Suspended Sentences

by Brian Garfield

  The blond guy in the mirror was a stranger, sure enough. He grinned.

  He circled the clunker at a distance. Nobody was watching it. He drove it around the block. Still no surveillance. So he got the suitcases out of the motel room, stowed them in the car, and drove away.

  An hour later he was boarding a PSA flight at Burbank Airport, San Diego bound.

  The security detector hadn’t sniffed out the toy revolver because it was made of plastic, like all the cheap junk they sold these days. When Ned was a kid even a toy gun used to be made out of real metal, but no more.

  Well, never mind. After today he’d be able to buy a platinum gun if he wanted one. But at least the toy looked real. Remember how John Dillinger broke out of prison with a gun he’d carved out of a bar of soap and blackened with soot and ashes.

  At San Diego he went along to the Aeronaves counter and got out his ticket, from Marie’s envelope, and the passport. Arnold Creber, citizen of the world. He flashed a confident smile at the dark girl and she smiled right back, but that was when he caught a sidewise glimpse of somebody coming up fast, and he turned to see the two men striding toward him: a uniformed cop and the tall guy with all the brown hair.

  The uniformed cop said, “Excuse me. Edward Marks? Like to see you a minute.” The paper in his hand had to be a warrant.

  “My name’s not Marks. You got me confused with somebody. My name’s Creber.”

  “Sure. Arnold Creber,” said the tall guy with the brown hair. “Just come along, all right’ It won’t take but a minute.” And the tall guy smiled slowly.

  Nobody ever said Ned Marks doesn’t think fast. So fast it took the uniformed cop completely by surprise when Ned whipped out the revolver, leveled it at the tall guy, and darted his left hand against the uniformed cop’s throat. He whipped around behind the cop and jammed the revolver against his collar.

  “Back off,” he snarled at the tall guy. “Now!”

  He heard a quick intake of breath — the airline girl.

  But the tall guy only kept smiling that slow infuriating smile. He calmly stepped forward and plucked the gun from his hand.

  “You shouldn’t play with toys, Ned.”

  “How — how the hell did you know?”

  “We’ve got a warrant to search you and your luggage for stolen bonds.”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Just a private cop, name of Thurston. My company works for the insurance company you hooked for seven hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Nobody followed me here,” Ned said. “Nobody. How could you’ve found me?”

  Thurston only answered that one with his slow smile.

  Thurston brought the receipt into the office and dropped it on Andy Ibbetson’s desk. “The San Diego police will keep the evidence until they’ve sent Marks to Chino for transporting stolen property. Then we get it back.”

  “About time.” Andy pushed the receipt toward his In pile. “Nice job. You can buy a round-the-world vacation on the bonus for this one.”

  “For two?”

  “You that serious about her?”

  “I am. But she may not feel the same way about me when she finds out I read the shopping list in her handbag.”

  “That’s how you knew he’d be at the San Diego airport with the loot, huh?”

  “In the name of Arnold Creber. In a blond wig. Carrying a toy gun,” said Severn Thurston.

  KING’S X

  “King’s X” grew out of a rumor that had wide circulation several years ago. According to the rumor — a sort of alligators-in-the-sewer-system allegation, presented as absolute documented fact — the con depicted in “King’s X” was successfully employed half a century ago by a veteran trickster to fleece Tiffany’s (some say Cartier) out of an enormous sum. It’s not a terribly elaborate scam, but there is appeal in its simplicity and daring, and satisfaction in the sting, and I hadn’t seen it elsewhere in fiction.

  She found Breck on the garage floor, lying on his back with his knees up and his face hidden under the car. His striped coveralls were filthy. There was a dreadful din: he was banging on something with a tool. When there was a pause in the racket she said, “You look like a convict.”

  “Not this year.” He slid out from under the car and blinked up at her. He looked as if he’d camouflaged his face for night maneuvers in a hostile jungle. He didn’t seem surprised to see her. All he said was, “You look better than I do.”

  “Is that supposed to be some sort of compliment?”

