Yellow Dog Contract (26 page)

“Just soundly conservative. A few of us are, dear boy.”

“Of course there's still a certain amount of validity to my theory.”

“In what way?”

“If whoever kidnapped Arch Mix doesn't let him go, then those strikes are going to take place.”

“Unless—” Slick seemed to lapse into thought without finishing his sentence.

“Unless what?” I said.

“Unless, dear boy, the strikes were all Arch Mix's idea in the first place.”

We drove into the Safeway parking lot at five minutes until four and parked the Ford about halfway toward the rear of the building. I handed Slick the keys and he opened the glove compartment and took out a plain sheet of 8½ x 11-inch paper. He gave me back the keys and I put them underneath the accelerator.

We got out of the car and Slick put the white sheet of paper underneath the windshield wiper. He looked at me. “Well, shall we take a cab?”

“Let's wait a few minutes,” I said.

“I don't think that would be wise, Harvey.”

“Mix didn't say not to watch who picked up the car. He just said that we shouldn't waste our time because whoever picks it up won't know anything. I'm curious.”

Slick looked around. “I still don't think it's wise, but if you insist, let's at least make ourselves a little less obvious.”

“What do you suggest?” I said. “After all, you used to do this for a living.”

“You have some curious ideas about my former calling.”

“Romantic notions, really.”

“I suggest that we go stand with those other people over there by the entrance.”

Some housewives were standing with their loaded shopping carts near the entrance of the store waiting for their husbands to drive up and put the groceries into their cars. Slick and I moved over and joined them.

At one minute past four a Yellow Cab pulled up in the driveway to the parking lot and discharged its passenger. He paid off the driver and started walking down a row of cars, turning his head from side to side. A few moments later he spotted the black Ford. He opened the door and felt underneath the accelerator for the keys. Then he removed the sheet of white paper from underneath the windshield wiper. He didn't bother to unlock the trunk and open the suitcase and count the money. Instead, he got into the car, started the engine, backed it out, and drove right past us as he headed for the Connecticut Avenue exit.

When he had got out of the cab I had got a good look at him. He was dark brown, slimly built, about six feet tall, and all of eighteen years old.

“They picked him up off the street,” Slick said.

“You think so?”

“They probably paid him his cab fare and twenty dollars to pick up the car. They've probably got somebody on him to see if he's being followed.”

“Then what?”

“He'll probably stop and make a phone call—to another pay phone. They'll tell him where to go next. It could go on like that for quite a while until they're sure that there's no one on his tail.”

“Clever,” I said.

“Crude, really, but effective.”

“I wonder what their next move will be?”

Slick shook his head. “I have the feeling that we've heard the last of them. They'll probably wait until late tonight before they release Mix.”

“Unless they kill him first.”

“That's right,” Slick said. “Unless they kill him first.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

T
HEY FOUND ARCH MIX
at 8:05 the next morning floating face down in the Anacostia River just south of the Frederick Douglass bridge. He had been shot in the back of the head three times. His body was identified by his wife.

I got some of this from a news bulletin that came over the radio at 9:15. The details I got from Slick who called at 9:35.

“Have you told Audrey?” he said.

“She heard it when it came over the radio.”

“How did she take it?”

“Not too badly. She didn't say anything for a while and then she said she was going for a walk. She's still gone. Where are you?”

“I'm down at police headquarters with Vullo and Gallops. That's one of the reasons I'm calling. We've told the police of your minimal involvement in the delivery of the ransom and they'd like a statement from you.”

“Today?”

“I don't think that'll be necessary. You can come in tomorrow just as well.”

“Okay. I'll do it tomorrow.”

“The other reason I called, dear boy, is that I've been thinking about your remarkable theory. Mix's death gives it a certain amount of validity, doesn't it?”

“I don't know,” I said. “I haven't really thought about it.”

“Well, there are a few bits and pieces that I've gathered over the past few weeks that, when put together with your own information, result in a rather startling picture.”

“What're you getting at, Slick?”

“What I'm saying, Harvey, is that if we put our heads together, we may be able to prove not only your theory, but also prove who engineered the kidnapping of Arch Mix.”

I was silent for a moment. Then I said, “You want to come out here?”

“I think that would be best, don't you?”

“Probably.”

“What time is lunch?”

“When you get here.”

“I'll bring some wine.”

“Do that,” I said.

After I hung up I called the Vullo Foundation and asked for Ward Murfin. I reached Ginger, his secretary, who said that Murfin hadn't come in yet and that she wasn't sure when to expect him.

I found his home number in our address book and called that. It rang three times before Marjorie answered it. Marjorie wanted to talk about the death of Arch Mix, which she had just heard about. She had some interesting theories about it, most of them involving the Palestine Liberation Organization. After we ran through those, I asked if I could speak to Ward.

“He's not here,” she said.

“Do you know where he is?”

“He drove in from Baltimore late last night. He didn't get here till around two. We didn't get to bed until around three and then he rushed out of here this morning after he got the call.”

“What call?”

“I don't know what call. All I know is that it woke us up about seven and he was gone by seven fifteen. He rushed out of here without even shaving although I told him he'd better shave before we go to Max's funeral.”

“What time's that?”

“Aren't you going?”

“No, I'm still too broken up.”

“Bullshit.”

“What time's the funeral, Marjorie?”

“At two.”

“If Ward comes in, ask him to call me.”

“You ought to go to Max's funeral.”

“I'll think about it,” I said and then said good-bye.

I found Ruth in her studio which was a big-windowed room on the north side of the house. Honest Tuan was serving as a model. My nephew and niece were at Ruth's side watching her with fascination. I went over to see what she was doing. She was vising watercolors and it seemed that the beavers who lived upstream were going to Honest Tuan's birthday party. Ruth had the beavers all dressed up.

