Defense for the Devil (5 page)

“We want to talk to Mitch Arno and arrange a settlement with him,” she said, closing the pad again. “If we can’t reach an agreement with him, we are prepared to institute garnishment proceedings, in which case a third party who happens to hold property or money belonging to the defendant would be ordered by the court to retain such property awaiting due process. An investigation, of course, would follow—full disclosure, proof of ownership, and so forth.” She stood up. “Is that all?”

“For now,” he said, rising.

She went to open the door for him, then watched him walk down the corridor and out of the reception area.

She was deep in thought when she heard Bailey’s characteristic tap on the door. “It’s open,” she called.

He shambled in and took his chair.

“Get a look at him?”

“More. I tagged along after him. He headed for the pay phone in the lobby downstairs, changed his mind, and used one half a block up the street. Called two numbers, one probably long-distance. At least he used a card on that one. One local. I had to keep back because he’s got smarts. He was watching his tail. Then he went to the Hilton.”

She nodded. “Can you get those two bags open? The suitcase and briefcase?”

“Sure. I’ll bring a hacksaw.”

“I want a look,” she said. “Now, today, tonight.”

He nodded, then said, “But I’d like a little reassurance that my hand isn’t going to be blown off.”

She told him about her meeting with Trassi, and finished, saying, “He doesn’t want cops, and he never batted an eye when I said two hundred ten thousand. I want to see
what’s in them. I think he believes we’ve already opened them. He’ll consult with his client and come back with a better offer.”

“Where?” Bailey asked then. “Not at the bank.”

“No. Here. We’ll have to get the stuff over here, preferably without his knowing, just in case he’s keeping an eye on us. And Maggie will have to be present.”

He reached down and pulled a glass from his bag, then held it up inquiringly. It was her father’s glass, the one Bailey had taken out with him. When she motioned toward the bookshelves, he went over, opened the bar, and poured himself a drink. Bailey was polite; he never helped himself without permission.

She waited. At last he said, “Can you get Maggie over here by seven-thirty?”

Barbara said yes, and hoped it was true. She was aware that everything she was doing was involving her father deeper and deeper in whatever it was she was mixed up in. She had to involve him. She couldn’t put that stuff in his office safe without his knowledge and permission.

“Use your phone?” Bailey asked. She nodded and went to sit on the couch; he pulled the phone around to him and dialed. She heard his greeting: “Sylvia, how’s things?” His voice dropped then and he talked, listened, even laughed once, but finally he hung up and came to sit in an overstuffed chair across the coffee table from her.

“Okay, all set,” he said.

5

At ten minutes
past three Barbara decided that Frank was not home, and she stood undecided what to do next.

Finally she unlocked the door, then entered his house, and heard him cursing. She followed the sound through the wide hallway, past the living room and the dining room, and found him in the downstairs bathroom on his knees at the bathtub.

“Goddamn it, you do that again and I’ll wring your neck.” There was a tremendous splash, and water sprayed from the tub all over him. “You little fucker, you misbegotten son of a bitch!”

Grinning, she backed away and went to the kitchen, then called out, “Dad, you around somewhere?”

Now she heard a cat’s furious yowling. Frank yelled, “Be right with you.” The bathroom door slammed.

She stood at the back door, laughing. He came out in a few minutes, and one of the Things streaked past the kitchen and up the stairs, yelling. It was soaked to the skin.

“Turn on the sprinkler and those fool cats play in it like kids. Roll around in the birdbath. A real bath and they turn into maniacs,” Frank said. “But I did them, both of them, blast their eyes.”

He went to the sink and washed his hands, then got a glass of water and drank most of it before he turned back to look at her.

“Are you going to go get dry?” she asked.

“No. Feels good this way.”

“Can we talk a little?”

“Sure. Coffee? Something else?”

“No, thanks. It’s about private business, a case I’ve taken on at Martin’s, but I’ve already used your office, and I have another favor to ask. I need to use the safe.”

“Okay. So use it. You going to fill in more than that?”

She told him about it. He whistled when she said $210,000.

“And he didn’t bat an eye,” she said. “I’m convinced he thinks we’ve already gotten inside that suitcase, that we know what we’re talking about. But we don’t.”

“Drug money? Drugs? Secret plans to take over the world?

