Росс Томас - Cast a Yellow Shadow

“Who keeps the letter?” Dymec said.

“You do, until it’s all over.”

“I thought you’d have a tricky one, Padillo,” Dymec said. “What happens to the letter then?”

“It falls into Price’s hands.”

“So that’s why I’m in,” Price said.

“That’s right.”

“I turn the letter over to my masters and they expose the entire thing.”

“Right. The British stand to profit more from this exposure than anyone else. You turn the letter over to them and they create the scandal. It should be a juicy one.”

“Who makes the proposition to the Africans?” Dymec said.

“You do.”

“What do I tell them?”

“You tell them that we don’t believe they’re going to release Fredl McCorkle when it’s all over and we want some insurance that they will. The letter will do that. They’ll get it back when we get Mrs. McCorkle. Second, tell them that you’re getting nervous and that you also want some insurance. The letter will do that, too.”

“But I get the letter?” Dymec said.

“That’s right.”

“And then I get it and turn it over to Price who’ll make the best use of it.”

“Yes.”

“Fantastic,” Magda said. “Really fantastic. And you say you’re not working any longer, Michael?”

“I wouldn’t be turning the letter over to the British if I were still working.”

“True. But it all still hinges on one thing, doesn’t it?”

“That’s right.”

“And that’s on getting Mrs. McCorkle back before the assassination is supposed to take place.”

“That’s why we want the letter. If we don’t find her, they won’t do anything to her until they get it back. They’ll trade for the letter.”

Price got up and started to pace the room. “Let me try to sum it up. I don’t mind telling you first of all that this will be quite a feather in my cap.”

“I would imagine,” Padillo said and I admired the way he kept the sarcasm out of his voice.

“Let me see now: Dymec approaches the Van Zandt people. He tells them he wants a letter — to whom it may concern, I suppose — all properly sealed setting forth the fact that one, they have employed him or some unnamed person to assassinate their Prime Minister, and two, that the assassination is to take place on such and such a date at such and such a time at such and such a spot. And three, that for the aforementioned services they agree to pay the sum of seventy-five thousand dollars. Have I got it right so far?”

“You’ve got it right,” Padillo said.

“Now then, the reason that they write this letter is that Dymec here is getting a little worried not only about the rest of his commission, but also about what happens to him after it’s all over — just in case they have the idea of having him caught in the act, so to speak. And thirdly, you and McCorkle are worried about getting Mrs. McCorkle back and she and the letter are considered fair exchange. Of course, once the Prime Minister is assassinated, the letter would be worthless to you because you would implicate yourself in murder.”

“That’s about it,” Padillo said. “If Van Zandt did die and I had the letter, they’d wire me to it.”

“Who’s they?” I asked.

“My former employers — or Price’s present ones.”

Price nodded. “Quite. But the assassination does not take place, you somehow rescue Mrs. McCorkle, and I turn the letter over to my government who uses it to excoriate Van Zandt and party in the press, the United Nations, and so forth.”

“That’s it.”

“Then all we have to do is get the letter,” Dymec said.

“Yes. But you’ll have to go through with the entire charade. You’ll have to be up on top of the hotel because they’ll have somebody around watching to see that you are. If anything goes wrong, if we don’t have Fredl McCorkle safe by the time Van Zandt’s car goes by, then I want it. It’s all we’ll have to get her back.”

“But if she is safe?” Dymec asked.

“Then you hand the letter over to Price.”

“I’ll be at the hotel then?” Price said.

“You’ll be on the roof with him.”

“Just one thing, Michael dear?” Magda said.

“Yes, precious?”

“Obviously, when this is all over, your African friends aren’t going to pay us the rest of the agreed-upon fee. Where will it come from?”

“Out of my own pocket.”

“You must have done well in the gun trade.”

“It was profitable.”

“Speaking of money—” Price said.

Padillo tapped the attaché case. “It’s here,” he said. He opened the case and tossed each share casually on the table. Then he closed the case, picked it up, and headed for the door. I joined him. “Stay close to your telephones,” he told them. “I’ll be calling you tonight.”

Once again they said nothing, but only nodded, as they kept on counting the money.

We walked down the stairs and out of the building and turned south on Seventh Street. When we neared the car, Padillo looked at his watch. “It’s too late for breakfast and too early for lunch,” he said. “What do you suggest?”

“A drink, except that it’s Sunday.”

“Don’t you know some scoff-law barkeep?”

“Me,” I said.

“That’ll have to do.”

The sermons were still going on as we traveled H Street over to Seventeenth and we missed the post-church traffic. “Let’s go by the Roger Smith,” Padillo said.

I turned left and drove down to Pennsylvania and then right. “Van Zandt will turn at this corner and the four-car parade will follow the same route we’re taking.”

Padillo ducked and looked up at the roof garden of the hotel. “It’s closed this time of year, you say?”

“That’s right.”

We turned right on Eighteenth and drove north until it ran into Connecticut Avenue again. I managed to find a parking place in front of the restaurant. Inside, I switched on one bank of lights which still left it dark enough to have made a flashlight handy. We felt our way to the bar, bumping once into a chair. Padillo went behind the bar and switched on the lights that illuminated the sinks and the bottles.

“What are you drinking?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Martini?”

“Why not.”

“Vodka?”

“Gin.”

“On the rocks?”

“No.”

He mixed the drinks deftly and placed mine before me. “That could help that sad look that Magda wanted to cure.”

“I bet she’s a lot of fun.”

“A swell kid and a peachy dancer.”

“Is she good with that gun you were talking about?”

“Very good.”

“Is that good enough to go in after Fredl?”

“It is if she’s on our team this week.”

“Is she?”

“I don’t know. That’s why you’d better go along.”

I nodded. “I was going to suggest it.”

Padillo took a sip of his drink. “After you rescue your wife and drop her off, you can come down to the Roger Smith and lend a hand.”

“There’ll be a few loose toys still out of the box?”

“A few.”

I tried the martini. It was quite good. “Do you think they’ll write that letter?”

“If Dymec leans on them hard enough. If he sits there with that ‘I-won’t-budge-till-you-do’ stare of his, they’ll probably give it to him. They won’t have much choice.”

“It’s insurance for him.”

“He’d better think so. Of course, he could just simply tell them what we want to use it for.”

“I thought of that,” I said. “But there’s not as much percentage in it for him.”

“Let’s hope so. I also hope that it gets Price off my neck.”

“It should,” I said, “but I’ve never known you to be so considerate of people who shoot at you.”