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Authors: Richard Stark

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BOOK: Mourner
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Menlo was surprised. It was true that she had granted him her favours in the hotel in Washington, but he had thought then that it was only because Parker had rejected her. Could it be that she actually found him attractive? He was shorter than she, and unfortunately overweight, and possibly twenty years her senior.

But it couldn't be the money; she was already rich.

Surprised, not quite sure what to make of her, he said, "You must forgive me. I have been, as I say, travelling. I am somewhat weary. And also, I must confess, my mind has been occupied with my own predicament. This evening, I trust you will find me more gallant."

"This evening," she replied, "you can tell me all about how you got the upper hand with Chuck. That I've got to hear."

"I will tell all. Until this evening, then."

He bowed his way out and took the elevator back down to the lobby. He didn't approach the same clerk, but another one, giving the name Bett Harrow had invented for him. John Auguste. It would do as well as any. The clerk handed him the key, and a bellboy went to reclaim his luggage.

He had intended to bathe first, but once the bellboy had left the room he found his curiosity could wait no longer. How much exactly didhe have in the suitcase?

When he opened it on the bed, loose bills spilled out on all sides. Hundreds, fifties, some twenties. With a flutter in his chest, as though he were standing too close to the edge of a cliff and looking over, he sat down on the bed and began to count. His weight depressed the mattress, tilting the suitcase, and another little shower of bills fluttered to the bedspread.

He made a little game out of it. First, he separated the bills into three piles, by denomination. Then, beginning with the hundreds, he sorted them into stacks, twenty-five bills in each.

Seven hundred fifty-three hundreds.

Four hundred twenty-two fifties.

And one hundred seventy-four twenties.

Ninety-nine hundred, eight hundred eighty dollars. $99,880.00. Nine nine comma eight zero decimal zero zero. In the currency of his native land, three million, one hundred ninety-six thousand, one hundred sixty koter.

Oh, and more. In his wallet was eight hundred and fifty-three dollars. In his coat pocket, five hundred more. He had spent, coming down, he estimated approximately a hundred dollars.

Grand total: One hundred and one thousand, three hundred and thirty-three dollars!

He sang gaily in the shower. In English.

5
HE WAS awakened the next afternoon on the beach by a funereal man in black who asked if he was Mr John Auguste.

He opened his eyes, but immediately closed them again, against the glare of the sun. He had seen only the funereal man in black, in silhouette, bending over him, blotting out part of the sky.

Mr John Auguste? Some mistake. I am Auguste Menlo. The similarity of

No!

He sat bolt upright, not sure for a second whether he'd actually said the words aloud or merely thought them. But the funereal man in black was still standing there, bowed, patient, waiting for an answer. With all the riot of colours on the beach, he looked like someone's odd idea of a joke.

Menlo said, "Yes, I am John Auguste."

"You are wanted on the house phone, sir. By the blue entrance, phone number three."

"Thank you."

The funereal man in black went away. He was wearing highly shined black oxfords, which sank into the sand at every step. He walked slowly and cautiously because of this, and looked like the Angel of Death. Menlo got up from the pneumatic mattress and followed him.

It was Monday afternoon, a little before three, and the hotel beach was jammed. All of yesterday's check-ins were already there, plus all the lay-overs from the week before. Menlo had to cut a meandering path through them to get to the phone.

He was wearing maroon boxer-style bathing trunks. He looked ridiculous, and knew it, but he also realized he looked no more ridiculous than half the other men on the beach. His flesh had reddened from exposure to the sun, and it was just as well he'd been awakened. A little longer, and he would have had a painful burn. Tomorrow he would have to get some of that suntan lotion he smelled everywhere on the beach.

Already he was beginning to feel at home. Sunshine and warmth. A pneumatic mattress to lie on, and occasional beautiful girls in skimpy white bathing suits to ogle. Plus, of course, the one beautiful girl to go to bed with. After last night with Bett Harrow, this day of sleep and warmth and contentment was more than a luxury; it was a necessity. There was a twenty-year difference between them, and by approximately one o'clock that morning it had begun to show.

