by Ed McBain
And then, unexpectedly (the only way he was beginning to expect), one of the doors opened on more books than he had ever seen in his life, stacked from floor to ceiling in metal racks stretching as far as the eye could see. He closed the door behind them, and then locked it. Taking her hand, he led her between the columns of books, wondering if any of them were the very encyclopedias he used to sell before he took the gamble, the gamble which was now to pay off in half a million lovely dollar bills.
“Oh my,” the girl said, “but it’s spooky in here.”
“Shhh,” he said, and clung tightly to her sweating hand. In the distance, he could hear footsteps, a library page running to get another book on birds for one of the learned old gentlemen reading in one of the wood-paneled rooms. He led her away from the footsteps, led her deeper and deeper into the labyrinth of books, doubting he would ever be able to find his way out again, but not caring because the money smell hung heavy on the air now, mingling with the musty aroma of old books. The patter of feet disappeared in the distance. There was suddenly a cul-de-sac as private as a woodland copse, books stacked on every side of them, surrounding them, a dim red light burning somewhere over a distant exit door, their escape when they needed it.
“Are you going to lay me now?” the girl asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“First the money,” she said.
It galled him that she said those words because they were only the ancient words whispered in cribs from Panama to Mozambique, and he did not expect them from this girl who had said she would do it on roller coasters.
“I have the money,” he said.
“Where?”
“I have it,” he insisted.
“Yes indeed, baby, but where?”
“Right here,” he said, and kissed her.
He thought, as he kissed her, that if she still insisted on the money first, he would probably produce it because that’s what money was for, to buy the things you wanted and needed. He thought, however, as he kissed her, that it would be so much nicer if she did not insist on the money, but instead offered herself to him in all her medieval, black-velveted, delicate charm, offered herself freely and willingly and without any promises, gave to him, simply gave to him without any hope of receiving anything in return; that, he thought, would be very nice. He almost lost himself in that single kiss, almost produced the money the instant his lips touched hers because the money no longer seemed important then, the only important, thing was the sweetness of her mouth. The girl too, he thought, was enjoying the kiss as much as he, straining against him now with a wildness he had not anticipated, her arms encircling, the fingers of one hand widespread at the back of his neck the way he had seen stars doing it in movies but had never had done to him even by Irene who was really very passionate though sometimes shy, her belly moving in against him, her breasts moving in against him, her thighs, her crotch, everything suddenly moving in freely and willingly against him, just the way he wanted it, “The money,” she whispered.
He pressed her tight against the wall and rode the black skirt up over her thighs. She spread her legs as he drove in against her, and then arched her back and twisted away, trying to elude his thrust, rising onto her toes in retreat, dodging, and giggling as her evasive action seemed to work, and then gasping as she accidentally subsided upon the crest of another assault. “The money,” she said insistently, “the money,” and tried to twist away as he moved in against her again, rising on her toes again, almost losing a shoe, only to be caught once more by a fierce and sudden ascent, her own sharp twisting descent breaking unexpectedly against him. “The money,” she moaned, “the money,” and seized his moving hips as though to push him away from her, and then found her hands moving with his hips, accepting his rhythm, assisting him, and finally pulling him against her eagerly. Limply, clinging to the wall, one arm loose around his neck, the other dangling at her side, she sank to the jacket he had spread on the floor and said again by tireless rote, softly, “The money, the money.” She was naked beneath her skirt now, its black velvet folds crushed, against her belly. His hands touched, stroked, pretended, possessed. She stretched her legs as though still in retreat, protesting, trying to sidestep though no longer on her feet. Weaponless, in angry reprimand, she snapped her groin up sharply against his demanding hand, a short petulant whiplash, and then sighingly moved against him in open surrender, shaking her head, breathing the words once in broken defiance, “The money.” Lifting herself to him, she tilted groin and buttocks up, opened skirt and legs, funneled him toward her and onto her and into her, “Turn you green,” he whispered, “Yes yes turn me,” she said, “Spread you like honey,” he whispered, “Oh yes spread me,” she said, and he rushed deep inside her with a sureness he had dreamt long ago, and remembering she murmured, “Oh you louse you promised.”
He had not, of course, broken his promise. He had told her he would cause her to lay down in green pastures, and that was exactly what he had done, though not letting her in on the secret, even lovers had to keep their little secrets. But he had most certainly done what he’d promised. Suddenly, he began chuckling. Holding her close, his lips against her throat, he began chuckling, and she said, “Stop that, you nut, it tickles.”
“Do you know what we just did?” he said, sitting up.
“Yes, I know what we just did,” Merilee answered, demurely lowering her skirt.
“Do you know where?”
“In the New York Public Library.”
“Right. Do you know on what?”
“On the floor.”
“Wrong.”
“Excuse me, on your jacket.”
“Wrong.”
“On what then?”
“On half a million dollars,” Mullaney said, and got to his feet and dusted off his trousers and then offered his hand to the girl. “May I?” he asked.
