Росс Томас - Cast a Yellow Shadow

“I suggest that you not bargain with Mr. McCorkle about his wife,” Padillo said.

“No, I suppose not. It’s a terribly cruel thing to do.”

“But not as cruel as what Mr. McCorkle will do to you if you don’t tell him.”

“Who has her?” I said.

“Wendell Boggs and Lewis Darragh, most probably.”

“Who are they?”

“One’s Minister of Transport; the other’s Minister of Home Affairs. They’re the ones who met with Mr. Padillo in Lomé.”

“You’re saying that two of your cabinet Ministers have my wife?”

“Probably did the kidnapping, too. They’re both fairly young chaps — about your age. Quite capable of anything really. I know they’re both here in the country.”

“Do you know where they are staying?”

“They have a secret house here in Washington, I understand. I was given the address, but it’s with my gear at the hotel. Afraid I can’t remember it. Have a terrible memory for figures and things like that.”

“How did you learn about the house?”

“My wife told me. Boggs is my brother-in-law, you know. His wife and mine are sisters and my sister-in-law thought that Wendell was heading for grief so she confided in my wife. Wendell apparently tells his wife everything, poor fellow. I wrote the address down because I knew I would forget it and it possibly might prove useful.”

“Where are you staying?”

“At the LaSalle — it’s just across the street.”

I made my voice slow and my tone measured. “Let’s go across the street and up to your room and find the address.”

“Could we then discuss my plan to botch up the attempt on Van Zandt’s life?”

“We’ll talk about it,” Padillo said.

“I don’t know what you usually get for a job of work like this, Mr. Padillo, but seventeen thousand pounds is a great deal of money in my country.”

“It is in any country,” Padillo said, holding the door open.

We took the zebra-striped cross walk at Connecticut and De Sales. Underhill walked slightly ahead of us at a brisk pace, puffing on his pipe, his thin arms swinging. Padillo moved more slowly, wincing slightly.

“The cut bothering you?” I asked.

Padillo started to say something but the car came out of the space in front of the drugstore and was going at least thirty-five when its bumper caught Underbill’s knees and its hood found his chest and slammed him to the pavement. Padillo, slightly behind me, caught my arm and jerked me back. But it wasn’t necessary. The green Ford missed me by at least two feet. It rolled over the thin grey man who taught Romance languages and who had no idea as to how he would go about killing someone. Its left rear wheel rolled over his head. The car picked up speed, slowed for a corner at L Street, turned right and disappeared. A man seated by the driver looked back once.

Padillo ignored the pain in his side and moved quickly to Underhill. A crowd formed and everyone was saying “get an ambulance,” but nobody did anything about it. The pipe that Underhill had been smoking lay a foot from what had been his head. Its ashes were spilled on the pavement.

Padillo knelt by the body and his hands went quickly through the pockets. He glanced up at the circle of faces that stared down at him. He picked out one. “Call an ambulance,” he said to a young man. “He’s still alive.” The man turned and ran towards the drugstore. Padillo rose and backed into the crowd. I was next to him. We turned and walked down the street towards K, away from the crowd.

“I got his key,” Padillo said.

“Let’s try it.”

The LaSalle hotel is about one-third commercial offices, one-third transients, and the remaining third permanent guests who like living downtown. There are no chairs in the small lobby and no one watches who takes the automatic elevators. We took one and got off on the seventh floor and followed the numbers down to the end of the hall. Underhill had a nine-dollar room that had twin beds, an air-conditioner and a television set that was old enough not be be able to get the UHF stations. His worn pigskin suitcase was in the closet along with another tweed suit and an old Burberry raincoat. Their pockets contained nothing; neither did his suitcase.

Padillo went through the bureau drawers while I investigated the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. It had a badger hair shaving brush, soap, a toothbrush and paste, some dental floss, a set of military hairbrushes, and a comb with some grey hairs in it. The items were all neatly arranged. Underhill may have had a cluttered mind, but he kept his personal effects tidy.

Padillo found the address we were looking for in a bureau drawer. It was written in a small black Leathersmith notebook which listed Underbill’s wife under the line that read: “In the event of an accident please notify:” I copied the address in Washington that we wanted and Padillo ran through the rest of the notebook quickly. “There’s nothing else that seems to be of any use,” he said and tossed it back in the drawer. “I did find this,” he added. He held up an envelope-shaped briefcase and unsnapped it for me. It was packed with five-pound British notes done up neatly in bundles and the label on each bundle said that it contained five hundred pounds.

“The seventeen thousand,” I said.

“Probably.”

“Shall we take it?”

“Better us than the Van Zandt crowd,” Padillo said. “We can get it back to his wife who’ll know where it came from.”

“She seemed to know everything.”

“At least she knew about the address of the secret house. What was it?”

“The 2900 block on Cambridge Place, Northwest.”

“You know where it is?”

“Vaguely. It’s in Georgetown.”

“That’s hardly a Negro district.”

“Not for the past thirty-five years or so.”

“We’d better go back to my place and see if I’ve had any calls.”

We took the elevator down and crossed Connecticut. On the other side of the street, just across from the Mayflower, a pair of D.C. Accident Investigation cars were drawn up to the curb, their red and white lights blinking and circling. Two policemen were asking questions of some persons who kept shaking their heads as if they knew nothing. Another policeman was measuring something with a tape, and another one was sprinkling sand or sawdust on what looked to be a wet spot on the pavement. Evelyn Underhill had been taken away. I found myself wondering if it had been his first trip to the United States.

We rode the elevator upstairs and as Padillo opened the door with his key we could hear the telephone ring. He crossed the room, answered it, and turned to me. “It’s for you,” he said.

I said hello and the voice on the other end said: “You don’t seem overly concerned about the continued well-being of your wife, Mr. McCorkle.” It was a voice that just escaped being British. It was closer to an Australian or a Cape Town accent.

“I’m concerned,” I said. “Do you have my wife?”

“Yes, we do. Until now she has been quite comfortable. But you have been disobeying our instructions, Mr. McCorkle. Those instructions were quite explicit.”

“Let me talk to my wife.”

“You were instructed to tell no one about Mr. Padillo’s assignment.”

“We’ve told no one,” I said. “I want to talk to my wife.”

“You talked to Underhill.”

“I can’t help who comes into a hotel room.”

“What did Underhill want, Mr. McCorkle?”

“He wanted to stay alive for one thing. Just put my wife on the phone.”

“Did you tell him about Mr. Padillo’s assignment?”

“We didn’t have to tell him; he already knew. Somebody’s wife told him; maybe it was yours. Now can I talk to mine?”