On the Other Hand, Death - Stevenson Richard (читать книги полные txt) 📗

I poked my head out of the bushes and saw Bowman standing with two cops on the veranda of the farmhouse.

The sky was gray above, pink in the east. I crawled out, shook and stretched as I moved, and crossed the lawn.

"You look like shit, Strachey."

"Where is he?"

"Where Izzy? Dunno. Where Heimie?"

"Greco. Is he inside?"

"Hey, Strachey, did I ever tell you the one about the rabbi and the monsignor who were up in a plane that flew through a storm? This plane is bangin' and bumpin' all over the sky, see, and the monsignor starts crossing himself, and—"

"They got away, didn't they?"

"—and then the rabbi, he starts crossing himself too, and the monsignor, he looks over at the rabbi and he says—"

"Spit it out, Ned. Who fucked up?"

He yawned lightly. "Your money's safe, pal. Not to worry. It's in the kitchen."

"Good. So what happened? I fell asleep."

That brought him to life. "Is that a fact? Fell asleep. Well, I'll be mothered! Hey, you guys hear that? 'Travis McGee takes a Nap.' 'The Deep Blue Snooze.' Hope you didn't flake out too early to miss the late show up by the pond last night, huh, Strachey? You didn't let that get by you, did you? Huh?"

He chuckled lewdly, and the two cops with him picked up the cue and joined in. They looked like shit too.

I said, "What happened? With Greco. Where is he?"

"Beats me. As a matter of fact, not a goddamned thing happened. It was no show. No pickup, no drop-off". The department paid out a lot of overtime, though. Boys don't mind that at all."

"Nothing happened? No car, no phone call, no nothing?

"Zilch."

"Yeah. Well. I guess that could mean a lot of things. So, what's your next step, Ned?"

"Wait. Get some sleep and wait. We'll talk to the Deems again, and this Wilson character. And, I suppose I'm obliged to pay a call on your employer Mr. Trefusis, for the sake of neatness. But you'll see, Strachey, this is outside the neighborhood, only indirectly connected to this Millpond business. It's some tetched boyo who read the papers and got an idea in his head. Even dressed up like a police officer to make the snatch. He's a psychopath, but he wants that hundred grand, and he'll be in touch. The department is checking out all the weirdos we know of who might think up a stunt like this, and we might just land him fast. If not, my guess is he just got nervous last night, and he'll be back. We'll be here when he gets here."

"What about Greco in the meantime? These people are nuts. They might saw off another appendage."

"Well, it's not that I'm not concerned about that. Believe me, I am. But what choice have we got at this point in time?"

He still wasn't onto the finger scam. Nor was he aware of my suspicions about McWhirter. I thought, Should I tell him? I said, "Where's McWhirter? How's he reacting?"

"He was real twitchy a while ago. But he bounced back pretty good. He just jumped in Mrs. Fisher's car and went over to Central to pick up some doughnuts. The guy is tougher than I figured somebody like that would be."

One of the other two cops jerked his head around and said, "Hey, that's the radio!" He trotted over to Bowman's car, now parked out in the driveway. "Lieutenant, you better take this."

We all jogged puffing over to the car. Bowman spoke with an officer at Division Two Headquarters who told

him that a phone call had been placed to Dot Fisher's house six minutes earlier and that the dispatcher had been trying to reach Bowman since then.

"Well, who was it, goddamn it? What was it?"

"I'll play you the tape."

"So play it, play it!"

"Here it is."

McWhirter's voice: Hello?

Male voice; harsh, tense: You want your lover back?

McWhirter (pause): Y-yes.

Voice: In three minutes, call this number I'm gonna give you. Call from another phone. Call 555-8107. And bring the fuckin money!

McWhirter: Let me write it down—

Click. Click, dial tone.

Bowman snapped, "You get a trace?"

"Sorry, Lieutenant. Not enough time."

"What's 555-8107? You get that?"

"It's a pay phone on Broadway in Menands."

"Did you send some men out there, I hope?"

"As soon as the call came in. We tried to raise you, too, but—"

"Well, what have you heard from that car? What's the report?"

"We're . . . uh, we're trying to raise him now. Hang on."

Bowman's face was all purple again and I could see his pulse pounding on his left temple. I said, "The caller. On the tape. I've heard that voice somewhere."

"Whose is it?"

"I don't know," I said. "I can't place it. I can't remember."

The money was gone. No one could recall McWhirter's carrying anything when he drove off. Bowman said they

would have noticed that and checked it out. One of the other cops said McWhirter had been wearing fatigues with oversized pockets and a jacket. Whitney Tarkington's hundred grand had slipped away. My hundred grand.

Three minutes later Bowman's radio squawked to life again. "We've still got two cars out at the pay phone on Broadway, Lieutenant. So far, no show."

"Weeping Jesus, we missed them! Crimenee! Damn it! Damn it to hell!"

I squatted on the dewy grass and tried to think. The air was heating up again. I waited for Bowman to ventilate. He took out his frustration on his underlings. They shifted from foot to foot and appeared to be thinking unclean thoughts. I was having a few myself.

When the junior dicks had slunk away, I stood up and said to Bowman, "There are a couple of things I should tell you about Fenton McWhirter."

The eyes in his potato face grew beadier than usual. He said nothing.

"This might or might not have anything to do with the last half hour's developments, but . . . McWhirter is not entirely trustworthy."

Now his eyes opened wide and he began to take on his purplish hue again.

"What! You held something back from me, Strachey? What was it? What?"

I described McWhirter's history of well-meaning duplicity. As I laid it out, Bowman's face registered all the colors the Times fashion supplement said would be big in the fall: burgundy, plum, fauve, fuchsia, and finally, disconcertingly, olive.

Through clenched teeth, he hissed, "I was set up."

"Maybe," I said. "Could be. Es posible."

"You—you—you will pay for this!"

I squatted again, looked up at him, and said, "I already have."

That seemed to please him.

Driving back into the city, I caught the WGY six o'clock news, which had it already. Bowman had been swift.

"Capital area police," the newscaster said, "are mounting an all-out search for Fenton McWhirter and Peter Greco, two gay activists from San Francisco, who are wanted in connection with an extortion scheme involving a phony kidnapping.

"A hundred thousand dollars belonging to Albany private investigator Donald M. Strachey was taken in the scam. Strachey was unavailable for comment, but Albany police described the theft as a sophisticated operation in which the two alleged perpetrators tricked Strachey out of the cash, which was paid as ransom after a staged abduction of Greco. The two men planned on using the money for radical political purposes.

"According to police," the report went on, "McWhirter and Greco may be armed and are to be considered dangerous." A description was given of the car they were thought to be driving—Dot's little red Ford—and listeners were urged to phone Albany police if the car was spotted.