Wanda let them look at her for nearly a minute before she rose and started walking slowly toward the end of the long table where the two men sat, almost huddling against each other. She kept her right hand in the large black purse.
I thought I knew what was in that purse and started to rise, but Padillo caught my arm. “It’s her deal now,” he said. I sat back down.
Wanda stood near the end of the table, not more than two feet from Scales and the king who shrank back from her. The man who looked like a chairman of the board or at least president regarded her curiously and then turned away.
Her hand came slowly out of the purse. Her eyes were fixed on Scales and the king. Even from where I sat, I could see the terror that was smeared across their faces.
When her hand finally left her purse it didn’t hold a gun, it held a piece of paper. She extended it to the king. I could see his hand tremble violently as he reached for it. He read the note and relief flooded his round face. He began to nod his bald head in eager, almost frantic agreement, handing the note to Scales who read it and began nodding, too. She stood there and watched them bob their heads for a long moment and then turned and walked out of the room.
“Let’s go,” Padillo said.
We caught up with Wanda about halfway down the carpeted corridor. Her face was pale and there was hard glitter in her eyes.
“You made it,” she said, not seeming at all surprised. “Did Kragstein and Gitner?”
“No,” Padillo said. “They’re dead.”
“Good. Aren’t you going to interrupt the charade in there?”
“We were counting on you for that.”
“I got what I wanted.”
“They might bring it off,” Padillo said.
She nodded. “I know. Why don’t you stop them?”
“McCorkle would like to. He’s got a speech all prepared.”
She looked at me. “Well?”
“I’ve found that oil companies can take care of themselves without much help from me. I’m more interested in that note you handed the king.”
“Yes,” she said. “The note.”
“How much cut did you ask for, Wanda?” Padillo said.
“No cut,” she said, her tone as cold as her eyes.
“No?”
“No,” she said. “I take it all. The entire five million.”
“That’ll buy Walter a lot of revenge.”
She shook her head slowly. “You can’t buy it for the dead and there’s something else about it you should learn.”
“What?”
“The dead don’t really care.”
“Does five million dollars teach you that?”
She nodded. “It helps.”
26
THEY CAUGHT up with the king and Scales four days later in Milan, but not before they had withdrawn the five million dollars from the Swiss bank. When they were caught they had $52.56 in Italian lira between them. All they would say when asked about what had happened to the rest of the money was, “We spent it.”
I read about it my first day back at work as I stood at the bar and drank a martini at eleven thirty in the morning because, for some reason, I thought it might stop my left arm from itching underneath the cast. It didn’t, but it at least made it more bearable.
Padillo came in, took a letter from his pocket, and handed it to me. “It’s to both of us,” he said. The letter was from a Swiss bank and the most interesting paragraph read:
“Our client, Miss Wanda Gothar, has asked that we transfer the sum of $50,000 to a joint account which we have opened in your names at the Riggs National Bank in Washington, D.C. She also asked us to express her heartfelt appreciation for the courtesies that you extended to her during her recent holiday in America.”
“Is it real?” I asked.
“I’ve already checked. It’s real.”
Karl moved down the bar toward us and started arranging some glasses. “Now that both of you guys are back—”
“He’s got a lead on a Duesenberg,” I told Padillo. “He wants us to lend him five thousand.”
Padillo glanced at the letter that I still held. “Why not?” he said.
“All right,” I said. “Buy it.”
Karl beamed and then, because he wanted to demonstrate that he was really interested in his employers’ welfare, he said, “How was San Francisco?”
“Fine,” I said.
“You guys going to open another place out there?”
Padillo shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“We thought it lacked the proper ambience,” I said.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1971 by Ross Thomas
cover design by Jason Gabbert
This edition published in 2011 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media
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