Alder paced the terminal building, then went outside. There was a bench beside the door. It was in heavy shadows, but there was a man sitting on it.
He said, “Good evening, Mr. Alder. Or perhaps I should say, good morning.”
It was Jacques Pleschette.
He rose heavily to his feet, towering over Alder. “You are not unduly surprised, Mr. Alder?”
“I’m surprised all right, Frenchy.”
“Please — Mr. Alder! We agreed not to use nicknames. Are you impressed, Mr. Alder? That I arrived here before you? I did not stop over in Chicago. I went from one airplane to another. I have been here for exactly one hour and forty-five minutes — no, one hour and fifty-one minutes precisely. I saw you descend from the plane. You passed within six feet of me and did not even see me.”
“I thought I’d seen the last of you in New York!”
“The certificates, Mr. Alder. The beautiful one-thousand dollar treasury certificates. They are insidious — they work on a man’s mind, yes, even while he is asleep. Covetousness is a cardinal sin. None of us are immune from it. Not even you, Mr. Alder, and you are the only honest man I have ever known. Very well, my good sir, you shall have them. The laborer is worthy of his hire.”
A man wearing a leather jacket came from the gloom of the car park area into the lights about the terminal.
Alder said, with harsh mockery: “‘Parting is such sweet sorrow,’ but—”
“You quote the Bard of Avon!” cried Big Frenchy. “Capital, sir. Excellent.”
The man in the leather coat came up. “Alder? Either of you men happen to be?”
“I’m Alder.”
The man nodded. “I’ll get her out of the hangar, rev her up.” He shrugged. “Six-seven minutes and we’re off.” He started to turn away, then stopped. “It’s an unusual situation, Mr. Alder, and I, uh, I’d like to have assurance — two hundred dollars?”
“You’ll be paid,” Alder said. “I don’t have quite enough cash with me, but as soon as we reach our destination I’ll cash a check, or use a credit card.”
“No need, Mr. Alder,” cried Pleschette. “It costs no more for two than one. We’ll share our air conveyance, sir. Half and half — down the line.”
“No,” said Alder. “I’ll travel alone.”
“You are wasteful, sir. Besides — you know me well enough by now. You know I will be there. I will be right behind you — if not before. Come, we will travel together. We can alleviate the tedium of travel.” Pleschette beamed. “Whether you will it or not, you are working for me. No, don’t trouble to deny it. Our interests are not inimical. You and I are intertwined.” He turned suddenly to the waiting pilot. “Here, sir, is our fee.”
He produced his wallet, rummaged, and brought out two one-hundred dollar bills. “A man’s truest friend — money. It never lets you down. It comforts you, it nurtures you in time of distress.”
Alder gestured to the man in the leather coat. “Tickets for two if it won’t make your ship lopsided.”
The pilot regarded Alder gloomily. “You wanna take him along? I don’t know if I can stand the gab—”
“I’ll keep you awake,” declared Pleschette heartily. “You may even find it interesting — and educational. I will try, sir — I can’t guarantee it, of course, but I’ll make a sincere effort — to keep my words basic and simple. So it can be understood by—”
“Oh, hell!” said the pilot.
He started toward the hangars. Alder and Pleschette followed.
There were only six seats in the plane, aside from the pilot’s. Pleschette watched cautiously until Alder had seated himself, then took a seat directly opposite. “Balance the weight.”
He sat almost on the edge of the seat and kept his hands on the arms of the chair. When the pilot revved the motors his hands tightened on the seat arms. He did not enjoy flying and while the plane taxied across the field he kept his eyes glued on the windscreen. He was silent.
Finally, when the plane had reached cruising altitude, Pleschette relaxed somewhat. He looked at Alder.
“You are a man of prodigious activity, Mr. Alder. You covered more ground, acquired more data in the past two days than another man would have in a month.”
“You’re fishing, Pleschette,” said Alder. “But you’re going to have to use better bait.”
“My bait is excellent,” said Pleschette with gusto. “The beautiful green certificates. They are within your grasp. Tell me, have you accomplished your objective? I know that you are near the end, otherwise you would not be here beside me, flying to the beginning of things. You have a few loose ends to tie together — isn’t that it?”
“I’ll tell you this much, Pleschette,” said Alder. “Your brother isn’t worth looking for. By comparison, he makes you look like a Sunday school teacher.”
“Do you think I could pass for that? How kind of you, Mr. Alder. And my brother — you’ve learned that he is a consummate knave — a rascal and a scoundrel? That is exactly what I had come to believe. It is the reason I wanted to engage your services — to verify my beliefs. I knew or suspected—”
“You said you wanted to help him.”
“Surely you read between the lines? I seldom speak ill of anyone and as for a man’s blood relatives — a man who does not have strong family ties is a man to be pitied. As the immortal Scott said: ‘Breathes there a man with soul so dead,’ etcetera. Yes, Mr. Alder my brother is a lost soul. He got off to a wrong start and went from there to worse. Deplorable, but true. My brother was engaged in nefarious iniquities. He has been a thief—”
“So have you.”
“Please — there is a difference. I have never robbed or swindled an honest man. I have matched wits with scoundrels who were trying to get something for nothing. I have pitted my brains against their money and sometimes I have emerged victorious. Not always, though. I took calculated risks — my freedom for a substance. I lost much of that precious freedom, for there are scalawags so base that they have no shame. They had no pride, no sense of artistry. They were welshers, sir. When they lost they reneged — and to salve their wounds they had me incarcerated. No, sir, I have never considered myself a genuine, unadulterated thief, such as my brother has been. Poor lad, I understand he has even committed actual burglary.”
“He’s been a thug, a thief, panderer—”
“Panderer?”
“He’s trafficked in narcotics. He’s killed!”
“Alas,” sighed Pleschette. “I do not challenge your remarks, for a thing is not scurrilous if it is true. And I fear that what you say you can corroborate. You have investigated Auguste Pleschette thoroughly, and you speak with the ring of authority. You have seen the chapter and the verse—”
“The book, too,” said Alder. “It has a black cover.”
“The question,” said Pleschette, “is what are we going to do about it, you and I?”
“Twelve people are going to decide that. Not you and I, Pleschette. A jury.”
“Vengeance! Ah, yes. But have you considered, Mr. Alder? Is that morally sound? Or economic? They will put my brother in jail, or possibly if he does not have the best attorneys, his fate may even be worse. He may undergo capital punishment. A brief incarceration, then — poof! Death. At a considerable expense to the taxpayers. Death is not punishment. As the noble Socrates said — or was it Zeno, the Stoic? — ‘Count no man truly happy until he is dead.’
“’Tis better, far better punishment that he live — and pay for his crimes. Payment is a relative thing. Some pay in remorse and mental anguish. Persons suffer from the loss of a pet, a dear one. Others, crass souls, suffer from the loss of money. We should examine my brother’s character. What does he love most? Is it not money? Very well, take his money. He will suffer anguishes greater than eternal hellfire. To a miser, money is the most important thing in life. Each coin extracted is a drop of blood.”