Росс Томас - Cast a Yellow Shadow

Dymec shrugged. “Since I won’t be using it, anything will do.”

“Suppose you were going to use it, what would you want?”

“A Winchester Model 70, the target rifle with a 4X scope and two rounds of .30–06.”

“You need two rounds?”

“No. I only need one. But there’s always the chance of a misfire.”

“We’ll try to find it, but you may have to settle for something less sporting.”

Dymec yawned and stretched. He seemed bored by the whole thing. “How far will this farce be carried?”

“As far as necessary.”

“Have you learned where they’re holding your wife?”

“No.”

“It would seem to me that your entire scheme depends on that. If you don’t find her, you may wish me to carry out the actual assignment. I’ll be glad to, of course, but it will cost you a little more.”

“We hope to avoid that.”

He yawned again. He was either bored or it was far past his bedtime. “Of course. But if you do change your mind, I’ll cooperate — for a slight additional fee.”

“To satisfy an idle curiosity, just what do you consider a slight additional fee?”

“In the neighborhood of ten thousand dollars.”

“That’s a high-class neighborhood.”

“There would be no shares to the other two, either.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” I told him. “When do you plan to look the hotel over?”

“Tomorrow. Early tomorrow morning I think would be best. It should be quiet then.”

“We’ll meet with Padillo tomorrow.”

“He knows how to reach me.”

He stood up and moved towards the door. “Your friend from Africa seemed a bit edgy.”

“I suppose he doesn’t do this every day.”

“Probably not.” He yawned once more, but this time he remembered to cover it with his hand. “Well, good night.”

“Good night,” I said. “Pleasant dreams.”

Dymec left and I listened to his footsteps clatter down the stairs. I got up and walked over to the window and peeked out around the edge of the shade. A dark blue or black car was parked across the street and down some seventy-five feet. It turned on its lights as Dymec came out of the building. He looked up at the window, then hurried across the street and got into the car. It started up and sped by the window. I didn’t get the license number. There was really no need. Boggs was the driver. I assumed Dymec was no longer yawning.

I crossed over to the desk and dialed Padillo’s number. There was no answer. I turned off the lights, made sure the door was locked, and walked down the stairs. I looked for a cab, but there was none. A man shuffled out of the shadows and touched me on the arm.

“Friend, I won’t lie to you,” he said. “I need a drink bad.”

“So do I,” I said, and gave him fifty cents and he God-blessed me and moved on down the street. There seemed to be a little more spring to his step. I wondered where he bought his drinks after the bars were closed. A cab came by and the driver looked me over carefully before he stopped.

“Can’t be too careful down here,” he said. “You can get all sorts of loonies.”

He chattered away some more about the hardships of a cab driver’s life, but I didn’t listen. I was brooding about my own troubles. He let me out at my apartment building and I pretended not to notice the car with the two men that was parked across the street.

I got off the elevator and opened my door. Padillo and Sylvia Underhill were sitting on the couch. She looked a little flustered, but Padillo seemed calm enough as he wiped away the lipstick.

“I’ll knock next time,” I said and crossed over to the bar. When I had the drink I moved over to my favorite chair and sat down. “You kiddies have a good evening? Your chaperones are across the street.”

“The teeny-boppers on M Street seemed to enjoy themselves,” Padillo said. “How do we avoid them?”

“I keep raising the prices,” I said. “They think they’re being exploited.”

“How’d your session go?” he asked.

“Fine. Just fine,” I said. “Dymec’s crossing us. Boggs left first. Dymec stayed for five or ten minutes. When he left I peeked and saw him get into Boggs’s car.”

Padillo nodded. “I thought he would. The other question is whether Magda or Price will cross with him.”

“You expected him to go over?”

“Five minutes after I made him the proposition, he was on the phone.”

“With whom?”

“With whoever’s running him for the Poles and then with the Africans.”

“I thought you’d doubled him.”

Padillo smiled. “I did. But this is too good. He can’t pass it up. They’ll tell him to go ahead and get rid of the old man. The propaganda value to them is as much or more than it would be to Boggs and Darragh. He wouldn’t tell his Resident about me. He can’t or he’d expose his moonlighting for the U.S. He probably said that he was indirectly approached and wanted instructions. The information alone will keep them smiling in Warsaw for days. If it comes off, they’ll be even happier.”

“Sometimes,” I said, “not every day, of course, but sometimes you might just give me an idea of what you’re up to.”

“I did,” he said. “I told you to keep Dymec there for ten minutes or so after Boggs left. If you’d let them leave together, they’d have thought you were setting them up. This way it’s their own idea.”

“What if I hadn’t looked out the window?”

“I’d have been disappointed in you.”

“But it wouldn’t have mattered?”

“Not really. Of the three of them, I figured Dymec for the cross although Magda is also a likely candidate. He’ll probably swing her over to make sure we don’t get to Fredl.”

I put my drink down carefully on a coaster and lighted a cigarette. “So of the three people you brought in, two of them are going to cross us.”

“I told you we couldn’t do it alone. If I couldn’t have counted on at least one of them crossing, I wouldn’t have brought them in.”

“Perhaps you’d better tell him?” Sylvia said to Padillo.

He turned and smiled at her. “You think so?”

“Don’t bother,” I said. “It’s pleasant here in the dark.”

“They have a saying in my country,” she said. “When the lion is coming at you, you make a plan. We made one tonight.”

“I made it,” Padillo said. “Like most of my plans, it involves someone else’s neck being risked.”

“Whose?”

“Sylvia’s”

“For what purpose?”

“So we can find out where they’re keeping Fredl.”

“It’s a wonderful plan,” Sylvia said. Her face seemed to glow with excitement. With most of her lipstick on Padillo’s collar, she looked younger than twenty-one. She looked about fifteen.

“You conned her,” I said to him.

He nodded. “That’s right.”

“What does she have to do that might get her killed?” I turned to the girl. “Don’t let him kid you with that casual understated manner of his. If he says there may be slight danger, you can bet on the roof falling in. If he says you’ll risk your neck, it means that you’ll actually have to stick it into the noose, let them spring the trap, and hope somebody will catch you before you drop. He doesn’t have any safe plans. He thinks everyone carries the same rabbit’s foot he does.”

“I know,” she said softly. “But it’s a good plan.”

“It’s not that good,” Padillo said. “It’s just the only one we’ve got.”

“And it puts us on to Fredl?”

“It should.”

“All right,” I said. “Let’s hear it.”

“Sylvia goes to the trade mission and tells them that she knows all about the deal to kill Van Zandt.”