  “My dear, you look adorable. Beautiful. Magnificent. Ravishing.” He smiled; evidently he had no idea what effect the action had on his appearance. “That better?”

  “I wasn’t fishing for reassurance. I need to talk to you.”

  He sat up. The smile crumbled; he said, “If it’s anything like the last little talk we had, I’d just as soon —”

  “I haven’t forgotten the things we said to each other. But today’s a truce. Time out, okay? King’s X?”

  “I’m a little busy right now, Vicky. I’ve got to get this car ready.”

  “It’s important. It’s serious.”

  “In the cosmic scheme of things how do you know it’s any more important or serious than the exhaust system I’m fixing?”

  She said, “It’s Daddy. They’ve ruined him.” She put her back to him and walked toward the sun. “Wash and come outside and talk. I can’t stand the smell of grease.”

  The dusty yard was littered with odd-looking cars in varied conditions of disassembly. Some had numbers painted on their doors, and decal ads for automotive products. The garage was a cruddy cube of white stucco, uncompromisingly ugly.

  Feeling the heat but not really minding it, she propped the rump of her jeans against the streetlight post and squinted into the California sunlight, watching pickups rattle past until Breck came out with half the oil smeared off his face. He was six four and hadn’t gained an ounce since she’d last seen him three years ago: an endless long rail of a man with an angular El Greco face and bright brittle wedges of sky-blue glass for eyes.

  “Shouldn’t spend so much time in the sun,” he said. “You’ll get wrinkles.”

  “It’s very kind of you to be concerned about my health.”

  “Anybody tell you lately how smashing you look?”

  “Is that your devious way of asking if I’m going with someone?”

  “Forget it,” he said. “What do you want, then?”

  “Daddy’s lost everything he had. He was going to retire on his savings and the pension — now he’s probably going to have to file bankruptcy. You know what that’ll do to him. His pride — his blood pressure. I’m afraid he might have another stroke.”

  He didn’t speak; he only looked at her. The sun was in her eyes and she couldn’t make out his expression. Stirred by unease she blurted: “Hey — Breck, I’m not asking for myself.”

  “How much does he need?”

  “I don’t know. To pay the lawyers and get back on his feet? I don’t know. Maybe seventy-five thousand dollars.”

  He said, “That’s a little bit of money.”

  “Is it,” she said drily.

  “I might have been more sympathetic once. But that would’ve been before your alimony lawyer got after me.”

  “You always loved Daddy. I’m asking you to help him. Not me. Him.”

  “What happened?”

  “He was carrying diamonds and they arrested him. It was all set up. He was framed by his own boss: He’s sure it was an insurance scam. We can’t prove anything but we know. We just know.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Now? Here in town, at his place. The same old apartment.”

  “Why don’t you give him the money yourself?”

  “I could, of course. But then I’d just have to get it back from you, wouldn’t I?”

  “You mean you haven’t got that much left? What did you spend it on — aircraft carriers?”

  “You have an inflated opinion
of your own generosity, Breck.”

  She smiled prettily.

  He said, “I can’t promise anything. But I’ll talk to him. I’ll finish up here about five. Tell him I’ll drop by.”

  The old man blew his top. “I’m not some kind of charity case. I’ve been looking after myself for seventy-two years. Women. Can’t even trust my own daughter to keep her nose out of my business. Breck, listen to me because I mean it now. I appreciate your intentions. I’m glad you came — always glad to see you. But I won’t take a cent from you. Now that’s all I’ve got to say on the subject. Finish your drink and let’s talk about something less unpleasant.”

  The old man didn’t look good. Sallow and dewlappy. His big hard voice was still vigorous but the shoulders drooped and there were sagging folds of flesh around his jaw. It had been what, two years since Breck had seen him? The old man looked a decade older. He’d always been blustery and stubborn but you could see now by the evasiveness in his eyes that his heart wasn’t in it.

  Breck said, “I’m not offering you money out of my pocket. Maybe I can come up with an idea. Tell me about the man you think set you up. What’s his name? Cushing?”

