Evan Hunter - A Horse’s Head

He put down the binoculars and took the shopping bag from Mullaney, who watched as Kruger carefully examined the jacket, turning it over in his hands, feeling inside the lining, searching the pockets, examining the buttons, and then finally crumpling it into a ball again and thrusting it back into the Judy Bond shopping bag.

“Worthless,” he said, which ascertained what Mullaney had suspected all along: Kruger, no more than any of his fellows, knew why the jacket was important. Only K knew. K was the key.

“If you’d tell me what this is all about,” Mullaney said, “I might be able to help.”

“This is all about half a million dollars.”

“In American money or Italian money?”

“In American money,” Kruger said.

“Was it supposed to be in that coffin?”

“Yes.”

“How’d you know that?”

“Why should I tell you anything when you’ve already broken trust with me?” Kruger said, offended, and put the binoculars back to his eyes.

“Because I may be able to help.”

“How? You’re a loser. Merilee told me you’re a loser.”

“When did she tell you that?” Mullaney said, turning swiftly to look at Merilee, who had not said a word to Kruger since they’d joined him, and who was sitting now with her legs crossed, her hands delicately clasped in her lap, her eyes on the horses in the paddock.

“Last night after your abortive love-making attempt,” Kruger said, and Mullaney felt foolish.

“Well...” he said.

“Well, that also was not very nice,” Kruger said, “making a pass at another fellow’s girl.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” Mullaney said.

“Well, you should be.”

“Well, I am,” Mullaney said, thinking he was sorry about a great many things, but not necessarily about having made a pass at Merilee. Actually, he thought, if you really want to know, Mr. Kruger, it w as a hell of a lot more than a pass, nor was it only an attempt at love-making, it was real and genuine, bona-fide and true love-making, me inside her, abortive or otherwise, though I don’t imagine Merilee told you that. If she had told you that, you wouldn’t have generously and kindly given her three hundred dollars to squander on the nags, which largesse she promptly turned over to the loser she supposedly claimed was me; she couldn’t have thought I was very much of a loser if she was willing to trust me with three hundred dollars, what do you think about that, Mr. Kruger? She must have thought I was pretty hot stuff, don’t you think, Mr. Kruger, no matter what she said to you or even to me, a pretty interesting and exciting fellow, if she was willing to give me three hundred dollars, which doesn’t grow on trees where I come from. Think about that for a little while, Mr. Kruger, while you peer through your binoculars and examine the horses, what the hell do you know about horses, or women, or me, for that matter, a loser indeed!

But he could not justify her betrayal.

She had promised not to tell, she had promised to say only that he had escaped, and yet she had told all, or almost all, told enough to make him appear a fool. You shouldn’t do that after making love, he thought, because making love is total exposure, and it only works if you can trust the other person enough to make a complete fool of yourself. Show and Tell is for kindergarten, he thought, not for lovers.

He suddenly wondered whether Irene (who had undoubtedly known other men since the divorce) had ever told any of them, for example, that he sometimes made muscles in front of the mirror, or that, for example, he had once said “Yum-yum” while going down on her, or that, for further example, he had once lain full-length and naked on the bed, with a derby hat covering his erection, which he had revealed to her suddenly as she entered the room with a “Good morning, madam, may I show you something in a hat?” — wondered, in short, if she had ever told anyone else in the world that he, Andrew Mullaney, was sometimes a fool, sometimes most certainly a horse’s ass.

The thought bothered him.

To take his mind off Merilee’s betrayal, off Irene’s betrayal by extension, he turned back to the matter of the money again; there was always money to occupy a man’s thoughts, there was always money to take a man’s mind off the nagging knowledge that he was sometimes, perhaps often, a fool. “How did you learn about the money?” he asked Kruger.

Kruger lowered his binoculars, turned in his seat, and looked Mullaney directly in the eye. He was silent for a long time. Then, at last, he said, “I’m going to level with you, sir.”

“Please do,” Mullaney said.

“Someone in K’s organization was in my employ.”

“Who?”

“Gouda.”

“Gouda,” Mullaney repeated, thinking Where there’s cheese, there is also sometimes a rat.

“Yes,” Kruger said. “Unfortunately, he was killed in a terrible highway accident, as you may know...”

“Yes, I know.”

“Yes, I thought you knew. In any event, he had outlived his usefulness.”

“Was he the one who told you the money would be in the coffin?”

“He did more than that.”

“What did he do?”

“He was responsible for putting those paper scraps in the lining of the jacket.”

“Gouda?”

“Yes.”

“I thought maybe McReady.”

“No. It was Gouda.”

“I see. In place of the money.”

“Yes.”

“What happened to the money?”

“He delivered it to us.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“He delivered it to us.”

“The five hundred thousand dollars?”

“Well, give or take.”

“He delivered it to you?”

“Yes. I told you he was in my employ.”

“He gave you the money, and substituted paper scraps for it, is that what you’re saying?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Then you already have the money.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Who does have it?”

“K, I would imagine.”

“But if it was delivered to you ...”

“It was delivered to me, yes. But apparently someone knew Gouda was working for me, someone knew Gouda would make the substitution, and someone very carefully worked out a triple cross.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The money Gouda delivered was counterfeit.”

“This is very confusing,” Mullaney said.

“Yes,” Kruger agreed.

“You mean they knew he was going to steal the money, so they...”

“Steal is a harsh word,” Kruger said.

“They knew he was going to arrange a transfer,” Mullaney said, “so they substituted counterfeit bills for the real bills, which counterfeit bills Gouda subsequently sto... transferred to you, leaving paper scraps in their place?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t get it,” Mullaney said. “Why go to all the bother of shipping the coffin to Rome if they knew there were only paper scraps in the jacket?”

“I don’t know,” Kruger said thoughtfully. “But that’s why we hijacked the coffin. When we discovered we’d been tricked, we assumed the real money was still hidden in the coffin someplace. As you know, it wasn’t.”

“Nor in the jacket, either,” Mullaney said.

“Well,” Kruger said reflectively, “it wasn’t exactly a total loss. In my line of work, even counterfeit money is worth something.” He paused. “Would you have any idea, sir, where the real money is?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“No, I have no idea.”

“Mmmm.”

“There’s something else that’s bothering me, though,” Mullaney said.