Timothy's Game

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Yeah, well, since you hadn’t told him, I figured you must have a good reason.”

  “I didn’t want to upset the old man,” Lee says earnestly. “He and Chen were friends from way back.”

  “Uh-huh,” Cone says. “But he must have read about it; all the papers carried it. And I suppose it was on local TV.”

  “Oh, he knows about it, but I didn’t want to be the one to tell him.”

  “Sure,” Cone says.

  “About your investigation,” Lee goes on. He plucks a white handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabs at his forehead. “Hot day.”

  “Yeah,” Cone says. “Usually is in summer.”

  Lee ignores that. “About your investigation,” he continues. “Have you been getting anywhere?”

  “Not really,” Cone says. “I had a couple of other files I had to work on.”

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll find it’s just the way I explained at Ah Sing’s: normal market activity, a flight to quality.”

  “Could be,” Cone says. “I see where White Lotus was up another seven-eighths yesterday. Heavy volume for a stock with your capitalization.”

  “Just a blip,” Edward says. “Nothing to it.”

  The Wall Street dick makes no reply, waiting for this Nervous Nellie to speak his piece.

  “Actually,” Lee says, swabbing his brow again, “what I wanted to talk to you about has nothing to do with White Lotus. It’s more of, ah, a personal matter.”

  “Oh?” Cone says, wondering when he was ordained and became a father confessor. “What’s that?”

  “It’s silly, really,” the man says with a shaky smile. “Probably nothing to it.”

  Cone waits silently, giving him no help at all. If this guy, he thinks, tells me he once worked at the Pleasure Dome, I’m going to toss his ass out of here.

  “As you probably know,” Lee plunges ahead, “I live in my father’s apartment. But I have my own suite with a private entrance. I also have my own phone, an unlisted number. Last Friday night, at about eleven o’clock, I was reading when the phone rang. A man’s voice asked, ‘Edward Tung Lee?’ I said yes, and he said, ‘We know about the Bedlington.’ And then he hung up. Well, naturally I thought it was just a crank call. But it did worry me that he had my unlisted number and called me by my full name.”

  “Recognize the voice?” Cone asks.

  “No,” Lee says. “A BBC English accent, but beneath that I thought I heard something else. Perhaps a Chinese educated in England. A singsong quality you learn to recognize.”

  “I get it,” Cone says. “Instead of emphasizing a syllable, you change the pitch of your voice.”

  Lee looks at him in astonishment. “How on earth did you know that?”

  “I remember a lot of useless stuff,” Cone says. “So the guy said, ‘We know about the Bedlington.’ Then he hung up. Right?”

  “Yes, that’s correct. Then, last night, he called again. Same voice. He said, as nearly as I can recall, ‘About the Bedlington, you’ll be hearing from us.’”

  “You’re sure he said ‘us’ and not ‘you’ll be hearing from me.’?”

  “No, he said ‘us.’ And on the first call, he said, ‘We know about the Bedlington.’”

  “Uh-huh,” Cone says.

  “Does the name Bedlington mean anything to you?” Edward asks.

  “Sure,” Cone says, all wide-eyed innocence. “It’s a dog, a terrier.”

  Lee gives a short honk of laughter. “True,” he says. “It also happens to be a hotel on Madison Avenue. About three blocks from my apartment. From my father’s apartment.”

  “So?”

  “Well, ah, as you probably know, I am not married. But, hah!—that doesn’t mean I must live like a monk—right? So, on occasion, I have taken a woman to the Hotel Bedlington. You’ve shacked up with women in a hotel or motel, haven’t you?”

  “Not recently,” Cone says.

  “Well, I do. I have an understanding with the desk clerk at the Bedlington. Everything is handled very discreetly. I mean, I have no wild parties or anything like that. I’ve had absolutely no problems until I got those stupid phone calls.”

  “How long you been using the Bedlington for fun and games?”

  “Oh, about two years now.”

  “You trust the desk clerk?”

  “Completely. He’d never try to blackmail me.”

  “What makes you think it’s blackmail? You’re over twenty-one. So you’re having a toss in the hay with a consenting adult. Big deal. Your playmates were adults, weren’t they?”