  “Cushman. Henry Cushman.”

  “If he framed you for stealing the money, that suggests he’s the one who actually got the money.”

  “Aagh,” the old man said in disgust, dismissing it.

  “Come on,” Breck said. “Tell me about it.”

  “Nothing to tell. Listen — it was going to be my last run. I was going to retire. Got myself a condo picked out right on the beach down at Huntington. Buy my own little twenty-two-foot inboard, play bridge, catch fish, behave like a normal human being my age instead of flying all over the airline route maps. I wanted a home to settle down in. What’ve I got? You see this place? Mortgage up to here and they’re going to take it away from me in six weeks if I can’t make the payments.”

  “Come on,” Breck said. “Tell me about it.”

  “I worked courier for that whole group of diamond merchants. I had a gun and a permit, all that stuff. No more. They took it all away. They never proved a damn thing against me but they took it all away. I carried stones for forty years and never lost a one. Not even a chip. Forty years!”

  Breck coaxed him: “What happened?”

  “Hell. I picked up the stones in Amsterdam. I counted them in the broker’s presence. They weren’t anything special. Half-karat, one-karat, some chips. Three or four bigger stones but nothing spectacular. You know. Neighborhood jewelry store stuff. The amount of hijacking and armed robbery lately, they don’t like to load up a courier with too much value on a single trip.”

  “How much were the stones worth altogether?”

  “Not much. Four hundred thousand, give or take.”

  “To some people that’s a lot.”

  The old man said, “It’s an unattainable dream to me right now but hell, there was a time I used to carry five million at a crack. You know how much five million in really good diamonds weighs? You could get it in your hip pocket.”

  “Go on.”

  “Amsterdam, okay, the last trip. We wrapped them and packed them in the case — it’s the same armored steel attaché case, the one I’ve carried for fifteen years. I’ve still got it for all the good it does. The inside’s divided into small compartments lined with felt, so things don’t rattle around in there. I had it made to my own design fifteen years ago. Cost me twelve hundred dollars.”

  “Amsterdam,” Breck said gently.

  “Okay, okay. We locked the case — three witnesses in the room — and we handcuffed it to my wrist and I took the noon flight over the Pole to Los Angeles. Slept part of the way. Went through Customs, showed them the stones, did all the formalities. Everything routine, everything up-and-up. Met Vicky at LAX for dinner, took the night flight to Honolulu. In the morning I delivered the shipment to Cushman. Unlocked the handcuffs, unlocked the attaché case, took the packets out and put them on his desk. He unwrapped one or two of them, looked at the stones, counted the rest of the packets, said everything was fine, said thank you very much, never looked me in the eye, signed the receipt.”

  “And then?”

  “Nothing. I went. Next thing I know the cops are banging on my door at the hotel. Seems Cushman swore out a warrant. He said he’d taken a closer look at the stones that morning and they were no good. He claimed I’d substituted paste stones. He said the whole shipment was fakes. Said I’d stolen four hundred thousand dollars’ worth of diamonds. The cops put an inquiry through Interpol and they got depositions and affidavits and God knows what-all from the brokers in Amsterdam, attesting the stones they’d give me were genuine.”

  Breck said, “Let me ask you a straight question then.”

  “No, God help me, I did not steal the damn stones.”

  “That’s not the question.”

  “Then what is?”

  “How come you’re not in jail?”

  “They couldn’t prove it. It was my word against Cushman’s. I said I’d delivered the proper goods. He said I delivered fakes. He had the fakes to show for it, but he couldn’t prove they hadn’t been substituted by himself or somebody working for him.”

  “Did they investigate Cushman and his employees?”

  “Sure. I don’t think they did an enthusiastic job of it. They figured they already knew who the culprit was, so why waste energy? They went through the motions. They didn’t find anything. Cushman stuck to his story. Far as I can tell, none of his employees had access to the stones during the period of time between when I delivered them and when Cushman showed the paste fakes to the cops. So I figure it must have been Cushman.”