New and better Pentagon Papers? Maps to militia caches? Could be anything. Industrial spying, national security stuff… Corporate plans to conquer the stock market. It could be FBI or CIA business.” He shrugged. “Could even be what he claims it is, legitimate company business. You on contingency?”

“Of course not.”

“Okay. Wishful thinking. So you and Bailey will get the stuff to the office around five. I’ll drop in, check my mail, cheer up Patsy. She thinks I spend too much time somewhere else.” Patsy was his secretary.

“Thanks,” she said. “I’ve got to run. Bank at four-thirty. Bailey said he and Sylvia would be there waiting.”

“Sylvia? He’s bringing in Sylvia?” Frank laughed. “You’ll love her.”

“You know her?”

“Oh, Lord, yes. Sometime when you have an hour, I’ll tell you about Sylvia. Beat it now, or you’ll be late.”

Get there at four-thirty,
Bailey had said,
and
go
to the safe-deposit boxes.
She did that, and her bank escort used her key to open the box, then watched as Barbara inserted hers and turned it. The door swung open; the escort withdrew and pulled the vault door closed behind her. Barbara brought out the suitcase, the briefcase, and duffel bag, shut the drawer, and rang the bell for her escort. She had forgotten how heavy the briefcase was.

“I’m ready,” she said.

Her escort was careful not to glance at the things Barbara had, but they both turned to look toward an open door outside the safe-deposit area, where a woman was saying in a quarrelsome way, “I told you I wanted to put the earrings in there. Why didn’t you watch?” Another escort was standing at the door, gazing fixedly at her shoes, as if this has been going on for a while. “Now I have to get back in.” The door swung open all the way, and a man pushed a wheelchair out of a small private room. Barbara blinked. Bailey, in a black suit and tie. The woman was grotesque, orange hair frizzy about her face, big dangling earrings that looked like emeralds, a long multicolored skirt, and a garish red filmy top; one leg was in a cast. She looked to be seventy or older.

“Barbara! Barbara Holloway! You remember me! Sylvia Fenton, we met at some silly luncheon. My dear, you look wonderful” Bailey gazed at the ceiling with a wooden expression; both escorts looked at the floor.

“How are you?” Barbara said, feeling inordinately stupid. The old woman had a broken leg, that’s how she was.

“Not too bad, considering. My dear child, you surely don’t intend to carry all that by yourself, do you? Ridiculous! Ralph, help her.”

“Oh, I couldn’t impose,” Barbara said hurriedly.

“We’ll deliver it wherever you say,” the old woman said. “Ralph, put it in the office here, while I go get rid of those earrings. Miss,” she said to her escort, “I’m afraid we have to open the door again. If it’s not too much bother. Ralph, where’s my key? Put this bag somewhere and help me with my crutches. If you’d been paying attention, we wouldn’t be having all this fuss.”

Bailey took a large paisley print bag from her, carried it back inside the office, and came out with crutches. They all watched anxiously as she got up and supported herself on the crutches. “Put that damn chair back in the office and stay with my bag,” she told Bailey. Then she said to Barbara, “Just tell him where you want the stuff delivered, dear. I won’t be a minute, then we’ll drop it off on our way home.

“Centennial Bank,” Barbara said. “I was going there from here.” She looked at Bailey, who appeared bored unto death. “If it’s really no bother—”

“No, ma’am. No bother. I’ll just put your things in here with her bag. And stand guard,” he added.

“Thank you,” Barbara said, and shrugged at her escort. “I guess that’s all.”

She left the bank and walked the two blocks to the other bank, where she rented a box exactly like the one she had just emptied, and ten minutes later Bailey entered, carrying all three bags. “She said I should carry them down for you,” he said in a patient voice. They were escorted to the vaults by a male this time.

Bailey put the bags down, and she handed him a ten dollar bill. “You’ve been so kind,” she said.

“Thanks. Appreciate that.” He left, and she put the bags in a drawer. Ringers, she realized; they looked all right, but were subtly different, and also empty, and lightweight.

Afterward, back in her father’s office, she paced. Frank sat on the couch, grinning. “Now what?” she demanded.

“I wouldn’t spoil this for anything. Relax, he’ll be along in a minute or two.”

In a few minutes Ruthie buzzed them; Bailey had arrived. Barbara ran to open the door and saw Bailey pushing the wheelchair down the corridor toward her. Mrs. Fenton’s big paisley bag was on the seat, and Bailey was smiling.

