Hot Rock

by Donald E. Westlake

“Not necessarily,” said Prosker. “You recall the Major’s passion for dossiers.”

  Kelp frowned. “Papers in folders,” he said. “So what?”

  “A lot depends,” Prosker said, “on who opens those folders and reads those papers. The Manhattan DA, for instance, would find the dossiers on you five fascinating reading. It would solve five rather spectacular crimes of recent vintage, for one thing, as well as giving him some broad hints about other unsolved crimes in the past.”

  Kelp squinted at Prosker. “The Major’s going to fink on us?”

  “Only if you cause trouble,” Prosker said. He sat back and spread his hands. “After all,” he said, “you all made out rather well, considering how ineptly you handled the assignment.”

  “Ineptly!”

  “It took you five tries to do the job right,” Prosker reminded him. He held up a hand to forestall Kelp’s sputtering objections, saying, “No one’s criticizing. All’s well that ends well, as the Bard once put it, and you and your friends did finally deliver. But you certainly weren’t the models of efficiency and professionalism the Major thought he was hiring.”

  “He intended this doublecross from the beginning,” Kelp said angrily.

  “I have no opinion on that,” Prosker said. “Please put the emerald on this desk now.”

  “You don’t think I was crazy enough to bring it with me, do you?”

  “Yes, I do,” Prosker said, unruffled. “The question is, are you crazy enough to force those gentlemen behind you to force you to give it up. Are you?”

  Kelp thought it over, angrily and bitterly, and decided he wasn’t. There was no point bringing unnecessary lumps on oneself. One merely conceded the round, consoling oneself with the thought that the fight wasn’t over. Kelp reached into his pocket, took out the black plush box, and put it on the desk.

  “Very good,” Prosker said, smiling at the box. He reached out both hands, opened the box, smiled at its contents. He shut the box and looked past Kelp at the three silent enforcers. “One of you should take this to the Major,” he said.

  The ebony man came forward, the light reflecting from his glasses, and took the box. Kelp watched him walk out of the room.

  Prosker said, “Now,” and Kelp turned his head to look at him again. “Now,” Prosker repeated, “here is what is going to happen. Shortly, I am going to leave here and turn myself over to the police. I have a cock-and-bull story worked out about how I was kidnapped by a group that had the mistaken impression I knew where a former client’s booty was hidden. It took them several days to accept their mistake, and then they let me go. I didn’t recognize any of them, and I don’t expect to see any of their pictures in the rogues’ gallery. Neither the Major nor I, you see, are interested in causing you people any unnecessary difficulty. We hope you’ll bear that in mind and not force us to harsher steps.”

  “Get on with it,” Kelp said. “What else?”

  “Nothing else,” Prosker said. “You have been paid all you will be paid. The Major and I have taken it upon ourselves to cover you for your crimes in regard to the emerald. If you now go on about your own business, all five of you, that can be the end of it, but if any of you cause any trouble for either the Major or myself we are in a position to make life very, very difficult for all of you.”

  “The Major can go back to Talabwo,” Kelp pointed out. “But you’ll still be around here.”

  “As a matter of fact, I won’t,” Prosker said, smiling amiably. “Talabwo has an opening for a legal adviser in reference to their new constitution. A well-paying job, actually, with a subsidy from the United States Government. It should take about five years to get the new constitution ready for ratification. I’m looking forward to the change of scenery.”

  “I’d like to suggest a change of scenery for you,” Kelp said.

  “Undoubtedly,” agreed Prosker. He glanced at his watch. “I hate to rush you,” he said, “but I am a bit pressed for time. Do you have any questions?”

  “None you’d like to answer,” Kelp said. He got to his feet. “See you around, Prosker,” he said.

  “I doubt it,” Prosker said. “Those two gentlemen will see you to the door.”

  They did, keeping Kelp in the middle, and closed the door firmly behind him once he was outside,

  Murch’s car was just around the corner. Kelp ran around and slid into the front seat. Murch said, “Everything okay?”

  “Everything stinks,” Kelp said quickly. “Pull up to where you can see around the corner.”

