Blood on the Mink

by Robert Silverberg

  She gave me a sizzling look and murmured to Klaus, “Is this your California friend, honeybear?”

  “Yes.” Klaus wasn’t in a conversational mood.

  “Why don’t you introduce us, loverbug?” she purred.

  Klaus looked displeased. “Vic Lowney, Miss Carol Champlain.” End of introduction. He said curtly to me, “I’ll be in touch with you in a couple of days, Mr. Lowney. Or you can get in touch with me here at the Burke.”

  “Ye-ah,” Champlain drawled. “Do keep in touch.”

  I gave her a nice smile, flashed a businessman’s grin at Klaus, and headed for the elevator. As I closed the door I caught a glimpse of a puffy-faced Minton glaring at me. I guess he was about to get a dressing-down from Klaus for bungling things and pulling the gun.

  I stepped out into a misty, cold autumn night and hailed a cab. Klaus hadn’t even offered to have me driven home. I suppose he was a little sore.

  And he had every right to be, because his product was fabulous. Only it wasn’t good tactics to say so. Not right away.

  I figured he wouldn’t sleep so well tonight. Not even with that bosomy redhead to keep him warm.

  Back in my room at the Penn Plaza, I took out Klaus’ bills and looked them over. They were really extra special. The paper, despite my quibbling, was a close enough match to fool nine out of ten bank tellers and ninety-eight out of a hundred storekeepers.

  But the engraving was the real feature. You have to make engraved plates if you want to get away with faking U.S. currency. Any sort of photo-offset job will be immediately apparent to anyone but a novice. The trouble is that banknote engraving is an art and a science both. There aren’t many capable engravers in this country, and those there are are well known and well watched. The Secret Service took care of the possibility that Government engravers might want to peddle a few plates on the side.

  Whoever Klaus was using, the fellow was good. In capital letters. So long as Klaus had these plates—or the man who made them—he could easily dump ten million dollars’ worth of bad bills a year. Or ten billion. It was all a mere matter of distribution and dispersion.

  I put the bills away carefully—I didn’t want to spend them by accident—and started to get ready for bed. It had been a fruitful night, I felt. Contact had been made, and I had established an image of Lowney in Klaus’ eyes that probably came close to reality. Lowney’s reputation was not one of genteel politeness. He was a tough son of a bitch, and he wouldn’t jump into any quick deals. Klaus wasn’t really expecting him to.

  I was pondering the desirability of a midnight martini when the phone rang. “Hello?”

  “Mr. Lowney?”

  “Yeah. Who’s this?”

  “You wouldn’t know me. My name’s Litwhiler and I’m from New York. I’ve been trying to reach you all night.”

  “I’ve been out. What’s the scoop?”

  “I’ve got a business deal to discuss, Mr. Lowney. I’m right down here in the Penn Plaza cocktail lounge. Maybe you could come down and have a drink on me?”

  “It’s late. What about tomorrow?”

  “I’d rather make it tonight, Mr. Lowney. Philadelphia isn’t the safest town in the world for me.”

  I raised an eyebrow thoughtfully. “Okay, I’ll be down in five minutes. How will I know you?”

  “I’m in the far left-hand corner, sitting next to the fountain. I’ve got a charcoal gray suit on. Just walk in and look around, and I’ll spot you.”

  I didn’t know any Litwhilers, except one who used to play baseball a while ago, but I was always willing to meet somebody new. Especially somebody who had a business deal to discuss with Vic Lowney.

  He stood up and waved to me the moment I entered the dim cocktail lounge—which meant he didn’t know Lowney personally, but was only guessing that the big guy in western-looking clothes was his man. Litwhiler himself was of the new school of hoods, like Minton—the well-groomed kind in the sedate Brooks Brothers suit. He was a little old for the Ivy League, maybe forty, but he had a slick, sharp-edged New York look about him.

  We shook hands and he said, “What are you drinking?”

  “Vodkatinis.” I was getting sick of them.

  He ordered a couple. Then he said in a low, you-and-me kind of voice, “Let’s put our cards on the table right at the outset, Mr. Lowney. We can do each other a whole lot of good.”

