“So you leave me to take care of the dirty work.”
“Tritely put, old cock, but reasonably accurate.”
“What about Billie Jean?”
“I thought you understood.” Floyd was still smiling. “I’m leaving the disposition of both ladies to you.”
“You bastard.”
“Am I not. An interesting dilemma, what? All your humanitarian instincts of conscience dictate that you render them no harm. Yet either one of them can make deathly trouble for you — only by killing them both can you guarantee your own freedom.”
“You lied to me about that plastic surgeon.”
“What gives you that idea?” Floyd shook his head gently. “I didn’t lie, Mitch. It wouldn’t have been as interesting.”
“I don’t get you.”
“I hardly expected you to. But it’s easy to explain. Examine my options for a moment and perhaps you’ll understand.”
“Go on.”
Floyd spread his hands with an attitude of patronizing patience. “The one unforgivable crime is murder. I have nothing against killing in principle but I recognize, purely logically, that once having committed a murder you have forfeited all possibility of mercy or, better yet, of forgetfulness. You don’t follow? I’ll put it another way. Crimes of property are forgivable, particularly when perpetrated against the very rich. Crimes against the person which do not in fact result in personal harm are also forgivable, particularly something like kidnaping when the victim is released unharmed. In other words if we take the ransom and run, leaving the girl alive and free, we’ve done nothing more lasting than depriving a wealthy man of a sum of money which he’ll hardly miss. Terry hasn’t been hurt. No one has been hurt — only a few feathers have been ruffled. The police and the FBI will come swarming around, searching for us, intent on capturing us and recovering the ransom, but if they don’t immediately pick up our trail — if we elude them for a reasonable period of time — then the heat will die down, the ruffled feathers will lie smooth again, and it will all be forgotten in time.”
“Not so with murder. Once murder has been committed the law won’t let the heat die down. The feathers will stay ruffled. You understand?”
“Sure. But I don’t see what it has to do with—”
“I’ll proceed. Now, in the morning I’ll pick up the ransom and bring it back here to be divided. You can feel reasonably certain I’ll do just that because after all, you have my own brother as a hostage, so to speak. Correct? All right. Now I’ve let you in on my personal plans. I intend to take my share of the ransom and one of the cars and split from here — by myself. The rest of you will be left to fend for yourselves. You will be the only one armed. You will no doubt hold the others at bay, put Terry in the sports car and drive away with her, leaving the other three stranded here on foot. That will give you ample time to drop Terry off at a safe place, and time to get yourself across the border with your share of the loot. Now we return to your original question — did I or did I not tell the truth about von Roon?”
Floyd paused and took out his wallet. From it he withdrew a dog-eared snapshot. Mitch held it close to the lamp and leaned forward to examine it. The photograph showed part of a street — half a block of single-story adobe buildings jammed together along a chuck-holed street that had no sidewalk. Centered in the picture was a building with a pale stucco front and a wooden sign fixed above the door: FARMACIA — G. von Roon.
Floyd said, “Keep it if you like. The town’s called Caborca.”
Mitch lifted his eyes from the photo to Floyd’s somber dark face. “How do I know you didn’t just make up the whole yarn to fit some old snapshot you happened to pick up? Maybe there is a guy named von Roon but how do I know he’s a plastic surgeon like you said?”
Floyd opened his wallet again and took out a one-column newspaper clipping. It was yellow and brittle, ready to break at the folded seams. Mitch scanned it briefly. The article, clipped from a three-year-old New York Times, was an inside-page feature tracing the whereabouts of Nazi war criminals who had been released from prison after serving Nuremberg sentences. One paragraph was circled in ball-point ink:
Gerhard von Roon, 71, was once a surgeon at the Vorbeckberg hospital complex, where human guinea pigs suffered and died in surgical experiments. Israeli sources allege von Roon, a plastic surgeon, has disguised a score of top Nazi fugitives who have disappeared and never been brought to trial. Authorities in Mexico, where von Roon now has a pharmacy in a small village, have been unable to confirm such charges. Recently interviewed, von Roon laughed with the expansive air of a man without secrets. He said, “They suffer from paranoia. I am only a pharmacist — see for yourself.” He lives quietly, seems well liked in the community of Caborca where he works, and talks freely about any subject except the Nazi years — a subject he considers closed. “I have served my sentence.”
Floyd Rymer said quietly, “The point is, old cock, I was forced to tell you the truth. Otherwise if you thought you had no way out you’d most likely turn yourself in to the law. But I’m giving you a way out. A hundred thousand dollars tax-free and a new face.”
“Aeah,” Mitch said dully.
“It’s my only guarantee you won’t betray me — you see? Because if I didn’t give you this choice you’d turn state’s evidence and put the FBI on my tail. But even with time off you wouldn’t get out in less then ten or fifteen years. This way you’re free and rich. And so am I.”
“And nobody gets killed?”
Floyd smiled. “Now you’ve got it.”
It made a kind of sense. But he still didn’t trust Floyd.
Floyd added, as an afterthought, “One thing, Mitch. When you dump Terry out make sure she’s far enough from civilization to give you a good head start before she gets a chance to start talking. Ditch her car somewhere and buy a clean car — don’t take buses or planes. Always travel by car. It’s hardest for anyone to find out where you came from or where you went.”
Mitch half-heard the last of it: he was looking past Floyd at the crumpled shape by the far wall. He said nervously, “What’s wrong with him?”
“Who?” Floyd swiveled to look. “Georgie?” He got to his feet and raised his voice: “George!”
Georgie didn’t stir. Floyd walked forward, increasing the pace as he approached; he was almost running when he reached his brother. He went down on one knee and gripped Georgie’s shoulder and shook him. Georgie rolled over sluggishly, blinked and laughed. “The hell time’s it?”
Floyd said without turning, “Mitch. Bring that food sack over here.”
The noise had roused the others. Terry was sitting up, looking back and forth, puzzled; the two in the back corner came forward into the lamplight and watched. Mitch took the knapsack over to Floyd and watched him paw through it. Floyd dumped everything out, opened a cracker tin and drew several packets from it. His eyes counted them; he tossed them aside and said something in his throat. Mitch couldn’t make out the words.
Floyd’s head skewed back. “Well?” he demanded.
“Well what? I didn’t hear what you said.”
Georgie mumbled, “The hell time’s it?”
Mitch said uncertainly, “He’s freaked out.”
Georgie cackled. His mouth worked and after a moment he said in a slurred breathless whisper, “Man, blowin’ my — mind!” He simpered and crawled around on the floor, rolling up in a fetal ball. The pupils of his eyes were pinpoints; the irises around them seemed enlarged with bloodshot veins. He was having a great deal of trouble getting his breath.