Mourner (5 page)

They'd stopped off on the way to get rid of the truck and pick up their own car, where Handy had left it earlier in the evening. The car was a Pontiac, two years old. It was hot, but not on the East coast, and the papers on it were a good imitation of the real thing.

Handy was driving, and a block from the address he took his foot off the accelerator. The car slowed. There were tail-lights ahead. A car was double-parked in front of the house they wanted, lights on and motor running.

"Go on past," Parker said. "Then around the block."

Parker looked the car over on the way by. It was a black Continental. The man at the wheel wore a chauffeur's cap and was reading the Star.The car carried New York plates, and they started DPL. Diplomat. Beyond the car was the house, the ground floor all lit up, the upper story dark.

It was almost three o'clock in the morning. The Continental out front with diplomat plates at three in the morning wasn't a good sign. Parker said, "Hurry around the block. Park on the cross street."

"I'm ahead of you," Handy answered. "What did that guy say Manlo was? A defector?"

"Yeah."

They left the Pontiac half a block from Bradley, on the side street that flanked the house they wanted. This way they could get to the back door without tipping the chauffeur in the Continental.

There was a white picket fence separating the back yard from the sidewalk, with a white picket gate. The gate opened with no trouble and no squeaking, and they went across the slate walk to the stoop and up on to the back porch. The kitchen door stood wide open, and the storm door was closed but not locked. The kitchen was empty, but casting bright, wide swatches of light out through the window and doorway.

Handy's touch with doors was the lightest. The storm door never made a sound. They stood on linoleum with a black-and-white diamond design, and listened. The refrigerator hummed, and on a different note the circular fluorescent light in the ceiling also hummed. The rest of the house was silent. Bright and silent.

An open door to the right led to the bedroom, but with no bed in it. The ceiling light was on two seventy-five-watt-bulbs unshielded and in the glare the bedroom was a bleak cubicle full of unmarked cardboard cartons, stacked along the walls. The Venetian blinds were down across both windows.

A hall led off the kitchen. Midway along it was a brace of doorways facing each other. The one on the left opened on to the bathroom, gleaming with white tile and white porcelain and white enamel, with a brightly burning white fluorescent tube over the mirror above the sink. The doorway on the right led to another bedroom, this one containing a bed. This too was garishly lit, and looked like a whore's crib. A double bed dominated the room, covered by a cheap tan spread, and without pillows. A scarred dresser stood on the opposite wall, and the bed was flanked on one side by a black kitchen chair and on the other by a small wooden table containing nothing but a chipped ashtray.

At the end of the hall was a dining-room, lit by a rococo ceiling fixture of rose-tinted-glass. The cream-and-tan wallpaper was a faded pattern of ivy and Grecian columns. Centred beneath the light was a poker table, round and covered with green felt, with eight wells around the outer edge for the player's money and drinks. Eight chairs crouched around the table, on a faded Oriental rug. There was no other furniture in the room.

The third bedroom, off the dining-room, was apparently the one Menlo was using, for there was clothing draped on the chair, hairbrush and cuff-links and other things on the dresser, and an expensive-looking alarm clock on the night table.

A wide archway led from dining-room to living-room, which was furnished in an old-fashioned way, in dark colours and heavy overstuffed furniture.

Every light in the house was on, and the Continental still waited out front, though all the rooms were empty.

Handy caught Parker's eye, and pointed at the floor. Parker nodded. Still moving cautiously and silently, they went back to the kitchen. The first door they tried opened on to the pantry, but the second showed cellar stairs angling away to the left. Light came up from below, and the sound of someone talking, softly and conversationally. And there was another sound, a steady scraping and chuffing, slow and rhythmic.

Handy already had the.380 out. Parker unlimbered the Terrier, and led the way down. The stairs angled sharply to the left, and then went straight down the rest of the way, towards the rear wall of the house, so that most of the basement was behind Parker as he came down. He came halfway, then crouching on the stairs, ducked his head under the banister and looked back at the rest of the cellar.

Three hundred-watt bulbs were spaced along under the I-beam that ran down the middle of the ceiling. All were unshielded, and all were lit, throwing the dirt-floored cellar in stark, almost shadowless, relief. An old coal furnace hulked on one side, with its squat oil converter crouched in front of it. Several barrels of trash were standing alongside two deep metal sinks.

Down at the other end, the fat man was digging his own grave, while three men surrounded him, watching. Two of the three stood silently, pistols in their hands. The third had brought a kitchen chair down with him or had someone bring it down for him and was sitting comfortably on it, his back to Parker. He seemed nattily dressed, and he was the one doing the talking, a steady soft flow of easy conversation, a monologue almost, in a language Parker didn't recognize. It was guttural, but not in a Germanic way.