  “Did the insurance pay off?”

  “They had to. They couldn’t prove he’d defrauded them. Their investigator offered me a hundred thousand dollars and no questions asked if I’d turn in the stones I stole. I told him he had five seconds to get out the door before I punched him in the nose. I was an amateur light heavyweight just out of high school, you know. Nineteen thirty-one. I can handle myself.”

  Right now, Breck thought, he didn’t look as if he could hold his own against a five-year-old in a playpen. But what he said was, “What else do you know about Cushman?”

  “Snob. I don’t know where he hails from but he affects that clenched-teeth North Shore of Long Island society drawl. Mingles with the million-dollar Waikiki condominium set. I guess they’re his best customers for baubles.”

  “What’d they do to you?”

  “Revoked my bond. I can’t work without it. I tried to sue for defamation, this and that, but you know how these lawyers are. The case is still pending. Could be years before it’s settled. The other side knows how old I am — they know all they have to do is wait a few years.”

  Breck said, “Maybe I’ll have a talk with this Cushman.”

  “What’s the point?”

  “Maybe I can persuade him to give you back what he owes you. Don’t get your hopes up. He’s never going to admit he framed you — he’d go to jail himself if he did that. The best you can hope for is to get enough money out of him to pay off your debts and set you up in that retirement you talked about. The condo, the boat, the bridge game. That much I may be able to persuade him he owes you.”

  “Aagh.”

  The shop was a pricey-looking storefront at 11858 Kalakaua Avenue; the sign beside the door was discreetly engraved on a small brass plaque: CUSHMAN INTERNATIONAL DIAMOND CO.

  Inside, every inch a gent in nautical whites, Breck stood looking down at several enormous diamond rings spread across a velvet background.

  “My fifth wedding anniversary. I want to give my wife the most beautiful present I can find. You were recommended — they told me they were sure you’d have what I’m looking for.”

  The man across the counter was bald and amiable. He looked fit, as if he worked out regularly. He wore a dark suit and he’d had a manicure. “Thank you, sir. You’re very kind.”

 
“Are you Henry Cushman?”

  “That’s correct. May I ask who recommended me?”

  “A couple of people at a party for the governor. Let me have a look at that one, will you? The emerald cut.”

  Cushman picked up the third ring. Breck gave him the benediction of his best smile. “Mind if I borrow your loupe?”

  Clearly a trifle surprised, Cushman offered him the small magnifying glass. Screwing it into his eye Breck examined the stone. “Very nice,” he opined.

  Cushman said softly, “It’s flawless, sir. Excellent color. And there’s not another one like it.”

  “How much?”

  “Four hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

  Breck examined the ring even more closely. Finally he said, “Make it four twenty.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t be at liberty to go that low, sir.” The bald fellow was very smooth. “You see, diamonds at the moment —”

  “Four thirty-five and that’s it.”

  There was a considered pause before Cushman murmured, “I think I could accept that.”

  “I thought you could.” Breck smiled again. And then, a bit amused by his own air of tremendous confidence, he went around to the proprietor’s desk and took a checkbook and a gold pen from his pockets and began to write out a check. “I want it gift-wrapped — and I’ll need it delivered to my suite at the Kahala Towers no later than seven o’clock tonight.”

  He beamed when he stood up and handed over the check, accompanied by a driver’s license and a gold credit card; Cushman scribbled lengthy numbers across the top of the check and Breck didn’t give the jeweler a chance to get a word in edgewise. “Of course my wife’ll have to approve it, you understand. I don’t want to spend this sort of money on a gift she doesn’t really like. You know how women can be. But I don’t really think it’ll be a problem. She’s a connoisseur of good stones.” Then he was gone — right out the door.

  He went two blocks to the beach and shoved his hands in his pockets and grinned at the ocean.

  Henry Cushman stood momentarily immobilized before he came to his senses and reached for the telephone. The bank’s telephone number was on the check in his hand but he didn’t trust anything about that check and he looked up the bank in the directory. The telephone number was the same. He dialed it.