She put her brush in a jar of water and looked up at me. She had a smudge of blue paint on the side of her nose, but then she usually did although it wasn't always blue.

“Slick's coming for lunch.”

“That's nice,” she said. “I hope he likes peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”

“He's bringing some wine.”

“A good claret would go nicely with peanut butter and jelly.”

“So would Mogen David.”

“Since it's Slick, perhaps I should make him an omelette.”

“I like your beavers,” I said.

She looked at the watercolor critically. “They are rather precious, aren't they?” She turned to Nelson and Elizabeth. “Why don't you tell your Uncle Harvey what we've decided.
En Français.
”

“You do it,” Nelson said and nudged his sister.

Elizabeth smiled her silky smile. “We will be very good and not bother our dear mother for the rest of the day,” she said in her rapid French. “And if we are good, our dear uncle will let us swing on the swing and later he will take us to visit the beavers.”

“Oh, what fun,” I said.

“I think Audrey could use some solitude today,” Ruth said.

“Probably.”

“What're your plans?”

“Well, I think I'll go out on the porch and put my feet up and watch the Christmas trees grow.”

“When I'm through with this I might come out and help you.”

I sat on the porch watching the Christmas trees grow and going over it all in my mind, everything from Murfin and Quane's first approach until the news bulletin about Arch Mix's death, and by the time that Slick arrived at 11:30 I had decided that there indeed had been a conspiracy and that I was fairly sure that I knew who had both designed and executed it.

Slick looked hot and worried when he climbed the steps to the porch and handed me the bottle of wine. He looked around as if expecting to see someone.

“Where's Audrey?” he said.

“She hasn't come back yet.”

“Are Ruth and the children here?”

“Over there,” I said and pointed to where they were feeding the ducks.

“I think I was followed,” Slick said.

“From where?”

“From Washington.”

“All the way?”

“I'm not sure, but I think so.”

“Let's go see,” I said.

Slick loosened his tie, but didn't take off his coat. The loosened tie was ample evidence that he was concerned. He followed me down the stairs and around the house. A quarter of a mile away, where the dirt lane turned in from the wood, a car had stopped. It was pulled over to the edge of the lane. A man was on top of the car, reaching up with something shiny.

“I think, dear boy, that he's cutting your telephone wires.”

“I think you're right.”

We turned and hurried around to the other side of the house. I called to Ruth. She must have heard the note of alarm in my voice because she took the children by the hand and almost ran over to us.

“What's wrong?” she said.

“I'm not sure yet, but I want you to take the kids and go over to Pasjk's. Go to the other side of the pond and up through the trees and down. If Pasjk's phone is working, call the sheriff. If it's not, have him run you into town and tell the sheriff to get out here right away.”

“Can't you come?”

“I'm going to see if I can find Audrey first.”

“Where're we going?” Nelson asked.

Ruth made herself smile at him. “
En Français.
You promised.”

“Okay,” Nelson said and then he said, “Where are we going?” in French.

“We're going to see Mr. Pasjk for some cookies and lemonade and maybe a ride into town.”

“You'd better go now,” I said.

Ruth nodded and started off around the pond. She stopped, looked back, and said, “Harvey.”

“Yes.”

She shook her head and smiled nervously. “Nothing.”

Slick and I watched them until they disappeared into the pines. Then Slick said, “I hate to be an alarmist, but do you keep a weapon in the house?”

“An M-1 carbine.”

“I think you'd best get it.”

“I think you're right.”

Inside the house, I went to the living room closet and opened the door. I kept the carbine on two pegs at the rear of the closet, but it wasn't there.

“I was wrong,” I told Slick. “I don't have a weapon.”

“What happened to it?”

“I don't know.”

We heard the car making its way over the bumps in the lane. It was going a little fast and its tires were bouncing up and grinding themselves against the fender wells.

“I don't think I want to wait for them, do you?” I said.

“I have no desire to,” Slick said.

“Let's try the pines.”

We hurried down the steps of the porch and ran around the pond and up into the pines. They were thick enough so that we couldn't be seen from the house, but if we carefully pulled some branches down we could watch the car as it pulled up and stopped near the house, not quite a hundred feet away.

The car was a black four-door sedan, a Plymouth, I thought. Its front doors opened and two men got out. A third man got out of the rear of the car. The three men had guns in their hands. I recognized the first two men. One of them, sitting outside my sister's house, had told me that his name was Detective Knaster, but he had lied. The other man was dark and had caterpillar eyebrows and the last time I had seen him he had been bounding down some stairs after having cut Max Quane's throat.

I recognized the third man with a gun, too. The third man was Ward Murfin.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

M
URFIN LED THE WAY
toward the house. The two men followed behind him for about five paces and stopped. The blond man went into a crouch and raised his gun with both hands. I recognized the crouch although the last time I had seen the blond man go into it he had been wearing a ski mask. A red one. So had the man with the caterpillar eyebrows, although his ski mask had been a different color. Blue, I remembered.

The blond man was taking careful aim just as he had when he had shot Sally Raines. I yelled it as loudly as I could. I yelled, “Murfin! Behind you!”

It may have been something that he had learned from Filthy Frankie in Pittsburgh because Murfin went down into a tumbling dive and then rolled and kept on rolling. The blond man fired at him, but missed.

Murfin fired twice as he rolled and the blond man staggered, dropped his gun, clutched at his stomach just above the belt, and then sank slowly and perhaps even carefully to his knees. He stayed there on his knees for a moment before he toppled over onto his left side.