by Ross Thomas
When the phone rang I looked at my watch. It was exactly six o’clock and the voice on the phone belonged to the woman who had called me what now seemed to be a long time ago, a couple of years back, at the Madison Hotel in Washington. She then had sounded as if she were reading the words that she had to say to me, but now the conversation was informal, almost chatty.
“You follow instructions very well, don’t you, Mr. St. Ives?”
“What about the shield?”
“Is that really money in the suitcase that you carried into your room?”
“It’s money.”
“It’s such a lot of money, isn’t it?”
“The shield,” I said.
She giggled then. It was a high-pitched giggle that went on for a long time and made her sound like a preadolescent girl who has heard her first dirty joke and found it to be quite funny. “The shield of Komp-o-reen.” She had lowered her voice and tried to make it as dramatic as possible, but she wasn’t a very good actress and the effect wasn’t humorous, only embarrassing, which she seemed to realize because she giggled again.
“The shield,” I said, as patiently as I could, as if talking to a drunken friend who thought it would be a splendid idea to seek out some after-hours joints now that it was four o’clock in the morning and the bars were closed.
She said something then, not to me, but to someone else who was there with her wherever she was, next door in room 141 for all I knew. I couldn’t understand what she said, but when she came back on the phone, she sounded as if she were reading again, although her voice was a little more singsong than before, as though she was trying to burlesque the whole thing.
“The exchange will not be made tonight. You will go to Washington tomorrow and check into the Madison Hotel by noon. At twelve-thirty you will receive further instructions. Do you want this repeated?”
“No,” I said. “I don’t want it repeated; all I want is the shield.”
“Tomorrow, Mr. St. Ives,” she said, again bringing her voice down into that pseudodramatic register. “Tomorrow you will have the shield of Komp-o-reen.” Then she giggled again for what seemed to be a long time and hung up.
I sat there on the edge of Mr. Howard Johnson’s overly soft bed and wondered if I was too old to enroll in an International Correspondence School course, one that would teach me to be a bookkeeper or a draftsman or a sheet-metal mechanic. Earn big pay. Learn in your spare time. That was something that I had a lot of. I had eighteen hours before I had to be in Washington, before I had to talk to Giggles again or to her friend with the cottony voice. I could probably get halfway through lesson one before then.
I tried to recall the woman’s voice. It hadn’t been Bryn Mawr nor had it been East Side New York nor magnolia southern. It was just the voice of some female who probably had made it through high school and who thought that $250,000 was a great deal of money and who was willing to be mixed up in two or three murders to make sure that she got her share.
The giggle bothered me. I had heard people giggle like that before when they were high on pot or heroin, although with heroin there usually were more beatific smiles than giggles. Or she could have been slightly drunk except that there had been no slur in her voice, that voice with the all-American California-Midwest accent which could have belonged to someone who was 20 or 30 or a what-the-hell 40.
I took some foresight out of my jacket pocket, a half pint of J&B, and went into the bathroom where I struggled with the sanitary wrapping on a water glass. I poured some of the whisky into the glass, added water, went back into the bedroom, checked the closet to make sure that the suitcase was still there, and sat back down on the edge of the bed to brood some more.
The thieves could have worked it a half-dozen ways, I decided. Both of them could have followed me from New York and called from a pay phone. Or they could have checked into the motel that morning and watched me arrive. Or one of them, the man with the voice that sounded as if he had a mouthful of Band-Aids, could have sat in a parked car, followed my movements through his sunglasses, called the woman, and had her telephone me from their twelve-room duplex on East 62nd Street where she lolled around on the chaise longue while eating hashish-flavored bonbons. Only that didn’t wash because she had talked to somebody when she called me, and it was probably the man with the cottony voice. Or the cat.
My theories had all the substance of a badly spun cobweb so I put down my drink, picked up the phone, and placed a long-distance call to Frances Wingo in Washington. When she came on I said, “This is Philip St. Ives. It was a dry run.”
“You didn’t get the shield?”
“No.”
“But you still have the money?”
“Yes, I still have it.”
“What happened?”
“They tested me to see how well I follow instructions. They’re to get in touch by twelve-thirty tomorrow in Washington at the Madison Hotel. You can do me a favor and make me a reservation.”
“Yes, I will,” she said. “But what happened?”
“I drove to the motel and checked in just like they instructed. A woman called at six, giggled a little, and then told me to be at the Madison tomorrow.”
“Giggled?”
“She seemed to think it was all very funny.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I. But I have no choice except to do what they say.”
“I’ll call Mr. Spencer and tell him what’s happened,” she said.
“All right.”
“He’s growing quite concerned, you know.”
“So am I. You can tell him that I’m just as concerned as he is.”
“Yes,” she said, “I can imagine that you are.” For the first time the tone of her voice edged up above the freezing mark. Not warm yet, but at least some of the chill was gone. “Why do you think they want you back in Washington?”
“I assume that’s where the shield is,” I said. “I also assume that’s where it’s always been. I don’t think it ever left Washington. It’s not something that one would like to lug around part of Manhattan and half of New Jersey.”