Handy had seen too. He grinned and motioned for them to go back upstairs, but Parker shook his head. Handy looked puzzled and leaned forward to whisper. "They're getting rid of the competition. Why not let them?"

Parker whispered back, "If there's more than a statue in Kapor's house, I want to know what it is and where to find it. The fat man knows."

Handy shrugged. "I'll take the one on the left."

They leaned out on different sides of the suitcase, showing only their heads and gun hands. The shots roared out in that confined space like a cauvette blowing up.

Before the two gunmen had hit the ground, the talkative one was out of his chair, spinning around, a flat white automatic coming out from under his coat. Parker and Handy both fired again, and the automatic sailed into the air as he toppled backward into the grave Menlo had only half dug.

Menlo, again moving faster than any fat man should, threw himself off to the side and rolled over against the side wall. But when there weren't any more shots, he got to his feet cautiously. His white shirt was a sweaty, dirty mess, his black trousers rumpled and baggy. He was barefoot, and his face and hands were also covered with dirt. He stood peering towards the stairs until Parker and Handy moved towards him, and then suddenly he smiled. "Ah!" he said. "How glad I am I did not pause to kill you at poor Clara's."

"Let's go," Parker said.

"So soon? But I have not yet expressed my appreciation. You have saved my life!"

"We'll talk later, what do you say?" Handy added.

Menlo looked around at the three scattered bodies. "There is much in what you say," he said. "Have you dealt with the chauffeur?"

"We won't have to. Come on."

"Most certainly."

Parker went first, and then Menlo, with Handy last. They filed upstairs to the kitchen, and as Parker reached for the storm door, Menlo said, "Please! Would you take me away in such a condition?"

"You can wash up later," Handy said.

"But my shoes! My coat! My personal possessions!"

"Come on," said Parker.

"Let him get his stuff," Handy said. "What the hell?"

"You watch him, then."

"Sure."

Parker waited in the kitchen. They were gone two minutes by the kitchen clock, and when they came back Menlo was wearing shoes and a topcoat. The topcoat was too tight for him, making him look like somebody on a Russian reviewing stand. He was carrying a black attachй case covered with good leather.

Parker pointed at it. "What's in there?"

"I checked it," Handy said. "Just clothes and a flask."

"And a toothbrush," Menlo added. His face was still dirty, and when he smiled he looked like the fat boy in a silent movie comedy. "I am most proud of my teeth."

"Let's go."

They went out the back way and down the block to their car. Parker got behind the wheel, and Handy and Menlo sat in back. "Where do we go from here?" Handy asked.

"Back to the hotel."

"What if they come looking there again?"

Parker shook his head. "The only ones who looked were Menlo's people. And Menlo doesn't have people any more. Do you, Menlo?"

Menlo smiled again with mock wistfulness, and spread dirty hands. "Only you," he replied. "My two newly found friends."

Parker started the car. When they crossed the intersection, the Continental was still waiting out front the lights on, the motor running, the chauffeur deeply immersed in the Star.

Parker said, "Get the hell out of here."

"Daddy sent me for a progress report, sweetie. All that money spent and not one word from you. He got nervous. Fifty thousand dollars is fifty thousand dollars."

"An axiom, my dear," said Menlo, smiling and advancing, his hand extended. "You have stated what is possibly the ultimate truth. I am Auguste Menlo, yours to command." She gave him her hand, smiling, and he bent low over it, kissing it.

"Sit down, fat man, and shut your face," Parker said, "Bett, tell your father I'll see him when I'm done. Now get out of here."

Menlo shrugged prettily, smiling his quixotic smile. He had a way of moving as though he were making fun of his weight. "I must obey," he said to Bett. "Your friend has just saved my life. The least I owe him is obedience."

He sat down on the chair with the broken arm, crossed his ankles, and discovered the damage. "I had expected better from American hotels," he said, frowning.

Bett strolled casually towards the door, detouring slightly to cross close to Parker. "I know you must have important things to discuss," she said. "We can talk later." She moistened her lips, and her eyes gleamed. "My room is just down the hall. Five-twelve. It was the closest I could get to you, Parker. Don't take too long. You never know what I might do if you upset me." She went on out.

Menlo kissed his fingertips in appreciation, and made a small salute towards the door. "A beautiful creature," he said. "A magnificent woman."

Parker lit a cigarette and pulled a chair over close to Menlo. "That isn't what we'll talk about."

"No, of course. I quite understand."

"That's good."

"Might I have a cigarette?"

Handy came over and gave him one, and a light to go with it. Menlo made a production out of how much he liked the cigarette, blowing smoke at the ceiling. "Ah! One of the few things for which America will be remembered. If you have ever smoked European cigarettes, you must know what I mean."

