Ed McBain (17 page)

"A simple matter," Schlemmer assured him, "and well worth the investment. In this case, the beneficiaries have already received a check for two hundred thousand dollars."

"They have?"

"Yes. The claim was made almost instantly, proof of loss filed, the entire works. We paid at once."

"I see," Davis said. "I wonder ... could you tell me ... you mentioned suicide in your excluding clause. Was there any thought about Mrs. Carruthers's death being suicide?"

' "We considered it," Schlemmer said. "But quite frankly, it seemed a bit absurd. An accident like this one is hardly conceivable as suicide. I mean, a person would have to be seriously unbalanced to take a plane and its crew with her when she chose to kill herself. Mrs. Carruthers's medical history showed no signs of mental instability. In fact, she was in amazingly good health all through her life. No, suicide was out. We paid."

Davis nodded. "Can you tell me who the beneficiaries were?" he asked.

"Certainly," Schlemmer said. "A Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Radner."

He asked her to meet him in front of DiAngelo's and they lingered on the wharf a while, watching the small boats before entering the restaurant. When they were seated, Anne Trimble asked, "Have you ever been here before?"

"I followed a delinquent husband as far as the door once," Davis answered.

"Then it's your first time."

"Yes."

"Mine, too." She rounded her mouth in mock surprise. "Goodness, we're sharing a first."

"That calls for a drink," he said.

She ordered a daiquiri, and he settled for scotch on the rocks. As he sipped at the drink, he wished he didn't suspect her sister of complicity in murder.

They made small talk while they ate. Davis felt he'd known her for a long time, and that made his job even harder. When they were on their coffee, she said, "I'm a silly girl, I know. But not silly enough to believe this is strictly social."

"I'm an honest man," he said. "It isn't."

She laughed. "Well, what is it then?"

"I want to know more about your sister."

"Alice? For heaven's sake, why?" Her brow furrowed, and she said, "I really should be offended, you know. You take me out and then want to know more about my sister."

"You've no cause for worry," he said very softly. He was not even sure she heard him. She lifted her coffee cup. Her eyes were wide over the rim.

"Will you tell me about her?" he asked.

"Do you think she put the bomb on that plane?"

He was not prepared for the question. He blinked his eyes.

"Do you?" she repeated. "Remember, you're an honest man."

"Maybe she did," he said.

Anne considered this, and then took another sip of coffee. "What'd you want to know?" she asked.

"I want to..."

"Understand, Mr. Davis..."

"Milt," he corrected.

"All right. Understand that I don't go along with you, not at all. Not knowing my sister. But I'll answer any of your questions because that's the only way you'll see she had nothing to do with it."

"That's fair enough," he said.

"All right, fire away."

"First, what kind of a girl is she?"

"A simple girl. Shy, often awkward. Honest, Milt, very honest. Innocent. I think Tony Radner is the first man she ever kissed."

"Do you come from a wealthy family, Anne?"

"No."

"How does your sister feel about—"

"About not having a tremendous amount of money?" Anne shrugged. "All right, I suppose. We weren't destitute, even after Dad died. We always got along very nicely, and I don't think she ever yearned for anything. What are you driving at, Milt?"

"Would two hundred thousand dollars seem like a lot of money to Alice?"

"Yes," Anne answered without hesitation. "Two hundred thousand would seem like a lot of money to anyone."

"Is she easily persuaded? Can she be talked into doing things?"

"Perhaps. I know damn well she couldn't be talked into putting a bomb on a plane, though."

"No. But could she be talked into sharing two hundred thousand that was come by through devious means?"

"Why all this concentration on two hundred thousand dollars? Is that an arbitrary sum, or has a bank been robbed in addition to the plane crash?"

"Could she be talked," Davis persisted, "into drugging another woman?"

"No," Anne said firmly.

"Could she be talked into forging another woman's signature on an insurance policy?"

"Alice wouldn't do anything like that. Not in a million years."

"But she married Radner A man without money, a man without a job. Doesn't that seem like a shaky foundation upon which to build a marriage?"

"Not if the two people are in love."

"Or unless the two people were going to come into a lot of money shortly."