“What do you think the chances are for recovering the shield tomorrow? Mr. Spencer will ask.”
“I don’t know. They’re being awfully cagey, but they’re running out of time. I’d guess that there’s a fifty-fifty chance. No better.”
“When will you call tomorrow?”
“When I get the shield back. Or when I’m sure that I won’t get it.”
“Do you want me to call Lieutenant Demeter?”
I thought about that for a moment. “No, don’t call him. I’ll talk to him myself tomorrow.”
We said good-by and I replaced the phone and looked at my watch. It was six-thirty and because I could see no future in fighting the rush-hour traffic, I decided not to leave until seven. I mixed another drink and turned on the television set to a news program which did nothing to cheer me up, but at least gave me the consolation, for whatever it was worth, that a very large number of persons all over the world also had problems, most of which were worse than mine.
At seven I turned the set off, put the key to the room on the dresser, got the suitcase out of the closet, and headed for the rented car. It was still light, daylight-saving-time light, but he materialized at my elbow as if by some kind of magic just as I slammed the lid on the trunk where I’d stored the suitcase.
“Good evening, Mr. St. Ives.”
I turned to look at him. He was wearing a severely cut dark blue suit, white shirt, and a tie that just missed being bashful.
“Ah, the ubiquitous Mr. Ulado. I almost didn’t recognize you in your new suit.”
He smiled and fingered the knot in his tie. “We decided that our other garments had served their purpose.”
“By we, I suppose you mean you and Mr. Mbwato, who must be lurking nearby.”
“Surely not lurking, Mr. St. Ives.”
“It’s a good word and I haven’t had the chance to use i
t in a long time. Or ‘stealthily’. Another good word that I seldom have the chance to use. It describes the way you move, Mr. Ulado. Where were you hiding, up on the roof?”
“I was waiting behind the next car for you to come out or for the shield to go in.”
“You must be disappointed.”
Ulado smiled politely at that. “If you have a few moments, Mr. Mbwato would like to visit with you.”
“No gun this time?”
“No gun, Mr. St. Ives. Not even a fountain pen.”
“And where is Mr. Mbwato?”
“Just around the corner.”
“I suggest that if Mr. Mbwato wants to talk to me, he can come here. I don’t like to leave my car unattended.”
“Or the $250,000 in its trunk,” Ulado said, smiling again.
“There’s that, too.”
Ulado nodded and disappeared around the corner of the motel. In a few moments the black rented seven-passenger Cadillac drew up alongside my car and the rear door opened. I climbed in and once again Mbwato’s huge presence seemed to transform the Cadillac into an overcrowded Volkswagen.
“Good evening to you, Mr. St. Ives,” he said. He was wearing a medium gray mohair suit, white shirt, and dark blue tie, and the complete outfit had cost him no more than five hundred dollars. They might be starving in Komporeen, I thought, but they still managed to send their emissaries out into the world well draped and well shod.
“I haven’t got the shield,” I said.
“So Mr. Ulado informs me. Pity, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I suppose it is.”
“What happened, Mr. St. Ives?”
“Nothing happened. They just didn’t show up.”
“They?”
“I suppose it’s a they.”
“This was only to test your reliability then?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe they spotted you flouncing around in the Cadillac. Neither you nor it are exactly inconspicuous.”
“Do you mean that they were here at the motel?”
“I didn’t say that. I don’t know where they are. They just called me on the phone and told me the deal was off.”
“But they made another rendezvous, of course.”
There was nothing for me to say to that and Mbwato seemed to realize it. He reached over and patted me on the knee with his left hand which was not much larger than a ping-pong paddle. “Let me assure you, Mr. St. Ives, that if we had been successful in securing the shield this evening, we would have also made certain that you would have retained the funds that are in your trust.”
“You don’t know how relieved I am.”
He gave me the smile then, the one that promised to glow for a thousand hours. “There may come a time when you will welcome our interest and even our participation.”
“I doubt that,” I said.
The smile had vanished. Mbwato was serious now, even grave. “Don’t be too certain, Mr. St. Ives,” he said in a deep, melancholy voice that seemed to rumble up from some forgotten sepulcher.
“I’m not certain about anything.”
That seemed to cheer him up a little. He smiled again and said, “By the way, I took the liberty of ordering a wreath for the funeral of Mr. Frank Spellacy. Anonymously, of course. I hope you approve.”
“I don’t know any Frank Spellacy.”
“That’s right. You saw him only once. And even then, I believe, he was already quite dead.”
I opened the door to the Cadillac. “You do keep busy, don’t you?” I said to Mbwato.
He smiled again. “Yes, Mr. St. Ives. We do keep busy because we have so little time. So very little time.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
IT HAD BEEN A long, fretful drive back to Manhattan, made doubly grating by a spectacular five-car pile-up that had killed two persons and slowed three miles of New York-bound traffic to a creep. By the time I drove into the Avis garage I was irritable; by the time I arrived at the Adelphi by cab, toting the fifty-eight pounds of money, I was testy; and when I spotted Lieutenant Kenneth Ogden of vice slumped comfortably in one of the chairs in the lobby, looking as if he had just taken squatter’s rights, I suffered a severe internal implosion which, everything considered, was kept under pretty fair control. I could have stamped my foot.