“Certainly,” she said, puzzled, and took his hand. He helped her to her feet, grinned, and picked up the jacket. As he dusted it off, he said, “Do you hear anything?”
“No.”
“Listen.”
“I still don’t hear anything.”
“Listen,” he said, and deliberately brushed his hand over the jacket in long sweeping palmstrokes, striking dust from the shoulders and the back and the sleeves, and keeping his head cocked to one side all the while, grinning at the girl, who kept listening and hearing nothing, and watching him as though making love had done something to his head.
“I don’t hear anything,” she said.
“Don’t you hear the rustle of silk?”
“No.”
“Don’t you hear the flutter of angels’ wings?”
“No.”
“Don’t you hear, my dear sweet girl, the sound of money?”
“I don’t hear anything,” she said.
“Have you got a knife?” he asked.
“No.”
“A scissors?”
“No.”
“Have you got a hail file in your bag?”
“All I’ve got in my bag is a driver’s license and a pearl-handled .22. Where’s the money?”
“I’ll have to tear it.”
“Tear what?”
Mullaney grinned and turned the jacket over in his hands. He could feel the stiffness of the bills sewn into the lining, could almost feel the outline of each dollar-sized packet nestling between the outer and inner fabric. He debated whether he should take the packets out one at a time and spread them across the floor at Merilee’s feet, or whether he should simply slit the hem at the bottom of the jacket and allow the packets to fall helter-skelter-come-what-may, as if it were raining money. He decided it would be nice to see it rain money, so he grinned at Merilee again (she was watching him intently, her blue eyes narrowed, a feral sexy look on her face) and then he began plucking at the lining thread at the jacket’s hem. The jacket had been excellently tailored, he had known immediately that K and O’Brien and all the others were gentlemen of taste, with good tigh
t stitches placed close together, all sewn by hand, all designed to withstand any possible accidents on the way to Rome. Mullaney finally had to rip the first few stitches with his teeth, something his mother had warned him never to do, and then he thrust two fingers up into the torn opening, and began ripping the stitches all the way down the line, keeping the jacket bundled and bunched because he didn’t want the bills to fall out until he was ready to let it rain. When he had ripped the lining clear across the bottom, he rose from his squatting position and, still holding the jacket so that nothing could fall out of it, held it at arm’s length in both hands and said, “It’s going to rain money, Merilee.”
“Oh yes indeed let it rain,” Merilee said.
“It’s going to rain half a million dollars’ worth of money.”
“Oh yes yes yes.”
“It’s going to rain all over this floor.”
“Let it rain, baby,” the girl said.
“And then we’ll make love again,” Mullaney said.
“Half a million times,” the girl said, “one for each dollar bill.”
“Are you ready?”
“I am ready,” she said, her eyes glowing.
“Here-it-comes,” Mullaney said, “five-hundred-thousand-dollars in-American-money, ta-ra!” and he allowed the lining to fall away from the jacket.
4. CALLAHAN
The packets of bills fell to the floor just like the rain Mullaney had expected, plop, plop, plop, great big drops of bills falling to the stone floor of the library and raising a cloud of dust which at first obscured his vision a bit, and caused him to believe that perhaps he was not quite seeing what he thought he was seeing. Plop, plop, plop, the packets kept falling out of the jacket and pattering all around while he and the girl stared down at their five-hundred-thousand-dollar rain, and the dust settled, and they kept staring down at the packets, and Mullaney wanted to weep.
The packets were worth exactly ten cents because that is how much The New York Times costs on a Friday, and that is exactly what these were made of, The New York Times. Mullaney kept staring down at the packets, which someone had cut very nicely into the shape of dollar bills, and then stacked and bound neatly with rubber bands, each packet slim enough to be sewn into a funeral jacket. He did not raise his eyes from the slowly settling dust because, to tell the truth, he was a little embarrassed about facing the girl.
“It seems to be newspaper,” he said, and cleared his throat.
“Yes indeed,” Merilee said.
They kept staring at the cut stacks of newspaper.
“Boy,” he said.
“Newspaper,” the girl said.
“Boy.”
“The New York Times, no less,” she said. “I don’t even read The New York Times.”
“Boy.”
“You know who must have done this?” she asked.
“Who?”
“Somebody who reads The New York Times.”
“I’ll bet,” Mullaney said.
“Oh my,” the girl said. “Oh my my my my my.”
“Mmm,” Mullaney said.
“Oh my.”
They were silent again.
