Thefts of Nick Velvet (24 page)

At ten minutes after nine he heard one of the upper doors open onto the chute. He braced himself and quickly plunged his arms into the darkness. Almost at once the bag landed safely in his arms. He drew the bag in, hardly breathing. Of course it might have, been someone else’s trash, not the general’s, but the paper bag looked the same and that gave him hope. He suspected many tenants used plastic garbage bags these days. He opened it enough to make sure, saw some empty envelopes on top, addressed to Spangler, relaxed, and headed for the stairs.

Once in Simon’s office, the columnist and his assistant pounced on a coffee-stained envelope. “This is it,” the little man said. Nick glanced at the return address. It was a post-office box number in Towers, Delaware.

“I know the place,” Arden said. “It’s a small town on the shore of Delaware Bay. We can be there in ninety minutes.”

“Good luck,” Nick said, rising to leave. “Do you want to pay me the balance now?”

“You’d better come along,” the columnist said. “Till we check this out. If Carter Malone is there, you’ll get the money.”

Nick didn’t argue. His curiosity had got the better of him. “May I use your phone?” he asked, and then dialed the number of the hotel to tell Gloria he’d be delayed.

They went in Ronnie Arden’s car, taking the highway across the bay near Annapolis, then continuing east until they reached the coast. Arden’s estimate of time had been correct. It was ten minutes after noon when they pulled up a block away from the tiny post office building in Towers.

“I’ll park back here,” Ronnie said, “in case he shows up for his mail.” But when no one came he decided finally, “I’d better go check on who rented that box.”

Simon agreed. “Flash your press card with a ten-dollar bill under it. I’ve found it does wonders.”

They sat in silence while Arden went down the street to the post office. Finally Nick said, “Nice little town. But why would Malone stay this close to Washington? If I’d jumped bail I’d get as far away as possible.”

“He still has contacts in Washington—General Spangler for one. And maybe he figures the police won’t look for him quite so close to home. He’s probably disguised himself, anyway.”

Nick decided to drop a small bombshell. “General Spangler certainly has reason to mistrust his wife, doesn’t he?”

Sam Simon’s mouth fell open, “What do you mean?”

“You and Ronnie knew that was the right envelope even before you examined it. How? Obviously, because it was coffee-stained. She’s the only one who could have spilled the coffee on it to tip you off.”

“Getting smart again, Velvet?”

“Smart? Not really. It’s obvious Ronnie must have learned about the letters from Malone and the general’s routine from his wife. And just as obvious that Spangler doesn’t trust the lady, or he wouldn’t wait for the mail every day and empty the rubbish himself before she can see the return address on the envelope.”

Ronnie Arden came out of the post office and headed back to the car. He slid into the driver’s seat and said, “That was easy. The box is rented to a Charles Martin of 122 Bayside Lane.”

“Same initials,” Simon snorted. “He’s not an experienced fugitive.”

Bayside Lane was a narrow winding street that hugged the shore of Delaware Bay. Its houses were mostly small-cottage types, just old enough to be showing signs of wear and neglect. Number 122 was like the others, with peeling paint on the clapboards and shingles missing on the roof.

“It’s a rented car,” Arden said, checking the compact in the carport. Sam Simon nodded and rang the bell.

When the second ring brought no answer, Nick moved around to the side door, in the carport. It was unlocked, as he’d expected it would be. “This way,” he called to the others.

They found the sole occupant of the little cottage slumped in a chair in front of a desk with a portable typewriter open on it. He’d been shot once in the right temple, and a small automatic pistol lay on the carpet near his right hand. In the typewriter was a sheet of paper with the words:
I’m tired of running.

The dead man wore a recent growth of beard, but there was no doubt as to his identity. “It’s Carter Malone, all right,” Sam Simon said. “No doubt about it.”

“Who would have thought he’d have the guts to kill himself?” Arden mused, half to himself.

Simon was looking around frantically. “Isn’t there a phone in this place? This is the biggest story of my life!”

“The phone’s over by the window,” Nick informed him.

Simon bounded toward it.

“But maybe we’d better talk a bit before you call anyone.”

“Talk? About what? Your money?” Simon snorted. “Pay him his money, Ronnie.”

