Oliver Bleeck - Brass Go-Between

“That was our cut at first, in the beginning. Spellacy got us in touch with this guy in Washington. Wingo. A real junkie. He told us the deal. He had the guard all set up by then and the four of us met here in Washington. Those two were so junkie that you couldn’t tell how they’d fly. And then Wingo started talking about two hundred and fifty thousand bucks. The ransom. So I called Spellacy and said what kind of a deal is this where my cut is ten grand out of two-fifty. So we talked it over and decided to get rid of Wingo. We just gave him an extra dose one night and let him roll down the side of the road. But then we had a problem. Wingo had been supplying the guard with H and now we had to supply him. Spellacy bought it in New York and we kept him going. The guard, I mean.”

“Where was Wingo getting his stuff?” I said. “From what I hear he needed five hundred bucks a day to keep him, Sackett and Sackett’s wife happy.”

“I don’t know where he got it,” the man said. “I asked him once but he just laughed and said he had a private supply. A very private supply, he said and then laughed some more like he was crazy.”

“Continue, please,” Mbwato said.

“Well, shit, you know the rest. We got the shield and then we got rid of the guard. It was down to a three-way split then, me, Spellacy, and dumbie here. But what’s Spellacy done? Nothing.”

“So you got rid of him,” I said.

“Where is the shield?” Mbwato asked.

“I don’t know.”

“What did you do with it?”

“It was part of the deal, the one that Wingo set up. We got it, drove about six blocks, and put it in the back seat of a car. That’s the last I ever saw of it.”

“The shield of Komporeen,” the girl said, and giggled.

“Whose car?” Mbwato demanded.

“Christ, I don’t know whose car. It was a car that was supposed to be parked at a certain place and was. I just put it in the back seat.”

“I see,” Mbwato said, and sighed. He turned to me. “We seem to have solved a few murders and a theft, Mr. St. Ives. But we are no closer to the shield.”

“I’m not so sure,” I said. “As long as he’s in a talkative mood, I’d like to clear up something. What about Lieutenant Ogden, Jack? How’d he get on to you?”

“Spellacy,” he said dully. “Ogden found out about you being interested in Spellacy and he figured that Spellacy was in on the deal. And if he knew Spellacy was in, he knew I was in. Spellacy and me worked together a lot. And Ogden knew me, too. Christ, he should have. I paid him off enough times because of dumb broads like her.”

“Did he get in touch with you?”

“He tried to; he got the word around that he was looking for me. Ah, to hell with him. He’s dead.” He looked up and smiled at me. “We sure had you on the run though, buster, didn’t we?”

“That’s right,” I said, “you sure did.”

“All on account of some goddamned shield.”

“The shield of Komporeen,” the girl said, and gave us the pleasure of listening to another one of her giggles.

Mbwato and I left Mr. Ulado to look after his two charges while we went downstairs to sample the town-house owner’s Scotch. I carried the suitcase in my right hand. It didn’t seem to weigh as much as it once had and I wondered whether I should count the money, but decided not to because there wasn’t much I could do about it if some were missing — certainly not replace it.

Mbwato mixed two drinks and we sat in the comfortable living room that contained some more pictures, some better than average furniture, and a large number of books. I sat on the couch, Mbwato in the largest chair he could find, which still seemed too small for his bulk.

“So, Mr. St. Ives, what shall I do with our two young friends upstairs?”

“Turn them over to the cops.”

“Do you think they’re sane?”

“The man is, I think. I don’t know about the girl. She seems a little kinky, but maybe it’s like he said, she’s just dumb.”

“Rather coarse, too,” Mr. Mbwato murmured.

“Well, not quite as coarse as a hot curling iron. Tell me something, is Ulado really your torture expert?”

Mbwato chuckled. “Good heavens no, man. Couldn’t you see that he was absolutely petrified? He got the idea from one of your more lurid magazines, I think. Still, it proved quite effective, didn’t it?”

“Suppose they hadn’t talked. Suppose they were stubborn. Would you have used it?”

Mbwato gave me a long, speculative look. “Let me reply in this fashion: would you have tried to stop me?”

I nodded. “I guess so.”

“And you would have succeeded.” He sighed deeply. “The threat was all that was really needed. Their lives have conditioned them to accept quite readily the notion that two black African savages would think nothing of torturing them for hours on end. They have been indoctrinated by their culture to accept this.”

“Too many Tarzan films, huh?” I said.

“I’m not so sure about that. It’s just that if the roles were reversed, neither of them would have had any compunction about using the iron on me or Mr. Ulado. So they quite readily accepted the fact that we would torture them.” He sighed again. “But what to do with them?”

“The cops,” I said.

“Really, Mr. St. Ives.”

“Why not?”

“Could it be done — say — anonymously?”

“Well, you can’t just mail them downtown in a plain wrapper.”

“Could you possibly…”

“Possibly,” I said.

“I would be most grateful.”

“Not as grateful as I am for getting the money back. I haven’t thanked you adequately.”

Mbwato put his drink down on a table and leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. He studied the carpet. “The money is more important to you than the shield, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so. If I return the money to the museum, then they’re right back where they started. I can bow out and that’s the end of it.”

“And that’s what you intend to do tomorrow?” he said.

“No,” I said, “I don’t intend to do that at all.”

He looked up at me. “What then?”

“I intend to get the shield back.”

His eyes widened. Big as saucers, I thought, like the troll’s who lived under the bridge and had a good thing going until Big Billy Goat Gruff came along.

“You know where it is?”

I took a long time before answering. “Possibly,” I said.

“Probably?” he said.

“Yes.”

“My earlier offer still stands, Mr. St. Ives.”

“Forget it,” I said.

“You have a better one?”

“No.”

Mbwato rose and began to pace the floor in long strides. “You’re being most infuriating with your hints and allusions, Mr. St. Ives. You know that, I suppose.”

“I hadn’t thought about it,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

He stopped his pacing and stood before me, bending forward slightly, a huge, very black man whose broad, curiously gentle face was a battleground for hope and despair. Despair seemed to be winning. “I do not mind the personal disgrace that will accompany my failure,” he said. “I hope you understand that; I hope you believe it.”

“I believe it,” I said.

“You realize the importance of the shield — not to me personally, but to my country.”

“You’ve told me about it. Twice, in fact. Maybe three times.”

“Then I need not repeat it.”

“No.”

“Now you say you intend to get the shield back.”

“That’s right.”

“How?”

“Don’t you mean where?” I said.

“All right. Where?”

“I don’t know. I’m still just guessing. All I really know is that I’ll need some help.”