  Murch acted at once, starting the engine and pulling the car forward as he said, “What’s the problem?”

  “Doublecross. I have to make a phone call. If anybody comes out of that embassy before I get back, run him down.”

  “Right,” said Murch, and Kelp jumped out of the car again.

  FOUR

  ROLLO WALKED into the back room and said, “The other bourbon’s on the phone. He wants to talk to you.

  “I knew it,” Greenwood said. “Something had to go wrong.”

  “Maybe not,” Dortmunder said, but his face showed he didn’t believe it. He got up and followed Rollo out to the bar and hurried down to the phone booth. He slid in, shut the door, picked up the receiver, and said, “Yeah?”

  “Cross,” Kelp’s voice said. “Come over quick.”

  “Done,” Dortmunder said and hung up. He left the booth and hurried toward the back room, calling to Rollo on the way by, “We’ll be back soon.”

  “Sure,” Rollo said. “Any time.”

  Dortmunder opened the back room door, stuck his head in, and said, “Come on.”

  “This is really irritating,” Chefwick said. He banged his glass of Diet-Rite Cola on the table and followed Dortmunder and Greenwood out of the bar.

  They got a cab right away, but it took forever to get through the park. Anyway, it seemed forever. Still, forever ended, and so did the cab ride, with Dortmunder and the others piling out at the corner half a block from the Talabwo embassy. Murch came trotting over as the cab went away, and Dortmunder said, “What’s going on?”

  “Doublecross,” Murch said. “Prosker and the Major are in it together.”

  “We should have buried him in the woods,” Greenwood said. “I knew it at the time, I was just too soft-hearted.”

  “Shut-up,” Dortmunder told him. He said to Murch, “Where’s Kelp?”

  “Followed them,” Murch said. “About five minutes ago, the Major and Prosker and three others came out and took a cab. They had luggage. Kelp’s after them in another cab.”

  “Damn,” Dortmunder said. “It took too long to get through the park.”

  “Are we supposed to wait here for Kelp,” Greenwood asked, “or what?”

  Murch pointed at a glass-sided phone booth on the opposite corner. “He took that phone number,” he said. “He’ll call us when he gets the chance.”

  “Good thinking,” Dortmunder said. “All right. Murch, you stay with the phone booth. Chefwick, you and me are going into the embassy. Greenwood, you got your gun on you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Pass it over.”

  They stood close together briefly, and Greenwood passed over his Terrier. Dortmunder tucked it away in his jacket pocket and said to Greenwood, “You stay outside and watch. Come on.”

  Murch went back to the phone booth, and Dortmunder and Chefwick and Greenwood hurried up the block to the embassy. Greenwood stopped and leaned against the ornamental iron railing and casually lit a cigarette while Dortmunder and Chefwick went up the stone stoop, Chefwick taking several small slender tools from his pockets as they went.

  It was nearly four o’clock on a Friday afternoon, and Fifth Avenue was full of traffic; cabs and buses and occasional private cars and here and there a black limousine all crept southward, a sluggish stream heading down Fifth Avenue with the park on its right and the impressive old stone buildings on its left. The sidewalks were busy too, with nannies walking baby carriages and elevator operators
walking dachshunds and colored nurses walking bent old men. Dortmunder and Chefwick kept their back to it all, shielding Chefwick’s busy hands as he went through the door like a car with Platformate going through a paper hoop. The door ponged open, and Dortmunder and Chefwick stepped quickly inside, Dortmunder drawing the revolver while Chefwick shut the door again.

  The first two rooms they went through, making quick searches, were empty, but the third contained two typewriters and two black female typists. They were quickly tucked away in a closet with a bolt lock, and Dortmunder and Chefwick went on.

  In Major Iko’s office they found a note pad on the desk with a pencil notation on the top sheet: “Kennedy—Flight 301—7:15.” Chefwick said, “That must be where they’re going.”

  “But what airline?”

  Chefwick looked surprised. He studied the note again. “It doesn’t stay.”

  “Phone book,” Dortmunder said. “Yellow pages.”

  They both opened drawers, and the Manhattan yellow pages were in the bottom desk drawer on the left. Chefwick said, “Are you going to call every airline?”

