I'd like to see them," I agreed.  "I'm not asking if you're doing anything illegal, Mr. Nash, or even immoral.  I'm just wondering if I'd find a painting of an older version of you somewhere around."

He laughed, that raspy chuckle that made me sure that he got a lungful of gas in France or Holland.  "I wouldn't have taken you for a man who'd read Wilde."

"Surprise."  I knew we might end up getting violent, but I couldn't help grinning at him.  The most dangerous thing about Nash, as far as I'm concerned, was that I couldn't seem to help liking him.  "I wouldn't have been surprised to find you could acquire a portrait like that."

"I deal in antiques, not artifacts," Nash said, as if there was a difference -- I found out later that there is -- and then said, perfectly seriously, "It's not something I do, Panzer.  And it's nothing I can teach you."

It's hard to be absolutely certain when a man's lying, although you can definitely develop the knack, but it's a little easier to know when a man's telling you the truth.  Nash was being honest with me, without layering lies in among it.  "Damn."  I relaxed a little farther.  "Does it have its drawbacks, at least?"

His eyes tightened when I asked that, and whatever memories my question called up weren't all that pleasant.  Most of them, anyway.  Nash turned his mind towards more pleasant ones as he snorted.  "Yes.  Quite a few."

"Not under your control, then.  That would be a problem at times."  I nodded to him and said, "Just so we're completely clear, Mr. Nash, this isn't the sort of thing I'd tell anyone else about.  It would cause you too much trouble, and you might want to return it to me -- possibly in advance."  His lips had gone as tight as Mr. Wolfe's while I was talking, but they relaxed as he realized I was serious.  I was, too.  Any man can be killed; Nash might have had plenty of time to learn more tricks than me, Archie, and Mr. Wolfe put together.  I was in no hurry to find out.

Nash smiled, ironic enough but honestly amused, too.  "I begin to see how you get that rate."  He saw my surprise, apparently, because he just grinned at me.  I decided not to bet this man on anything, including pool games and the Yankees taking the pennant again.  "You were in my store twice, Panzer.  Of course I asked around about you."

"I didn't hear about it."  I let him wonder for a moment, then I told him, "Once you weren't involved with my jobs, I didn't have a reason to look into you.  So I didn't.  I didn't expect to run into you again."

"Good enough."  Nash nodded to me and offered, "A drink to seal it, then?"

"What, that I don't talk and you don't decide I'm a threat?"  I straightened up.  "No, thanks.  I'll be going, Mr. Nash.  It was a good dinner, though."

Nash just laughed at me.  "It was to settle the deal, man, not to bribe you.  When your pride unruffles, come see me and I'll pull out the good whisky, teach you not to drink blended malts."  He didn't try to talk me into staying, however, or make any threats.  He just helped me into my coat and walked me to the door.

Next time I read one of Archie's books, I may be more sympathetic to what he leaves out, and where he stops them.

I've thought about that encounter occasionally, wondered what other questions I could have asked, or should have asked.  Wondered how old Nash really is, and what his real name is, for that matter -- Russell doesn't suit him somehow -- and where he acquired some of that art and how much it cost at the time.  Wondered if Ms. Ellenstein ever married, or stayed married, and if that might be excuse enough to stop back by.

I haven't done it yet.  Nash is a sharp man, and he's got something precious people would want that he can't give away.  Put like that, I can see why I haven't gone back and probably never will unless another case takes me through there.

I have to admit, I'm not sure what I'd have done if I could have youth until I died, or immortality, or whatever it is he's been saddled with.  It would be an interesting challenge -- or maybe it's just interesting until you master it.  Would a long life give you time enough to get bored?  That's a man who stays busy, so maybe it does, or maybe he intends to never find out.

Maybe I should get Mr. Wolfe to invite Nash to dinner after all.  That conversation should be enough to save any of us from boredom.

~ ~ ~ finis ~ ~ ~

Notes, Comments, Commentary:

According to the script of the first (and best) Highlander movie, Rachel Ellenstein was 9 years old in 1943 when Connor found her and took her back to the States.

Saul doesn't mention that he hasn't aged over those years; Rex Stout never took any notice of it, so I didn't either.  And I believe Saul quoted Oscar Wilde is in A Family Affair.

I'm informed by Devo that the White Horse Tavern is in a more gay-friendly part of town, hence the comments on location and taste in bars between Saul and Connor.

Prompted by a comment in one of the Nero Wolfe novels and novellas to the effect that Saul Panzer can meet a person for a second time years later and know when he saw them, what they were wearing, and what street they were walking down.  Once I added in Connor MacLeod/Russell Nash/Adrian Montague having been in New York City (off and on) for two hundred years, I had to write this.  I hope you enjoyed it.

Feedback gratefully received by email or at my livejournal. Thank you!

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