  “Of course,” Edward says, offended.

  “Well, then? How can anyone blackmail you? What are you worried about?”

  Lee shifts uncomfortably in the creaky armchair. “It’s my father, d’ya see,” he says. “He’s from the old school. Very straitlaced. I know that if he found out, there’d be hell to pay.”

  Cone shrugs. “Sounds thin to me,” he tells Lee. “You’ve got a right to live your own life. If those phone calls are driving you bananas, why don’t you go to your father, confess all, ask for his forgiveness, and promise to be a good little boy in the future. He impresses me as being a very shrewd, intelligent man. He’s lived a long life, and I’d guess he’s seen everything and probably done more than you realize. I just can’t see him making a federal case out of your occasional bangs at the Bedlington.”

  “You just don’t know him,” Lee says in a low voice. “He can be a very vindictive man when he’s angered.”

  “Well,” Cone says, “I don’t see that there’s a helluva lot you can do about it. You could have your private number changed, but they’d just call you at the office.”

  “And there’s nothing you can do about it?”

  “Like what?”

  “Find out who’s behind it.”

  Cone shakes his head. “Not on the basis of what you’ve told me. I could get someone to put a tap on your phone and record the calls—but what good would that do? If the guy only talks for a minute or two, the chances of tracing the call are zero. The only thing I can suggest is this: If it is blackmail, sooner or later your mystery caller is going to tell you how much he wants and how it’s to be delivered. If it’s a person-to-person payoff, I can handle it for you and maybe collar the guy or at least get a line on him. If the payoff is to be made by drop or by mail, it’ll still give a possible lead. Right now we’ve got nothing.”

  “Then if I do get another call and I let you know, can I depend on your help?”

  “Sure.”

  “Thank you!” Edward Tung Lee cries fervently. He rises and leans across the desk to pump Cone’s hand. “I can’t tell you what a load you’ve taken off my mind. Thank you!”

  After he’s gone, Cone lights another Camel, leans back, parks his feet on the desk. That had to be, he reflects, one of the sleaziest stories he’s ever heard in his life. It’s got more holes than a wheel of Emmentaler. The only reason he’s giving it a second thought is that the guy who called Edward Lee said, “We know about the Bedlington.” And the guy who sent the letter to Claire Lee wrote: “We have the photographs.”

  That’s interesting.

  Four

  ON THURSDAY EVENING TIMOTHY Cone ambles up Broadway at a leisurely pace, stopping in bars twice en route to have a beer and smoke a cigarette. He can’t get Edward Lee’s fish story out of his mind. It may have elements of truth in it, but it also has gaps big enough to drive a Mack truck through.

  For instance, if Edward wants to make nice-nice with a tootsie, why doesn’t he invite her up to his apartment? He’s got a private entrance, hasn’t he?

  And that business of dreading his father’s wrath is so much kaka. Chin Tung Lee may be old and straitlaced, but Cone can’t believe he’d go into an Oriental snit upon discovering that his Number One son likes to get his ashes hauled occasionally.

  No, Edward isn’t Telling All. His report of the phone calls may be legit, but Cone would bet the family farm that those calls are making
Edward sweat for a more significant reason than fear of shocking dear old dad.

  It’s a creamy night, pillow soft, with a clear sky and a teasing breeze. Stars are beginning to pop out, and a waning moon is still strong enough to silver the city. Cone hates to go up to the loft, but figures he’ll eat, feed the cat, and later do a little more pub crawling if the mood is on him.

  His phone is ringing when he enters, and he kicks Cleo out of the way to get to it.

  “Yeah?” he says.

  “Hello, asshole,” Samantha Whatley says. “I figured I better call you early before you started pub crawling.”

  “Nah,” he says. “Farthest from my thoughts. How are you?”

  “Eating up a storm. Mom is stuffing me. I’ve gained three pounds so far, all in the wrong places. How are things at the office?”

  “Okay.”

  “Hiram giving you any problems?”

  “Not me. I’m keeping out of his way.”

  “I spoke to him this afternoon. He says you’re working on some Chinese thing.”

  “Yeah, I’m up to my tail in chop suey.”

  “Anything exciting?”

  “Not very,” Cone says.