Into the silence there came the unholy clamor of a ringing bell, startling Mullaney so much that he leaped back against the wall and then was surprised to find himself shaking. He had not realized until just this moment that the worthless collection of clipped newspapers at his feet represented something more than just the end of a gambler’s dream. This pile of garbage containing yesterday’s baseball scores and war casualties, yesterday’s stock prices and theater reviews, this worthless pile of shredded garbage lying in the dust at his feet also contained, if Mullaney was willing to read it correctly, an obituary notice announcing the untimely demise of one Andrew Mullaney himself, to take place in the not unforeseeable future. It was one thing to consider running out on Smokestack Kruger when you were in possession of half a million dollars and a beautiful blonde. It was another to think of running out on him when you had only a mangled copy of this morning’s Times and a blonde who was beginning to get a distinct hangdog expression. He could not understand the hangdog expression, but there it was, spreading across her mouth and drawing down the corners of her eyes, Oh boy, Mullaney thought, I’m going to be in pretty big trouble soon, his innate optimism refusing to allow that he was already in pretty big trouble, in fact in very big trouble.
“That’s why you should always get the money first,” the girl said suddenly, as though she had been mulling it over for quite some time.
“I guess so,” Mullaney said. The jacket was still in his hands. He glanced at it sourly, and then threw it to the floor. It lay inert and worthless at his feet. Angrily, and for good measure, he kicked it. Twice.
“Oh boy Kruger’s going to kill you,” Merilee said.
“Mmm.”
“Kruger’s going to absolutely murder you.”
“Listen, did you hear a bell?” Mullaney said.
“What?”
“Just a few minutes ago? I think it’s closing time. I think we’d better get out of here.”
“I think you’d better get out of New York,” the girl said. “I think you’d better get off the planet earth, if you want my advice, because Kruger is going to kill you.”
“Well …” Mullaney said, and he hesitated because he was about to make a speech, and he rarely made speeches. He was going to make a speech because he incorrectly assumed everything was ending instead of just beginning, and he thought it would be nice to say something to commemorate the event. He started thinking about what he was going to say as he led the girl toward the red light burning over the exit door at the far end of the labyrinth. By the time they reached the door, he knew what he wanted to tell her. He put his hand on her arm. The girl turned and stared up at him, her flaxen hair aglow with spilled red light, her eyes wide and solemn and fitting to the occasion.
“Merilee,” he said, “I really thought the money was inside the jacket, and I can’t tell you how sad it makes me that it was only paper scraps. But in spite of that, I remember what happened before I opened that jacket. I remember you, Merilee. And so whatever happened afterwards doesn’t matter at all, the disappointment doesn’t matter, the possibility that I’m in danger doesn’t matter, none of it matters except what happened with you. That was good, Merilee, that was something I’ll never forget as long as I live because it was real and honest and, Merilee, it was just really really good, wasn’t it?”
“No,” the girl said, “it was lousy.”
The guard at the front door of the library bawled them out for lagging so far behind all the others and causing him to unlock the door after he had already carefully locked it for the night, did they think he had nothing to do but lock and unlock doors all night long? Mullaney supposed the guard did have a great many other things to do, so he didn’t argue with him, he just meekly allowed himself to be let out of the library and then he walked down the steps and stood with the girl near one of the lions and figured they would have to say goodbye. She would go back to Kruger, he supposed, and he would go he didn’t know where.
“Well …” he said.
“I’m supposed to shoot you, you know,” she said.
“You might just as well,” he answered.
“I’m terribly sorry the relationship didn’t work out,” she said.
“So am I.”
“But I don’t think I could shoot you.”
“I’m grateful,” Mullaney said.
“When they get you—they’ll get you, you know …”
“I know.”
“… you just tell them you escaped, okay? That’s what I’ll tell them.”
“Okay, that’s what I’ll tell them, too.”
“Well,” the girl said, and glanced over her shoulder.
“It was very nice knowing you,” Mullaney said.
“Oh yes indeed,” she answered, and walked away.
We’ll meet again, he thought, not really believing that the
y would. He thrust his hands into the pockets of the too-short trousers, and began walking downtown on Fifth Avenue. A breeze had sprung up and he was a bit chilly now that he no longer had his paper-lined jacket. He began wondering about that jacket. He was very good at making deductions based on the condition of the track and the number of times out and the number of wins and losses and the weight of the jockey, and all that. He was also very good at figuring the true odds on any given roll of the dice as opposed to the house odds, and he could calculate within reason the possibility of, say, drawing a diamond to a flush, very good indeed at doing all of these things—which was why he’d lost his shirt over the past year. Well, hadn’t actually lost his shirt, was actually still in possession of his jasmine shirt, which was a bit too flimsy for a cool April night like this one. Nor was he really convinced that he was not a very good gambler; he was simply a gambler who’d had a run of bad luck. Being equipped, therefore, with a coolly calculating mind that was capable of figuring combinations, permutations and such, he put it to use in speculating about the jacket and the odd fact that The New York Times had been sewn into it, rather than the half-million dollars everyone had been expecting.
The first obvious truth about the jacket was that Kruger had not known the money (or even the facsimile of the money) was sewn into its lining. Henry or George, he forgot which, had mentioned that the money was supposed to be in the coffin, but whereas they had thoroughly searched the coffin, they had not thought to search the person in the coffin. Which meant, following a logical progression of thought, that whoever had told them the money was in the coffin had neglectfully forgotten to mention it was sewn into the corpse’s jacket.