by Robert Colby
“A hundred dollars? My God. Listen, if I knew you better, I might chance it for nothing. And then again, I might not.”
“I see,” she said. “With men it always gets back to that.”
“You’re wrong there, Valerie. I didn’t mean that at all. My wife and I have it good together and she’s waiting at home for me right now. I meant, if I understood the situation well enough to know what I might get into.”
“That’s impossible,” she said. “But I’ll make it five hundred.”
“You have that kind of money!”
“Yes.”
There was a time when he could walk away from five hundred without batting an eye if it pleased him. But now it would be exactly five weeks pay, forgetting taxes.
“I could use it,” he said. “But I wouldn’t take that much from you.”
“Don’t be foolish,” she said. “It wouldn’t mean a thing to me. I can afford it.”
“Cash?”
“Cash. On delivery.”
“No advance?”
“No advance.”
“All right. Is there just the one bag?”
“Just one. A tan suitcase. Quite big, but not heavy.”
“Wait here,” he said. “I’ll at least give it a try.”
Up on the road a wrecker had arrived. Presently the crew were working at righting the Olds. The activity had drawn the attention of the crowd. But two men in coveralls were examining the Cadillac. A bald, beefy man lifted the hood. “Wonder if she’ll start,” he said. “Looks okay.”
“Thing like this, you never can tell,” said the other. “No keys in it anyway. Police must have taken them. Wonder who owns it. Rich sonofabitch.”
“Six, seven thousand bucks worth of stuff here,” said the beefy one. “Least, there was.” He closed the hood and both men walked around the car. They seemed in no hurry to leave. But now the Olds had been hoisted back on its four wheels and the crowd was gaping inside. It gave Daniels an idea.
He made his voice excited. “Say,” he said to the men, “looks like they might have found someone else in that Olds, way they’re gathered around.”
“Yeah?” said the bald one incredulously. “C’mon, Charlie, let’s have a look!” They departed at a brisk walk.
The round key was already between thumb and forefinger. Quickly he bent over the rear deck and turned it in the lock. The lid gave and he pulled it up. Spare tire, tools … a tan case. He grabbed it. It was somewhat heavier than she had led him to believe. He swung it out and closed the lid. He began to walk away with it, planning to cut through the trees and brush, taking short-cut and concealment. But just as he came around to the front of the car, the beam of a light caught him from behind. He turned.
Flash in hand, an officer was moving towards him on an oblique path from the highway. Fortunately he was separated from the officer by the hood of the car and only his back was visible. Without bending, he let the bag drop from his hand. He kicked it flat, then gave it a frantic shove so that it was partly hidden under the car. He continued on around the convertible, employing a casual attitude of inspection.
The officer came up to him. He wore sergeant’s stripes. “We’ve been looking for you, mister,” he said.
“For me?”
“Your car, ain’t it?”
“No sir, not mine.”
“Then what were you doing with your head in that trunk?”
“Oh … see what you mean.” His mind raced. “Well … I just gave the handle a pull and the lid came up. So I had a look.”
The sergeant flashed his light over the ground in the area of the convertible. He barely missed the corner of the suitcase extending near the right front wheel. “I could swear you took something out of that trunk, he said. “Guess you better come along with me, fella. I think this is your wagon.”
“I own a ‘56 Ford parked over on that side road,” said Daniels. He fumbled for his wallet and removed the registration. “Here,” he said. “This proves it.”
The sergeant studied the paper under the flash. He handed it back. “Guess you’re okay,” he said. “But whoever owns this baby did a quick fade. Mighty quick. Because two of my boys came by just after it happened. Ran right down here and this one was empty. Guy took the keys and beat it.”
“Damn strange,” said Daniels.”
“We’ll get him,” said the sergeant. “Even if the other joe don’t conk out, he’ll be in plenty of trouble — leaving the scene of an accident. Likely he caused it.”
“Sure,” said Daniels. “Guess that’s why he ran.”
“They never learn,” said the sergeant. “Well, goodnight, sir.” He went off towards the Olds.
Daniels got his hands on the bag again and this time he slid into the trees without being challenged.
THREE
Ten miles and ten minutes later she said, “It sounds like you had a very close call with that sergeant. I don’t know how to thank you. Yes I do. With that five hundred dollars. First I want to have a look at the suitcase.”
“Don’t you trust me?”
“Don’t be silly. Of course. But naturally I’m concerned about my things.”
“Hold the wheel a minute,” he said. “I’ll reach back and get it for you.”
“Never mind,” she said. “One accident is enough.”
Before he could protest, she climbed over the seat. With a pretense of looking straight ahead disinterestedly, he flicked his eyes to the rearview mirror. He could see only her head, bent low and away from him. With a deft movement, he gave the mirror a quick down-twist. Now he could see, though vaguely.
She had the lid of the case open. He couldn’t make out the contents. She was groping around. Her head turned once to check him. He held his position and she returned her attention to the case. He still couldn’t see. But then a car passed from the other direction and for a moment, light flared over the back seat.
