The Girl, the Gold Watch and Everything

by John D. MacDonald

  “Sit over there,” she said, indicating a fake Victorian couch upholstered in shiny plastic under a fake Utrillo upon an imitation driftwood wall. He sat on the couch. She stood by the railing, looking down into the lobby for what seemed to be a long time, then shrugged and came slowly over and sat beside him.

  “I’ll tell you one thing and you remember it, Winter,” she said. “No matter how careful you are, it might not be enough.” She gave him a very direct green stare.

  “Are you all right?”

  “How are you reacting to my dear Aunt Charla? How’s your pulse?”

  “Miss Alden, I have the feeling we aren’t communicating.”

  “When she wants to really set the hook, she can make any Gabor look like Apple Annie. There’s fine steam coming off you, Winter.”

  “She’s an unusual woman.”

  “And she takes no chances. She had to have me here on standby. Just in case you’d rather settle for something younger, taller and not quite so meaty. But I told her a long time ago I’m through playing her games. She can take care of her own pigeons without any help from me. I got off her merry-go-round when I was twenty years old. And I was a very old twenty. Charla would be all right—she might even be fun—if she weren’t so damned greedy.”

  “What is that about a pigeon?”

  “What else do you think you are? Do you think she’s smitten by your charm?”

  “She got smitten a few times.”

  “What?”

  “Miss Alden. Just for laughs. What are we talking about?”

  She frowned at him. A strand of the tan-gold hair fell across her forehead and she pushed it back. “I checked the newspapers. Omar Krepps was your uncle. That’s what we’re talking about.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “When I was fifteen years old she yanked me out of school in Switzerland and began lugging me around the world with her. She and Joseph are operators, Winter. Canadian gold, African oil, Indian opium, Brazilian girls—you name it, and they’ve bought it and sold it. They aren’t the biggest and they aren’t the shrewdest, but they keep getting richer, and it’s never fast enough to suit them. They are in and out of cartel and syndicate operations with other chums of the same ilk, and their happiest little game is trying to cheat each other. I was only fifteen, but I soon learned that in their circles, the name Omar Krepps terrified them. Almost a superstitious terror. Too many times Krepps would suddenly appear, skim the cream off a deal and leave with the money. I believe they and some of their friends tried to have him killed, but it never worked.”

  “Kill Uncle Omar?”

  “Shut up and listen. And believe. That fat little old man seemed able to be nine places at once. One time he skinned them good, intercepted cash on its way to a number account in Zurich somehow, and just took it, and they could do nothing about it because they’d in effect stolen it first—Joseph and Charla and some of their thieving pals. At that time Charla was wearing a ring that opened up. A poison ring, I guess, with an emerald. She opened it idly one day and there was a little wad of paper in it. She unfolded it. It said, ‘Thanks, O. Krepps.’ When she came out of her faint she had the wildest case of hysterics you ever saw, and she had to go into a hospital for a week. You see, the ring hadn’t been off her finger since before the money was taken.”

  “I can’t really believe Uncle Omar would—”

  “Let me finish. Krepps died last Wednesday. They were in Bermuda. They flew here Thursday morning. You arrived at dawn on Friday, and by dawn on Saturday you’re in bed in Charla’s suite. How much accident is involved in that?”

  “I thought I met them by accident.”

  “That pair doesn’t cotton to the random stranger. There’s always a reason for every move. What do they want from you?”

  “They’ve invited me on a cruise.”

  “Tell me all of it, Winter. Every word you can remember.” He told her an edited version of it.

  She scowled. “And your Uncle Omar left you practically nothing? I guess they must want to pick your brains and find out how he operated.”

  “But I didn’t have anything to do with—making money. I don’t know anything about the business end of it. He told me what courses to take in college. When I got out I went to work for him, doing the very same thing right from the beginning.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Giving money away.”

  “What!”

  “Just that,” he said helplessly. “He had some sort of clipping service and translation service and I would go and make investigations and give the money away if in my opinion everything was on the level—and if it could be kept quiet.”

