Mourner (13 page)

Freedman had given him half an hour's warning. Over the years Parker had cultivated two or three hotel employees, in case he ever needed them, and one of them had let him into the suite. He was now in the small dining-room to the right of the sitting-room; it was the least likely room for either Harrow or Bett to come into. If they did he could duck into the kitchen.

The connecting door was open, and he stood behind it, listening. Bett filled her father in on Menlo, explaining that Parker was dead and Menlo had the statue but was not likely to be too demanding about price. Menlo was in the country illegally, and apparently merely wanted Harrow to help him establish a safe background for himself and also to arrange for a safe place for a large amount of cash he had with him.

"How can Ihelp him establish a background? I don't know anything about that sort of thing," Harrow said.

"What difference does that make?" she said. "Promise him anything. Once you've got the statue, what do you care? What can he do to you?"

"That's too dangerous, Elizabeth."

"I don't see why. You promise to help him, he gives you the statue, and you tell him it might take a few days and then call the FBI. You give them the anonymous tip that there's an undesireable alien staying here without papers. They take him away and that's the end of it. Menlo can't ever prove you were the one who turned him in, and he can't ever make any trouble for you. He doesn't have anything on you."

"I don't know…"

But Bett kept talking, persuading him, and finally he came around. She gave him the name Menlo was using John Auguste and his room number. Harrow put in a call and waited a minute, then hung up. "He left word at the desk that he'd be out on the beach. They'll page him."

"I'd better get out of here then."

"I'll call you after it's over."

"You want me to call the FBI, don't you?"

His voice was weak. "If you would."

"Don't worry, Daddy. Bett will take care of everything."

In a few minutes the phone in the next room rang, and Harrow spoke briefly to Menlo, who said he'd be up in an hour. Parker settled down to wait.

Menlo finally arrived, and sat down to discuss terms with Harrow. It was just as Bett had said, plus some nonsense about a dentist. Harrow agreed to everything, and it should have been over then, but all at once Harrow started asking questions about Menlo's past and Menlo had to tell him his whole life story before they were finished.

Parker, waiting in the dining-room, smothered his irritation, cursing Harrow for a fool. He came close to bursting in and settling it right there, but there were two other things that had to be settled first. He had to talk to Harrow, and he had to be sure where the money was. The money and the mourner would be in the same place. When Harrow put Menlo on the send for the mourner, Parker would find out where he went from the elevator operator, and that's where he would later find the money. So he held back, controlling his impatience.

Menlo finally did leave, and the moment he was gone Parker walked into the living-room.

Harrow turned, saw him, and dropped his drink. "My God!"

"Keep it low," Parker said.

"He he said you were dead." Harrow pointed foolishly at the door. "He said you were dead."

"He thought I was. He still thinks so. Sit down, Harrow. Take a minute, get used to the idea."

"My God," Harrow said again. He went over and sat down on the white leather sofa. He pressed his left hand to his chest. "You shouldn't do that. My heart isn't all that strong."

"You want a drink?" Parker asked.

"Scotch, I think. Yes, plain Scotch."

"On the rocks?"

"Yes. It doesn't matter."

Parker made the drink, and one for himself, and came back to the sofa. He handed one glass to Harrow, and Harrow swallowed half the Scotch in one gulp. Then he breathed deeply for a few seconds, and after that he settled down. He settled down so much he looked up at Parker and said, "You're alive, but you don't have the mourner. He has it."

"You really want to go through all that garbage with the FBI? What makes you think Menlo couldn't wriggle out of it? He's a big man back home; that wasn't crap he was feeding you. He tells his boss he got the money but couldn't get Kapor because his plans got fouled up, that he was in Miami holing up until he could get back to Washington to try again. They'll swallow it, they've got no reason not to trust him. So then he's free, and there's a whole espionage apparatus he can turn around and aim at you. You call the FBI on him, and he'll make you dead. Menlo's no boy to play with."

Harrow pursed his lips, and chewed his cheeks, and stared into what was left of his drink. "You could be right."

"And what do you want for this?"

"Just the gun, same as before."

"I don't have it here."

"You better get it quick. If Bett gave you some fancy ideas about crossing me too, forget it. Menlo didn't even manage to kill my partner. He's in a private rest house in Washington, and if he doesn't hear from me at the same time every day, he'll know you made trouble for me. Then he makes trouble for you."

"From a hospital bed?"

"He won't be in it for ever."

Harrow thought that one over. Finally he said, "All right. The gun is in the hotel safe. I'll have it sent up."

"After we take care of Menlo. We don't want any bellboys coming in at the wrong time."

"No. You're right."

There was a soft rapping at the door. Harrow looked startled, and Parker said, "That's him now."

"So quickly?"

"Don't let it throw you. Just go out there and let him in. Get the statue away from him before he sees me, so he doesn't get a chance to try and break it or something."

"The statue!" Harrow hurriedly got to his feet. "The statue," he muttered, and went out through the doorway into the foyer. Parker, still seated on the sofa, heard him say, "You were very quick. Is that it?"

Then Menlo's voice. "Yes, this is it."

"Go on in," Harrow said. His voice was shaking, and Parker shook his head in disgust. "Go on in."

But Menlo didn't tip. He came on in through the foyer doorway, and stood stock-still when he saw Parker sitting there. The blood drained from his face, and then all of a sudden he did something peculiar with his face, twisting his mouth around. Then he pitched over forward on to the carpet.

Harrow came in, clutching the mourner to his chest. "What did you do?"

"Nothing." Parker got to his feet. "The goddam fool. The poison."

