“Sure,” I said.
“Okay. Now you got four minutes to look at the ledgers to make sure they’re for real. Then you got one minute to leave. I’m gonna be watching. But if I try a double cross all you gotta do is wait for the dryer that you put a dime in to finish its twelve-minute cycle and then you can take your money back. How do you like it?”
“Wonderful,” I said. “Real clever.”
“I spent a lot of time thinking it up. It protects you and it protects me. You want I should run through it again?”
“No,” I said. “I’ve got it.”
“Okay,” the tinny voice said. “I’ll be watching just like I said so if you got any funny notions about putting cut-up paper in that bag, forget about it.”
“I don’t work that way.”
“Yeah, I know,” the voice said. “That’s why I asked for you. But maybe I should mention that I got some Xeroxed copies of the stuff and it makes real good reading.”
“What are you going to do with the copies?”
“Nothing, if everything goes off like it should. If it don’t, I’ll mail ’em to the cops.”
“How do I know you won’t anyhow?”
“You gotta learn to trust somebody someday, St. Ives,” he said and hung up.
After I put the phone down I told Procane what the thief wanted me to do. He nodded a couple of times while I spoke and when I was through he said, “What do you think?”
“It’s not bad, just a little overly elaborate with the dryers and the split-second timing. But it’ll let him observe me and keep us from bumping into each other. What about the money? It’s Saturday.”
“Yes,” Procane said, “that does present a problem. It’s going to take me several hours to arrange for it.”
I made a list of the denominations I wanted, but I didn’t ask how he was going to arrange for a hundred thousand dollars on Saturday. I suppose people who are worth a million or so can do things like that. On weekends I have a hard time cashing a check at my hotel for twenty dollars, but I’ve only lived there six years. Procane, however, didn’t seem at all concerned about raising one hundred thousand dollars. Maybe he planned to steal it.
6
I thought about my first and only meeting with Abner Procane as Myron Greene showed off his driving skill by speeding up Sixth Avenue as fast as the early Sunday-morning traffic and the red lights would allow, which was about eighteen miles per hour. The fancy car reflected another of his semisecret desires: Myron would like to have been a gentleman racing driver.
When we got to Forty-fifth Street I said, “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to see Procane until I get rid of this jailhouse smell.”
Myron Greene sniffed. “You weren’t really in jail.”
“It smells that way.”
“It must have been — uh — uncomfortable.”
“Confining, too.”
Myron was explaining how my last comment could be taken as a joke when he drove up in front of the Adelphi and stopped.
“Thanks for getting me out of jail,” I said and started planning my escape from the cockpit of the de Tomaso Mangusta whose midmounted engine popped and spat as it idled at what sounded to me like thirty-five hundred revolutions per minute.
“I must confess that I rather enjoyed rousing those people out of bed at four-thirty in the morning,” Greene said. Being a topflight criminal lawyer was another of his occasional fantasies.
I finally found the lever that opened the car’s door and it only took another fifteen seconds to figure out how I could swing my feet onto the sidewalk without rupturing something. “Thanks for the ride,” I said.
“Be sure to call Procane,” said Myron Greene, the worrier.
“If there’s somebody else who now wants to sell him back his journals, they can wait till I take a shower.”
I had to bend far down from the waist to see the dubious nod that Greene gave me as an answer. Then I slammed the door shut and watched him streak off toward Darien and the $165,000 home that he called a bungalow.
Indifferent, I suppose, was the best word to describe the atmosphere at the Adelphi Hotel because its food, service, and maintenance lay somewhere between fair and awful. The only time the place showed any zip was around the tenth of the month if you hadn’t come up with the rent.
The hotel catered to permanent guests such as myself who lived alone and didn’t demand too much in the way of service. The guests were mostly widows with rather large pensions and very small dogs; a few UN diplomats who didn’t entertain much; three or four industrious call girls who were on the wrong side of thirty and trying to sock a little away; several peripatetic businessmen who muttered to each other in the elevator about the rotten state of the economy, and a couple of rich, quiet alcoholics who smiled a lot and didn’t bother anyone.
The hotel also offered a bar and grill and restaurant called the Continental that had to depend on total strangers for its survival.
Caring for the wants and whims of the guests was a true son of Manhattan, Eddie, the bell captain. He was somewhere in his forties and owned a couple of tenements in Harlem and a taxi that was driven by his two brothers-in-law. He also ran a short string of call girls, accepted all bets, and answered all Questions, including those about the weather, in a whisper that bordered on the conspiratorial.
I carried the blue airline bag over to the desk and watched the day clerk lock it away in the safe. Eddie was waiting for me by the elevator.
“You look like you had a big night,” he said.
“Did you get that jack-o’-lantern to my son?”
“Yeah. You done a good job on it. The kid was real tickled.”
“You saw him?”
“Sure I saw him. I wasn’t gonna turn a ten-dollar pumpkin over to just anybody.”
“What did he say?”
“Aw, it wasn’t what he said, it was the way he looked. You know how kids are.”
I nodded, entered the elevator, and went up to my empty “deluxe” efficiency apartment to see whether I could wash away the precinct grime. I tried to think of something better to use than soap and water, but I couldn’t come up with anything.
I spent at least twenty minutes under the shower, for some reason thinking about the night before when the hundred thousand dollars had been delivered to me by the man and the woman who, if they’d been only a few years younger, I would have thought of as the boy and the girl.
They had knocked at the door about nine-thirty. I was in my favorite chair half-watching a movie on television and half-reading all about Mr. Thomas Gradgrind of Coketown in Hard Times, a novel that I had never been able to get all the way through. I put Dickens down for what must have been the hundredth time and went over to open the door. The man carried the blue airline bag slung over his left shoulder. He kept his right hand deep in the pocket of his topcoat. The woman stood slightly behind him and to his left, the side that the money was on. He looked at me for a while as if trying to decide whether my face went with the description that someone had given him. He apparently decided that it did because after a moment or two he said, “Do you always open your door like this, Mr. St. Ives?”
“Except when I’m in the shower,” I said. “Then I don’t open it at all.”
“I’m Miles Wiedstein. This is Janet Whistler. Mr. Procane sent us.”
“Come in,” I said.
After they were in they looked around the place as if automatically checking to see whether there was anything worth stealing. I looked, too, and was mildly surprised to find that there wasn’t. The TV set was black and white and more than five years old. The books were mostly paperback, except for the blue leatherbound Oxford edition of Dickens. The best piece of furniture in the place was the poker table, which I also ate on. The silver wasn’t silver at all; it was stainless steel, and I wouldn’t have been embarrassed by an earnest offer of nine hundred dollars for everything.