“It’s not the money. It’s something else.”

“What else?” Sam Simon asked.

“Post offices close at noon on Saturday.”

“Huh?”

“The post office was closed when Ronnie went to it.”

“If it was closed, how in hell could he have gotten this address?”

“Exactly,” Nick said, looking at Ronnie Arden.

“Wait a minute! Wait a minute!” Simon said. “Let’s sit down and talk this over.”

“I think we’d better,” Nick agreed.

But Ronnie Arden remained on his feet. “Are you going to listen to him, Sam? You’ve got the hottest story of the year right in your lap. Carter Malone, linked to General Spangler, a suicide!”

“Sit down,” Nick ordered. “The corpse can wait a few more minutes.”

Ronnie Arden grudgingly obeyed. “Do you believe this guy, Sam?”

“He’d better believe me,” Nick said. “Because the question immediately comes to mind—once you found the post office closed, Ronnie, why did you lie about it? Why was it so important to get us out here
today
—so important that you couldn’t simply tell us the post office was closed and we could come back Monday? No, it had to be today, with the side door left conveniently unlocked. You knew he was dead, Ronnie, and that raises the question whether it’s really a suicide.”

“It’s a suicide,” Arden insisted.

“I think you’ll have to prove it.”

“You’d better tell me what you know,” the columnist said. “Tell me, Ronnie.” His voice was deceptively soft.

“He shot himself last night. Mrs. Spangler was with him when it happened.”

“I see. And she called you.”

“She called me, yes! How do you think I’ve been getting this information from her? I guess she thought it was great fun to be cheating on her husband with two men—one a fugitive and the other a reporter who was looking for him.”

Sam Simon stirred on the edge of his chair. “Ronnie, there’s no way I can break this story without implicating you.”

“Why not? Tell the police you got a tip he was here. You don’t have to say where the tip came from.”

“In a case like this I’d have to go further than that, Ronnie. Suicide or not, the papers would be hinting at murder.”

Ronnie Arden glanced at Nick and said, “Then let’s close up the house and go away. Nobody knows we were here except Velvet, and he’s not likely to talk.”

“What about Mrs. Spangler?”

“She’s not about to say anything. Before he killed himself, Malone told her he’d written the general that final letter, hinting at a suicide. But he didn’t confess to an affair with Mrs. Spangler. If she admitted knowing about the suicide, she’d have to tell her husband everything—not only about Malone but about me as well.”

“At least we know why Malone still stayed close to Washington,” Nick observed. “Mrs. Spangler had to remain there and he wanted to be close to her.”

“How do we know Mrs. Spangler didn’t kill him?” Sam Simon asked, gesturing at the body.

“She had no reason to! After her affair with me began, she told me about Malone’s letters to her husband. She knew it was only a matter of time before we found him and he went off to prison. He was no danger to her.”

“Why didn’t she simply give you his address? Why this whole business of our stealing the envelope?”

Ronnie Arden dropped his eyes. “She didn’t want me to know of her affair with him. She didn’t tell me till last night, when she phoned me in a panic. I wanted us to break the suicide story, so I had to pretend I got the address from the post office.”

Sam Simon rose to his feet. “There’s no reason why this should all come out. I’ll cover for you, Ronnie. Your affair with Spangler’s wife could only ruin your usefulness to me, if the word got out, and you’re too good a man to lose.”

But Nick said, “The coverups keep on, don’t they? Just like Watergate.”

“This isn’t the same thing.”

“Isn’t it? This may be suicide or it may be murder, but the truth’s not going to come out unless all the facts do, unless everyone tells the truth, unless Spangler reveals that letter he got from Malone this morning.”

Sam Simon gazed out across the bay. After a moment he said, “Yes, you’re right.”

“You’re going to tell everything?” Arden asked in a panic. “I’ve got a family—”

“Everything,” Sam Simon said, and there was more than a trace of sadness in his voice. “Velvet is right. No coverup this time.”

Nick left them there waiting for the police. He walked into the center of town and caught a bus back to Washington. He had only one regret about the whole affair—he had collected his last $5,000 before leaving, but he’d never got to meet Mrs. Spangler.

