Timothy Files

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Meeting out in the open like that gives me the willies,” Cone says. “I like my back to a wall.”

  Unexpectedly, Gardow laughs. Not a nice laugh. “Yes,” he says, “I can understand why you might feel that way. What do you suggest?”

  “There’s a place on Madison. The Hotel Bedlington. They got a cocktail lounge that’s usually deserted in the afternoon. I thought we might meet there about three. Have a friendly drink. Our business won’t take long.”

  There’s silence, and Cone’s afraid he’s lost.

  Then Martin Gardow says, “The Bedlington? Yes, I know it. Just let me check my appointment book.”

  The fink!

  “All right,” Gardow says after a pause, “I’ll meet you at the Bedlington bar at three o’clock this afternoon. Be on time. I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

  Cone’s next call is to Davenport.

  “It’s on,” Cone tells him. “Three this afternoon at the Bedlington.”

  “Okay,” the cop says. “We’re ready to roll. The hotel people are cooperating. We’ll get there an hour ahead of time and set things up.”

  “Follow the script,” Cone warns him. “It’s my cock on the block.”

  “We’ll do our job. Nick can’t wait to get his hands on this guy.”

  “Like I told you,” Cone says, “even if the charge doesn’t stick, just busting the guy might convince Sal Guiterrez to turn canary.”

  “It’s worth a try,” Davenport acknowledges. “Stay cool.”

  “Yeah,” Cone says. “See you later.”

  He gets up to the Hotel Bedlington a little before two-thirty and heads directly for the gents’. There’s a sign on the door: CLOSED FOR REPAIRS, PLEASE USE THE MEN’S ROOM ON MEZZANINE. Satisfied, Cone goes into the cocktail lounge. There’s one bartender, handicapping a racing sheet, one bored waiter, examining his nails, and one young couple at the bar, heads together and giggling.

  The Wall Street dick takes a small table in a shadowed corner and sits with his back to the wall, where he can watch the entrance. The waiter brings him a paper napkin and a little dish of salted peanuts. Cone orders a bottle of Heineken, and when it comes, he goes to work on it as fast as he can.

  The beer finished, he catches the waiter’s eye and signals for an encore. When the waiter brings the second bottle, he starts to remove the empty, but Cone stops him.

  “Leave it,” he says. “I want to keep track.”

  “Whatever you say, sir,” the waiter says, sighing. But Cone knows what he’s doing. Those two beer bottles on his table are theatrical props.

  Gardow comes striding in a few minutes after three. He looks around, spots Cone, and comes over. He’s wearing his double-breasted topcoat but no hat. Cone wonders if he discarded the green fedora after the feathers drowned in the East River.

  Gardow takes off his coat, folds it neatly, and places it atop Cone’s parka on a nearby chair. When the waiter comes over, Gardow orders a scotch mist with a twist of lemon peel. The drink is served with a short straw, and Cone is amused to note that Gardow actually uses it.

  Gardow glances at the two beer bottles. “You like the suds?” he asks. “That figures. I’ll bet you go bowling, too.”

  “Yeah, well, sometimes,” Cone says sheepishly. “Good exercise—you know?”

  Gardow could have taken a chair across the table from Cone, but instead he has seated himself on the vinyl-covered banquette next to Cone. Their knees are almost touching.

  Gardow takes another sip through the straw, then reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small black box, no larger than a pack of cigarettes. It is inset with a switch, a round grille, two lights, and a needled dial.

  “Know what this is?” Gardow says, holding it out.

  Cone shakes his head.

  “It’s a miniaturized electronic debugger. My company makes them. In Taiwan. For instance, suppose you came in here wired with a recorder, maybe even a transmitter, to pick up our conversation. This little—”

  “Wired?” Cone says, astonished. “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Just suppose you did,” Gardow says, staring at him. “This little beauty would tell me in a minute.”

  He turns the switch on with his thumb, then begins to move the little black box across Cone’s shoulders and chest, around his waist, down his legs. A green light on the box is glowing. Gardow watches the dial, paying no attention to the stares of the waiter and bartender.

  Finished, he flicks off the switch and slips the device back into his jacket pocket. “You’re clean,” he says. “But if you had been wired, I’d have known it. You’ve got heavy metal on your lower right leg. What is it?”