Ogden slowly got out of his chair when I came in and permitted me another long examination of his false teeth. “No luck, huh?” He seemed happy about it.
“No.”
“Just feeling you out,” he said. “They do that sometimes.”
“I know.”
“It’s in there?” he said, gesturing toward the suitcase.
“It’s in there,” I said.
Ogden licked his lips and I tried to remember where I had last seen that look. It’s an unusual look; really quite rare. The eyes narrow, the lips grow wet and move a little, there’s sometimes a faint smile plus an air of total concentration and an obliviousness to everything but the satiation soon to come. I remembered then: it was a fat man in a cafeteria. He had weighed a little more than three hundred pounds and he had had that same look when he sat down to an assortment of dishes that would have stuffed four persons with ordinary appetites. With the fat man it had been food; with Ogden it was money. With both it was greed.
“What’re you going to do with it?” he said.
“The hotel’s got a safe.”
“I saw it. You could open it with a corkscrew.”
“There’s somebody on duty all night.”
Ogden snorted, his eyes still fixed on the suitcase which was growing heavy. I switched it to my left hand. “Hell, he must be seventy-five and besides, he sleeps all night.”
“Would you like to keep it for me overnight?”
“Well, we could for Christ’s sake at least take it down to the precinct station. It’d be safe there.”
I walked over to the hotel desk. Ogden followed. “You remember the Baxter kidnaping out in Omaha about fifteen years ago?” I said.
He looked at me and a sour, suspicious look crept across his face. “Look, St. Ives—”
“Baxter was kidnaped, you remember, and held for $200,000 ransom.” The room clerk appeared at the desk, an aged, frail man whom I knew only as Charlie.
“Evening, Mr. St. Ives.”
“Hello, Charlie. Any messages.”
He glanced at my box. I could have done it just as easily, but I always asked him because he liked to be asked and at seventy-five there aren’t many things that anyone will ask you for. “Not a thing,” he said.
“Will you put this in the safe?” I said, and swung the suitcase up on the counter. He tried to pick it up with one hand, failed, and barely managed to get it off the counter with two. I watched him unlock the safe and store the suitcase inside. Ogden was right. It looked as if it could be opened with a corkscrew. Or a hairpin. But it was safer than my bathtub. I turned to Ogden, who was also watching and who looked as if all the dreams that he’d ever had in his life were being locked away, out of sight forever.
“So when Baxter was kidnaped,” I said.
“Who?” Ogden said.
“Baxter. The man out in Omaha.”
“Oh. Yeah.” He didn’t seem very interested.
“When Baxter was kidnaped they asked two hundred thousand and the family agreed to pay. They turned the money over to a cop, a lieutenant of detectives, as I recall, who was supposed to make the money drop, pick up some instructions about where he’d find Baxter, and then fetch him back to his hearth and home. Well, this lieutenant dropped off the money okay and he picked up the directions about where he could find Baxter. But he was the ambitious type, so he staked out the money drop until the kidnapers showed up. He tried to take them, and there was a gun fight. According to the lieutenant there were three of them and he killed two. The other one, again according to the lieutenant, got away with the ransom money. About an hour after he was supposed to be there, the lieutenant finally drove up to the deserted farmhouse where Baxter was held.
He was about an hour too late. Baxter had choked to death on the gag that the kidnapers had placed in his mouth. At least that’s what the autopsy said.”
Ogden gave me one of his mean looks, the one that he probably used on whores and pimps and the sad-faced, middle-aged men who hung around the toilet at the YMCA. It was a look in which all the lines in the face seem to run downward. “You trying to say something, St. Ives?”
“I’m telling a story.”
“Has it got a point?”
“I think so; it might even have a moral. So there was the Baxter family, out not only $200,000 but minus its breadwinner as well. They never caught the third kidnaper; they never recovered any of the money; and the lieutenant of detectives resigned two months later and retired to Hawaii at age thirty-eight.”
Ogden grunted. “I remember it all right. The cop got a lot of guff about if there really was a third man who took off with the ransom. And there was even some who thought that he might have helped the guy—what’s his name, Baxter—that he might have helped him to choke to death a little. If he was gagged real good, and tied up real good, all the cop would have to do is hold his nose for five minutes or so.”
“But it was convenient, wasn’t it?” I said. “With Baxter dead, no one could ever be sure—except the lieutenant, of course—about whether there really was a third man.”
“You said it had a moral. I don’t see any moral.”
“How about: the wise man resists temptation but for a moment; the dull man for an hour, and the fool forever?” Another none-too-pithy aphorism. Perhaps I could soon start talking in parables.
“Did you make that up?” Ogden said.
“I think so.”
“What is it, some kind of a crack?”
“Not really.”
“That story about the Omaha kidnaping was.”
“All right.”
We had walked over to the elevators and I punched the up button. There was no one else in the lobby except Charlie behind the desk. The night bellhop was hiding somewhere and the cigar counter, out of stamps again, no doubt, had closed promptly at its regular hour of six.