by Ross Thomas
“Your public relations man, Mr. Briggs, should have cleared us,” Padillo said. One of the men who had questioned us ran his eyes down a list that he carried on a clipboard. He made a couple of checks with a pencil and nodded at the other man. “They’re cleared,” he said.
The other man pointed down the hall. “The third door, gentlemen.”
“How’d you fix that?” I asked.
“I called Burmser and told him to arrange it.”
“Did you tell him what happened?”
Padillo shook his head. “I didn’t get around to it for some reason.”
The third door led into a large paneled conference room that was dominated by a huge, highly polished table that tapered at both ends and was surrounded by high-backed leather chairs. It was a table large enough to seat the nearly four dozen men who needed to be on hand when the time came to lay claim to nearly a third of the world’s oil reserves.
Two 35mm cameras already had been set up, one on either side of the table, and their crews were fooling around with them. At one end of the room eight rows of chairs had been placed and they were almost filled with carefully made-up, middle-aged women, nearly all of them wearing furs. Padillo and I found seats in the last row of chairs.
At precisely 10 A.M., a long line of men filed into the conference room, a little self-consciously, I thought, and took their seats at the table as the cameras recorded it all. A couple of still-photographers clicked away with their Canons and Nikons.
A few minutes later, the king and Scales came in, escorted by two distinguished-looking men whom I took to be the two companies’ top executives. All took seats at the far end of the table. Someone had thought to furnish the king and Scales with new suits. The public relations man, I decided.
There was some preliminary murmuring as an aide passed out dark green folders to the men seated around the table. The king stared fixedly at the table top. Scales’s hands fluttered nervously about, fingering his new tie and the buttons on his jacket. If someone had said boo, both of them would have jumped two feet.
The last person to enter the room was Wanda Gothar, wearing what seemed to be a mink stole. Underneath the stole was a dark gray suit that was smart enough to make the other women in the room appear dowdy. Wanda took a seat in the front row which seemed to have been reserved for her. She carried a large black envelope purse. From her seat she had a perfect view of the king and Scales at the far end of the table.
The king saw her first. His face collapsed as he clawed at Scales’s shoulder, trying to get his attention. When Scales saw her he turned pale and became perfectly still. He looked sick. The chairman or president of one of the oil companies looked at him curiously and then leaned over and asked him something. Scales shook his head.
Wanda let them look at her for nearly a minute before she rose and started walking slowly toward the end of the long table where the two men sat, almost huddling against each other. She kept her right hand in the large black purse.
I thought I knew what was in that purse and started to rise, but Padillo caught my arm. “It’s her deal now,” he said. I sat back down.
Wanda stood near the end of the table, not more than two feet from Scales and the king who shrank back from her. The man who looked like a chairman of the board or at least president regarded her curiously and then turned away.
Her hand came slowly out of the purse. Her eyes were fixed on Scales and the king. Even from where I sat, I could see the terror that was smeared across their faces.
When her hand finally left her purse it didn’t hold a gun, it held a piece of paper. She extended it to the king. I could see his hand tremble violently as he reached for it. He read the note and relief flooded his round face. He began to nod his bald head in eager, almost frantic agreement, handing the note to Scales who read it and began nodding, too. She stood there and watched them bob their heads for a long moment and then turned and walked out of the room.
“Let’s go,” Padillo said.
We caught up with Wanda about halfway down the carpeted corridor. Her face was pale and there was hard glitter in her eyes.
“You made it,” she said, not seeming at all surprised. “Did Kragstein and Gitner?”
“No,” Padillo said. “They’re dead.”
“Good. Aren’t you going to interrupt the charade in there?”
“We were counting on you for that.”
“I got what I wanted.”
“They might bring it off,” Padillo said.
She nodded. “I know. Why don’t you stop them?”
“McCorkle would like to. He’s got a speech all prepared.”
She looked at me. “Well?”
“I’ve found that oil companies can take care of themselves without much help from me. I’m more interested in that note you handed the king.”
“Yes,” she said. “The note.”
“How much cut did you ask for, Wanda?” Padillo said.
“No cut,” she said, her tone as cold as her eyes.
“No?”
“No,” she said. “I take it all. The entire five million.”
“That’ll buy Walter a lot of revenge.”
She shook her head slowly. “You can’t buy it for the dead and there’s something else about it you should learn.”
“What?”
“The dead don’t really care.”
“Does five million dollars teach you that?”
She nodded. “It helps.”
26
THEY CAUGHT up with the king and Scales four days later in Milan, but not before they had withdrawn the five million dollars from the Swiss bank. When they were caught they had $52.56 in Italian lira between them. All they would say when asked about what had happened to the rest of the money was, “We spent it.”
I read about it my first day back at work as I stood at the bar and drank a martini at eleven thirty in the morning because, for some reason, I thought it might stop my left arm from itching underneath the cast. It didn’t, but it at least made it more bearable.
Padillo came in, took a letter from his pocket, and handed it to me. “It’s to both of us,” he said. The letter was from a Swiss bank and the most interesting paragraph read:
“Our client, Miss Wanda Gothar, has asked that we transfer the sum of $50,000 to a joint account which we have opened in your names at the Riggs National Bank in Washington, D.C. She also asked us to express her heartfelt appreciation for the courtesies that you extended to her during her recent holiday in America.”
“Is it real?” I asked.
“I’ve already checked. It’s real.”
Karl moved down the bar toward us and started arranging some glasses. “Now that both of you guys are back—”
“He’s got a lead on a Duesenberg,” I told Padillo. “He wants us to lend him five thousand.”
Padillo glanced at the letter that I still held. “Why not?” he said.
“All right,” I said. “Buy it.”
Karl beamed and then, because he wanted to demonstrate that he was really interested in his employers’ welfare, he said, “How was San Francisco?”
“Fine,” I said.
“You guys going to open another place out there?”
Padillo shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“We thought it lacked the proper ambience,” I said.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product o
f the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1971 by Ross Thomas
cover design by Jason Gabbert
This edition published in 2011 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media
180 Varick Street
New York, NY 10014
www.openroadmedia.com
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