Росс Томас - Cast a Yellow Shadow

“I lost the key,” I said.

“It doesn’t matter.”

The door chimes rang again and I looked at Padillo. “It’s your house,” he said.

“But it’s your popularity.”

I crossed the room and opened the door. The man who stood there wore a plaid sports jacket, an open blue flannel shirt, dark grey slacks and three vertical creases in his forehead. It was a sign he was thinking. His name was Stan Burmser and he had once been able to tell Padillo where he should go in Europe and what he should do when he got there. I hadn’t seen him in more than a year. It had been in Bonn and even then he had been wearing the three vertical creases in his forehead. He seemed to think a lot.

“Hello, Burmser,” I said.

He smiled and the creases disappeared. The smile was as friendly as a fifth letter from the finance company. “I’m looking for Padillo.”

“Your search is ended.” I stepped back and held the door open. “A Mr. Burmser to see you.”

Padillo didn’t get up nor did he say anything. He watched Burmser cross the room and stand in front of him. Burmser had his hands stuck deep in his jacket pockets. He rocked back and forth on his heels as he stared at Padillo for what seemed to be long moments.

“We got a report two days ago that you were back,” Burmser said.

Padillo nodded. “Still got your trade-off with the FBI. The one-way trade.”

“They make mistakes sometimes.”

“And you just dropped by at nine o’clock in the morning to make sure. You’ll be late for Sunday School.”

“I’m Catholic.”

“Funny, you don’t look it.”

“You still have those tired old jokes.”

“One gets fond of them.”

“I’ve got a new one. It was too good to keep. That’s why I came over myself.”

“I’m ready.”

“You’re marked, Padillo. You’re in the book.”

“That’s not new. I’ve been in somebody or other’s book for years.”

“Not in this one. The British have got you down and they’ve got it assigned.”

“They wouldn’t tell you about it if they did.”

“You’re not the only one who’s doubled a few.”

“I suppose not.”

“And that’s what’s so funny.”

“I bet you’re coming to the punch-line now.”

Burmser’s grin got wider. “That’s right. I am. They handed the assignment to someone you yourself doubled. They handed it to Philip Price.”

“What have they got against me?” Padillo asked. He could have been asking if the bus stopped here, or across the street.

“I don’t know; I don’t really care.”

“Then why travel all the way in from McLean to tell me about it?”

“I live in Cleveland Park.”

“It must be pretty there in the fall.”

“Price is good. You doubled him; you should know how good he is.”

“He also works for you.”

“That’s right, he does.”

“You could call him off.”

“I could, but the British would have too many questions for him if he didn’t carry out his assignment. It might bust him wide open. He’s been fairly useful to us. We’d like him to continue that way.”

“And I’m not,” Padillo said.

Burmser quit smiling. “You’re nothing to us, Padillo. We’ve wiped you off. There isn’t a trace of you left. You never existed as far as we’re concerned.”

“How far back did you go?”

“All the way.”

Padillo smiled. “That’s a lot of territory and a lot of years. Why tell me about it?”

“I was told to.”

“I must have a friend left some place in the organization.”

“One is all.”

Padillo shrugged. “All right, Burmser, you got to play Old Blind Pew and pass out the black spot this morning. Anything else?”

“Just this: We never heard of you. If you’re in trouble, you’re alone. There won’t be any phone calls, no hush-ups. The fix won’t be put in anywhere. You’ve wanted out for a long time, Padillo, and now you are. As far as we’re concerned you’re a Mexican or a Spaniard who’s in this country illegally, but we’re not even sure about that, because we never heard of you. You’re nothing.” Burmser was breathing a little hard when he was through.

Padillo turned to me: “You think I should tell the shop steward about this?”

“Ask him about what happens to all the money you’ve contributed to the pension plan.”

Burmser smiled his final-notice smile. “You’re breaking me up. But, gentlemen, I’ve enjoyed it.” He turned and headed for the door. When he was there he stopped with his hand on the knob. “You were pretty good at one time, Padillo. Pretty good or lucky. Now you’d better be both.”

“Tell the old gang hello for me,” Padillo said.

Burmser looked at Padillo. “They never heard of you,” he said. He opened the door and left.

“He enjoyed himself,” I said.

“But he cleared Price up.”

“I’d say that Price told the British that you were actually going to shoot Van Zandt and they told him to take you out.”

“So it seems.”

“What’s Price after, a pat on the head?”

“A bonus.”

“From whom?”

“The British. He tells them that I’m planning the attempt, they tell him to take me out, and he does. They’ll give him a bonus.”

“What then?”

“He hooks up with Dymec to do the assassination for real.”

“Now you can tell me that this is all in keeping with the master plan. The one you have written down on the back of a match book.”

“More or less.” He walked into the kitchen with the cup and saucer. When he came back, I asked him: “What’s the less part?”

“I hadn’t planned on making a hero out of Price. But now we’re going to have to.”

Sylvia Underhill walked in from the bedroom before Padillo could tell me the rest of the master plan — or make it up — I was never sure which. He stopped talking and we both said good morning.

“I heard you with someone and I thought I’d overslept,” she said. She was wearing a blue wool suit with big white buttons and the warm glow on her face seemed a little radiant to be the result of just six hours’ sleep.

“An old acquaintance dropped by,” Padillo said. “He couldn’t stay long.”

“May I cook breakfast?” she asked.

“Just toast for me,” I said.

“That’ll be fine,” Padillo said.

“Do you mind if I scrounge an egg or two?” she asked. “I’m famished.”

“It’s all in the refrigerator.”

Padillo followed her into the kitchen and stayed there until she came out with the toast, some more coffee, and bacon and eggs for her. There was a dining area, but we ignored it and used the coffee table.

“We have the meeting at eleven this morning,” Padillo told the girl. “I want you to stay here. I want the door locked and bolted. I don’t want you to let anyone in but McCorkle or me. No exceptions. If the phone rings, don’t answer it.”

“When should I expect you back?”

“About three — after we meet with Hardman and the people he’s bringing.” He looked at his watch and turned to me: “We’d better be going. I left your car in the garage downstairs. You want to use it?”

“We may as well.”

“Put the chain lock on when we leave,” he told Sylvia. Padillo picked up the black attaché case and we went out. He waited until he heard the lock slide into place.

“That wouldn’t stop anyone who really wanted in,” I said.

“But it would slow them down long enough for her to get that .25 out of her purse.”

The car was running well and I cut down to M Street and turned left, past St. Matthew’s Church where they held the services for Kennedy, and then around Scott Circle and under Thomas Circle and down Massachusetts Avenue to Mount Vernon Place and right on Seventh Street. Our progress was slow because of church traffic, but we finally found a place to park in Chinatown and walked back to Seventh.