  “Much money?”

  “I think it averages out somewhere around three million a year.”

  “To charities?”

  “Sometimes. Sometimes to individuals trying to get something started, or small companies in trouble.”

  “Why did he want to give it away?”

  “He never seemed very serious about anything. He never explained. He just said he did it to keep his luck good. He was a jolly little man. He didn’t like to talk seriously. He liked to tell long jokes and do card tricks and show you how he could take his vest off without taking his coat off.”

  “Did you see much of him?”

  “About once a year. He was always going off alone. It made people nervous. He had apartments and houses here and there, and it was hard to tell just where he’d be. But I never ran out of work, no matter how long he was out of touch. And he hated publicity of any kind.”

  “You are not lying to me,” she said. It was more statement than question.

  “No. While he was alive I wasn’t supposed to tell anybody what I did for him. Now I guess it doesn’t matter too much. The notoriety he got in the very beginning—I guess it made him secretive.”

  “What notoriety?”

  “A long time ago. My parents were drowned in a boating accident when I was seven, and I went to live with Uncle Omar and Aunt Thelma. She was his older sister. She was good to me, but she certainly made Uncle Omar’s life miserable. We lived in an old house in Pittsburgh. Uncle Omar taught high school chemistry and physics. He had a workshop in the basement where he tried to invent things. I guess it was the only place in the house where he was happy. Aunt Thelma was always crabbing about the money he spent on tools and equipment and supplies, and complaining about the electric bills. When I was eleven years old he quit right in the middle of a school term and went out to Reno and won a hundred and twenty-six thousand dollars. It was in all the papers. They called him a mathematical genius. They hounded him. Every nut in the country made his life miserable. He put money in the bank for us and disappeared. He was gone almost a year. He reappeared in Reno and lost a hundred thousand dollars there, and then nobody was very interested in him any more. After that he took us down to Texas where he’d built a house on an island in the Gulf off Brownsville. He set up a trust fund for Aunt Thelma and sent her back to Pittsburgh. I stayed there with him for a little while before I went back. By then he had a lot of business interests all over the world. He supported me and paid for my education and gave me my job when I graduated. But—he didn’t leave me anything, and I don’t know anything about his business interests. In fact, I didn’t know him very well. The papers say it’s a fifty-million-dollar estate. He left me his watch and a letter to be handed to me one year from last Wednesday.”

  “And you told Charla that?”

  “Yes.”

  “And told her what you’ve been doing for a living?”

  “I guess I did.”

  “And you’ve gone all these years without even trying to make any guesses about your uncle?”

  At the moment Betsy Alden irritated him. “I may act like an idiot, but I have average intelligence, Miss Alden. My uncle left that cellar all of a sudden. And how many high school teachers become international financiers?”

  “So he found something that gave him an edge.”
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br />   “An edge over other people, so he gave a lot of the money away. Maybe it was conscience. At least it made him feel better.”

  She nodded rather smugly. “And so Charla is terribly interested in that letter. Isn’t it obvious?”

  “But she can’t—I can’t get it for a year.”

  “Mr. Winter, any explanation of how one little man could terrorize Charla and her group, fleece them, and end up worth fifty-million dollars is worth a year of effort. And by the end of the year she can have you in such captivity, you’ll turn the letter over to her without even opening it, and whinnying with delight at the chance to please her in some small way.”

  “You have a dandy opinion of me.”

  “I know Charla. I’ve seen her at work.”

  “Where do you come in? What do you want? Do you want the letter?”

  “All I want, believe me, is some leverage. I don’t care how or where I get it, but I want to be able to pressure Charla into fixing it so I can go back to work where I belong. She brought pressure down on me.” She stabbed Kirby in the chest with her finger. “And if I can use you to get her off my back forever, I would be a very happy girl. And at the same time I might be doing you a favor, like keeping you from sinking into a swamp.”