  “I carry a piece in an ankle holster. I’ve got a permit for it.”

  “Sure you do,” Gardow says, going back to his scotch. “You weren’t thinking of plugging me, were you?”

  “Come on,” Cone says. “I put it on every morning like underwear. I’ve never fired it off the range.”

  “Uh-huh,” Gardow says. “Tell that to Bernie Snodgrass. After you dig him up.”

  “Look, Mr. Gardow,” Cone says, finishing his second beer, “this kind of talk is getting us nowhere. I want to discuss the Nu-Hope deal.”

  “So you said on the phone. And I asked you what there is to discuss.”

  “Wow,” Cone says, “those beers … My back teeth are floating. Let me take a quick trip to the john and then I’ll tell you what’s on my mind.”

  “Go ahead,” Martin Gardow says casually. “I’m comfortable here.”

  Got him!

  At the entrance to the men’s room in the lobby, Cone knocks three times, rapidly. Davenport opens up.

  “Okay?” he asks.

  “So far,” Cone says, starting to take off his corduroy jacket and flannel shirt. “This is one suspicious bastard. He’s got a debugger, like I figured. More than three minutes and I’m in biiig trouble.”

  “We’ll make it,” Nick Galanis says. “This is Marve Heimholtz, a genius. He’s going to wire you. Marve, this is Cone.”

  “Hi,” the bespectacled tech says, stripping adhesive tape off a wide roll. “I’m giving you a mike on your chest, a transmitter on your ribs, a recorder in your jacket pocket.”

  “Left pocket,” Cone says. “He’s sitting close to my right side and might feel it.”

  “Okay, the recorder goes in your left jacket pocket. We’ve also got a pickup under the bar in the cocktail lounge and another in here. We should get results from one or another. They’re all miniaturized units. Japanese. Try not to cough, sneeze, or scrape things. Keep your voice loud and clear. It wouldn’t hurt to lean toward him as closely as possible without spooking him.”

  As he’s talking, the tech is wiring Timothy Cone’s bare torso, carefully applying strips of tape to keep the mike, wires, and transmitter in place.

  “Two minutes,” Davenport says, looking at his watch. “Move it along, Marve.”

  “Almost done,” Heimholtz says. “Put on your shirt and jacket again.”

  Cone buttons up, and the tech slips the recorder into his left jacket pocket. The three cops examine him.

  “Looks good to me,” Galanis says.

  “Could you button your shirt up to the neck?” Marve says. “Just to make sure he doesn’t spot the tape.”

  “I could,” Cone says, “but the top button was open when I left him. If I close it now, he might notice. He’s a real wiseguy.”

  “Okay,” Davenport says, “leave it open.” He glances at his watch again. “A bit over three minutes. Out you go. We’ll listen in here. If you get anything, we’ll put the arm on him when he leaves.”

  Cone nods, tugs down his jacket. “I’d really like to take a leak,” he says, “but we haven’t got the time.”

  “Cross your legs,” Galanis says.

  “What a relief that was,” Cone says, sliding back onto the banquette. He notices Gardow has ordered a fresh scotch mist. Cone raises his hand, catches the waiter’s
attention, motions toward his empty beer bottles.

  “By the way,” he says to the other man, “this is my treat.”

  “Of course,” Gardow says. “Cone, I’m going to finish this drink and take off. So if you have anything to say to me, you better spit it out now.”

  “Yeah, well, I wanted to talk about Nu-Hope. When I got assigned to that thing, I really didn’t know how important it was.”

  “It’s important,” Martin Gardow says. “Mr. D. gives it the highest priority.”

  “Well, I didn’t realize how much muscle was behind it. Lester Pingle tries to buy me off with ten grand, and I figure there’s more there than I thought.”

  “Pingle handled it stupidly,” Gardow says. “The man’s a fool.”

  “Yeah, he is, you’re absolutely right. Then I learn about Harold Besant and Jessie Scotto and I began to catch on to how big this thing is.”

  Gardow shrugs. “It had to be done. Besant was threatening to go public. Jesus, that’s all we needed. So he had to be taken out.”

  “And you figured he had told his girlfriend?”