  “You don’t get through to me, man.”

  “Give me time. I know why you’re in Philly.”

  “Really?”

  He nodded smugly. “You’re here to arrange West Coast distribution of a product manufactured here.”

  “You must have very big ears, Mr. Litwhiler.”

  “I’ve got a very good intelligence system. When Vic Lowney flies to Philly, I find out why. I won’t even ask you to confirm what I just said. I know.”

  “Keep talking,” I said noncommittally.

  He fished the lemon peel out of his drink, deposited it in the ashtray, and went on, “I happen to represent a firm that’s in substantially the same line as the firm you’re here to deal with—the, shall we say, K firm. Here’s an example of our merchandise.”

  I took a deep sip of the cocktail before I deigned to look at the ten-dollar bill he put on the formica tabletop. It was pretty crude stuff. The paper was okay, as good as Klaus’, but the ink had a gloss to it that didn’t really belong, and the engraving couldn’t begin to match the job on the bills I had upstairs. I looked at it for a long moment. Then I said simply, “It stinks.”

  “Exactly, Mr. Lowney,” Litwhiler said, smiling.

  “Then why bother me about it?”

  “Can I trouble you for your criticisms?”

  “The ink’s off shade, for one. And the engraving is punk. Maybe you could fool a couple of guys with this, but not me. Not me, Litwhiler, or my boss.”

  “We don’t plan to. The ink problem is correctible. But we don’t intend to use these plates any longer than we have to.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning,” he said, “that we’d like to obtain the services of the engraver for the K firm and use him ourselves. And then we’d do a comparable job.”

  I drummed the table impatiently. “Get to the point, Litwhiler. You’re boring me.”

  He didn’t react. “The point is this: you can get buddy-buddy with Klaus. You can find out where his engraver is. Then you can lead us to him. We’ll spirit the man up to New York and have him do plates for us.”

  “Why should I doublecross Klaus to help your outfit?”

  Now Litwhiler smiled. “Because we’ll guarantee a price fifteen percent lower than the best Klaus can do. And $25,000 cash to you for your services. It’s only good business, Lowney.”

  “Mister Lowney,” I rapped.

  “Sorry. But how do you feel about it?”

  “I haven’t talked terms with Klaus yet.”

  “Whenever you do. We guarantee to undercut him. We want those plates, Mr. Lowney. And/or the engraver. And you can get him for us.”

  I leaned back and stretched. “I’ll think it over. My boss always has an eye out for cost-cutting.”

  “This is one chance he shouldn’t pass up.”

  “Where can I get in touch with you, Litwhiler?”

  He gave me a card. It bore the address of a jewelry firm on 47th Street in Manhattan. “Ask for Harold,” he said. “That’s me. I’ll be driving back to New York tonight. Klaus would flay me if he ever caught me here alone.”

  I told him I’d be in touch, and went back upstairs. News traveled fast in the underworld. I was accustomed to that. But I hadn’t expected this.

  So it was a tug-of-war for the engraver, eh? With Litwhiler tugging from New York, Klaus from Philly. And me for the U.S. Government. Three-way tugs are always interesting. I just hoped the engraver didn’t get pulled apart in the process.

  FOUR

  The next morning, I phoned New York, doing some checking. Headquarters had no line on this Litwhiler
, but when I described the phony tenner they got excited: They had seen plenty of it in their area, and they were keen on shutting off the flow. I told them I’d keep my eyes open and see what turned up.

  In a way, the Litwhiler sort of counterfeit currency is nastier than the Klaus kind. The Klaus bills were good enough to fool the banks; once the stuff got into circulation, it could keep on passing until it wore out, and nobody would be cheated except Uncle Sam.

  But the Litwhiler bills would get stopped at the bank window about half the time. Which meant that the shopkeepers and restaurant owners and just plain people who had been passed the queer were out the ten bucks. When the government confiscates phony money, it doesn’t make good the loss to the unfortunate possessor thereof.

  Not that the Klaus kind was virtuous, mind you. Klaus was cheating those shopkeepers just as thoroughly, only he was being indirect about it.