"Poison? You mean, in his tooth?"

"Yeah." Parker knelt beside him. "He's dead all right."

"For God's sake, man, how do we explain this?"

"We don't. We stash him away in a closet or something. Tonight, around midnight, pour some booze over him and drop him off the terrace. Who's to know what floor the poor drunk fell from? Bett will be here to corroborate your story. He didn't fall from here."

"I couldn't do that!" Harrow was staring at Menlo's body with horror.

"Bett can. All right, call down for the gun now."

"But"

"Call for the gun! Stop worrying about Menlo."

Harrow made the call, his voice trembling, while Parker dragged the body out on to the terrace into a corner where it couldn't be seen from inside the suite. He heard Harrow ask that the package that was being held for him in the safe be brought up to the suite.

They waited in silence. Harrow seemed more shaken by Menlo's death than Parker would ever have guessed. He kept working on the Scotch bottle.

After a while a bellboy came with a small package wrapped in brown paper. Harrow tipped him and sent him on his way, while Parker opened it. The gun was inside all right. Parker stowed it way inside his jacket. "Phone Bett. Tell her to come up here but don't say that I'm here."

After he'd made the call, Harrow said, "She said she'd be at least half an hour."

"That's all right. I'll be back by then."

Parker went out to the elevators. He pushed the button, and when the elevator on the left arrived, he asked the operator, "Did you take a fat man down from here about fifteen minutes ago?"

"Not me."

Parker pushed a ten into his hand. "Forget I even asked."

"Yes sir!"

The elevator went back down, and Parker pushed the button again. The other elevator came up this time, and Parker asked the same question, with another ten in his hand.

"Yes, sir, I did. Just about fifteen minutes ago," the operator answered.

"What floor did he get off?"

"Seven. Then he came right back up here, a few minutes later."

"Wait here a minute. I want to get this ten's brother."

"I'm with you sir."

Parker went back to suite D. Harrow wasn't in the living-room. Parker found him in the bedroom, lying on his back, his left hand palm up over his eyes and his right hand holding a glass full of Scotch.

Parker left him there for a minute, went out to the terrace, and rifted Menlo's pockets. He found the room key, and went to the bedroom. "Harrow," he said. "Get up from there. I'm going to want privacy when I talk to your daughter. You take off for a while."

Harrow sat up. He looked ashen, but he was busy gathering shreds of dignity around him. "That's not the proper tone of voice."

"Come on, I've got an elevator waiting."

"You've got an elevator waiting?" Harrow seemed bemused by the idea. He got to his feet, took the mourner up from the bed, and put it in a closet and locked the closet door, then pocketed the key and followed Parker out of the suite.

The elevator was still there, the operator patient. Parker slipped the two tens into the operator's hand and said. "This gentleman is going all the way down to the lobby. I'm getting off at seven."

"Yes, sir."

They were silent on the way down. Parker got off at the seventh floor, found room 706, and unlocked the door. The suitcase was in plain sight, in the closet, the same one they'd bought to carry the money in originally. It was locked, but a suitcase lock can be picked with a piece of spaghetti. Parker opened it, saw that it was still full of bills, and closed it again. He went out, located the emergency staircase, and went down to his room on the fifth floor. He stashed the suitcase, went back up to the seventh floor, and rang for the elevator.

It was the same one that had taken him down, and the operator smiled as he got aboard. They were old friends now; twenty dollars old. On the way up, the operator asked if he had any idea about a horse at Hialeah that could make the twenty grow. Parker told him that wasn't his sport.

He went back into suite D, this time locking the door, and returning the key to room 706 to Menlo's pocket. Then he sat down.

Bett knocked at the door ten minutes later. He went over and opened it, and she stared at him. "Come on in, Bett," he said.

She came in, not saying anything, just staring at him. She was wearing pink slacks and a white shirt and Japanese sandals.

"Come over here, Bett." He took her elbow and guided her through the sitting-room and on to the terrace. He pointed.

She looked. She whispered, "Menlo."

"How was he, Bett? In the rack, I mean."

"You killed him," she said in a whisper.

"Better than that. Menlo killed himself. He did a better job than he did on me."

"He swore you were dead. He described how he did it. How could he get the statue away from you if you weren't dead?"

Parker went back into the sitting-room, and she followed him. "You want a drink, Bett?"

"Please."

"You know where the bar is. I want bourbon."

She hesitated, and then went over and got the drinks. She brought him his bourbon and he took a sip. She couldn't take her eyes off him.

"You like the strong ones," he said. "That's the way it is, isn't it? You don't care what they look like, or what they smell like, or if they're any good in the rack or not. You just want the strong ones. Menlo was going to double-cross me, so that made him strong and you took him into your bed in Washington. Then he came down here and told you how he'd really killed Parker, and that made him the strongest of all. You have a good night last night, Bett?"

"Screw you," she said.

He finished the bourbon and put the glass down. "I'm leaving tonight," he said, "and after that we're finished. You can't be trusted. You like to watch violence too much. But we've got hours yet before I take off."

"How did you do it, Parker? Chuck, how did you do it?" she whispered.

"Menlo's dead," he said, "and I'm alive. I've got the dough he tried to take off with. I delivered the mourner to your father. And I got the gun from him. Yeah, I got the gun. So who's the strongest now, Bett?"

He could feel it coursing through him, like electricity, strong enough to blot the twinges in his side, to make him forget any stiffness or soreness in his body. The job was over, and it was always like this after a job. A satyr, inexhaustible and insatiable. He was twelve feet tall.