  Gardow looks at him. “Wouldn’t you?”

  “I don’t know. You’re much smarter than I am, Mr. Gardow. I mean, you’re way ahead of all of us. It’s just that I saw the girl’s body. Snodgrass and Guiterrez must be a couple of creeps.”

  “They are, but you work with what you can get. How did you find out those two slugs whacked Besant and Scotto?”

  “I didn’t find out; the cops did. Besant was left-handed, but the gun was dropped like it had fallen from his right hand. And they found Bernie Snodgrass’s prints in Scotto’s apartment.”

  “Shit!” Gardow says disgustedly. “How stupid can you get? Well, Snodgrass is feeding the worms, and I’ll have Guiterrez taken care of. Mr. D. doesn’t like loose ends.”

  “This Mr. D.,” Cone says, “he sounds like hell on wheels.”

  “He’s a rotten, no-good sonofabitch, but he pays a good buck for results. Well, enough of this bullshit. Have you okayed the Nu-Hope deal?”

  “Not yet,” the Wall Street dick says. “I guess January told you I know what’s going on in that secret research lab of theirs.”

  “He told me. So?”

  “Well, I can see how important it is.”

  “I told you what would happen to your girlfriend if you don’t produce.”

  “I know, Mr. Gardow. And I know you’re not just making noise. But it seems to me a little bonus would be a nice gesture on your part.”

  “What do you call a little bonus?”

  “Well, of course I don’t expect fifty grand. I just mentioned that number to January to smoke him out. But you had Lester Pingle offer me ten grand. Could you still spring for that?”

  Gardow finishes the remainder of his drink and rises. “That was before I learned about Samantha Whatley. I could stiff you completely, and you’d produce just to keep her breathing. But I’m a forgiving man. The moment I hear you’ve okayed the deal I’ll get a thousand to you—just for goodwill.”

  “Gee, Mr. Gardow,” Cone says, whining, “can’t you do better than that?”

  “Take it or leave it,” Gardow says, pulling on his coat.

  “I’ll take it,” Cone says hastily.

  “I thought you would,” the other man says. “I deal with sleazes like you all the time. You start out ten feet tall and end up on your knees. Don’t call me again.”

  He starts toward the glass door leading to the lobby. Cone hurries after him. He wants to give Davenport and Galanis a chance to get in position.

  “When will I get the cash, Mr. Gardow? I can really use it.”

  “You’ll get it when I feel like it.”

  Both men go out into the lobby. The cops are waiting, IDs in their hands.

  Davenport steps up. “Martin Gardow?”

  “Yes. Who’re you?”

  “Detective Davenport, New York Police Department. This man is Detective Galanis. Here is our identification.”

  “What the fuck is this?” Gardow says wrathfully.

  “You’re under arrest,” Davenport says. “Open your coat, please. We have to search you.”

  “Arrest,” Gardow says, stunned. “For what?”

  “Conspiracy to commit murder, for starters,” Galanis says. “We’ll probably come up with more when Salvador Guiterrez starts singing. Hey, Neal, how’s about sending a cassette of this schmuck’s remarks to Mr. D.? He’ll get a big kick out of it—especially that part where his faithful employee calls him a rotten, no-good sonofabitch.”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Gardow says, his face suddenly tight and pale.

  “Martin, baby …” the Wall Street dick calls softly.

  Gardow whirls on him. Cone has unbuttoned his jacket and shirt. He displays the electronic gear taped to his bare torso.

  “Surprise!” he says.

  Gardow stares, shocked, then raises his eyes to glare. “I am going to have you popped,” he says slowly, biting off each word.

  “You think I care?” Timothy Cone says, much amused.

  The whirligig is slowing down. Some of the people have been thrown off, some are still riding. But the merry-go-round is coasting now, music dying. Cone feels the tension seep out of him. It was a fast, frantic ride on the carousel, but it’s good to stand on solid ground and see things in focus rather than a dizzying blur.

  He figures there is no point in going back to the office. So he takes his delayed leak and lets Marve Heimholtz strip the electronic gear from his body before taking a cab down to his neighborhood. Before going up to the loft, he stops off to buy some salami and eggs, and a can of tuna for Cleo. Let the moth-eaten cat celebrate, too.

