Лоуренс Блок - Death Pulls a Doublecross [= Cowards Kiss]

He shrugged.

“He was an old friend of yours,” I went on. “I never got to know his name. Did you know it?”

“No.”

“Just a little man with a harmless face. One of the little men who spent some time in that camp of yours across the ocean. A concentration camp victim looking for you. He found you, too. How long was he on your trail?”

“He wasn’t.”

“No?”

“He lived in New York, Mr. London. And he saw me, here in New York. And recognized me.”

“And got killed for it.”

“He’d have killed me, Mr. London.” His shoulders heaved in another shrug. “He was willing to risk death. He cared only for revenge.”

“And he got his revenge. I might have had trouble making the final connection without him. But the forearm tattoo gave it away. You had to be Wallstein then. Everything fit into place.”

“You were lucky.”

“I know that,” I said. “Well, that’s what I got. Did I come close?”

His lips curled into a smile. His chuckle sounded happy. “Too close,” he said. “Far too close. There are points here and there where you’re wrong. But they are really immaterial, Mr. London. They do not matter.” He heaved a sigh. “I never thought you would guess this much. How did you figure it out?”

I watched him put out his cigarette. He didn’t seem nervous at all. He was more interested in seeing where he missed the boat than in finding a way out. There was no reason not to tell him. It wouldn’t do him any good to know.

“A magician would say you made too much use of misdirection,” I told him. “An actress friend of mine would say you over-acted. From the start I had to figure out where you belonged in the overall scheme of things. Your routine about making a living by being in the right place at the right time was a little far-fetched. You knew too much. You had to belong somewhere in the middle of things. At first I guessed you were one of the thieves.”

“That’s what I wished you to think.”

I nodded. “But you sold that too hard. You made a point of telling me what Wallstein was like, being careful to describe someone wholly unlike yourself. You made him tall and blond, a typical SS type, while you yourself are short and dark. You pictured him as a thoroughly unattractive character, one of whom you disapproved highly. Franz Wallstein, obviously, was not the kind of man you like.”

A slight smile. “And perhaps that was not wholly untrue.”

“Maybe not. But I wondered how you would know so much about Wallstein, even if you were one of the thieves. It seemed unlikely. And it was just as funny for you to waste so much time telling me about him. I had to guess you were selling me a bill of goods.”

“Was that all?”

I shook my head. “There was more. You gave me a lot of surface detail on the profession of larceny. But you never got around to describing the very brilliant crime in which the jewels were stolen. From that I guessed that there hadn’t been any crime. You were Wallstein and you stole your own jewels.”

He was nodding, digesting all of it. “More,” I said. “I tied you to Alicia Arden from the start. Not from what you said about her — you were properly vague. But you always called her Alicia, never used anything but the first name. I was Mr. London to you every time. Bannister was Mr. Bannister. Once I realized you weren’t one of the thieves, the rest came easily.”

He looked away. “I didn’t even realize it,” he said. “I guess she was always Alicia to me and nothing else. Of course.”

He looked up at me again, his jaw set, his eyes steady. “I could offer you a great deal of money,” he said. “But you have the keys as it stands. You can get the jewels without my help. Besides, I suspect a bribe would have no effect on you.”

I told him it wouldn’t.

He sighed. “What next, Mr. London? Where do we proceed from here?”

“That’s up to you,” I said.

“May I smoke, Mr. London?”

I told him to go ahead. I raised the gun to cover him but he didn’t make any false movements. He shook out a cigarette, put it to his lips, set the end on fire with his lighter. The cigarette didn’t flare up and blind me. The lighter wasn’t a cleverly camouflaged gun. He lit his cigarette and he smoked it.

I lowered the gun.

“If you turn me in,” he said, “you’ll be faced with problems.”

“I know.”

“The police will want to know about your part. You broke a law or two yourself. You moved a body. You were an accessory after the fact of murder.”

“I know.”

“Withholding information — another crime. Not to mention Mr. Bannister’s heart attack.”

“That was self-defense.”

“You might have difficulty proving that to the police. They might call it murder. You might go to jail.”

I shrugged. “Not if I handed you to them,” I said. “I think they’d make allowances.”

He pursed his lips. “Perhaps,” he said. “You’re licensed as a private detective, aren’t you? Couldn’t they revoke your license?”

“If they wanted to.”

“So much trouble,” he said. “And they probably wouldn’t even hang me. They might, but I doubt it. It would be hard to prove murder, harder still to prove premeditation. I might get life imprisonment. But not death.”

“You quoted ‘The Ballad of Reading Gaol’ a while back, I reminded him. “Know the rest of it?”

He nodded. “I’m fond of Oscar Wilde.”

“Then you remember his description of prison. And of course you had something to do with a prison yourself, didn’t you?”

“Our prisons were worse, Mr. London. Much worse. The Austrian corporal had unhappy ideas. American prisons are not like that.”

“They’re no bed of roses,” I said. “And if they do electrocute you, it won’t be nice. It’s worse than being murdered. All the anticipation before hand. It’s not nice.”

We sat and looked at each other for minute or two. The verbal fencing wasn’t a hell of a lot of fun. I wanted to be out of there, to get away from him.

“So the situation is unhappy for us both,” he said. “Wouldn’t it be simpler to let me go free?”

“It would.”

“But you won’t?”

“No,” I said. “I won’t.”

“Because of what I am? Because I’m Franz Wallstein?” “Because you killed the girl.”

A long sigh. “You would have to be a moral man, Mr. London. It’s unfortunate.”

I shook my head. I said: “It’s not a matter of morality. It’s tough enough living with myself the way things stand. It would be tougher if I let you go. I’m practical, not moral.”

“And you find it more practical to turn me in than to let me go?”

“Yes.”

“No matter how much trouble it causes you?”

“Yes.”

We killed a few more seconds. The sky was almost black now. In a few minutes it was going to start raining. I wondered how Maddy’s audition went. I wondered where she was and what she was doing. I wanted to be with her. “Mr. London—”

I waited.

“I’ve said this before in quite another context. We are both reasonable men.”

“To a point.”

“Of course, to a point. But there is a way for you to achieve your objective without trouble. It would simplify your problems and mine as well. It would be easier for us both.” I nodded.

“Do you know what I mean?”

“I think so.”

“Justice will be served,” he said. “Whatever precisely justice may be. Expedience, quite another goddess, will be served as well. And I think you shall find it no more difficult to live with yourself as a result. Do you follow me?”

“Yes,” I said. “I follow you.”

He got to his feet. “Now follow me literally,” he said. “Keep your gun on me. Because I’ll kill you if given the chance. You shouldn’t give me that chance.”