Ice Blues - Stevenson Richard (бесплатные онлайн книги читаем полные версии .txt) 📗

"Or Sim the something-else-less-innocent." I glanced around at the other drinkers and diners but saw no familiar faces. "I just hope I'm not being set up for-what?"

"No." He got his hurt Saint Bernard look on again. "Not by me, at any rate.

But I do advise that you take care. Avoid irrational outbursts."

Again I considered bolting with the two and a half million and picking up a pleasant small island somewhere. Then the almost-obvious hit me, and I said to Kempelman, "If Pug Lenihan knows about Jack's project, then maybe the machine knows. Pug surely is in touch from time to time with his political progeny."

Kempelman didn't move, except to elevate grandly two eyebrows the size of field mice.

I said, "Naturally they will not want the project carried out. They will want it stopped."

"Yes, that would be my guess too. Definitely they would."

"Is that why you suddenly have cold feet, Sim? Is that it?"

Wearily shaking his head, he said, "No, I explained plainly the reasons for my 'cold feet,' as you choose to term it. But don't let's get into that again.

Stevenson, Richard

Stevenson, Richard — [Donald Strachey Mystery 03] — Ice Blues

Fisticuffs might be the end result this time, and that could have serious repercussions for my spinal column."

I said, "Oh, hell."

"You're looking a little sickly, kid. It's those rich soups. Stay away from soups that go sour on your intestinal wall."

"Maybe the machine has known all along," I said. "Maybe Larry Dooley tipped them off right at the beginning, as soon as poor naive Jack contacted Dooley with his proposal. Maybe it was some of them who got Jack killed. They figured out that Jack had the doper's boodle, tipped the convicted dealers down at Sing Sing, who arranged for friends on the outside to recover the two and a half million and do away with Jack. That way the machine, using a chain of non-criminal and criminal intermediaries, could eliminate a threat and still hide behind a wall of deniability. They'd get the result they wanted, but they could rest certain that the means to that end would never reach back to them."

Kempelman screwed up his face. After a moment of pained thought, he said, "I don't think so. They would never go that far. They are crude, but they are not evil. No-no, they would never go that far. Listen, kid, they don't have to."

But he sat there awhile longer silently mulling over the possibility, as did I.

SEVENTEEN

I phoned Timmy, holed up at the Hilton, and said, "Did you go to work today?"

"Yeah, I was pretty worn out, but I managed a couple of reasonably productive hours."

"Could you have been followed back to the hotel?" A silence. "What are you saying?"

"Maybe you should make a discreet move. Is the money safe?"

"The bags are in the closet."

"Have you gone out since you got back there from work?"

"No, I just came in a couple of minutes ago. I worked late, then ate at the Larkin with Moe Dietz. Spit it out, Don. What are you trying to tell me? Is Mack Fay on to us?"

I described the meeting with Sim Kempelman. I could hear Timmy swallowing repeatedly as I spoke. I said, "If you still have the rope from the porch-wrecking episode, I suggest you rappel down the side of the Hilton with the five suitcases attached to your belt and meet me in East Timor later in the week." He said nothing. "Timmy?"

"I've got the door locked and I am not leaving this room until you get over here and explain to me how you're going to get both of us out of this endless chamber of horrors. Do you hear what I'm saying to you?"

"I thought all the early Peace Corps groups learned rap-peling at a remote camp in the mountains of western Puerto Rico, and now that you finally have some use for this arcane skill, you're going to crap out. I just hope Sargent Shriver never hears about this. But have it your way. I'll be over there in another hour or two. First I want to drop in on Corrine McConkey.

When I get to the hotel I'll call you from the lobby to let you know it's me coming up. Just hang on, okay?"

"I'd rather you came now."

"I can't."

"You won't."

"Look, it's seven-thirty. Ill be there by nine-thirty."

"Eight-thirty."

"Nine. Nine sharp."

"If you're not here at exactly nine o'clock, I'm taking the bloody two and a half million out of the suitcases, tossing it out into the corridor, and locking the door again. Do you understand that?"

"Before you do, pocket three grand for my fee and expenses, and another three thousand for our trip to Martinique next week. We've gotta come out of this with something."

"One minute you're a messiah and the next minute you're a petty thief. I think you're losing your grip. You used to be so rational. Well, no, not exactly rational. I didn't mean that."

"Thank you."

"Just be here at nine."

"Or close to it."

Dreadful Ed answered the door. "Conine's laying down. I can give her the message."

"No, it's she who has the message for me. I'm sorry to bother her, but this won't take long. Her grandfather Lenihan asked that she arrange a visit for me with him."

McConkey frowned. "You go over to Dad Lenihan's? What's he want with you?"

"That's right. What's he want with me?"

He didn't like the sound of this. "Just a minute." He shut the door in my face. I stood in the cold night air shifting my feet and listening to the porch swing creaking under its load of blown snow. McConkey returned. "You can come in for a minute, but don't get Corrine all upset, you understand?

Her nerves are all shot to hell."

"I suppose they would be."

I left my coat to fry on the hall radiator. Corrine was lying on the brown couch with a pink blanket up to her chin, her head propped on a pillow. She sat up as I entered the room and patted her hair. "I'm a real mess, Mr.

Strachey, I hope you don't mind. How are you this evening?"

"I'm cold, tired and a little curious. I'm sorry I missed the funeral yesterday afternoon, but I want you to know that

I've been thinking about your brother a lot for the past several days. And I saw your mother in Los Angeles."

Her pale eyes brightened. "You went all the way to California and saw Ma?

Well, how did she look? Was she out of bed yet? She sounded so down on the phone. She's taking this pretty hard."

"She was up and around, but she was emotionally a wreck, yes. She seemed determined, though, to get on with her life."

A faint smile. "That's Ma, all right-determined. She has more spunk than any ten people. She told me on the phone-Ma said-Ed! Ed, will you turn that thing down?"

Ed, sulking by the TV set, climbed over his feet, which were propped on a footstool, and reduced the volume by half a decibel.

"When Ma called yesterday, before the funeral," Corrine went on, raising her voice in order to be heard over the helicopter explosions, "do you know what she asked me? She said why don't I come out and see her next month? And you know what? I just might do it."

"That sounds as if it would be good for both of you."

"I'm really thinking about it this time. Mrs. Clert could make Ed's sandwich at noon and he could drive over to McDonald's at suppertime. Ed could drive me out to the airport and help me carry my suitcases in if I took two along. I'd rather take along a lot of clean outfits so Ma wouldn't have to do any laundry. And then I could call Ed long distance from Ma's apartment in California and tell him what time to pick me up when I came back. You know, this time I really think I'm going to do it. I just want to hug Ma so bad.