She had a stack of bills in her hand, straining to see and count. But this was small change. She was right when she said she could afford the five hundred. The case beneath her hand was crammed to overflowing with a sea of green bills. For all its width and depth, it contained nothing else but money.
Daniels couldn’t take his eyes from the mirror. When he did look down, the car was veering across the road. He had to resist the temptation to yank the wheel and give himself away. For the next few moments he raced around in mental circles of useless speculation. As he watched her close the case and swing agilely back to her seat, he thought — Just because it’s an ocean of money in a suitcase, why does it HAVE to be suspicious? There could be a dozen explanations. But, my God, so much money! How much …?
She opened the alligator purse and made a show of counting out the bills which she had placed there seconds before. “Five hundred,” she said, and passed him the money.
With only a glance, he put the bills in his pocket. “Thanks,” he said. “And believe me, I earned it. Your clothes all in order?”
“Uh-huh. Fine.”
“Why don’t you tell me about it, Valerie? Leave out names and specific details, if you like. Just the general problem. I might be able to help.”
“No thanks. Everything will be all right — now.”
“Not exactly,” he said. “They’ll check the registration of that Cadillac back to your friend. Then they’ll come looking for him. But let’s say he’s moved. They still know who he is and they will have impounded a very expensive automobile. It doesn’t make sense.”
“It does if you know the car was rented.”
“In that case, don’t you care what happened to your friend?”
“I imagine I’ll know where to find him. And that’s absolutely all you’ll get out of me.”
“Okay, Valerie. Sorry you won’t let me help beyond the call of that five hundred. So now you’re on your own.”
Five hundred bucks. A windfall that would pay his expenses to New York and still leave better than three hundred. Myra would explode with joy.
Though perhaps her joy would be a little dimmed by the complex manner in which he came by the money. In truth, he wished he had not seen the contents of the suitcase. For what might have been only a strange and exciting adventure in which he was paid handsomely for his daring, had become something a little soiled with doubt and suspicion. In the back of his mind there was even a nudge of guilt. He should know the source of that money. But since the money was dumb and
Valerie resisted examination, there was nothing gained in punishing himself with worry. He would think about it another time — when there was no chance of his doing anything so foolishly righteous as giving it back.
He had called Myra early that morning. It had been a brief conversation. He had not told her the details — only that nothing tangible had worked out. There was no point in spending the money to relate a complete sob story long distance. Myra would only brood and her office-girl day would be spoiled. He left her with the feeling that there was at least some small hope. But was there, really? All the faces he had looked into had been smiling with cold eyes. He did not see in them the smallest wedge of re-entry to his former world of television announcing where the camera-eye revealed him to fifty or more million people a week. And his tax deductions alone had once been five times his present salary.
They rode mostly in silence. Occasionally he asked her a carefully calculated question. But her answers were just as carefully evasive.
They reached the northern outskirts of Miami. He swung over to Biscayne Boulevard. Traffic was sparse on the broad boulevard in the first hour of the morning. He was tired. But his weariness was overcome by a latent excitement.
“What part of town, Valerie? I could drop you.”
“Thanks anyway. Just go down Biscayne to the center. At one of the hotels there should be a taxi.”
“This time of night, why don’t you let me take you?” he urged. No gallantry now. It seemed important and even necessary to know where she lived. “If you live on this side, there’s no point driving all the way in.”
“I don’t.”
“The beach, then?”
“No.”
“South?”
“No.”
“I go West, myself.”
“A taxi goes in any direction and I’m in no hurry.” She sat deep in her seat, arms folded, eyes ahead. She sounded cool and withdrawn. For all her crispness, there was about her a lost quality. Yet nothing even vaguely suggestive of the criminal mentality. Absurd. No, not absurd.
In ten minutes he had paused at the curb on a side street before the entrance to one of the big hotels which peered across the bay to the commercial opulence of Miami Beach. A taxi waited just beyond.
For a moment, while he had his hand on the grip of the bag to unload it, he thought of accusing her openly — Valerie, I saw what you have in this suitcase. You must admit the whole business has a bad smell. Now, either you give me an extremely plausible explanation, or we drive to the nearest police station.
It sounded corny and over-dramatic when he played it back. There was no law against carrying large sums of money. And further, though innocent, he had been a kind of accomplice after the fact. Especially when he accepted that five hundred he needed so badly. So he swung the bag to the walk while her eyes followed his every movement. He knew she would gladly have made the exertion herself if it would not seem odd.
The cabby opened her door, then hoisted the bag in front with him. Watching her pretty face, Daniels could almost hear her cry of protest.
“Well, thank you,” she said quickly. “Thank you — for everything.”
“Everything was well paid for. Sure it won’t leave you short?” He almost smiled.
“Not at all.” Her eyes begged him to hurry.
“I don’t even know your full name.”
“Millions of people don’t and they get along.”
“Will I see you again?”
“I think, never. Now, please! I’m so terribly tired.”
“Goodnight then, Valerie.”
“Goodbye.” She watched him coldly.
He stepped back a pace, gave her a small salute and waited. That didn’t work either because she merely turned and said, “Straight ahead, driver. I’ll tell you.” The cab moved off. She didn’t look back.
