Floyd muttered, “Miss Conniston, I apologize for our—colleague. Theodore is an unfortunate master of the subtle innuendo.”
Theodore said, “What?”
“Mitch, explain it to Theodore. Wipe that vacant bewildered look off his face.”
Angry, Mitch said without turning his head, “Explain it yourself.”
Theodore said, “I don’t get it. Look, we’ve got to kill her. She knows what we look like. It don’t have to look like murder. Hell, take one of Georgie’s needles, inject a little air-bubble into her vein. Fast and painless and no traces. What the hell?”
Terry Conniston watched him with terrified fascination. Floyd said, “You’re beginning to exhaust my patience, Theodore. See if you can follow this. If we’re going to get money for her we’ll have to give them proof she’s alive. They won’t pay for a corpse.”
“They ain’t to know she’s dead.”
“They’ll get the idea fast enough if we don’t let her talk to them.”
Over in the corner, yawning, Georgie patted his lips and smiled vacantly at the ceiling. Mitch envied him his oblivious-ness. Floyd said softly, “Not a finger, Theodore. You lay one finger on her and I’ll have your hide in strips. Understand?”
“No,” Theodore said. “No. I don’t.”
“Then let’s just say I’m saving her for myself,” Floyd said. “You understand that, don’t you?”
“Whyn’t you say so?”
“I just did.” Floyd added in sotto voce disgust, “To be sure. Christ, I wish I could pay him what he’s really worth. The minimum wage law wouldn’t allow it.” He got to his feet and caught Mitch’s eye. “My fine buffoon, come over here a minute.”
Mitch gave the girl a moment’s solemn attention before he followed Floyd to the far corner of the old store, climbing over debris. The light was weak. Floyd stood loose, in an invertebrate attitude, looking somnolent with self-satisfaction. “I told you I had a use for you.”
“Maybe I’m dense. You’ll have to explain it to me.”
“I’ll lay it out in plain English. Pay attention. In a little while one of us has to leave here and get to the phone line, which is about fifteen miles north of here. Now if you take one look at our happy little family of mouth-breathers and nose-pickers you’ll see there’s only one of us who can be expected to say the right thing to Earle Conniston—only one of us who can make that phone call. Me. You agree?”
“What if I do?”
“While I’m gone somebody has to take charge here. Now, let’s just suppose you decide to bug out as soon as I’m gone. What happens then? Can you make a guess?”
Mitch didn’t have to guess. He knew. He nodded with a sour face. “Theodore will rape hell out of her and nobody’ll stop him.”
“He might and he might not. He knows he was right about one thing. If we turn her loose she can identify us. Theodore’s not so stupid he can be talked out of the truth.”
“Truth?”
“Booty is truth, truth booty. The moving finger hath writ, and it spelled five hundred thousand dollars. That’s all you need to know, and all Theodore needs to know. In that little pea-sized brain of his he’s matching up his share of it against the risk of being identified by the girl if we turn her loose alive.”
“What’s all this got to do with me?”
“When I leave to make the phone call, my fine idiot, you’ll be the only thing standing between that girl and her death. I don’t expect you to go over the hill. On the contrary. I expect you to stay here and protect our guest.”
Mitch said slowly, “If she’s going to be killed in the end anyway what difference does it make to me?”
“I thought you liked her.”
“What gives you that idea?”
“The way you took charge. Come on, Mitch, you don’t want her killed.”
“I don’t seem to have a whole lot of choice in it.”
“You’re wrong. I’ve got no intention of killing her.”
“But you just said—”
“I was talking about Theodore, not me. Look at it from my point of view. If I can collect the money and remove myself from any possible apprehension what reason do I have to kill the girl?”
“That sounds great. Only how do you remove yourself from it if she’s alive to identify you? Sooner or later they’ll turn you up and extradite you.”
“Not if I’m not me. Stop and think a minute, Mitch. The girl isn’t the only one who can identify us.”
“No?”
“It ought to be obvious that for each one of us there are at least four people who can identify us.”
“Who?”
Floyd’s glance flicked across the room, from face to face. He said softly, “We can all identify each other, Mitch.”
“You should have thought of that before you started this thing.”
“Ah, but I did. You don’t think I’d be stupid enough to trust all of you? My junkie brother, those two brainless oafs, and you who want nothing more than to get away from this whole caper? Did you really think I hadn’t taken that into account? You don’t credit me with much sense, do you?”
“Nothing’s making much sense right now.”
“Then let me clear it up. There’s a man in Mexico, a defrocked plastic surgeon who had the misfortune to be one of the perpetrators of Nazi human experiments during the war and hasn’t been able to get a license to practice in any country. So he runs a little apothecary shop in a Mexican town where the Mafia has enough clout to keep the authorities off his back—he’s done some favors for the Mafiosi. All it takes to purchase a new face and grafted fingerprint pads from him is a few thousand dollars. You understand now?”
Mitch had to absorb it. Finally he said, “It’s groovy for you—what about the rest of us?”
“When we collect the ransom we’ll split it five ways. That’s the last you’ll see of me. What happens after that is up to you. You and Theodore can fight over the girl.”
“What about your brother?”
Floyd said with quiet heat, “He’s an albatross around my neck. His share of the ransom will buy my freedom from him. Let him save himself or destroy himself with the money—it’s his choice.”
Floyd smiled slowly. Mitch remembered what he had said the other night: Am I not a son of a bitch? He stared across the dim room, past the guttering lamp at the sullen shape of the girl in the corner. Lamplight reflected frostily from the surfaces of her blue eyes. She was watching the two of them as if aware they were haggling over her life. Mitch thought, I’m no murderer. But if I bug out it’s not the same as killing her. He was just shaping words in his skull; he knew there was no possibility of convincing himself of that.
Floyd said with quiet insinuation, “You’re a gentleman, Mitch, and that’s a tragic thing because nobody has much use for gentlemen any more. Nobody but Miss Conniston.”
“So you’ll just split and leave me holding the bag. Either I let Theodore kill her or I save her life so she can identify me to the cops. That’s a sweet choice.” He had been watching the girl; now he turned to face Floyd. “I’ve been in hock once. You’re making a mistake if you think I’m willing to go back to it.”
“What if I give you the plastic surgeon’s name and address?”
“That’d make a difference,” he conceded. “What is it?”
Floyd considered him. Finally he lifted his shoulders and let them drop. “No skin off my nose, I suppose. His name is von Roon. Gerhard von Roon. In a town called Caborca, in Sonora. Think you’ll remember that?”
“I don’t think I’ll forget it. But how do I know you’re telling the truth?”
Floyd smiled again. “You have my word. A figure of speech, of course—my word’s worthless.” His smile hardened suddenly like a scar. “Quit agonizing, my fine buffoon. You haven’t got any choice at all—and you know it.”
“You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”
“Everything.” Floyd walked past him, across the room to the girl; he stood above her, looking across her at Theodore, who stood against Billie Jean near the door. Floyd picked up the tape-recorder and said, “I’m going to make a phone call. It’ll take me about an hour and I don’t want anybody getting on anybody’s nerves, Theodore.”