  “I hope not. Let’s try PanAm.” He looked up the number, dialed, and after fourteen rings a pleasant but plastic female voice answered. Dortmunder said, “I have what may sound like a stupid question, but I’m trying to prevent an elopement.”

  “An elopement, sir?”

  “I hate to stand in the way of young love,” Dortmunder said, “but we’ve just found out the man is already married. We know they’re taking a flight out of Kennedy tonight at seven-fifteen. It’s flight theree-o-one.”

  “Is that a PanAm flight, sir?”

  “We don’t know. We don’t know which airline, and we don’t know where they’re headed.”

  The office door opened, and the ebony man walked in, white light glinting from his glasses. Dortmunder said into the phone, “Hold on a second.” He put the mouthpiece against his chest and showed Greenwood’s revolver to the ebony man. “Stand over there.” he said, pointing to a bare stretch of wall far from the doorway.

  The ebony man put his hands up and walked over to the bare stretch of wall.

  Dortmunder kept his eyes and gun on the ebony man, and spoke into the phone again. “I’m sorry. The girl’s mother is hysterical.”

  “Sir, all you have is the flight number and time of departure?”

  “And that it’s out of Kennedy, yes.”

  “This may take a little while, sir.”

  “I’m willing to wait.”

  “I’ll be as fast as I can, sir. Will you hold on?”

  “Of course.”

  There was a click, and Dortmunder said to Chefwick, “Search him.”

  “Certainly.” Chefwick searched the ebony man, and came up with a Beretta Jetfire .25-caliber automatic, a small nasty gun Kelp had already seen a little earlier in the day.

  “Tie him up,” Dortmunder said.

  “My idea exactly,” Chefwick said. He said to the ebony man, “Give me your tie and shoelaces.”

  “You will fail,” the ebony man said.

  Dortmunder said, “If he prefers to be shot, stick your gun in his belly to muffle the sound.”

  “Naturally,” Chefwick said.

  “I will cooperate,” the ebony man said, starting to remove his tie. “But it doesn’t matter. You will fail.”

  Dortmunder held the phone to his ear and the gun pointed at the ebony man, who gave his tie and shoelaces to Chefwick, who said, “Now remove your shoes and socks and He face down on the floor.”

  “It does not matter what you do to me,” the ebony man said. “I am unimportant, and you will fail.”

  “If you don’t hurry,” Dortmunder said, “you’ll get even more unimportant.”

  The ebony man sat down on the floor and took off his shoes and socks, then turned to lie face down. Chefwick used one shoelace to tie his thumbs behind his back, the other to tie his big toes together, and stuffed the tie into the ebony man’s mouth.

  Chefwick was just finishing up when Dortmunder heard another click, and the female voice said, “Phew. Well, I found it, sir.”

  “I really appreciate this,” Dortmunder said.

  “It’s an Air France flight to Paris,” she said. “That’s the only flight with that number leaving at that time.”

  “Thank you very much,” Dortmunder said.

  “It’s really very romantic, isn’t it, sir?” she said. “Eloping to Paris.”

  “I guess it is,” Dortmunder said.

  “It’s really too bad he’s already married.”

  “These things happen,” Dortmunder said. “Thanks again.”

  “Any time we can be of service, sir.”

  Dortmunder hung up and said to Chefwick, “Air France to Paris.” He got to his feet. “Help me drag that bird around here behind the desk. We don’t want anybody finding him and letting him go so he can call the Major at Kennedy.”

  They toted the ebony man around behind the desk and left the embassy without seeing anyone else. Greenwood was still loafing around out front, leaning against the iron railing. He fell in with them, and Dortmunder told him what they’d learned as they walked back to the corner and across the street to where Murch was sitting in the phone booth. There Dortmunder said, “Chefwick, you stay here. When Kelp calls, tell him we’re on our way and he can leave a message for us at Air France. If they’ve gone someplace other than Kennedy, you wait here, and when we don’t get any message at Air France we’ll call you.”

  Chefwick nodded. “That’s fine,” he said.

