Partain’s rage had diminished, if not vanished, by the time he knocked on the door of Millicent Altford’s suite. She asked who it was through the door. He replied. The door opened. He went in and she said, “Who ran over your puppy?”
“Let’s talk about something else,” Partain said. “Let’s talk about that keeper of the guttering flame, General Vernon Winfield, because he’s onto you, lady.”
“You drunk?” she said.
“No.”
“Wanta be?”
“Maybe.”
“Sit down.”
Partain sat down on a couch and waited for her to hand him a drink. He didn’t care what it was and she, sensing this, handed him two ounces of iced Scotch. He remembered to thank her and noticed she was wearing a suit he hadn’t seen, a Hershey-brown one with cream piping. “New suit?” he said.
She sat down in an armchair with her own drink and crossed her legs. “I bought it just before I checked into the hospital,” she said.
“Shows off your legs.”
“Well, you advertise whatever’s left,” she said, sipped her drink and then asked, “What d’you mean Vernon’s onto me?”
“He knows your sun-dried one-point-two million’s missing.”
“Does he, now?”
Partain nodded. “He really must have a yen for you.”
“A yen? You could’ve said he longs for me. Yearns for me. Even has the hots for me. But yen sounds like diluted desire.”
“He’s broke,” Partain said.
She started to giggle, tried to stop but couldn’t until Partain said, “You don’t believe me.”
“I didn’t say that. I asked you a question, then giggled at your answer. So how d’you know he’s broke?”
“His American Express card’s canceled. His VISA card’s maxed out. He’s two, maybe three months behind on his BMW lease.”
“You call that broke?”
Partain ignored the question and said, “He also did something else. He refinanced that chateau of his on Kalorama Circle for one-point-two million exactly. The same amount that was stolen from your safe and the same amount you’ve got squirreled away in that safe-deposit box in Santa Paula.”
“Ran a check on him, did you?” she said.
“I had somebody run one.”
“Here in Washington?”
He nodded.
“I reckon it didn’t quite stretch to Aspen, did it? Thought not. You see, dear heart, Vernon’s been buying up Aspen since 1958. Must own half of it now. Well, maybe three or four percent anyway. Check out his total net worth and you’ll find it’s between fifteen and twenty million.”
“So why the bad plastic?”
She sighed. “It’s somebody to talk to. Once in a while, he gets lonely. So he lets his car lease ride and gets a call from the BMW store and that’s good for a fifteen-minute chat. Amex uses mostly girls and they can be a lot of fun, if you’re sixty-seven or so. Same goes for VISA. Then he’ll pay up, although usually he overpays, and the girls’ll call back all aflutter about his new credit balance.”
She paused, frowned and said, “One-point-two million, huh? Not in cash, I hope.”
“I don’t know,” Partain said.
“He must’ve got a whiff from somewhere.”
“That it was stolen?”
She nodded. “He probably thinks that’s why I checked into the hospital — because I let it be stolen and didn’t know what to do about it. He may even have it all planned out that when he and I meet to tot up the books next month, I’ll ’fess up that all the money’s gone for good and then ask, Sweet Jesus, whatever can I do? And Vernon maybe hopes to snap open a big new shiny black attaché case, plumb full of hundred-dollar bills, and say, ‘Don’t worry, little darlin’, everything’s gonna be just fine.’ ”
“You don’t believe that.”
“No, sir. I don’t.”
Partain finished his drink and said, “How’d he find out?”
“Somebody told him,” she said. “Not me. Not you. That leaves the thief.”
“Or somebody the thief told,” Partain said, placed his glass on a table and rose. He stood there for a moment, looking as if he had forgotten something and uncertain about whether he really wanted to remember it.
She leaned forward and looked up to examine him more closely. “What’s eating you, Twodees?” she said, her voice gentle, almost coaxing.
“I found out what caused the disappearance of my wife,” he said.
She closed her eyes for several seconds, then opened them and asked, “What’re you going to do about it?”
“Right now, I’m going to go get drunk with your daughter.”
“I couldn’t suggest anything better,” said Millicent Altford.
Chapter 37
General Vernon Winfield left his house the next morning at 7:15 A.M., carrying a black leather overnight bag. He walked briskly to Connecticut Avenue, turned south and continued the pace that was now aided by a mostly downhill grade.
The January weather, for a change, was fair but cold with little wind. The General wore his camel hair topcoat, his Borsalino hat and fur-lined leather gloves. He had settled into the rhythm of his pace and, without a glance, passed the narrow four-story building that housed the Acropolis Restaurant and VOMIT.
After reaching the Dupont Circle Metro station, he hurried down into a waiting red-line car, congratulating himself on either phenomenal or lucky timing. Winfield resurfaced near Union Station, soon reached and crossed the Capitol grounds, waited patiently for a green light at Second and Pennsylvania Avenue, then headed east until he came to Fourth Street, where he turned south again, ignoring the modest birthplace of J. Edgar Hoover.