  He’s unlocking the loft door when his phone starts ringing.

  “I’m coming!” he yells at it, and wonders, not for the first time, why people shout at a ringing phone.

  “Yeah?” he says.

  “What the hell are you doing home?” Sam yells. “You work here—remember?”

  “I also work outside the office, and I’ve been busting my butt on the Nu-Hope Clinic deal.”

  “Forget it,” she says. “Pingle Enterprises called and signed off. The case is dead.”

  “No kidding?” Cone says.

  “You devious bastard, I’ll bet you finagled it.”

  “Listen,” Cone says, “I just picked up some salami and eggs. How’s about coming by for dinner?”

  “You got any salad stuff?” she asks in a low voice.

  “I got a tomato. It’s a little spotted.”

  “Beautiful,” she says. “All right, I’ll pick up some mixed greens at the deli. See you about six?”

  He gives Cleo half of the tuna and puts fresh water in the cat’s coffee can. By the time Samantha arrives, he’s working on his second vodka and third Camel, and he’s in a mellow mood. Not ecstatic, but satisfied every time he recalls the look on Martin Gardow’s face when that yahoo realized he had been royally screwed.

  “I want to know what you’ve been up to,” Sam says angrily the moment she’s inside the door.

  “Calm down,” he tells her. “Take off your coat, relax, have a drink.”

  “Don’t try to sweet-talk me, buster,” she says. “I always know when you’ve been conniving; you get that shit-eating grin.”

  “Christ, you’re in a lovely mood,” he says. “I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you. Just sit down and be nice.”

  Grumbling, she puts her package of salad stuff in the refrigerator and pours herself a jar of white wine. She sits at the table and scratches Cleo’s ears.

  “All right,” she says, “let’s have it. All of it.”

  He doesn’t tell her all of it. Not about the threats to her safety. If he had mentioned that, she’d have cut him to ribbons, demanding to know what right he had to think she couldn’t protect herself. She is that kind of a woman and, being that kind of a man, he can understand it.

  So he tells her about J. Roge
r Gibby, Martin Gardow, Mr. D., Drs. January and Trumball, and the murders of Harold Besant and Jessie Scotto. Samantha listens intently, not interrupting. When he’s finished and says, “That’s it,” she pours herself another glass of wine.

  “No,” she says, “that’s not it. Not all of it. You still haven’t told me what the McGuffin is. Why were the government and Mr. D. so interested in what Nu-Hope was doing in that research lab?”

  “You won’t believe it,” Cone tells her.

  “Try me,” she says.

  And, right on cue, there’s a gentle rapping at the loft door.

  “Now who the hell can that be?” Cone says. He slips the Magnum from his ankle holster and moves to the door, standing well to one side. “Who is it?” he shouts.

  “Roger Gibby. May I come in for a moment?”

  The Wall Street dick opens the door cautiously, peeks out, then pauses to slide his iron back into the holster.

  “How did you get in downstairs?” he wants to know.

  “I fear your outside door has been jimmied,” Gibby says.

  “Oh, God,” Cone says. “Again? Well, come on in.”

  Gibby enters slowly. He’s as impeccably clad as ever, wearing a trim chesterfield with a velvet collar, a black bowler, and carrying a pair of fawn gloves. There’s a sprig of edelweiss pinned to his lapel.

  “Where’s your muscleman?” Cone asks.

  “Downstairs, guarding our hubcaps.” Gibby sees Samantha and removes his hat. “I beg your pardon, ma’am,” he says with a small bow. “If I had known Mr. Cone had guests, I would have come at another time.”

  “Sam,” Cone says, “this is Professor J. Roger Gibby.”

  “Former professor,” he says with his sweet smile.

  “This lady is Samantha Whatley, my boss at Haldering.”

  Gibby shakes her hand. “A pleasure,” he says. “I envy you for having such a clever and diligent investigator on your staff.”

  “Oh, Cone’s a pisser,” Sam says, and if Gibby is shocked by her language, he doesn’t reveal it.

  He looks slowly about the loft. “Different,” is his verdict. “And what, pray, is that animal under the bathtub?”

  “Cleo,” Cone says. “A sort of a cat. Take off your coat and pull up a chair. Have a drink.”