Coward's Kiss (17 page)

I wasn’t exactly killing time. In the first place, I needed the drink. In the second, there was a chance that the Alicia bit was still getting an occasional few lines of printer’s ink, and I wanted to know about it if it was. So I sipped and flipped, in approximately that order. There was nothing about the late Alicia Arden. There was something else.

I almost missed it. It was on one of those catchall back pages, a short bit most of the way down the fifth column. I noticed it because they had happened to run a picture with it and pictures on the inside back pages are rare. This was a good news photo—a clear and infinitely sad shot of a dead little man propped up against a brick warehouse wall.

So I read the article. Nothing sensational, nothing spectacularly newsworthy. The sad little man in the photograph had been found in the very small hours of the morning after having been shot twice in the center of his chest. Police found him in the very West Thirties, the warehouse district on the wrong side of Eleventh Avenue. He had been killed elsewhere and dumped where he was found. In addition to the bullets, he’d been beaten around the face.

There had been no identification yet. He’d had no wallet, no papers. His fingerprints were not on file. He had one identifying mark, a six-digit number tattooed on his right forearm.

Nothing much at all. But it made me look at the picture again, and it actually took a second look to recognize him. His face had never been the memorable sort and it was less so in a news photo. But I had seen him before.

He was the tail I’d pounded on Times Square the night before.

I went back to the car. The briefcase was still on the floor under the seat, right where I had left it. I put it next to me and started the engine. I had a little more trouble getting out of the space than getting in, but the Chevy was in a good mood and we made it.

It was time to deliver the briefcase and collect my reward.

THIRTEEN

THE air was gray, the sun smothered by clouds. Eighth Avenue swam with the human debris of late afternoon. A pair of well-dressed Negro pimps stood like cigar store Indians in front of the Greek movie theater across the street. A Madison Avenue type, his attaché case at his feet, leafed dispassionately and sadly through a bin of pornographic pictures in a bookstore. Taxi drivers honked their horns and pedestrians dodged rush-hour traffic. All over neon signs winked in electric seduction.

The Chevy was parked on Forty-fifth Street. I left it there and went into the Ruskin with the briefcase tucked under one arm. I found the taproom and had a double cognac. It went down smoothly and made a warm spot in my stomach.

In the lobby I picked up the house phone and called Peter Armin. He picked up the phone right off the bat.

“London,” I said. “Busy?”

He wasn’t.

“I’ve got a present for you,” I told him. “Okay to bring it right up?”

A low chuckle came over the phone. “You’re an amazing man, Mr. London. Come right up. I’ll be anxious to see you.”

I rang off, stuffed tobacco into a pipe and lit it. I walked to the elevator. The operator was a sleepy-eyed kid with a very short brushcut and a wad of gum in his mouth. He chewed it all the way to the eleventh floor, telling me at the same time who was going to win the fight at St. Nick’s that night. I yeahed him along, got out of the car and found Armin’s door. I knocked on it and he opened it.

“Mr. London,” he said. “Come in. Please come in.”

We went inside. He closed the door, then turned to me again. I looked at him while he looked at the briefcase I was holding. He was very pleased to see it. His clothes were different again—chocolate slacks, a dark brown silk shirt, a tan cashmere cardigan. I wondered how many changes of clothes he carried around in that suitcase of his.

“An amazing man,” he said softly. “You and I make a pact. Within twenty-four hours you produce the briefcase. One might almost be tempted to presume you’d had it all along. But I’m sure that’s not the truth.”

“It isn’t.”

“May I ask how you took possession of it?”

I shrugged. “Somebody dropped it in my lap.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“Amazing, truly amazing. And Mr. Bannister? Have you any news of Mr. Bannister?”

“He’s dead.”

“You killed him?”

“I think he had a heart attack.”

He chuckled again. “Marvelous, Mr. London. De mortuis, of course. De mortuis nil nisi bonum. Yet I cannot avoid thinking that few men have merited a heart attack more whole-heartedly, if you’ll excuse the play on words. You’re a man of action, Mr. London, and a man of economy as well. You waste neither time nor words. A rare and enviable combination in these perilous times.”

