“Hardy could be right, too, and Hanna still be in the clear,” Finn said. “He’s not the type for this sort of caper. These clean-cut boys-Sunday school boys-hell, they go in for rape and an occasional murder. That’s their dish. No, if his background checks out, he won’t be our pigeon. We’re after someone who’s tied in with Riddle and Petri. Dunne’s the lad, for my money. And Dunne has disappeared.”
“Case of time,” Lieutenant Hopper said. “Just a case of time. Punks like Dunne don’t stay disappeared for very long.”
“They don’t stay out of jail very long, either, thank God.”
“Only long enough to kill a cop or two,” Hopper said, his voice bitter.
The little man in the horn-rimmed glasses leaned away from the table and carefully capped his fountain pen before joining it with half a dozen others in his inside breast pocket. He pushed his chair out and stretched and then spoke in a garrulous voice.
“That’s it, Mr. Slaughter,” he said. “Your total worth is exactly $348,675.4.”
Slaughter grunted, reaching for the glass which held the Scotch and water. The ice cube had melted and the glass was still half full.
“And?”
“And outside of sixty-two thousand in back taxes, seventeen thousand in withholding taxes, your debts are a little more than three hundred and ten thousand.”
Irving Wiener took a certain amount of quiet satisfaction in quoting the figures. He liked to be right, exactly right. It gave him a certain feeling of real superiority and he couldn’t resist a little shrug of self-complacency as he finished speaking. He was nothing, nothing more or less than a servant to a man like Slaughter. His total net worth stood at a mere $4,000-but at least he had no debts. Men like Slaughter, these big shots, well…
“Your bar is making money,” Wiener said. “The cafeteria breaks even and most of your concessions are all right. But that night club…” he threw up his hands.
“The night club is new. It’ll pan out,” Slaughter said.
“That well may be,” Wiener replied. “But these other items-these things which you have listed as a’s and b’s and c’s and so forth. I just can’t understand.”
“You’re not supposed to understand,” Slaughter said. “It isn’t your business to understand. All I want from you is to know where I stand.”
Once more Irving Wiener shrugged.
“It’s very simple,” he said. “You need money. At once-or at least within the next thirty days. If the tax people take out a lien, and they will, along with the creditors who are beginning to act…”
“Yeah, I know. I know all about it. So I’ll get money. Don’t worry about it. I’ll get money.”
“There’s nothing in these figures,” Wiener waved at the papers stretched out on the table, “nothing here that tells me where. I certainly wouldn’t know…”
“There’s a hell of a lot you wouldn’t know,” Slaughter said. “A hell of a lot you wouldn’t even want to know. Just you do the work I’m paying you for and don’t even think about anything else. I’ll do all the thinking that’s necessary.”
He started to push the papers away and as he did the phone on the desk rang and he quickly reached for it. For a moment he listened and then spoke into it quickly.
“Five minutes,” he said. “I’ll be clear-in just five minutes.”
Wiener took the hint. Standing up, he reached for his hat.
“Have to be going now,” he said. “But you had better start…”
“Yeah, yeah,” Slaughter said. “Just snap the lock so the door is open as you leave. I’m expecting someone.”
He didn’t bother to stand or to say good-by.
By the time Slaughter had gone to the portable bar and mixed himself a fresh drink, Steinberg had slunk into the apartment noiselessly, relocking the door after himself. Slaughter asked him if he wanted a drink, purposely holding back his impatience.
Steinberg shook his head.
“It’s good and bad,” he said. He looked around the apartment and sat down nervously. “This place, Fred,” he said. “Makes me nervous. How can you tell that it might not be bugged?”
“Don’t be a damned fool,” Slaughter said. “Who” the hell’s going to bug me? Nobody’s got…”
“They bug everyone nowadays. Why even…”
“Just stop worrying,” Slaughter said. “Let’s have it. You saw-Jake?”
“That’s the good part,” the lawyer said. “He’s dying. Can’t last more than a few more hours. And he hasn’t talked, He won’t talk.”
“I know that,” Slaughter said, “Of course he won’t talk. Good God, Jake’s got that kid of his and he knows. Knows what would happen if he talked. I never worried about Jake. But did he talk to you? What’s with the punk? Did he…”
“Nothing,” Steinberg said. “Absolutely nothing. He didn’t know a thing.”
“Was he conscious; was he able to make sense. Hell, he has to know.”
“He was conscious all right. Weak and could hardly speak, but he understood me. The only thing he remembers is the rumble and getting shot. Saw the kid for just a bare moment and the kid had the stuff. He was climbing into the car. That’s all he knows. Everything.”
Slaughter cursed.
“This second car the police yak about? How about that? Did Jake see any second car?”
“He saw nothing. Nothing but the cops, shooting at him. There was no second car, not that Jake saw anyway.”
Slaughter downed his drink in a gulp and again cursed. “I just don’t get it,” he said. “Of course the newspapers could be wrong. They could have got a bum steer from the cops. But it don’t sound like it. The kid had to make a getaway somehow and a second car makes sense as far as that goes. The thing is, he would have had to have it planned and I know damned well that young punk didn’t have the brains to be a double-crosser. Nobody could have reached him. He wasn’t smart enough. No, I just can’t buy that second car thing. On the other hand, where the hell is he? Why hasn’t he made a contact?”
“Maybe the cops got him. Maybe…”
“Don’t you believe it,” Slaughter said. “Don’t you believe it for a minute. Not that they aren’t capable of something like that. The papers said they checked the kid sister, but that was only natural. They knew Dunne hung around with Dommie. But they didn’t get him. It would have leaked out somehow. No, the insurance company is making too big a stink about the jewels. If they’d have got him, they’d have got the loot.”
“Maybe the cops just glommed onto…”
“Even the cops aren’t that stupid. Money-yes. It could happen. But not hot ice. No, the kid got away somehow.”
“Well, then maybe he just powdered. Figures on fencing the stuff himself.”
Slaughter slowly shook his head.
“I can’t see it,” he said. “Not that kid. Hell, I know the sister; I know what kind of punk he was. Just smart enough to know that he’d never be able to unload without connections and he had no connections. Somebody else, yes. But not the Dunne kid.”
Steinberg shrugged.
“All right, Fred,” he said, “then you name it. What did happen to the stuff and where is the kid?”
“It could be that the rumble just plain threw him into a frenzy; scared him half silly and he’s hiding out someplace. With Riddle and Dommie gone, he may just…”
“He’s got my number,” Steinberg said. “That’s the one thing we know he’s got. Jake drilled it into him; told him if anything happened the first thing he should do is call my office. He wouldn’t be afraid to call his lawyer. No, something…”
“There’s nothing to do but sit tight. Sooner or later he’s got to call. You got someone on the phones, just in case…”