I put the ledger back and took out another one and flipped through some pages. It was the same kind of information, but covered the five years from 1960 to 1964. I started to look at the rest of them, but there were three hard raps on the wall that separated the two stalls. I chose one more ledger at random and quickly flipped through its pages. This one was a complete blueprint of how I could have stolen myself fairly rich if it had been 1955 to 1959.I put the ledger back in the United bag just as three more raps sounded on the stall partition. They were not only louder, but also more impatient. I zipped up the United bag and then used my left foot to kick the Pan-Am bag that contained the ninety thousand dollars under the partition and into the next stall. Then I rose quickly, opened the door, and walked out of the men’s room.
Miles Wiedstein stood to my right about six feet away, his right hand deep in the pockets of his topcoat. He looked at me and I nodded. To my left was Janet Whistler with her right hand tucked away in the large purse that she cradled in her left arm. I assumed that both of them had guns of some kind, but I wasn’t interested enough to ask.
“Let’s go,” I said to Wiedstein.
“Did you get them?” he said and fell into step with me.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“I didn’t read every word, but what I did read convinced me that they were worth the ninety thousand — if Procane wants to stay out of jail.”
Janet Whistler was on my left now as we went down the stairs. “Shouldn’t we wait to see who comes out of the men’s room?”
I shook my head and kept on walking. “You can, but I won’t. If the guy I gave the money to comes out and sees me, he may start shooting. Not right now, but later today. Or early tomorrow.”
“You’re sure you got them?” Wiedstein said again.
“There’re five of them,” I said.
Wiedstein nodded, but he still looked worried. Janet Whistler touched my elbow. “We have a car waiting,” she said.
We went out the Forty-second Street entrance and into a waiting Carey limousine. All three of us got in the back seat and Wiedstein gave the driver Procane’s address and then pushed the button that raised the glass partition. The car moved off and I settled back in the seat, the United bag on my lap, my arms clasped around it.
“Maybe I should have a look,” Wiedstein said.
I turned my head and gave him what I hoped was a polite, but apologetic smile. “I’d better hold on to them until I can hand everything over to Procane.”
Wiedstein stared at me for several moments before nodding thoughtfully. “Then you’re assuming full responsibility,” he said.
“That’s my job,” I said.
“He doesn’t trust us, Miles,” Janet Whistler said.
“That’s too bad,” Wiedstein said and then none of us said anything else until we were in Procane’s office-study and I had handed him the United bag that had been kicked my way twenty-six minutes before.
Procane wore an old bluish tweed sports jacket, a pair of gray-flannel slacks, a dark-blue polo shirt open at the throat, and black loafers. He looked pink and well barbered and his hands shook only a little when I handed him the bag. He carried it over to his desk, unzipped it, and took out the five journals. He looked at me. “Did you check them?”
“Yes.”
“How carefully?”
“Enough to know why you wanted them back.”
He nodded at that and then sorted through the journals quickly until he found the one he wanted. He opened it and started turning the pages. His face grew pinker. He looked up at Wiedstein and shook his head. Wiedstein flushed and said, “Goddamn.” Janet Whistler grimaced, crossed over to Procane, and put one hand on his shoulder. “Are you sure?” she said. Procane handed her the journal that he had been looking at. She flipped through it quickly and then tossed it on the desk. She said, “Shit.”
Procane turned and walked slowly around his desk. His hand trailed along the edge of its top as if he needed support. He pulled out his high-backed chair and lowered himself into it carefully, the way an old man lowers himself into a wheelchair. The pink on his face had deepened into a dull red. He reached into a pocket, took out a vial, opened it, shook out a pill, eyed it thoughtfully, and popped it into his mouth. Then he looked at me.
“It is not your fault, Mr. St. Ives,” he said.
Both Janet Whistler and Wiedstein turned to stare at me. From their expressions, they didn’t seem to agree with Procane. He saw their looks and said, “It is not his fault. Definitely, it is not his fault.” He sounded as if he were also trying to convince himself and not having too much luck.
“All right,” I said, “whose fault was it?”
The three of them glanced at each other, once more exchanging some private information that they didn’t seem to think was any of my business. Or they may have been taking a vote because Procane said, “Perhaps you’d better sit down, Mr. St. Ives. This may take a while. Would you like a drink?”
“I have the feeling I’m going to need one.”
“Give Mr. St. Ives a drink, Janet,” Procane said.
“Scotch and water, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
Janet Whistler went over to a table that had some bottles and mixed a drink. She looked up once, but apparently both Procane and Wiedstein gave her a silent message that it was too early in the morning for them because my drink was the only one she mixed. After she handed it to me she found a chair near the desk. Wiedstein continued to stand, leaning against the wall near one of the oils that showed how Procane’s Connecticut farmhouse looked on a sunny winter’s day after about two feet of snow. I thought it looked nice and cozy.
All three of them were still gazing at me so I felt a little self-conscious about the drink, but not so much that I didn’t take three deep swallows. After that I lit a cigarette, leaned back in my chair, smiled as pleasantly as I could at Procane, and said, “Okay, let’s have it. Who fucked up what?”
The dull red on Procane’s face had subsided to a faint pink. He ran his right hand through his ginger hair and then brushed his knuckles over his moustache. He looked around as if searching for something else to fool with, picked up the ledger that he had leafed through, looked at it for a moment, and then let it drop to his desk. It fell with a faint crash.
He looked at me and his lips worked as if they were practicing what he intended to say. “I should have taken you into my confidence, Mr. St. Ives. Because I didn’t, I am in quite serious trouble.”
“The ledgers are genuine, aren’t they?”
“Yes, they’re genuine. Did you have the chance to read much in any of them?”
“I read all about the Pittsburgh fence. I read about a few others, too. As receipts for a thief, they’re extraordinarily detailed. And your planning would have to be described as meticulous, but writing it all down would have to be called dumb.”
Procane’s face took on a deeper shade of pink, but it disappeared quickly. “Writing it all down is part of the planning,” he said. “It helps me to examine each one objectively, discover possible errors, make needed changes. When I’m sure that I’ve planned as well as I can, I write everything down in here.” He put his hand on the ledger. “Then I let it cool for a few weeks or even a month and reexamine it. It gives me a fresh perspective.”