He stopped, reached into a pocket of the cardigan and dragged out his Turkish cigarettes. He offered me one, as usual. I passed it up, as usual. He took one himself and lit it.

“Now,” he said. “If I might have the briefcase?”

“One thing first.”

“Oh?”

“A matter of money,” I said. “Something like five thousand.”

He was all apologies. He scurried over to the dresser, opened the bottom drawer, drew out a small gray steel lockbox with a combination lock. He spun dials mysteriously and the box opened. There was an envelope inside it. He took it out and presented it solemnly to me.

“Five thousand,” he said. “The bills are perfectly good and perfectly untraceable. If you’d like to count them——”

“I’ll trust you,” I said. I stuffed the envelope in my inside jacket pocket.

“Now the briefcase?”

I said: “Of course.” I handed it to him and he took it from me, his small hands trembling slightly. He accepted the case the way a man takes into his arms a woman he has lusted after without success for a long period of time. I stood and watched him as he sat down in his chair and opened it.

He reacted just the way he was supposed to. He unzipped the briefcase quickly, ignored the letter and opened the pouch with the keys in it. He took them out, looked them over.

His face changed expression.

For a moment or two he sat still as Death and did not say a word. Then, his eyes still on the keys, he said: “There seems to be some sort of mistake, Mr. London.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Something’s gone wrong,” he said. “Somewhere along the line there’s been a slip. These are not the right keys.”

“Of course not,” I said. “I know that, Mr. Wallstein.”

The words sank in slowly. He stayed where he was, not moving at all for a minute or two. Then his eyes left the keys and climbed an inch at a time until they were looking at me.

They widened when they were focused on the Beretta in my hand.

He said nothing at first. His face changed expression several times and I could see his mind working, looking for avenues of escape, seeing each in turn sealed off in front of him. When he got around to speaking his voice was a thousand years old. He sounded like a man who had been running very hard and very fast for a very long time. And who was now discovering that he had been running in the wrong direction.

“A most amazing man,” he said. “And just how much do you know, Mr. London?”

“Most of it.”

He sighed. “Tell me,” he said. “I’d like to see how much you know and how you determined it. I don’t suppose it will be much in the way of consolation. But it’s important for a man to know just where he cut his own throat.”

“Keep your hands where I can see them.”

“Certainly,” he said. He placed them palms-down on his knees. “And if you could point that gun elsewhere——”

He had shown me the same courtesy before, in my own apartment. I could hardly refuse him. I lowered the gun slightly.

I said: “Your name is Franz Wallstein. You occupied a fairly important position in Nazi Germany. You stole a small fortune in jewels and managed to make a clean break when the roof fell in in 1945. You ran for Mexico, then skipped to Buenos Aires. You set yourself up as an importer under the name Heinz Linder and you were doing pretty well. Then the Israelis found your trail again.”

“They are relentless,” he said.

“But you had advance warning. Not much warning—it didn’t leave you time to cash in your home or your business. But you did have enough time to make sure your trail would end forever in Buenos Aires. You found some one who looked enough like you to pass for you. He didn’t have to be a perfect double—you’d been under wraps for fifteen years. You took him home with you and shot him dead.”

He listened with no trace of expression on his face. I got the impression that he was discovering himself now in the words I spoke. His eyes were deep, his features relaxed.

“Maybe you bought cooperation from the government,” I went on. “That’s supposed to be pretty easy in Argentina. At any rate, you left your double dead in your home and let the Israelis take credit for the kill. Then you staged a robbery—filled your suitcase with jewels and caught the first plane to Canada. It was an easier country to enter than the United States. But it wasn’t as easy to set up shop there as it was in Argentina. You’ve got expensive tastes. The money must have gone pretty quickly. You needed more money and you needed it in a hurry.”

“Debts pile up,” he said softly. “And a hunted man must keep his credit good.” There was the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“You still had the jewels. They were negotiable, especially if you sold them off a few at a time. But that wasn’t good enough for you. You wanted to latch onto the money without letting go of the jewels. You’re a man who l likes beautiful things and you wanted to keep them.” I paused. “Am I right so far?”