He smiled to himself, plodding through the sand towards the hotel. What a way to exercise the weight away, eh? Sweat it away by day beneath the hot sun, sweat it away by night beneath the cool sheets.

To the left of the blue entrance were the telephones, a row of five mounted on the wall, with soundproof barriers between them, sticking out like blinkers on a horse. Menlo went to number three and picked up the receiver. "Auguste here."

"This is Ralph Harrow."

"Ah! Mr Harrow!"

"I'm told you have something to show me. If it's convenient, you could bring it up now. Top floor, suite D."

Bring it? Not quite so soon, Menlo thought. "Ah, I am sorry. It isn't, ah, completely ready to be shown; not quite yet. But perhaps I could come and discuss the situation with you? In one hour?"

There was the briefest of pauses, and then Harrow replied, "That's fine. One hour."

"I look forward to meeting you," Menlo said, but Harrow had hung up. Menlo returned the receiver to its hook and smiled at it. Bringthe statue? Did Harrow have some idea he could get the statue by trickery, and not pay for it?

A depressing thought occurred to him. Thatmight be why the daughter had been so free with her charms. To lull his suspicions, to dull his wits.

But would a father, even in the United States, use his daughter in such fashion?

He wished he knew for sure what Bett Harrow saw in him. He was not young or handsome, he was only rich. But she was rich too.

He couldn't understand it. He was grateful for it and he would not refuse it, but he couldn't understand it.

He left the telephones and went through the blue entrance a slate walk flanked by cool green ponds full of tiny fish and screened on both sides by tall board fences painted blue and entered the rear of the hotel. There was a bank of three elevators here, for the convenience of the swimmers and sunbathers. Menlo rode up to the seventh floor, and then walked the endless corridors to his room.

His black suit had been returned, beautifully cleaned and pressed. His freshly laundered shirts had come back, and the new socks and underwear he had bought in the hotel shop that morning along with the maroon bathing trunks were put away in the dresser drawer. He took a shower and dressed, checked the locked suitcase full of money in the closet, which had not been tampered with, and left the room. He went to the nearer bank of elevators, and when the elevator arrived, said, "Top floor."

"Yes, sir."

When he got off, he asked directions to suite D, and was told to bear to his right. He did so. The halls up here were done in pastel shades, much less violent than in the plebeian quarters below, much more restful. He walked a considerable distance before finally seeing a door of any kind, which was marked "C". After a turning he came to suite D.

A middle-aged gentleman who could have been nothing but an American businessman or perhaps a Swiss businessman, or a Scandinavian businessman, but at any rate a capitalist businessman opened the door to Menlo's knock. "Mr Menlo?"

"The name is Auguste, for the moment. John Auguste. You are Ralph Harrow?"

"Yes. Come in."

The daughter, down on the twelfth floor, had a two-room suite. How many rooms this one contained was anyone's guess. Harrow led the way down the foyer into a large sitting room. Directly ahead, through French doors, was a terrace. Doors in both side walls were open, leading into other parts of the suite.

"Sit down," said Harrow. "Drink?"

"Perhaps Scotch. And plain water."

"Right you are."

The long sofa in the middle of the room was white leather. The marble-topped coffee table in front of it was covered by a number of American magazines, tastefully laid out in a diagonal row, so that the name of each magazine showed. Menlo sat down on the sofa, feeling the whoosh of air leaving the cushion, and looked around. He would have to get a suite like this for himself soon. Once everything has been straightened out.

Harrow brought his Scotch and water, along with a drink for himself in his other hand. He sat down at the opposite end of the sofa. "My daughter tells me you took the statue away from Willis."

"In a manner of speaking." Menlo smiled. "Actually he never did have possession of it."

"Then you're an amazing man. Willis didn't strike me as the kind of man you could take things from. Well. But that's not why you're here. You realize I paid for the statue once, don't you?"