Anne said, "You're making me angry. And just when I was beginning to like you."

"Then please don't be angry. I'm just digging, believe me."

"Well, dig a little more gently, please."

"What does your sister look like?"

"Fairly pretty, I suppose. Well, not really. Actually, I don't know if she is or not. I never appraised her looks."

"Do you have a picture of her?"

"Yes, I do."

She put her purse on the table and unclasped it. She pulled out a leather wallet, unsnapped it, and then removed one of the pictures from the gatefold. "It's not a good picture," she apologized.

The girl was not what Davis would have termed pretty at all. He was surprised, in fact, that she could be Anne's sister. He studied the black-and-white photograph of a fair-haired girl with a wide forehead, her nose a bit too long, her lips thin. He studied the eyes, but they had the vacuous smile common to all posed snapshots.

"She doesn't look like your sister," he said.

"Don't you think so?"

"No, not at all. You're much prettier."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"It's all fake," Anne said. "I visit a remarkable magician known as Antoine. He operates a beauty salon and fender repair shop. He is responsible for the midnight of my hair and the ripe apple of my lips. He made me what I am today, and now you won't love me anymore." She brushed away an imaginary tear.

"I'd love you if you were bald and had green lips," he said, hoping his voice sounded light enough.

"Goodness!" she said, and then she laughed suddenly, a rich, full laugh he enjoyed hearing. "I may very
well
be bald after a few more tinting sessions with Antoine."

"May I keep the picture?" he asked.

"Certainly," she said. "Why?"

"I'm going up to Vegas. I want to find your sister and Radner."

"Then you're serious about all this," she said softly.

"Yes, I am. At least, until I'm convinced otherwise. Anne..."

"Yes?"

"It's just a job. I..."

"I'm not really worried, you understand. I know you're wrong about Alice. And Tony, too. So I won't worry."

"Good," he said. "I hope I am wrong."

"Will you call me when you get back?" she asked.

"Yes," he said. "Definitely."

"If I'm out when you call, you can try my next-door neighbor. Her name is Freida, she'll take a message." She scribbled the number on a sheet of paper. "You will call, won't you, Milt?"

He covered her hand with his and said, "Try and stop me."

***

He went to City Hall right after he left her. He checked on marriage certificates issued on January 6, and was not surprised to find that one had been issued to Anthony Louis Radner and Alice May Trimble. He left there and went directly to the airport, making a reservation on the next plane for Las Vegas. Then he headed back for his apartment to pick up his bag.

The door was locked, just as he'd left it.

He put his key into the lock, twisted it, and then swung the door wide.

"Close it," MacGregor said.

He was sitting in the armchair to the left of the door. One hand rested across his wide middle and the other held the familiar .38, and this time it was pointed at Davis's head. Davis closed the door, and MacGregor said, "Better lock it, Miltie."

"You're a bad penny, MacGregor," Davis said, locking the door.

MacGregor chuckled. "Ain't it the truth, Miltie?"

"Why are you back, MacGregor? Three strikes and I'm out, is that it?"

"Three..." MacGregor cut himself short, and then grinned broadly. "So you figured the mountain, huh, Miltie?"

"I figured it."

"I wasn't aiming at you, you know. I just wanted to scare you off. You don't scare too easy, Miltie."

"Who's paying you, MacGregor?"

"Now, now," MacGregor said chidingly, waving the gun like an extended forefinger. "That's a secret now, ain't it?" Davis watched the way MacGregor moved the gun, and wondered if he'd repeat the gesture again.

"So what do we do?" he asked.

"We take a little ride, Miltie."

"Like in the movies, huh? Real melodrama."

MacGregor scratched his head. "Is a pleasant little ride melodrama?"

"Come on, MacGregor, who hired you?" He poised himself on the balls of his feet, ready to jump the moment MacGregor started wagging the gun again. MacGregor's hand did not move.

"Don't let's be silly, Miltie boy," he said.

"Do you know
why
you were hired?"

"I was told to see that you dropped the case. That's enough instructions for me."

"Do you know that two hundred grand is involved? How much are you getting for handling the sloppy end of the stick?"