“More or less. I could never have received a shadow of their worth. And they’re very beautiful stones, Mr. London.”

“They must be. Let’s take it a little further. You met Alicia Arden. She knew about a fence—Bannister. That was fine, but you still wanted to sell the jewels without letting go. So the two of you cooked up a swindle. You managed to hook up with three or four professional thieves and you sold them on the notion of acting as agents for the sale of the jewels. According to what you told them, they would go to New York to handle the transfer of the gems for the money.”

“It’s common enough,” he said. “They took their chances in return for a cut of the proceeds.”

“That was the setup, sure. You even let them cache the jewels and make up only one set of keys. That was to keep you from stealing the stuff back and leaving Bannister holding the briefcase. They were honest thieves, as you said. But they weren’t careful enough. You and Alicia fixed things so that both Bannister and the thieves would be out in the cold.”

“You know the details, Mr. London?”

I looked at him. I wondered where Maddy was, what she was doing. I glanced out the window and watched the sky turn darker. I looked back at him.

“I can guess,” I said. “Alicia was supposed to come to New York to negotiate with Bannister. Then she told Bannister he could pull a switch and save himself a hundred grand—this kept him from haggling over the price. When the time came, he gave her the money and sent her where the thieves were staying. She was supposed to trade the money for the briefcase, but instead of turning the case over to Bannister she held onto it.

“Then you came into the picture. You would get the money from the thieves and leave them for Bannister, who would get rid of them by killing them. It was neat—the thieves wouldn’t be looking for you because they’d be dead. And Bannister didn’t even know you were alive. You and Alicia would have the money and the jewels. Free and clear.”

I drew a breath. “But she didn’t play it that way, did she?”

“No,” he said quietly. “She did not.”

“She must have made a fresh switch of her own. She set up the deal without telling you about it.”

He managed a smile. “She was supposed to make the switch on a Wednesday. It took place a day early. I did not know about it until it was over.”

“She made the switch,” I said. “She turned over the money to the thieves and took the briefcase in exchange. Then she called Bannister and told him they wouldn’t play ball. He killed them and took his dough back. She lost the money that way—but she had the jewels all to herself now. And they were worth a hell of a lot more than a hundred grand.”

He nodded, agreeing.

“So you found out about the cross. And you went hunting for Alicia Arden. You knew her very well. You knew what to look for and where to look. You didn’t have Bannister’s organization but you had something more valuable in your knowledge. He never found her. You did.”

My pipe had been out for a while. I put it in a pocket. “So you broke in on her and killed her,” I went on. “You didn’t use a Beretta then. You had another gun and you used it to put a hole in her face. You killed her before you did anything else. She had crossed you and you were furious. Bannister was after her more as a matter of profit-and-loss than anything else. He might have killed her, but not unless he found the briefcase first. But you wanted her dead. That was more important than the briefcase.”

His face darkened. “For each man kills the thing he loves,” he quoted. “I was in love with her, Mr. London. A human fault. A reasonable man is a man who never loves. Reason goes only so far. I loved her. When she betrayed that love I killed her. Another common pattern.”

He took out another cigarette and lit it. I watched him smoke. I wondered what he was thinking now.

I said: “You had to be the killer. If Bannister had killed her he would have turned the place upside-down. But you’re a neat man. You wouldn’t confuse a search with a sacking. You must have cleaned as you searched.”

“It was easier that way.”

“And you left her there,” I said. “You couldn’t find the briefcase so you kept the apartment under as close surveillance as you could. There was a limit—you were alone, and you couldn’t be there all the time. You didn’t see my friend visit the apartment. But you saw me and thought I took the briefcase.”

He shook his head. “I thought you had it all along. I thought you were working with her.”

“Same thing.” I shrugged. “That’s what I got so far. Also that you were the one who took a potshot at me when I was heading up the stairs to my apartment. Just a warning, I guess. So I’d be in a mood to team up with you.”