Ride a Pale Horse (35 page)

“What colour of jacket?”

“He was wearing a fawn gabardine suit—very nice, too.”

“Miriam, I’ve always loved you.” Bristow gave her a quick kiss on her pale cheek and left her startled for once in her life.

A fawn gabardine suit, brown hair. A hundred men around this vast complex of buildings might fit that description. But not one in that hundred knew about Menlo’s notes. Bristow reached his office in a slight state of euphoria. Too bad that Shaw hadn’t had time to find a seersucker jacket—or a blond wig. A young man in a hurry, Bristow thought again. If he felt I didn’t believe him, he will move fast, get rid of any possible evidence before he can be summoned upstairs to repeat his story. We’ll have to move just as fast. Bristow glanced at his watch. There were still twelve minutes before the six-ten call from Vasek.

He ’phoned Doyle. “Any word about the check-out times on Saturday night?”

“Got them half an hour ago—I’ve been trying to reach you. Here they are: Shaw checked out at ten twelve. Coulton and Fairbairn at ten twenty.”

“He left
before
them?” Bristow’s heart sank.

“So the computer said. But I wondered. I talked, personally, with the guard who was on duty at the front desk that night. When prodded, he remembered that Shaw suddenly changed his mind about leaving—just after he had been checked out and his identification deposited—and dashed back to the elevator. Had left his desk drawer unlocked, he said.”

“When did the guard see him again?”

“At ten twenty-six. They talked. Shaw joked about his forgetfulness. The guard left the original check-out time on record. Mr. Shaw was leaving, wasn’t he? And as Mr. Shaw said, there was no point in messing around with computers. Temperamental, he called them. The guard agreed.”

“Did Shaw join Coulton at the front door?” The guard had a good view of that entrance, if he were paying attention.

“They went down the steps together.”

“No car visible?”

“No car. They left in the right direction for the parking lot.”

“I suppose you have the guard’s testimony on tape.”

“And he’ll verify it in any court. Satisfied?”

“You bet! Sorry to press you about this, but—”

“I know, I know. We didn’t find any stocking to match the mask. Not yet. But we came up with something else.” Doyle’s voice quickened. “Shaw has been discarding a lot of old cassettes—filled a plastic garbage bag with them. Some had been unscrewed, had come apart and the tapes were removed. We found a couple of cassette top sections—looked like all the others, except for two miniature scratches in their corners. I saw Menlo place them there himself.”

“We’ve got him!”

“For the cassettes, yes. But not for—” Doyle broke off. Menlo had been his friend.

“You’ve had quite a day,” Bristow said to encourage him.

“Not over yet. We’re watching Fairbairn’s place on Cherry Lane. Take care, yourself.”

“I’ll be home by seven thirty. No late work.” Tomorrow would be time enough to add two clinchers to his report, may it rest in peace in Miriam’s keeping. In rising spirits, Bristow said, “Get a good night’s sleep. Both of us.” He was hungry, too. A long day since three eggs sunny-side up. “What’s Taylor’s last report?”

“Good,” Doyle said, and ended the call. He could wish Bristow would pay as much attention to his own safety as he did to that girl’s. A woman, actually; but they all seemed so damned young nowadays.

Bristow, reassured, settled down for a quiet two minutes before Vasek’s call. He tried to clear his mind of all other thoughts. Be casual, he warned himself, don’t let that buzzard think he has you jumping to his command. Let this nitwit American play it as cool as he does. The ’phone rang exactly on time, and he braced himself.

But when Vasek’s voice came onto the line, it wasn’t so cool. “There are difficulties. We shall talk tomorrow. At four o’clock. And we will arrange our meeting. For Wednesday.”

“Will your difficulties be over by then?” He is under surveillance, he has been traced. Bristow’s calm vanished. “Anything we can do?”

“I will manage.”

“Let us know if we—”

“Of course,” Vasek said and left Bristow listening to dead air.

Joe’s voice was saying, “Mr. Bristow—Mr. Bristow—are you still there?”

“Yes. What’s wrong?” Joe’s voice had sounded anxious, urgent.

“The tape you were going to collect—yesterday’s ’phone calls—it’s gone. I’ve been searching for the last half hour. I had it ready for you to pick up this evening. Thought Ken—my brother—had moved it. He was on duty this afternoon when I was over at the hospital. But he didn’t touch it.”

“Who visited your office this afternoon?” Office? Joe’s small living-room.