Two and a half blocks later, on the east side of Fourth, he climbed five concrete steps, opened and went through a three-foot-high wrought-iron gate and six paces later reached a door that he guessed to be one hundred years old. He shifted the black overnight bag to his left hand, set it down, stripped off his right glove and used bare knuckles to knock on the old door.
It was opened almost immediately by an exceptionally pretty young brown-haired woman who obviously was just leaving. She wore a sheared beaver coat, pink mittens and a large brown leather purse slung over her right shoulder.
“You here to see Kitey?” she said.
The General nodded, smiling slightly.
“Well, he’s upstairs in the shower and I’ve gotta beat it so why don’t you just go in and sit down and make yourself uncomfortable on anything you pick.” She examined him more carefully, as if pricing his topcoat and hat. “You like fun?”
“Fun?” the General said.
“You know. Fun and games.” She used her teeth to yank off her right pink mitten, plunged the bare hand into her oversized purse, came up with a business card and handed it to Winfield. He looked down and saw that the card read “Connie.” Underneath that was a telephone number.
“Anytime,” she said, tugging on the mitten, “after six.”
Then she was gone, hurrying through the wrought-iron gate and bounding down the five steps. The General put her card in a topcoat pocket, picked up the overnight bag and entered the front parlor of Emory Kite.
He removed his hat, topcoat and remaining glove, placing them all on what he decided was a remarkably ugly love seat. After glancing around the rest of the Victorian room, the General grimaced slightly and sat down on the red velvet sofa, the black overnight case on his knees.
Winfield didn’t rise when he heard someone clatter down the stairs. Emory Kite entered the parlor, wearing pants, shirt and leather-heeled loafers. He started at the sight of the General, recovered nicely and asked, “Connie gone?”
“She said she couldn’t wait.”
“Uh-huh,” Kite said with a suspicious frown that he quickly erased with a grin. “Gave you her card, I bet.”
The General smiled slightly and nodded.
“I don’t mean to step out of line, General, but if you’re ever in the mood for a little of the strange, you can’t do any better’n Connie. Five hundred a night and cheap at the price. Nice girl, too. Went to college, got herself a pretty fair job at Interior, doesn’t do drugs and loves to travel.”
“Interesting,” the General said.
“Want some coffee? I told her to make a pot.”
“Yes, I would, thank you, Mr. Kite.”
“Be right back.”
Kite returned from the kitchen in less than two minutes with two mugs of coffee. He handed one mug to the General, then held his own with both hands as he sat down in a big armchair that was low enough for his feet to rest on the floor. Kite noisily sipped his coffee, peering over the mug’s rim at Winfield. “This ain’t no social call, is it?”
“No, Mr. Kite, it’s not. I’m in need of your services yet again.”
Kite’s left hand gave his earlobe a tug that seemed to make the corners of his mouth curl down. “Whatcha got in mind?”
“I’d like you to replace what you once removed — or had removed.”
Kite gave the left earlobe another tug and this time his eyes widened in either real or pretended surprise. “You mean in L.A.?”
“In Los Angeles, yes.”
“And you want it put back exactly where it was?”
“That’s not necessary. Once inside, you can leave it almost anywhere.”
“I’m not going in if anybody’s there.”
“I assure you no one will be there.”
“And my end?”
“The same as before. And as before, you’ll take care of your own expenses.”
“Why?” Kite said with what Winfield took to be an honestly puzzled frown. “I mean, you needed it then but now you don’t. How come?”
“I needed it desperately then,” Winfield said. “But I no longer do. I now consider it a loan that must be repaid anonymously. But this time no one is to be injured and, above all, no one is to be killed.”
Kite pointed his sharp chin at the black overnight bag that still rested on the General’s knees. “That it?” Kite asked.
The General nodded.
Kite put his mug down and rose. “Then maybe we oughta count it.”
“Yes, I think we should.”
The General rose, holding the overnight bag by its handle, and looked around the room. He noticed a marble-top table that was placed against the far wall. The marble’s color was mauve streaked by cream and each of the table’s six ornately carved mahogany legs ended in the inevitable ball and claw.
“That table do?” the General asked.
Kite looked. “Sure. I’ll just move the lamp over some.”
He crossed to the table and moved a shaded brass lamp to the rear left side. The General went over to place the overnight bag on the marble. “It’s unlocked,” he said.
“All hundreds?”
“Of course.”
“One-point-two million?”
“Exactly, Mr. Kite.”
Kite nodded, unsnapped the bag’s fasteners and lifted the lid,revealing neat, tightly packed rows of banded $100 bills. Kite stared at the money fondly, perhaps even lovingly, and was still staring at it when General Winfield cleared his throat and said, “Emory.”
“Yeah?”
“Close the lid.”
Kite froze, then thawed quickly enough to ask, “Why?” But he didn’t really wait for an answer. Instead, he slammed down the lid, spun around and lunged at the General, but slowed, then stopped altogether after Winfield shot him in the forehead with a .22-caliber revolver.