"So I understand."

"Fifty thousand. Willis must have had that on him too. You mean to say you didn't get it?"

"No. I did not. An oversight, possibly."

"Bett tells me you have money. Quite a bit of it. In cash."

"From another source entirely, I assure you."

Harrow waved that aside. "The point is, I've already paid for the damn thing. I don't like the idea of paying twice."

"Your daughter didn't explain my terms?"

"No, she didn't."

Menlo outlined them quickly; a safe place for his money, the necessary papers to explain himself should it ever become necessary. "And one last thing," he said. "One of my teeth is capped, and within the cap is a tiny capsule containing poison. I don't believe"

"Poison!"

"Yes, I don't be"

"What on earth for?"

"In my former job it was thought I might find it necessary to take my own life under certain conditions. I somehow do not believe that will ever be necessary now."

"Good God, man, poison! What happens when you eat?"

"In normal activity of the jaw, the capsule cannot be broken. But what I would like, if possible, is to have some dental surgeon remove it. If you could obtain for me a dentist who would not ask a lot of questions, I would be grateful, most grateful."

"I think that could be arranged," Harrow said, nodding. "I'll speak to my own dentist about it. He's a good man; I've known him for years."

"Excellent. And the other items?"

"No problem at all. We'll get you the papers first, and then dispose of the funds. Some you'll want to invest, no doubt, and the balance you'll want handy for living expenses. No problem."

"Very good."

"But now," Harrow said, "I have my terms."

"Ah?"

Harrow's eyes, all at once, were shining. He leaned forward. "Before we go any farther," he said, "I want to hear the details. I want to know exactly how you managed to get the statue away from Willis, and I want to know what on earth your job was that you had to go around with a capsule full of poison in your mouth."

Menlo smiled. "I see." He had forgotten this essential fact about Ralph Harrow; the man was a romantic. It was the first thing that he had learned about Harrow, from hearing Parker and Bett talk about him back in Washington. On business matters Harrow was a total realist, but within was a strong streak of romanticism. It was the romantic, not the businessman, who had paid fifty thousand dollars for the mourner. "I will be most happy to tell all," Menlo said.

"Let me refresh that drink first."

"Thank you so much."

Menlo told it all then, from the time he had first received the assignment until he had arrived in Miami, deleting from the story only the sexual encounters with Bett Harrow and the murderous encounter with the old policeman. He talked also about his role as Inspector in Klastrava, and this led Harrow to question him about various high points in his fifteen-year career, and about his life as a guerrilla in the latter stages of the Second World War. Nearly an hour went by, and Harrow was still asking questions, Menlo still talking. Harrow seemed fascinated, and Menlo like most people, enjoyed having a good audience.

But finally it was finished. Harrow, thanked him for spending so much of his time in telling the story, assuring him again that everything he'd asked for would be supplied. "Now, Mr Menlo or should I say Inspector Menlo, eh? now I do want to see the mourner. The statuette. Could you bring it?"

Menlo considered briefly, but he no longer had any doubts. Harrow could be trusted. He finished his drink, got to his feet. "I shall get it at once."

"Thank you. I'll be waiting."

Menlo rode the elevator back down to the seventh floor, and got the mourner out of his other suitcase. He wrapped the little statuette in one of the white bath towels from the bathroom, and brought it back upstairs under his arm. The elevator operator looked at it oddly, but didn't say anything.

He knocked again, and once again Harrow came to the door. "You were very quick. Is that it?"

"Yes, this is it," Menlo said, and bowed.

Harrow took the bundle and immediately began to unwrap it. "Go on in," he said. "Go on in." He pushed the door closed behind Menlo, and continued to stand there in the foyer, unwrapping the statue.

Menlo walked past him into the sitting-room and there was Parker sitting on the white leather sofa, a gun in his hand. Menlo took one shocked look at Parker's face and acted without hesitation; he twisted his jaw hard to the right, and bit down.

BOOK: Mourner
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