“Three clients. They were collecting tapes of their messages—just as you do, Mr. Bristow.”

“Take it easy, Joe. I’m not blaming you or your brother. Did Ken know these clients?”

“Two of them. The third said he was a new customer. Winston was his name. Ken couldn’t find him on our register.”

“And while Ken searched, Winston was looking through the bookcase where you stack the tapes.” Labelled and dated, naturally enough. Joe was methodical.

“Didn’t have far to look for yours—if he was the one who took it. But where else could it have gone? I’m sorry, can’t tell you how sorry, never happened before—”

“Joe, ease up. No damage done.” And Bristow hoped he sounded as if that were actually true. “But one thing is important, Joe. You were a good radioman. You can recognise a ’phone tap when you see it.”

“A bug on my ’phone?”

“Have a look.” It had to be Joe’s ’phone. Doyle had made sure that his office was clean. “Were there any repairmen at your place recently?”

“Yesterday morning—just testing. There was a broken line.” And then Joe swore steadily for the next few seconds, taking Bristow back all the way to Vietnam.

Bristow said again, “Have a look, Joe. And you might as well remove it. They’ve been listening to us for the last five minutes.”

There was a long silence, ending with Joe on the ’phone once more. “I found it. Removed it, put it out of commission.”

“What type?”

“Sophisticated. Probably could send and be heard for half a mile. Goddammit, Mr. Bristow—”

“Not to worry. I’ll collect today’s tape this evening.” And let Karen hear it, short and sweet as it was. “By the way, what excuse did Winston give Ken as he left?”

“He didn’t. Just said he would see me tomorrow, straighten out everything.”

“What did he look like?”

“Tall, thin. A rugged face. Brown eyes—they looked directly at you. Very pleasant in manner. Seemed a regular guy.”

“European voice or American?”

“Real American. But we’ve got his voice on tape. I’ve a receiver-transmitter in the office, with its recorder in my bedroom. It’s sound-activated. Turned on through the day, tape changed every two hours. So he’s on the four-to-six recording. The police advised me to set it up—helps identify any burglars. I’ve a lot of equipment here, you know.”

“Could I borrow that piece of tape?”

Joe considered for a second. “Sure, I’ll have it ready for you.”

“I’ll see you within the hour.”

“I’m real sorry—”

“That,” Bristow said with a laugh, “is the last time I want to hear that word.” But he was tight-lipped as he ended the call. Tall, thin, rugged face—it sounded like the Waterman he had first seen in Schleeman’s club and then in Armando’s. Easy manner, a regular guy. And so were all successful confidence men.

And how had Waterman—or whoever—got the idea, a good one, right on target, to bug my answering service? Coulton was the direct answer to that. He had attended the VIP meeting on the fabricated letters. He had listened to the Prague tapes and heard Karen report Vasek’s exact words: Vasek would deal with Bristow and no one else in his department. Which proved that Waterman, if he was the one who pulled a fast trick on Joe’s young brother, was linked with Coulton. Menlo’s query on these two had become an exclamation mark.

Then Bristow wondered as he locked his desk and prepared to leave, how would the Waterman–Coulton axis now be able to listen to Vasek’s ’phone call tomorrow? That was a comic thought and kept him amused all the way to his car. One of the guards who patrolled the area was paying extra attention to the cars parked in this section, Bristow noted. Doyle’s idea, probably. Bristow asked as he got into the Camaro, “No one put a stick of dynamite under the hood?” The guard didn’t find that so funny, just nodded good day and paced on.

Suddenly, another question about Waterman came into Bristow’s mind, and this one wasn’t as comic. Why had yesterday’s tape of recorded messages been stolen? For what purpose? Joe’s telephone, tapped by one of Waterman’s people, had given them Vasek’s call word by word. So why steal the tape? It could teach them nothing new.

The question was repeated when he stood in the front room of Joe’s small ground-floor apartment. Joe was still smarting, less from the blow on the back of his head than from the fact that a girl had done it. “Came in here looking sweet and cute, wanted to inquire about services and prices. Just when I was reaching for my list, she pulled a .22 on me, held it to the back of my neck, got today’s tape—the one you were coming to collect, Mr. Bristow. Then she bashed me.”

Ken, who was holding a towel wrapped around ice cubes to his brother’s head, completed the story. “I came in—had been out at the supermarket—found him cussing and swearing. Wasn’t knocked out—just a bit dazed. You know—I saw that girl getting into the car parked next to mine. A grey two-door Chevy—brand new. But it was gone before I chased out after them.”