Handy was still standing next to Menlo. He leaned down now, and said, "Listen to me, friend. My partner's a very impatient man. Besides, he's sore about her being here. You keep horsing around, he'll take it out on you."

"I am most sorry." Menlo sat forward at once, uncrossing his ankles, sitting at attention, an expression of concern on his face. "It is my way, Mr"

"Parker."

"Parker. Yes. It is only my way, Parker. I mean no offence by it, I assure you. I will come most directly to the point."

"That's good," Parker said.

Menlo smiled. "Yes, that's good. And the point, Mr Parker, is: Why did you save my life?" He looked brightly from Parker to Handy and back again. "Eh? Isn't that interesting? Why did you save my life?"

Handy said, "Go a little faster, huh? Quit repeating yourself."

"Yes, of course. But the question, you see, the question has many aspects. It is prismatic. With such a question, one can see around corners. With such a question, one can receive many other answers. For example I am trying to hurry, I most honestly am for instance, when I became aware of you, Mr Castle Mr Castle?"

Handy shrugged. "It'll do."

"Of course. When I became aware of you, I said to myself, is this coincidence? Could you possibly be interested in the same goal towards which Iwas directing myself? Thus I had you summoned for questioning, and thus the additional events which have transpired. But now you and Mr Parker have saved my life, and all at once the answer is clear. Your goal is notthe same as mine. Or at least it was not, until tonight. Did you save my life for humanitarian reasons? Hardly. There could be only one other reason. To keep me alive until such time as you would know what I already know. Which means that for all your threatening statements and glowering expressions, you cannot risk having me dead."

"Nobody said anything about having you dead," Parker said.

"I must explain," said Menlo. He smiled again, pleased with himself. "Because of my occupation these past fifteen years, I have been equipped for instant self-annihilation. One of my teeth is false; it contains a capsule. Should I bite down hard in a certain way a rather awkward way, to avoid doing to unintentionally I would break that capsule. Should that happen, my breath would smell pleasingly of almonds, and I would very soon be dead. That is what Spannick was talking to me about tonight, in the cellar, while I was digging my own grave. He was suggesting to me that I save the state the price of a bullet. But where there is life, as your proverb so succinctly puts it, there is hope. In this case, well-founded hope." He smiled some more. His teeth gleamed.

"If we try to hurry you," Parker said, "you'll kill yourself. Is that it?"

"If you try to hurry me in too physical and violent a fashion, yes. I have an extremely low pain threshold. The price is high intelligence and self-indulgence. Ah, this is really a most excellent cigarette." Menlo leaned back again in the chair, and recrossed his ankles. "I will now tell you the facts. In my own way. And at my own rate of speed. If you find yourself becoming too impatient, Mr Parker, you might perhaps spend your time instead with that charming lady who was earlier here. Your associate could rapidly and succinctly tell you the highlights later."

Parker shook his head, got to his feet, and went over to lie down on the bed. The world was full of people who never did anything but talk. "Any time you feel like it," he said.

"You are most gracious." Menlo took a deep breath, thought for a second to organize his thoughts, and began talking. "Our mutual target, Lepas Kapor, has for the past eight years been one of our most important liaison agents with our espionage network in this country. As an aide at the embassy of such a small and insignificant nation as Klastrava, he was far less likely to come under the scrutiny and suspicion of American counter-intelligence. His duties have been twofold. First, he transmits information from the network to the Soviet Union. Second, he furnishes funds to pay for the network's continued existence, to cover the cost of bribes and payoffs and so on. Just recently, we discovered that Kapor has systematically been cheating us ever since getting this assignment. His method is simplicity itself. Say a particular document cost one thousand dollars to obtain. In his report he would state that it cost fifteen hundred dollars, and the overage he would merely transfer to his own pockets. How much he has accrued for himself in this way we can only guess, but the estimate is that he has stolen more than ten thousand dollars a year for eight years. Perhaps in all, one hundred thousand dollars."

Menlo looked smilingly at Handy, and then at Parker. "Interesting? Yes. Of course it is. And even more interesting is the question, what has he done with this money? Has he spent it? Hardly. An obscure aide in an obscure embassy? If he were to live beyond his means, it would be noticed at once. Shall he bank it? Considering the political orientation of Klastrava and the passion for voluminous records among bankers, this too seems hardly the answer. Nor can he invest it. He can, in fact, do nothing with it so long as he remains in his present post. He can only secrete it, somewhere in his own house, against the day when he will suddenly disappear. He intends to retire, of course, in some out-of-the-way place. South America perhaps, or Mexico. Or it is entirely possible that he will remain in the United States, in Vermont or Oregon or Nebraska. A man with a hundred thousand dollars can arrange to disappear almost anywhere."