Gloria was up early the next morning and was scanning the Sunday paper as they ate breakfast in their room. “Did you see all this, Nicky? About Malone killing himself, and General Spangler’s wife, and this columnist fellow?”

“I saw it all.”

“Washington is an exciting place to visit. There’s always something going on.”

“There certainly was this week,” he agreed.

“Did you get your job done, Nicky?”

“All finished. We can spend the whole day together.”

“I’m glad. I was worried about you.” She smiled across the table. “It’s dangerous being a spy, isn’t it?”

He reached over and squeezed her hand. She would never change, and that was why he loved her. “Well, I’m something like a spy, but not exactly. These government assignments—”

“N
ICKY?”

Nick Velvet had been far away in some private dream world when Gloria’s voice summoned him back. He put down his beer and asked, “What is it?”

“Nicky, how can a person vanish from the back seat of a car that’s traveling sixty miles an hour on an expressway?”

“He can’t,” Nick answered, picking up the beer again.

“But it’s right here in the paper, Nicky! People along the New York State Thruway report picking up a young longhaired hitchhiker dressed all in white. He gets into the back seat, fastens his seat belt, and talks to the people about God. Then, suddenly they look around and he’s gone! And the seat belt is still fastened!”

Nick grunted, only half hearing her. “If I was a detective I could solve it.”

“Don’t you get any cases like that in your government work, Nicky?”

“Not often.” Gloria’s mistaken impression of his government service helped cover his awkward absences, so he did nothing to correct it.

“What about—?” she began, but the telephone interrupted her.

It was for Nick, and he took it in the little den out of Gloria’s hearing. The voice was that of a man for whom he’d worked on two prior occasions. “Velvet? I have someone with an urgent assignment. Can you handle it?”

“If it’s in my line.”

“It is. The client is a young woman. Her father was a dear friend of mine. Could you meet her at the marina, where you keep your boat?”

It was a good place for a meeting. On a summer’s weekend one or two more people would attract no attention. “How soon?”

“One hour?”

“Make it two,” Nick said.

As he’d expected, the Saturday sailors were lounging on the grass in their trunks and bikinis, sipping beers or gin-and-tonics. No one noticed him as he worked around his cabin cruiser. He’d been there less than half an hour when a young woman in white slacks and a blue shirt approached him. “Nice boat,” she said.

“I like it.”

“You’re Nick Velvet?” She could have been past thirty, but her face and mane of blonde hair made her look younger.

“That’s right.”

“I’m Jeanne Kraft, I want to hire you.”

He glanced around to make certain no one could hear. “You know I never steal money or anything of value.”

She hesitated. “This
is
money, but—”

“Then I can’t do it.”

“—it’s only a penny. A Bermuda penny, to be exact.”

She took one from the pocket of her slacks and handed it to him. The penny had the identical size and copper color of an American cent, with a likeness of Queen Elizabeth on the obverse together with the words
BERMUDA
and
ELIZABETH II
. The reverse had some sort of pig with a curly tail, and the words
ONE CENT
with the date 1971. A deep gouge ran across the pig’s back, as if the coin had been scratched with a knife.

“What’s the pig for?” Nick asked.

“Early Bermuda coins—the first coins struck in North America—were called hog money because of the wild hog shown on them. I think it’s been a tradition on Bermuda coins ever since.”

“Is this some sort of rare coin that’s worth a fortune?”

“Not at all. It’s worth one cent in Bermuda and the same here, where it can be passed as an American penny.”

“And you want me to steal one just like this?”

“That’s right. The same date and the same sort of scratch on it.”

“Who from?”

“A man named Alfred Cazar. He’s in New York now, at the Waldorf. But he’ll be leaving in a couple of days to drive upstate.”

“Where upstate?”

“Saratoga Springs, for the August racing season.” She reached out her hand and took back the penny. “A man named Blaze will be with him. He’s a sort of hired traveling companion.”

“You know my minimum fee is twenty thousand dollars?”

“Yes. I have a down payment here.” She passed him an envelope. “You’ll get the rest when you deliver the duplicate of this penny.”

“Where can I contact you?”

“I’ll be in Saratoga too, at the Grand Union Motel.”

Nick smiled. “Then I’ll see you there, Miss Kraft.”