  After breakfast, I got out of the hotel for some air. I guess it’s about my only hobby—lonely walks through big cities. The weather was milder, and a lot of people were out. Businessmen and pretty girls and grifters and cons, all moving through the streets purposefully and rapidly. While I strolled. It’s lonely work, this undercover stuff. You don’t make any friends in your line of work, and you don’t feel much like making them after hours, because you can’t confide in anybody.

  That means anybody. My own mother didn’t know what line of work I specialized in.

  You can cross off a wife and kids, too. This kind of life is too impermanent to risk leaving widows around. You don’t get mixed up with steady girls, either.

  You’re a man with a million identities—which really means you have no identity at all. You look at yourself in the mirror and you see eyes and a nose and a mouth, but they don’t really add up to a face, because to have a face you have to be a person. A solid, substantial person. Not just a guy who plays thirty different parts a year.

  Not that I feel sorry for myself. It’s not a bad life. Just a risky one. And dirty. You hang out with crumbs and killers and leeches, and you try to be one of them. Not be like them, but be them. And that old question keeps coming back: Why me? And the old answer, too. Somebody’s got to be the one.

  And the job has its rewards, too. Like when I got back to the Penn Plaza in time for lunch and had a bellhop scuttle up to me and say, “Mr. Lowney?”

  “That’s right.”

  “There’s been a girl here all morning to see you. She says she’ll stay here until you come back.”

  I frowned. “Where is she now?”

  “Sitting over there by the checkout desk. I’ll tell her you’ve come in.”

  “Never mind,” I said. “I’ll tell her myself.”

  I walked over, wondering what the hell was unfolding now. Let a bigwig like Lowney come to town and they flock around him like moths to a candle.

  The girl was sitting with her legs crossed, and she was staring off into space and nibbling her cuticles. They were okay legs. She was an okay girl. But young. Twenty-five at tops. She had frilly blonde hair that looked natural, big blue eyes and the longest eyelashes ever.

  She was dressed demurely, high-neck cashmere sweater, plaid skirt, tan trenchcoat. The sweater was nicely stuffed with goodies, nothing voluminous but a long way from being skimpy. The overall impression was a virginal one. A sweet kid, you know. The kind you like to have as your sister.

  I said, “I understand you’re looking for Vic Lowney.”

  She gave a start. “Yes. Yes, that is right. Are you he?” She spoke stiffly, with the trace of an unfamiliar accent.

  “I’m Vic Lowney.”

  “I am Elena Szekely,” she announced, getting to her feet. She was chin-high on me. She looked scared. “Let us go to your room, shall we? Right away?”

  “You believe in the direct approach, don’t you?”

  She colored prettily. “I do not mean—to do anything. But talk. I must talk with you. And not being seen.”

  “It’s pretty dark in the cocktail lounge—”

  “No. Upstairs is safer. More private.”

  I’m not one to carry an argument too far. We headed toward the bank of elevators, and rode upstairs in silence. I let her into the room. She wriggled off the trenchcoat, threw it on a chair, and sucked in a deep breath with the obvious intention of enhancing her figure. Cooperatively, I gave her sweater an admiring glance. She flushed again; she was trying hard as hell to be a femme fatale, but the part just didn’t ride naturally on her.

  “There is no one else in the room?” she asked worriedly.

  “Guaranteed.”

  She came up to me and put her hands on my wrists. “Mr. Lowney, you must swear to me you will not repeat to Klaus what I am about to say. Will you swear it?”

  “I can keep my mouth shut.”

  “You must! Or Klaus will hurt me. And my father.” I eased free of her embrace and pulled out a chair for her.

  “Suppose you tell me why you’re here, Miss—”

  “Szekely,” she said as I stumbled. “It is an Hungarian name. I am born in Hungary. I live in this country only a few years. My father and I come here in 1957—after the revolution—”

  “And what is it you want with me?”

  “To help. To help my father and me.”

  “You’re not making yourself clear, Miss Szekely.”

  “My father—he is an engraver. Very, how you say?—skilled. He does postage stamps when he lived in Hungary. Also banknotes. Especially banknotes.”

  Miss Elena Szekely suddenly took on a new and gleaming interest for me. I told her to say more.