“Them?” asked Bristow.

“The girl and the driver.”

“Winston?”

“No. Not him. Light hair, big round jaw. That’s all I noticed as I got out of my car with the groceries. Red in the face—the guy must have been hot in the jacket he was wearing. Shirt and tie, too.” Ken, in short sleeves and wash pants, could only shake his head over the stranger’s clothes. “Doesn’t know Washington, that’s for sure.”

“How was the sweet cutie dressed?”

“The little bitch—” Joe said. “White pants—”

“Jeans, tight jeans,” Ken added to that. “And a big loose shirt—made the pants all the—” He broke off as Joe glared up at him.

Joe took command. “Fair hair, long and straight. Face, tanned. Small and slight. Her voice—well, I’ve got her on tape.” He looked at Bristow. “You want that sound-activated recording, too?”

Bristow nodded.

“What’s going on?” Joe demanded. “I feel as if I’m in a forward combat area. Will they try more tricks for that ’phone call you’re getting at four tomorrow? Well, I’ll have my shotgun ready, stay here with Ken. I’ll miss my basketball over at the gym but—” He shrugged his shoulders. “Boy, if I had my legs, she couldn’t have pulled that stunt on me.”

Would they try a third time to get hold of Vasek’s tapes? Yet they had to learn what meeting he was setting up. “Why don’t you make this police business? You have friends on the force. Get extra protection for four o’clock tomorrow, just in case—” Bristow paused. “May not be necessary, Joe. But it’s better to take precautions. My fault that you’re back in the front lines. But it won’t last long. Next week, you’ll have a good story to tell your buddies over at the Amvets’ gym.” He hoped he sounded as confident of that as his words. He added, with a smile, “You won’t stop being my answering service, I hope.”

“You kidding?” Joe’s grin was back. He shoved aside the ice pack and smoothed his thin red hair in place. “Takes more than a bash on the head to do that. Frigging tramp—I’ll be ready for her next time. I’ll get you the recording—but keep it safe. I’d like to hear what a .22 sounds like when it’s whacked on my skull.” He swung his chair around, sent its wheels whirring towards his bedroom.

Bristow found a parking space around the nearest corner to his apartment. He locked his car, began the short walk home, with the recordings of Winston’s and Cutie-Pie’s voices—two miniature cassettes, wonders of the microchip age—safe inside his jacket pocket. Thanks to the delay at Joe’s answering service, it was now well after eight o’clock. The street lights were on, the houses brightly lit, too. Fragments of music from wide-open windows drifted into Muir, a pleasant accompaniment to his stroll. He was taking his time, observing the people on the sidewalks. Few in number, and all engrossed in their innocent business. Four late departures from a cocktail party, calling goodbyes as they split into couples and reached their cars just ahead of him. Three people in full regalia leaving for some dinner party. Two women walking their straining Doberman. A late jogger on a slow run. Two men, at a leisurely pace, arguing about astrophysics. Everything seemed normal.

Just ahead now was the bookstore—closed. Above it, Mrs. Abel’s sitting-room was lit. His own apartment, its windows dark, gave no signs of life. It seemed as deserted as he had hoped it would look.

Reassured, he crossed the road, approached his street entrance. In front of him, a car door swung open and a woman stepped out as she closed it behind her. Old, shapeless figure, he noted. A canvas shopping bag on one arm, a clutch of books in the other. They slipped, and she bent down to pick them up, shielded from the street light by the shadow of the tree where she had parked her car. Too nimble for an old lady, he thought, suddenly alert. “Bristow!” The voice was held low. “Don’t stop. Don’t look. Go in! And wait!”

Nine more steps and Bristow unlocked his door, entered quickly, left it barely open. He drew back against one wall as his hand reached for his Beretta. He released its safety catch, waited.

The woman, bent with age, slipped inside and closed the door. He switched on the hall light. She turned the door’s lock to secure it, then faced him, straightening her back, looked at him through heavily rimmed eyeglasses. Bristow’s own inventory was quick but complete: a sallow face, wrinkled and furrowed; bobbed grey hair; a cotton dress, a drooping cardigan, sagging stockings, flat sandals.

“Not necessary,” she said, pointing to the gun. Her voice had deepened. A man’s voice, kept almost to a whisper.