MacGregor raised his eyebrows and then nodded his head. "Two hundred grand, huh?"

"Sure. Do you know there's a murder involved, MacGregor? Five murders, if you want to get technical. Do you know what it means to be an accessory after?"

"Can it, Davis. I've been in the game longer than you're walking."

"Then you know the score. And you know I can go down to. R and I, and identify you from a mug shot. Think about that, MacGregor. It adds up to rock-chopping."

"Maybe you'll never get to see a mug shot."

"Maybe not. But that adds another murder to it. Are they paying you enough for a homicide rap?"

"Little Miltie, we've talked enough."

"Maybe we haven't talked enough yet. Maybe you don't know that the Feds are in on this thing, and that the Army..."

"Oh, come on, Miltie. Come on now, boy. You're reaching."

"Am I? Check around, MacGregor. Find out what happens when sabotage is suspected, especially on a plane headed to pick up military personnel. Find out if the Feds aren't on the scene. And find out what happens when a big-time fools with the government."

"I never done a state pen," MacGregor said, seemingly hurt. "Don't call me a big-time."

"Then why are you juggling a potato as hot as this one? Do you yearn for Quentin, MacGregor? Wise up, friend. You've been conned. The gravy is all on the other end of the line. You're getting all the cold beans, and when it comes time to hang a frame, guess who'll be it? Give a good guess, MacGregor."

MacGregor said seriously, "You're a fast talker."

"What do you say, MacGregor? How do you feel, playing the boob in a big ante deal? How much are you getting?"

"Four G's," MacGregor said. "Plus."

"Plus what?"

MacGregor smiled the age-old smile of a man who has known a woman and is reluctant to admit it. "Just plus," he said.

"All right, keep the dough and forget you were hired. You've already had the 'plus,' and you can keep that as a memory."

"I've only been paid half the dough," MacGregor said.

"When's the rest due?"

"When you drop the case."

"I can't match it, MacGregor, but I'll give you a thou for your trouble. You're getting off easy, believe me. If I don't crack this, the Feds will, and then you'll really be in hot water."

"Yeah," MacGregor said, nodding.

"Does that mean you'll forget it?"

"Where's the G-note?"

Davis reached for his wallet on the dresser.

"Who hired you, MacGregor?"

He looked up.

MacGregor's smile had widened now.

"I'll take it all, Miltie."

"Huh?"

"All of it." MacGregor waved the gun. "Everything in the wallet. Come on."

"You
are
a jackass, aren't you?" Davis said.

He fanned out the money in the wallet, and held it out to MacGregor. MacGregor reached for it, and Davis loosened his grip, and the bills began fluttering toward the floor. MacGregor grabbed for them with his free hand, turning sideways at the same time, taking the gun off Davis.

It had to be then, and it had to be right, because the talking game was over and MacGregor wasn't buying anything.

Davis leaped, ramming his shoulder against the fat man's chest. MacGregor staggered back, and then swung his arm around just as Davis's fingers clamped on his wrist. They staggered across the room in a clumsy embrace, like partners at a dance school for beginners. Davis had both hands on MacGregor's gun wrist now. They didn't speak or curse. MacGregor grunted loudly each time he swung his arm, and Davis's breath was audible as it rushed through his parted lips. He did not loosen his grip. He forced MacGregor across the room, and when the fat man's back was against the wall Davis began methodically smashing the gun hand against the plaster.

"Drop it," he said through clenched teeth. "Drop it."

He hit the wall with MacGregor's hand again, and this time the fat man's fingers opened and the gun clattered to the floor. Davis stepped back for just an instant, kicking the gun across the room, and then rushed forward and sank his clenched fist into the fat man's middle.

MacGregor's face went white. Clutching his belly, he lurched backward, slamming into the wall, knocking a picture to the floor. Davis hit him once more, on the point of the jaw, and MacGregor pitched forward onto his face. He wriggled once, and was still.

Davis stood over him, breathing hard. He waited until he caught his breath, and then he glanced at his watch. Quickly, he picked up the .38 from where it lay on the floor. He broke it open, checked the load, and then brought it to his suitcase and placed it on top of his shirts.