“Nothing to it,” he said.

Barbara watched as he opened the paisley bag and drew out the duffel, then opened the back of the wheelchair and took out the briefcase, and finally removed the seat and brought out the suitcase. “See? Slick as a whistle. Sylvia was great.” He reassembled the chair.

“Where is she?” Barbara asked, imagining the woman hobbling down on the street, giving orders right and left.

“Talking to her broker on the first floor, making a scene, I bet. I came up the service elevator. Gotta run. Take her home, get a bite to eat, back here at seven-thirty. See ya.”

Oh, God, Barbara thought in dismay. Eat. Again. She waited impatiently as Frank took his time opening the wall safe tucked way behind the bookshelves. As soon as everything was put away, the safe locked up, she said, “Dad, I have to go. Seven-thirty.”

He watched with a faint smile as she snatched up her bag and ran out. Under his breath, he said, “Ah, Bobby.”

Maggie was late; she had borrowed Irene’s car, she said, and it was cranky and slow. After Barbara introduced her to Frank, they gathered around the coffee table and the suitcase and briefcase. Bailey touched a key. A tiny red light came on in the upper corner, blinked once and went out. He scowled.

“You understand that there are people who can get into them without destroying them,” he said darkly. “I’m not one of those people.” He looked at Barbara, who shrugged. Then he turned to Maggie.

“Break them open,” Maggie said. “I don’t care.”

“Right. Over at the desk.” He carried both cases to the desk and picked up his denim bag. When Barbara started to move around the desk to watch, he said, “Beat it.”

She went back to the couch with Maggie and Frank.

When everyone was settled, Frank asked, “Has Folsum House been an inn a long time?”

“Ten years,” Maggie said. “That was another reason for the party, to celebrate my tenth year there.”

“You started it?” Barbara asked, surprised again by this young woman. “At twenty-five?”

“I had some help,” Maggie said. “Laurence’s father made it happen. After Mitch left for good, Papa Arno got me a job at Cliff Top Hotel. Mama Arno babysat the girls while I worked, and gradually I was learning something about how a hotel is run. Then Mr. Thielman bought Cliff Top. He does that, finds a hotel with potential and buys it, renovates it and trains local people, then sells it to a chain. He trained me.”

“All this leads up to how you became an innkeeper at twenty-five?” Frank asked. Barbara pretended she was not watching Bailey.

Maggie nodded. “About then, my mother began to talk about moving to California to be closer to my brother Richard, and then one day they told me they were putting our house up for sale. I was still living with them with the girls; it was all I could afford. Everyone just assumed I would go, too. Then Mr. and Mrs. Thielman asked me to come into his office for a talk, and he asked me if I wanted to move to Los Angeles, and I said no. He made a proposition. Why didn’t I buy the house and turn it into a bed-and-breakfast? He had trained me well; I knew everything there was to know about how to run it, and it would provide a living for me and my children as long as I wanted it to. I nearly laughed in his face. I didn’t have a penny to my name.”

Across the room Bailey muttered something unintelligible. Of course, Barbara thought, it was a metal case and the lock was probably an integral part of the frame. She wanted to call out for him to use a blowtorch.

Maggie was still talking. “Mrs. Thielman said Laurence was unhappy about their coming sale of Cliff Top and moving on, this time to Singapore. He refused to go. He was in art school in Chicago and wanted to finish, and then live on the coast and paint. She said they both understood his need to prove himself, but on the other hand he was so young, only nineteen then, that if he did manage to find a suitable apartment, he would never keep it. It would be robbed in his absence or he would spend rent money on art supplies or a trip somewhere or something else.” She smiled faintly. “Their offer was incredible. If I would let Laurence have the attic apartment, they would pay his rent in advance every year for ten years. They had already sent someone out to look over the house and
see
if it could be converted, and Mr. Thielman had an estimate of what it would cost. Mrs. Thielman said they would be relieved, knowing that Laurence had a home to return to, where his belongings would be safe, where he could paint, and after ten years he would be on his own.

“They made it happen. I had no credit and I couldn’t borrow the kind of money it would have taken, but they bought our house, and the next day they sold it to me. They carry the mortgage. I’ve never missed a payment, and next month Laurence has to start paying rent or get kicked out.”