Handy interrupted. "How do you know for sure it's in cash, and that it's in his house? Maybe he's got it buried out in the country some place."

"Ah, wait. I'm coming to that. Please be patient."

Parker sat up and lit a fresh cigarette. For half of a hundred thousand dollars, he could make himself be patient.

"Now comes my own entry into the story," Menlo continued. "I am, in a way, a policeman. Not precisely the sort you two have undoubtedly encountered at one time or another in your careers. My occupation has no true counterpart in your country, except unofficially, among the members of some stern-jawed American society or the more belligerent American Legion posts. My duties are, in a way, religious, with an analogy drawn from the Spanish Inquisition. I am an inquisitor, a seeker of heretics, of those whose heresies are against the state. It was felt that a man of my background and unquestioned loyalty would be best suited to the task of punishing Lepas Kapor and of regaining the embezzled funds. It was decided not to trust this delicate task to our espionage organization; news of his impending doom might perhaps somehow reach the ears of our suspect. And so, for the first time in my life, I left my native land armed with a valid passport and a map to a cache containing one hundred thousand American dollars!'

Menlo threw his head back and laughed, a full booming laugh of delight. "It was wonderful! The opportunity of a lifetime!" Then his laughter subsided and he leaned forward confidentially. "Do you know what my pension would be, were I to live to the retirement age of sixty-seven? In American money, it would be let me see approximately five hundred and thirty dollars a year. And yet they expected me to find this hidden cache of one hundred thousand dollarsin American money, and bring it back!"

He shook his head. "I am not a fool. My dear friends, you will discover that about me. I am most shockingly overweight, and far too self-indulgent, but you will find that I am not a fool."

"So you figured to take the money and run?" Handy asked.

"Would you not? Of course. Let me tell you what I did. Laboriously, I managed to contact members of the American underworld. I was then introduced to an organization which calls itself the Outfit. It claims to exert total control over crime within the areas of its control but having met you two, it is only natural that I begin to doubt this claim. Nevertheless, I met with these people, and I discussed the situation with them. It was agreed that they would furnish me assistants and protection from local law-enforcement agencies, and what do they call that? Protection from local law-enforcement agencies."

"The fix," Handy said.

"Yes! The fix is in. That's what it was. I was delighted with the phrase. The French are so pleased with their criminal argot, but I assure you the Americans in this regard have nothing to be ashamed of. The fix is in."

"Get on with it," Parker said.

"You have no interest in your native idiom? A pity. As I was saying, I met with these people, and we came to a financial agreement which of course I had no intention of honouring. And thus the operation was set in motion. We moved most cautiously, I assure you, not wanting to flush our bird prematurely from the nest. What had led to the discovery of Kapor's ingeniousness in the first place were some small slight indications that he might be planning to make a sudden move, to defect or disappear. There is a large amount of money due to pass through his hands very shortly, and we were convinced he was waiting only for its arrival before making his own departure. Unavoidable delays have kept that money from reaching him thus far, so he still rests upon his perch, awaiting my pleasure."

"How close were you?" Parker asked.

"We had intended to enter the house this coming Friday. Kapor will be at an official dinner most of the evening, and we intended to be in the house already upon his return."

Menlo shifted his bulk in the chair and looked with an innocent smile at Parker. "This plan could still be effected," he went on. "Without the minions of the Outfit, of course. I doubt that they were ever really happy with the operation. They disliked the thought of being connected even indirectly with international politics, but the harvest was too tempting to be missed. Now, because of all the trouble you two caused tonight, they have abandoned the plan completely. Spannick informed me of this with great pleasure tonight, while watching me dig. The Outfit recalled those who had helped me, and recouped its losses by selling to Spannick the information that I had intended in my own turn to steal the money. So the Outfit is no longer concerned with Kapor. Spannick is dead, and if I know that egotistical idiot, he would not have made any report on me until he had already done me in. He always preferred telling his superiors about a problem only after he had already solved it. Which means that Kapor has been left to us."

Parker studied the fat man's face. "Us?"

"But of course. You have business of your own with Kapor, though I confess I cannot imagine what it is. In addition, you would no doubt like to share in that hundred thousand dollars. I need assistance, which you can give me. You need to know the location of the money, which I can give you."

"You know where it is?"

"The exact spot. I must say, it is exceedingly well hidden. I hardly think you could find it without me."

"How come you know where it is?" Handy asked.

"Clara told me. She had weeks to look for it, and eventually she found it. Poor Clara."

Menlo smiled again, his ingenuous smile. "I forgot to tell you. I returned to Clara's apartment tonight, Mr Parker, after you had left. You had mistreated the poor girl most terribly. The only humane thing I could do was end her misery."

He beamed.

Parker stubbed his cigarette. "I didn't ask her enough questions," he said.