  “Jesus, you’re a chatty sonofabitch,” Sam says. “Cutting down on your smoking?”

  “Trying to,” he says, fumbling the pack out of his jacket pocket and shaking a cigarette free.

  “And how’s that miserable cat?”

  “Hungry. When are you coming back?”

  “A week from tomorrow. But I’ll be in late. See you on Saturday?”

  “Sure,” he says, “sounds good.”

  “Take care,” she says lightly.

  “Yeah,” he says. “You, too.”

  “That was Sam,” he tells Cleo after he hangs up. “She says to give you her best.”

  He inspects the contents of the refrigerator. It’s famine time. There’s a half-can of tuna, a couple of odds and ends of this and that, but nothing to eat. He gives Cleo the tuna and fresh water, then heads out again.

  “Be back soon,” he promises the cat, “but don’t wait up.”

  There’s a Greek joint around the corner that’s usually open till nine o’clock. Cone calls it the Ptomaine Palace. “The food is poisonous,” he once told Samantha, “but the portions are big.”

  He sits on a stool at the Formica counter and orders a bowl of lamb stew with rye bread and a bottle of Heineken. He finds a few shreds of lamb floating in the viscid gravy, but there are chunks of potatoes, carrots, celery, and onions. He uses a lot of salt and pepper and fills up, which is all he asks of any meal.

  He finishes by sopping puddles of gravy with pieces of bread. Before he leaves, he orders another lamb stew to go, figuring it’ll keep Cleo happy for at least a couple of days. It’s poured into a Styrofoam container and put into a brown paper bag.

  Carrying that, he heads back for the loft. He’s on Broadway, close to home, when two short guys step out of a doorway and crowd him. They’re both wearing black trousers and gray alpaca jackets. He makes them as young Chinese.

  “You are Mr. Timothy Cone?” one of them asks.

  “Not me, friend,” Cone says. “I’m Simon Legree from Tennessee.”

  There’s a rapid jabber of Chinese, then the other man stoops swiftly and runs his hands down Cone’s shins. He plucks the .357 magnum from the ankle holster and hands it to his partner.

  “So you are Timothy Cone,” the speaker states. “Come this way, please.”

  Since he’s now waving the S&W, Timothy goes along, still carrying the lamb stew. They lead him to an old, black, bulge-bodied Buick, a real doctor’s car. There’s a third Chinese sitting behind the wheel. They get Cone in the wide back seat, between the two men who took him.

  “I must blindfold you now,” the leader says. “So sorry.”

  The blindfold is white, padded, and is put on so slickly that Cone figures it’s got to be fastened with Velcro. The car starts up.

  “Nice night for a drive,” he offers, but no one answers, and after that he doesn’t try any chitchat.

  He lets his body go slack, feeling gravity and momentum, swaying slightly when the car takes a corner. He tries to imagine the route. A right-hand turn, a straightaway with the Buick accelerating, then slowing to make another right. Now we’re around the block and heading uptown, he guesses.

  He can’t get a glimmer through that thick bandage over his eyes, but he can hear traffic noises change as they pass cross-streets. He counts the number of blocks, and when the Buick veers slightly to the left, he estimates they’re about at 14th Street. They pause awhile, probably for a traffic light, then make a left turn. Heavier traffic noise now, and Cone thinks it’s got to be a wide east-west street, either 14th or 23rd.

  The car slows after traveling for about four minutes, and Cone sways as it turns to the right. They go down an incline, and the Buick’s engine takes on a reverberant sound, almost like an echo. An underground garage, Cone decides. The car comes to a stop, a back door is opened. He’s helped out, gently, no rough stuff, and still carrying his lamb stew, is led about twenty feet, hands gripping both his arms. He scuffs his work shoes on concrete and smells gas and oil fumes. Now he’s convinced it’s an underground parking garage.

  The men holding him press closer, and the three of them slow, stop, wait a minute. Sound of elevator door opening. Forward, with a smoother floor under his feet: tile or linoleum. Metallic sound of elevator door closing. Then they go up, and Cone silently counts off seconds: A hundred and one, a hundred and two, a hundred and three … He’s figuring two seconds per floor; the elevator stops at 118. The doors swish open, he’s ushered out.

