Richard Stark - The Mourner

When he awoke, the room was darker. He forgot the wound at first and started to get out of bed at his usual speed, but a wrenching pain in his side stopped him. After that he was more cautious.

He looked out the window, and now a fat dark shadow, shaped like an elongated outline of the hotel, lay across the beach. His watch told him it was a little after three, and his stomach told him it was time to eat. He dressed and took the elevator down to the lobby.

The restaurant was across and to the left. He started that way, and then suddenly turned aside and walked over to the magazine counter. He picked up a magazine and leafed through it, glancing back, watching Menlo coming out of the restaurant.

The fat bastard looked very pleased with himself.

Not yet. It wouldn’t do any good to brace him yet. Not till he knew for sure where the suitcase was.

He watched Menlo go over to one of the house phones. Menlo talked for a minute or two, and then walked to the elevators. As soon as the elevator door closed, Parker put the magazine down and went over to the desk to ask again if Ralph Harrow had showed up or was expected. The answer was still negative. So Menlo had just connected with Bett.

Parker went around to the door marked MANAGER, j. A. FREEDMAN, and went on in. There was a new girl in the outer office, as usual, so he told her to tell Freedman Charles Willis wanted to see him. She spoke into the intercom and a minute later told him he could go in.

Freedman was barrel-shaped, five feet five inches tall. He was totally bald, with a bull neck and a bullet head. He looked hard all over, except the face, which was made of globs of Silly Putty plus horn-rimmed glasses. He came around the desk, the globs of Silly Putty settled into a smile, his hands outstretched. “Mr. Willis! So happy I could find you a room.”

“It’s good to be back,” Parker said. His voice was softer than usual, his face more pleasant. After all these years, he fell automatically back into the Willis role.

They talked about inconsequentialities for a few minutes, long enough to satisfy the aura of friendship Freedman liked to maintain with his regular guests, and then Parker said, “There’s one more favor you can do me. A small one.”

“Anything I can do.”

“Ralph Harrow should be checking in in a day or two. Let me know when he makes a reservation, will you?”

“Ah! You know Mr. Harrow?”

“We’re old friends.”

“A charming man, charming.”

“Yes, he is. You’ll let me know then?”

“Of course.”

“I’d like to surprise him. Just tell me when he’s due in, and which his suite will be.”

“Certainly, Mr. Willis. I’ll be more than happy to.”

There was a little more talk, and then Parker left. He went up to his room and lay down on the bed to wait. He had forgotten about his hunger.

Parker heard them come in, father and daughter. Two bellboys came in with them, carrying the luggage, and Harrow and his daughter didn’t say anything to one another till the bellboys left.

Freedman had given him half an hour’s warning. Over the years Parker had cultivated two or three hotel employees, in case he ever needed them, and one of them had let him into the suite. He was now in the small dining room to the right of the sitting room; it was the least likely room for either Harrow or Bett to come into. If they did he could duck into the kitchen.

The connecting door was open, and he stood behind it, listening. Bett filled her father in on Menlo, explaining that Parker was dead and Menlo had the statue but was not likely to be too demanding about price. Menlo was in the country illegally, and apparently merely wanted Harrow to help him establish a safe background for himself and also to arrange for a safe place for a large amount of cash he had with him.

“How can I help him establish a background? I don’t know anything about that sort of thing,” Harrow said.

“What difference does that make?” she said. “Promise him anything. Once you’ve got the statue, what do you care? What can he do to you?”

“That’s too dangerous, Elizabeth.”

“I don’t see why. You promise to help him, he gives you the statue, and you tell him it might take a few days and then call the FBI. You give them the anonymous tip that there’s an undesirable alien staying here without papers. They take him away and that’s the end of it. Menlo can’t ever prove you were the one who turned him in, and he can’t ever make any trouble for you. He doesn’t have anything on you.”

“I don’t know...”

But Bett kept talking, persuading him, and finally he came around. She gave him the name Menlo was using — John Auguste — and his room number. Harrow put in a call and waited a minute, then hung up. “He left word at the desk that he’d be out on the beach. They’ll page him.”

“I’d better get out of here then.”

“I’ll call you after it’s over.”

“You want me to call the FBI, don’t you?”

His voice was weak. “If you would.”

“Don’t worry, Daddy. Bett will take care of everything.”

In a few minutes the phone in the next room rang, and Harrow spoke briefly to Menlo, who said he’d be up in an hour. Parker settled down to wait.

Menlo finally arrived, and sat down to discuss terms with Harrow. It was just as Bett had said, plus some nonsense about a dentist. Harrow agreed to everything, and it should have been over then, but all at once Harrow started asking questions about Menlo’s past and Menlo had to tell him his whole life story before they were finished.

Parker, waiting in the dining room, smothered his irritation, cursing Harrow for a fool. He came close to bursting in and settling it right there, but there were two other things that had to be settled first. He had to talk to Harrow, and he had to be sure where the money was. The money and the mourner would be in the same place. When Harrow put Menlo on the send for the mourner, Parker would find out where he went from the elevator operator, and that’s where he would later find the money. So he held back, controlling his impatience.

Menlo finally did leave, and the moment he was gone Parker walked into the living room.

Harrow turned, saw him, and dropped his drink. “My God!”

“Keep it low,” Parker said.

“He — he said you were dead.” Harrow pointed foolishly at the door. “He said you were dead.”

“He thought I was. He still thinks so. Sit down, Harrow. Take a minute, get used to the idea.”

“My God,” Harrow said again. He went over and sat down on the white leather sofa. He pressed his left hand to his chest. “You shouldn’t do that. My heart isn’t all that strong.”

“You want a drink?” Parker asked.

“Scotch. I think. Yes, plain Scotch.”

“On the rocks?”

“Yes. It doesn’t matter.”

Parker made the drink, and one for himself, and came back to the sofa. He handed one glass to Harrow, and Harrow swallowed half the Scotch in one gulp. Then he breathed deeply for a few seconds, and after that he settled down. He settled down so much he looked up at Parker and said, “You’re alive, but you don’t have the mourner. He has it.”

“You really want to go through all that garbage with the FBI? What makes you think Menlo couldn’t wriggle out of it? He’s a big man back home; that wasn’t crap he was feeding you. He tells his boss he got the money but couldn’t get Kapor because his plans got fouled up, that he was in Miami holing up until he could get back to Washington to try again. They’ll swallow it, they’ve got no reason not to trust him. So then he’s free, and there’s a whole espionage apparatus he can turn around and aim at you. You call the FBI on him, and he’ll make you dead. Menlo’s no boy to play with.”