  “Do you hate her that much?”

  “Hate is complex. This is a simple emotion. Contempt. She’s really quite easy to understand. Her only motivation is greed. Greed for money, power, pretty things, admiration, sensual pleasure. She likes to use power, Winter. So does Joseph, but she’s captain of that team.”

  “He’s your uncle?”

  “Hardly. She calls him her brother, but he’s more a sort of half brother-in-law. And not what you’d want to call a wholesome relationship. But they do seem so charming, don’t they? It makes them a deadly team.”

  “I keep feeling that you are dramatizing this. I just can’t believe they—”

  “Wait a minute. I just thought of something. You are his only living blood relation. And it was in the papers, so Charla must know that. So in addition to whatever is in the will, won’t you get his personal papers and records?”

  “I guess so. I hadn’t thought about it.”

  “Believe me, Charla will. And Charla has. Now don’t you dare turn anything over to her.”

  “What do you think I am?”

  “Don’t be angry. We know there’s something she wants, badly. So we have to find out just what it is she wants. Once we find out what it is, then you can decide whether you want to sell it to her, whatever it is. If you do, let me be your agent. I’ll get you more than anybody else could.”

  “People keep moving too fast lately.”

  “I’m essentially rougher than you are, Kirby Winter. I’m a graduate student of the school of Charla. You move into the Elise. If you start dragging your feet now, they may change tactics.” She scribbled an address and a phone number and handed him the piece of paper. “When you find out anything definite, get in touch with me here. It’s a little apartment I’ve borrowed from a hokey friend. He’s on one of his annual tours of duty in New York. He goes up there and does commercials so he can afford to live down here and write plays. He’s sick with love for me. Look, Kirby. You don’t have to like me and you don’t have to trust me. What are you losing so far? And call me Betsy.”

  “Losing nothing, so far. Possibly my mind. Nothing important though.”

  “Play along and play it very cozy, and when you do find out what they’re after, then you can decide whether or not to get in touch with me. Okay?”

  “Okay, Betsy.”

  Her eyes changed. “When people don’t push me around, I’m nicer than this, really.”

  “And I’m less confused, as a rule.”

  “I don’t know anything about your tastes—or your opportunities, but the less you give away to Charla, the more you’ll get of her.” She looked slightly uncomfortable. “Just don’t let it dazzle you, Kirby. Just keep remembering she’s one of the world’s great experts on—horizontal persuasion. Keep your head, and we can make her pay and pay and pay.”

  “If there’s anything to sell.”

  “If she wasn’t convinced there is, she wouldn’t be here.” She patted his arm and stood up quickly. “I’ll be waiting to hear from you. Wait five minutes before you leave.”

  Four

  THERE WERE NINE MESSAGES in his box at the Hotel Birdline in downtown Miami. They all requested that he return the phone calls of Mr. D. LeRoy Wintermore, of Wintermore, Stabile, Schamway and Mertz, the law firm which handled Uncle Omar’s personal matters—as opposed to the captive attorneys who handled the corporate affairs of Krepps Enterprises and all the other interlocking corporations.

  Wintermore was a fragile snow-crested old man with, as Kirby had once heard his Uncle Omar say, a skeptical attitude toward all established institutions, including the law.

  Kirby packed his two suitcases of personal gear before phoning Wintermore. It took him seven minutes. He phoned the number on the most recent slip and found he had reached D. LeRoy Wintermore at his home. It was Sunday, of course, but it did not feel like Sunday.

  “Dear boy!” Wintermore said. “I was fretful about you. When you found what—uh—dispensation Omar had made, you seemed a shade surly.”

  “I wasn’t exactly ecstatic. I don’t think I’m greedy especially, but after all, there is supposed to be fifty-million kicking around some place.”

  “Possibly it was his intention to improve your character, Kirby.”

  “I have more than I can use now.”

  “At any rate, there seem to be a few minor difficulties to be ironed out. They want you at a high level conference at the Krepps offices tomorrow morning at ten.”