  Now he’s walking on a rug, springy beneath his feet. A long walk and Cone, counting his paces, estimates forty feet at least. His captors are no longer pressing him, so it’s got to be a wide corridor. A hotel maybe? No, they wouldn’t run the risk of bumping into guests while hustling a blindfolded man.

  They halt. Three sharp raps on wood. Small squeak of a door opening. Cone’s pulled forward, stumbling a bit on thicker pile carpeting, maybe a deep shag. Around a corner. He’s thrust forward, hands on his back. Stop. A fast spatter of Chinese. Then …

  A precise voice: “Mr. Cone, what is that you are carrying?”

  “Lamb stew,” he says. “You can have some if you like.”

  There’s a snap of fingers. The brown paper bag is taken, and Cone hears the crinkle of paper, the pop of the lid coming off the Styrofoam container.

  “You are right,” the voice says, “it is lamb stew. It looks and smells dreadful.”

  “It’s not so bad,” Cone protests. “It’s filling.”

  “Mr. Cone, I must apologize for this unconventional method of making your acquaintance. I trust you were not physically harmed.”

  “Nah,” Cone says, “your guys did a nice job. Can you take the blindfold off now?”

  “I fear that would be most unwise. And please do not try to remove it yourself. There are two very quick men standing behind you, both of them armed.”

  “Okay,” Cone says, “I’ll be good.”

  “Excellent. This will only take a few moments, and then you will be returned to your home. Mr. Cone, I understand you are investigating the increase in the price of White Lotus stock.”

  “Where did you hear that?” Cone says. Then: “Listen, if we’re going to have a confab, could I sit down?”

  “I prefer you remain standing,” the voice says sharply. “I am not going to ask you to terminate your investigation, Mr. Cone. I know you are an employee of Haldering and Company, and have been assigned to the case. All I am asking is that you delay your inquiries for perhaps another week. Two weeks at the most. Surely you could do that without insurmountable objections from your employer.”

  “Maybe I could,” Cone says. “But why should I?”

  “Because I request it,” the voice says with a silky undertone. “In return, naturally, you may expect to profit.”

  “
Yeah?” Cone says. “How much?”

  “Five thousand dollars. In small, unmarked bills.”

  “Forget it. I work for a salary. It’s not king-sized, but it’s enough.”

  “Come, Mr. Cone,” the voice says softly, “it is never enough. We all want more, do we not?”

  “I got enough,” Cone insists stubbornly.

  “And there is nothing in this world you want?”

  “Yeah, I’ve always wanted to screw a contortionist. It’s something I’ve dreamed about for a long time.”

  The voice gives a chuff of laughter, then rips off some Chinese, and the two men standing behind Cone also laugh.

  “That could be arranged, Mr. Cone,” the voice says dryly.

  “Just kidding,” Cone says. “Listen, I don’t like standing here with this shmatteh over my eyes, so let’s get down to the nitty-gritty. If I refuse to stall on this White Lotus thing, what happens then?”

  “Please do not ask me to say it.”

  “Go ahead; say it.”

  “Then I am afraid we shall have to kill you, Mr. Cone.”

  “Okay,” the Wall Street dick says cheerfully. “As long as I know where I stand. Give me a chance to think about your cash offer—all right?”

  “How long?”

  “A week.”

  “Three days,” the voice says sternly. “Then we must come looking for you. You can run, but you cannot hide.”

  “Good line,” Cone says, “but it’s not yours. Joe Louis. Can I go home now?”

  “We shall contact you on Monday, and expect your answer at that time. Yes, you may go now.”

  “Can I take my stew?”

  “Please do.”

  “And how about my piece?”

  “Your piece?”

  “My gun. Revolver. Your guys lifted it.”

  “Your weapon will be returned to you, Mr. Cone. Thank you for your kind cooperation.”

  There’s a long chatter of Chinese. The brown paper bag is thrust into his hands, he is gripped, and the film starts running in reverse: Around the corner, across the shag rug, through the door, along the corridor, down in the elevator to the garage, into the car, and then the drive back. Cone, counting to himself, figures it takes about fifteen minutes.