  “We’ll all meet at the O. J. when this is over,” Dortmunder said. “In case we get separated, that’s where we’ll meet.”

  “This may be a late night,” Chefwick said. “I’d best call Maude.”

  “Don’t tie up that phone.”

  “Oh, I won’t. Good luck.”

  “Wouldn’t that be nice,” Dortmunder said. “Come on, Murch, let’s see how fast you can get us to Kennedy Airport.”

  “Well, from here,” Murch said, as they trotted across the street toward his car, “I’m going to go straight up FDR drive to the Triborough …”

  FIVE

  THE GIRL at the Air France counter had a French accent. “Mister Dortmun-dair?” she said. “Yes, I have a message for you.” She handed over a small envelope.

  “Thank you,” Dortmunder said, and he and Greenwood moved away from the counter. Murch was out parking the car. Dortmunder opened the envelope and inside was a small piece of paper containing the scrawled words “Golden Door.”

  Dortmunder turned the paper over, and the other side was blank. He turned it back and it still said “Golden Door.” That’s all, just “Golden Door.” “I needed this,” Dortmunder said.

  “Just a minute,” Greenwood said and walked over to the nearest passing stewardess, a pretty short-haired blonde in a dark blue uniform. “Excuse me,” Greenwood said, “will you marry me?”

  “I’d love to,” she said, “but my plane leaves in twenty minutes.”

  “When you come back,” Greenwood said. “In the meantime, could you tell me what and where is the Golden Door?”

  “Oh, that’s the restaurant in the International Arrivals Building.”

  “Lovely. When can we have dinner there?”

  “Oh, the next time you’re in town,” she said.

  “Wonderful,” he said. “When will that be?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “Not yet. When do you get back?”

  “Monday,” she said smiling. “We come in at three-thirty in the afternoon.”

  “A perfect time for dinner. Shall we make it four?”

  “Make it four-thirty.”

  “Four-thirty Monday, at the Golden Door. I’ll reserve the table immediately. Under the name of Grofield,” he said, giving his most recent name.

  “I’ll be there,” she said. She had a lovely smile and lovely teeth.

  “See you then,” Greenwood said and went back over to Do
rtmunder. “It’s a restaurant, in the International Arrivals Building.”

  “Come on.”

  They went outside, and met Murch on his way in. They brought him up to date, asked a luggage handler to point out the International Arrivals Building, and took the bus over.

  The Golden Door is upstairs, at the head of a long broad escalator. At the foot of it stood Kelp. Dortmunder and the other two went over, and Kelp said, “They’re up there feeding their faces.”

  “They’re taking the seven-fifteen Air France flight to Paris,” Dortmunder said.

  Kelp blinked at him. “How’d you do that?”

  “Telepathy,” Greenwood said. “My stunt is, I guess your weight.”

  “Let’s go up,” Dortmunder said.

  “I’m not dressed to go up to a place like that,” Murch said. He was in a leather jacket and work pants, while the other three were all in suits or sport jackets and ties.

  Dortmunder said to Kelp, “Any other way down out of there?”

  “Probably. This is the only public way.”

  “Okay. Murch, you stay down here in case they get through us. If they do, follow them but don’t try anything on your own. Kelp, is Chefwick still in the phone booth?”

  “No, he said he was going to the O. J. We can leave messages there now.”

  “Fine. Murch, if somebody comes down and you follow him, leave us a message at the O. J. as soon as you can.”

  “Right.”

  The other three rode the escalator upstairs, emerging on a dark carpet in a dark open area. The maître d’s lectern, some doweling, and a lot of artificial plants separated this area from the main dining room. The maître d’ himself, armed with a French accent less charming than the young lady’s at Air France, approached and asked them how many they were. Dortmunder said, “We’ll wait for the rest of our party before going in.”

  “Certainly, sir.” The maître d’ bowed himself away.

  Kelp said, “There they are.”

  Dortmunder looked through the plastic leaves. The dining room was large, and very nearly empty. At a table in the middle distance, beside a window, sat Major Iko and Prosker and three sturdy young black men. They were having a leisurely dinner, the time now being just a little past five, with over two hours left before their flight.