  “They?”

  “Your uncle’s elite corps of earnest executives. I shall be there too, by request, and if it appears that you need legal representation, I shall be ready to stand at your side. Fearlessly.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I have no idea, but they seem to have the impression there was some sort of collusion going on between you and Omar. Hidden assets. Something idiotic. They seem agitated. And something else has disturbed them. Since last Wednesday, every one of Omar’s houses and apartments has been thoroughly ransacked.”

  “Really?”

  “And they seem to want to connect it all up with whatever mysterious services you performed for Omar.”

  “Did he ever tell you what my work was?”

  “Dear boy, I never asked.”

  “Mr. Wintermore, even though the only things mentioned in the will are the watch and the letter, won’t I get all Uncle Omar’s personal records and papers?”

  “In the normal course of events, you would.”

  “But now I won’t?”

  “Omar had a rather serious warning of his heart condition three months ago. He came to my office and took personal material from our files and left us just the basic essential documents. I asked him what he was going to do with the papers he took. He said he was going to burn them. He smiled rather broadly and said he was going to burn everything. And then he took a silver dollar out of my left ear. He was extremely clever with his magic tricks. It is my understanding he did burn everything, except for one case of documents now in the main vault at Krepps Enterprises. A lovely man, dear boy. Lovely. But with a secrecy fetish. And the executive staff over there seem to find you infected by the same disease.”

  “I was following orders. I’ll be there at ten, Mr. Wintermore.”

  He hung up and looked around the room and wondered if he would ever find reason to check into the Hotel Birdline again. It was centrally located, but sometimes the nights were made hideous by people hammering on the wrong doors and cawing in the hallways and striking one another with the damp sounds of expert impact until the sirens came. But it was cheap and reasonably clean and he could always get a room in or out of season, and the management stored, free of charge, that small store of personal possessions he did not ta
ke along with him on his world-wide errands of mercy, support and investment.

  Now he carried his suitcases down to the desk, experiencing stomach pains which reminded him he’d forgotten lunch. Hoover Hess, the owner, was working the desk. He was a loose, asthmatic, scurfy man with the habitual expression of someone having his leg removed without anesthetic. His smile was a special agony. He had gone as high as a seventh mortgage and been down as low as a second. He averaged out at about four.

  He smiled. “Hey, Kirb, this thing with your uncle. I’m sorry as hell. It happens like that sometimes. Bam! You’re gone before you got time to fall down. How old was he?”

  “Just turned seventy, Hoover.”

  “Well, I guess now you’re set, hey?”

  “Not exactly. I want to check out. I’ll be over at the Elise on the Beach.”

  “Like I said, set. Taking a suite? Why not? Live it up, Kirb. Order up some broads. Order up some tailors. Drink that stuff from the good years.”

  “Well, I’ll be sort of a guest over there, Hoover.”

  “Sure. Until the legal thing clears and they give you the bundle. I understand. And I’m sorry to lose a good customer. What I want you should do, Kirb, when you get the bundle, we’ll sit down some place and let me show you the books on this thing. What I figure, consolidate the mortgages. It would be just the right kind investment for you.”

  “I really won’t have anything to invest, Hoover.”

  “I know how it goes. You got to have an answer. Every clown in the world comes around with hot deals, but you know me a long time, right? You don’t have to give Hoover Hess any brushoff. I know you good too, Kirb. You play it just right. Nice and smooth and quiet. No fuss from any broad you bring here, right?”

  “But I didn’t—”

  Hoover Hess waved a pale freckled hand. “Sure. Be cute. That’s the way you play it. The one I see those times, she was a lady. The glasses is always good, the flat heels, the outfit like a school teacher. Some guy hasn’t been around, he gets fooled, right? But you been around, you watch her walk, and you know it’s class stuff, chin up, swinging that little round can only one sweet little inch side to side walking through here to the crummy elevator.”