"Damned right," Mort said. "Where's she going to go? She'll be lost without me."
Rathbone went to the bar for drinks, but Ernie wasn't on duty; Sylvester, a waiter from the dining room, was filling in as bartender.
"Where's Ernie?" David asked.
"Called in sick, Mr. Rathbone. Hasn't worked for the past two days. He wants you to phone him. Here's his number. He said to be sure and tell you to call him from outside, not from here."
"Okay," Rathbone said, stuffing the scrap of paper into his pocket. "Now let me have a couple of brandy stingers."
"What's a stinger?" Sylvester asked.
Rathbone went behind the bar and mixed the drinks himself.
It was the kind of night he needed. He caught the bubbly mood of the others, and his premonitions disappeared in the noise, jokes, laughter, chivying, and just plain good fellowship of these splendid people. When he and Rita departed a little after midnight, they waited, hand-in-hand, for the valet to bring the Bentley around, and they sang "What'll I Do?"
Theodore and Blanche had left a light on downstairs. They had also left the air conditioning turned so low that the town house felt like a meat locker. David switched off the air and opened the French doors.
"I'm going upstairs and change," Rita said.
"Go ahead," Rathbone said. "I'll pour us a nightcap, and then I have to make a phone call."
He brought two small snifters of cognac from the kitchen and placed them on the glass-topped cocktail table. Then he settled down in one corner of the big couch and used the white phone on the end table. He took the scrap of paper from his pocket and punched out the number.
"Ernie?" he said. "This is David Rathbone."
"Hiya, Mr. Rathbone. Where you calling from?"
"From my home. Why?"
"I just didn't want you to call from the Palace. The phone there may be tapped. My own phone probably is. I'm not home now. I'm staying with a friend."
"Ernie, what's all this about? Why should the Palace phones be tapped? Or yours?"
"Listen, Mr. Rathbone, two cops from the sheriff's office came to see me at the Lounge on Monday. I thought at first they were a couple of clowns wanting to put the arm on me for a contribution-if you know what I mean. But it was more than that. They showed me a picture of a dead guy they said went by the name of Termite Tommy. The picture had been taken in the morgue. This Termite Tommy had been wasted. Someone stuck an ice pick in his ear.''
Rathbone leaned forward and picked up one of the brandy snifters. He took a deep swallow, then held the glass tightly.
"They wanted to know if this guy had been in the Lounge on New Year's Day. I told them I didn't remember. But they said they knew he had been there; one of the parking valets had seen him. Then they asked if you had been there at the same time, Mr. Rathbone."
David finished the cognac, put the empty glass on the table, picked up the other one.
"I tried to cover for you, Mr. Rathbone, really I did. But they knew all about your passing out and how I had to call Rita to come get you. Now how in hell did they know that?"
"I have no idea," Rathbone said hoarsely.
"Well, they knew, all right. They kept asking if you had talked to that Termite Tommy, if the two of you had a drink together. Mr. Rathbone, you've always treated me decent so I got to level with you. Those jokers knew all about my little sidelines, so I'm talking a deal with them. Or rather my lawyer is. I'm sorry, Mr. Rathbone, but my ass is on the line. If they want to throw the book at me, I'm liable to end up doing heavy time. I've got to cooperate with them. You can understand that, can't you, Mr. Rathbone?"
David gulped down half of the second brandy. It caught in his throat and for a moment he was afraid he might spew it up. He swallowed frantically again and again. Finally it went down, burning his stomach. Then:
"What did you tell them, Ernie?"
"Just that you were there at the same time as Termite Tommy. That the two of you had a drink together and talked awhile. That's all, Mr. Rathbone, I swear it. Oh, I also told them about those two bums who were having a beer at the other table while you and Termite Tommy were talking. Remember those guys? The cops want me to go through the mug books and see if I can make them. Maybe they're the skels who used the ice pick."
"Maybe," Rathbone said.
"Anyway, I wanted you to know what's going on. Ordinarily, I wouldn't gab about any of my customers- you know that-but my balls are in the wringer and I've got to make the best deal I can. You can appreciate that, can't you, Mr. Rathbone?"
"Sure, Ernie. It's okay. No great harm done."
"I'm glad to hear that. I just didn't want you to think I was a rat. I wish you the best of luck, Mr. Rathbone."
"Thanks, Ernie," David said. "The same to you."
He hung up and finished the second cognac. He took the empty glasses back to the kitchen and started to pour new drinks. He stopped suddenly, remembering. At least Ernie hadn't mentioned his passing a white envelope to Termite Tommy or how he, Rathbone, had gone into the men's room and had been joined there by one of the thugs.
Perhaps Ernie hadn't seen either incident. Or had witnessed them but just didn't recall. Or did recall them and hadn't told the cops. Or had told the cops and wasn't admitting how much he had blabbed.
But it really didn't matter, Rathbone concluded. The important fact was that he had been seen in the company of a homicide victim shortly before the murder. Sooner or later, he knew, the cops would come looking for him.
First Gevalt, then Birdie, and now this. . For one brief instant he thought it might be smart to run at once, that night. But he immediately recognized it as stupid panic. Even if the cops came around in the morning, he could stall them for a day or two. He could tell them he had met Termite Tommy quite by accident in the Palace Lounge on New Year's Day. They had been casual acquaintances. They had a drink together, wished each other Happy New Year, Tommy left, and that was that.
The cops might not buy the story, but it would take time and a lot more digging before they discovered Rathbone was holding out on them. And by the time they tied him to the Corcoran brothers-if they ever did-he'd be long gone.
His need to stall the fuzz, even for a short while, was obvious: He couldn't run until Bartlett's deposit on Friday was a done deal. Jimmy would take his forty percent, and David would pocket a cool $120,000. Screw Herman Weisrotte! If that drunken Kraut wanted to sue in Costa Rica for his fifteen-percent cut, lots of luck! But there was no way Rathbone was going to run before he made that marvelous score.
He carried the fresh drinks into the living room, feeling up again. Rita was coming down the stairs barefoot, wearing the yellow terry robe he had given her the first morning she awoke in his bed.
"You okay, honey?" she asked, looking at him closely. "You look like something the cat dragged in."
"I was a little shook," he admitted, "but I'm better now. That phone call-an old friend of mine up north just died."
"Ah, too bad. What did he die from?"
"Cancer," David said. "Sit down and drink your drink. There's a lot I want to talk to you about."
She curled up alongside him on the couch, and he put an arm about her shoulders.
"How soon can you be ready to leave?" he asked her. "I mean leave the country for good."
"I told you," she said. "Give me twenty minutes."
He laughed and hugged her. "You're a wonder, you are," he said. "It won't be until after this Friday. It all depends on when I can book a flight for us. But let's figure early next week-okay? Now listen carefully: I'm driving up to Lakeland tomorrow and may not be back until late in the evening. I'll leave you two grand in cash, and I want you to go out to Gevalt and pick up your passport. Got that?"
She nodded.
"Now on Friday afternoon, you and I are going shopping. I have charge accounts at Burdines, Jordan Marsh, Lord and Taylor, Macy's, Saks, and Neiman-Marcus. Make out a list of everything you want. We're going to charge up a storm at all those stores."