  “We live there all during the War. It is not so bad, for we hope someday the Germans will go. I am small child then anyway. But we get Russians when the Germans go. You know about our uprising in 1956?”

  “I’ve heard of it,” I said.

  “I am—the name?—Freedom Fighter. The Russians send tanks. We are defeated, and my father and I flee to Austria. In Europe there is always employment for a man with skill. We can no longer stay in Hungary. We want to go to the United States.

  “In Vienna we meet a man, an American. He will send us to the United States, he says. We go as refugees. He sends us to this city, to Philadelphia. He pays all our passage. His name, it is Klaus.”

  The picture started to take shape. “Go on.”

  “We are in America a month. I know a little English, my father none. Klaus comes back from Europe and he comes to us. He shows us an American money bill. He says to my father, Can you draw this? You know—make a plate.” The girl gestured angrily. “Criminals we are not, Mr. Lowney. I translate and my father refuses. Klaus makes ugly face. He tells my father to do his wishes or otherwise.”

  “Or otherwise what?”

  “We do not know. Hurt us, perhaps. Or send us back to Hungary. What happens is this: Klaus takes my father and puts him in a house and gives him engraving tools. He tells my father to do his bidding or they will take me and—and—” She reddened. “And treat me cruelly.

  “For a long time he refuses. But one day Klaus has no more patience. He takes me in front of my father, and they begin taking my clothes off, and when I am naked above the waist my father begins to cry, and—” She lowered her voice and looked at the floor. “Since that day he works for them.”

  “And a very good engraver he is, too.”

  “But a prisoner! Oh, Mr. Lowney, you must help us!”

  “What kind of help do you mean?”

  Her eyes grew moist. “An aunt I have in Florida, also a refugee. My father wants to live with his sister there. But Klaus guards him day and night. He does not let him go anywhere. Not even to write a letter. And I too, he watches. If we go to the police, Klaus will kill us, he says. We beg him to let us go, but they do not listen.”

  “And I’m supposed to do what?”

  “You are a very important man, Mr. Lowney. This morning Klaus was at our house, and he and his friends talked about you. They are very anxious to please you. I thin
k you they are afraid of. They would listen to you. You could ask them to let my father free.”

  “Klaus wouldn’t ever agree to that.”

  “You could tell him,” she said excitedly, “that he will make more plates for him, only in Florida. Whenever Klaus needs a plate, he can send a man to Florida and my father will make it. Only let us be free. Let us go to our people. This is supposed to be the land of the free,” she said bitterly. “But we are prisoners here.”

  I was silent a moment. Then I said, “Klaus won’t listen to me.”

  “He will! I know he will!”

  “Let his most valuable asset get away from him? Don’t be silly, girl.”

  “You would at least try. You would at least ask.”

  “What for?”

  “For me. For my father. Because you are an American and it is wrong to keep him that way.”

  I flashed a cynical smile. “Lofty sentiments don’t cut much ice, honey. I don’t see the sense of asking Klaus for a favor that big.”

  “I will repay you,” she said suddenly. “If you talk to Klaus—if he frees my father—”

  I frowned, looking a little dubious, and next thing I knew she was on the floor in front of me with her arms around my knees, and her face was flaming red, and she was trying to sound like Eva Gabor as she whispered huskily, “I will give you—anything. Anything I have would be yours. I am not ugly. I would spend a night with you—a week—but talk to Klaus for me. For my father. And I will give you what no man has had yet from me.”

  I don’t make a practice of despoiling virgins, but it would have been simple rudeness not to seem at least interested by the offer. I tugged her arms loose and lifted her to her feet. She stared up at me, scared but game, probably wondering if I planned to ask for payment in advance, right on the spot.

  I said gently, “I’ll see what I can do, Elena.”

  “You will not joke?”

  “I will not joke. I’ll talk to Klaus.”

  “And afterward—”

  “And afterward we’ll see.”

  “When will you talk to him?”

  “Give me some time. Let me see how much influence I’ve got with him. And don’t worry about a thing, Elena. I’m with you. I’ll get your old man loose from Klaus.”