Watching the tail light slowly recede, he had the most dreadful sense of loss. Not of her in any personal sense, naturally. But of something which might connect with her that had been welling up in his mind, only to fall back again into the abyss of memory.
Then, as the taxi cornered north a block away, he caught the memory by the tail and heaved it up for inspection. Again he was driving crosstown in the jigsaw of Manhattan traffic. Half listening to a newscast which contained a terse item datelined — Miami. It was a rather uninformative follow-up on a story which three days ago should have earned headlines. Three days ago he was on the road north. Not listening to the radio, not reading newspapers, but thinking, thinking. Here in New York, lost more than ever in the depressing labyrinth of his own problems, the item called from him only a fleeting observation — that if he was at home and on the meager staff announcing job at the radio-TV station from which he had been vacationed, the story might come to him as a special assignment. At least an interview with certain officials. The thought was gone as he flipped the dial for music.
Now — now of all times, as the taxi disappeared, the item came flashing back, grew into banner headlines. The connection was fantastically remote. And yet …
The squeal of his tires jarred the silence and was echoed back in the empty street. The gaping features of a startled doorman flashed into limbo. The corner rushed to meet him. He turned it sharply.
His thought process had not been involved. The caption recalled, the possible association made, then the leap for the car. Consequently, the time gap had been minor. Thus he had been able to gain enough ground to see the cab swing right again, towards Biscayne. He was faintly surprised when, at the intersection, it turned north along the boulevard, in the very direction from which they had come. Still, it seemed characteristic. She would let him take her right past her door and on into town if it served her purpose.
He kept his distance. Always a block or more. He let traffic interpose and cover him. It was not a difficult thing to do. With its lighted dome to advertise itself, the cab was easy to identify. His own car was an inconspicuous gray sedan.
He followed past the docks along the bay, the MacArthur Causeway to the beach, the darkened glass facade of Marsh’s Department Store. Back over the identical route. Another mile and the taxi wheeled east towards the bay.
He took his time. If they went down that street it must be her street. And if so, there would be only a few blocks and a dead-end at the water. He didn’t make the turn. Too obvious. He paused to look, lights out. The cab was halted somewhere in the middle of the second block. That presented a small problem. He didn’t dare follow — not yet. And it was impossible to distinguish precisely which house or apartment building.
He watched. The cab nosed into a drive, backed, and returned towards him. He pulled to the curb. Then when the taxi was forced to wait at the stop sign, he jumped out and ran over.
“Say, driver,” he said. “You remember me. I delivered the lady to your cab. She left something in my car. I’ve only been here once and I can’t remember the street number. Can you give it to me?”
The driver stared at him with a look of secret amusement. “She din’t gimme no number, buddy. She just says ‘Stop here.’ So I stop. Big white stucco. A double header with one of them fancy iron lamps out front. Right side. Can’t miss it.”
“Thanks,” said Daniels. And gave him the dollar he had been twisting noticeably on his finger.
“Funny thing,” said the driver, pocketing the bill and shoving in gear. “That place is all shuttered up. You know — them hurricane shutters. When you find out how they breathe in there, let me know.” He snickered. “S’long, buddy.” He gunned off.
&nbs
p; Headlights on, Daniels sped down the street, found the white stucco with the wrought iron lamp and braked. No doubt about it, the eyes of the two-story house were sealed over with broad, firm expanses of aluminum panels, the usual measure taken by winter residents who had gone north for the summer. It was hurricane protection which left the house without a livable degree of light or air.
Nevertheless, he got out and made a circle of the premises. No sneaky light glowing from beneath shutters anywhere. Front and back doors panel-sealed. No guest cottage at the rear. No garage apartment.
No Valerie.
Either she had known that he was following or she had acted on a hunch. Once the cab had departed, she must have gone off on foot, carrying an inestimable amount of money. Thousands. Hundreds of thousands? A half million?
Yet, why did she choose this location as a dodge? Unless it was familiar. Walking with a heavy suitcase, she had to live close by. So, clever as she was, she was not infallible. A careful check of the surrounding area might turn up some clue. She had one big strike against her. She was markedly attractive. Pretty girls are often remembered by not-so-pretty neighbors. And what man would forget her?
In spite of these deductions, Daniels was unhappy as he drove away. If he had remembered the newspaper item and connected it a minute earlier, a fortune in rewards for information leading to the arrest and conviction of … persons unknown … might be his. If he found Valerie again, it would be an exhausting, plodding task. But now he was more determined than ever. A voice whispered that his intuition was correct. And if tomorrow he had to canvass every house and apartment building in a radius of a half mile, he would find her.
* * * *
At this moment, Valerie was in the phone booth of a bar three blocks away. She had known that the man who called himself Scott Daniels was growing suspicious. He asked too many questions. He wasn’t on the make, either. It was something else. She shouldn’t have offered him so much money. Yet she had to get results and the five hundred was an irresistible offer. She couldn’t risk getting the bag herself. Her sad tale, though not without a grain of truth, might have sounded a little phony to him. But she couldn’t think of a better one. That was nothing, however. If he knew what was in the suitcase … Even so, he acted strangely.