Herbert Lieberman - City of the Dead

His first instinct is to hide the letter. His next is to run. Get the hell out of there, lest Haggard blunder in and see the letter. And if not see the letter, then see him. See his face and divine everything. Then trouble. The detective would insist upon going himself. Detailing a squad of plain-clothes men. Staking out the baggage pickup. The hell with that. The hell with Haggard. No sir. Not with his daughter’s life. “No tricks please,” the message said, and there was something ominous, very scary about the quiet tone of civility. “No tricks please.” And they meant it. They even signed it with her blood. Goddamn animals. Freaks. Psychopaths. “No tricks please.” Right you are, Wally Meacham. Right you are. You’re the boss. We’ll do it your way.

But in the next moment he’s out the door of his office like a man with his clothing on fire. Streaking down the corridors to the still-lighted office of Lieutenant Francis Haggard.

“$299, 940—960—980—and $300,000 even.”

“In tens and twenties?”

“Yes, sir. Just as you instructed.”

“It was a bit thorny putting together that large a sum in such small denominations on such short notice, but we coped.” Mr. Whitney Graybard beams radiantly, like a small, eager puppy waiting to be patted. “We had the twenties here, but we had to send out to a half-dozen branch offices for the tens.”

“Sorry I put you to such trouble,” says Konig.

“Not at all, sir. That’s what we’re here for. Your lawyer did give us something of a start though, when he called yesterday.”

“It was a bit late, wasn’t it?”

“About 4:15. I was already gone, but fortunately he caught Peters, my assistant. Frankly, it is a great deal of cash to put together on such short notice.” Mr. Graybard leans back expansively in his large leather chair behind a commodious leather-topped desk unblemished by so much as a single scrap of paper. “Any special reason for it?”

“For what?”

“The small denominations,” Mr. Graybard retorts, and in that instant all the cheery affability of his former manner shifts and in its place is something rather cagey and skeptical. “Bit irregular, you know.”

“Oh, is it?” says Konig, trying to sound unruffled. What he needs now least of all is an inquisitive bank official. He well understands the man’s suspicions. Hadn’t he had the same difficulty with Barstow, for years the family attorney? Calling him that way late in the afternoon with a highly implausible story about a business venture he wanted to invest in for Lolly. Wanting $300,000 in cash drawn immediately against a trust fund that Ida’s family had established for Lolly. Until her twenty-fifth birthday, he was custodian of the fund and had her power of attorney.

Of course Barstow was curious. He knew nothing of Lolly’s present situation, and the more evasive Konig became, the more intractable grew the lawyer. Didn’t Lolly realize that by withdrawing such a sizable chunk of the fund prematurely she would be losing a considerable amount of income each year from accruing interest?

Yes, she realized that, Konig said, trying to remain calm. What kind of business was it she wanted to invest in? Had they had good solid investment counsel? Why hadn’t they consulted him? Why cash and why small denominations?

Of course the man balked. Wanted to put the thing off till he had a chance to look the whole matter over. Of course, Barstow went on begrudgingly, Lolly did have the right to withdraw from the trust before her twenty-fifth birthday, but only with the consent of the custodian, and if there was good and sufficient reason for her doing so.

“Goddamnit, I wouldn’t be calling you and asking you for it if there wasn’t,” Konig, looking at the bloody thumbprint on his desk, bawled into the phone.

The violence of the outburst made Barstow even more wary. He started questioning Konig about his health. Then he asked, “How is Lolly, anyway?”

At that point Konig erupted. They shouted oaths and epithets back and forth at each other for ten minutes. Konig hectored and badgered the man, finally beating him to his knees. The attorney capitulated, making a sound of weariness and disgust. The money would be ready and waiting for him at the Chemical Bank the following morning, he said, and flung the phone down.

“Just a business venture I’m getting into with my daughter,” says Konig now, unable to meet the icy but cordial stare of Mr. Graybard, lolling regally behind his desk.

“Yes, Doctor, I know. You said that. But still, it is a bit unusual.”

“You mean the amount of money or the small denominations?”

“Both.”

“Well, possibly,” Konig replies. And beneath his small, crooked smile he’s beginning to smolder dangerously. “Still, that’s what we need.”

Mr. Graybard says not a word. Merely gazes at him with an odd smile. “Well,” he says, suddenly rising from his desk, as if to signal that the meeting is at an end, “if that’s the way it is, that’s the way it is. I wish you and your daughter every good fortune in this new undertaking. You have something you can carry all this in, Doctor?” Mr. Graybard strides across the room to a long console on the far side of his office where the bills have been stacked in tall, neat piles. “Three hundred thousand in tens and twenties has quite a heft to it.” He chuckles. “I can let you have one or two of our own transferral cases.”

“Thank you. That won’t be necessary.” Konig, eager to go, waves the suggestion aside. “I’ve brought this.” He lifts to a nearby chair a battered old Gladstone that has been sitting by his feet.

Mr. Graybard’s distant inspection of the bag is cursory but thorough. “That ought to do splendidly,” he says. “Here, let me give you a hand.”

Swiftly and methodically the two men pass huge stacks of bills between them, cramming them into the throat of the bag till it’s fairly brimming. In a matter of moments the surface of the long console is cleared of bills and the clasps on the battered old Gladstone are snapped shut.

Graybard sees Konig to the door of his office. Standing there, he extends his hand. “If ever we can be of any further assistance, Doctor—”

“Thank you,” Konig mumbles, moving blindly past him. “You’ve been very kind.”

“Nevertheless, don’t hesitate.” With that oddly enigmatic smile still on his lips, Mr. Graybard watches the rumpled figure lurch across the marble floor of the bank to the street doors. “Would you like one of the guards to see you out, Doctor?” he cries after the receding figure.

“No, thank you,” Konig replies without looking back. “I have a patrol car waiting outside for me.”

“Deep-grooved, inverted V-shaped abrasions about the neck, caused by mattress ticking; old cut wounds on the front of ulnar aspect of left wrist; recently ingested food particles in the stomach, undigested, intact rice granules and green bean fragments; half-inch-long abrasion above the left eyebrow; ecchymosis, left inner surface of scalp overlying fracture area; fracture of skull, fresh.”

“Those then, I take it, Dr. Konig, to the best of your knowledge, are the salient features of the Medical Examiner’s report?”

“That is correct.”

“And the gist then of the ME report, if I understand it correctly, has been that the injuries enumerated here were sustained when the body fell from where it had hung in the cell? That is, after Robinson was already dead?”