“Yes,” he admitted reluctantly. “That was my tragic flaw, so to speak. A perfectly innocent oversight that could have happened to anyone. I’d had the duplicate set of jewelry ordered months in advance but since then, at the insistence of my tailor, I’d begun to wear bow ties. He’d assured me they were the latest thing in men’s wear, so I wore them at social affairs. And when I sent you to get outfitted, I forgot about the bow ties. A stupid careless oversight. So when I instructed Melinda to throw your cuff links into the fire, she added the tie clasp accidentally. She never was any use to me. However, all’s well that ends well.”
“There was one other flaw. What would have happened when the police learned I was missing?”
He grinned broadly, almost too broadly for his mouth to contain. “You see, that’s where my plan’s genius comes in. When the police couldn’t account for your whereabouts, they’d do just what they’re doing now. They’d suspect that you had something to do with my murder. They’d start a massive manhunt encompassing the entire western United States. And all the time you’d have been in cold storage with the nametag of Bartlett around your big toe, or whatever part of you they managed to salvage.”
“Then you were the one who took those shots at me in the alley today.”
“Of course. Well, you can imagine my annoyance at discovering you weren’t dead after all. I couldn’t take the chance of your getting caught and inadvertently convincing some do-gooder of your innocence. If you were dead they’d merely blame it on Farrow or on my own organization’s getting revenge. But this is just as good. They’ll still think I’m dead and convince themselves that you’re murdered, and wrap it up before the press gets a chance to play it up. There’ll be handshaking, congratulations, editorials, promotions and that’ll be the last they mention your name or mine.”
“But whose is the body they’ve mistaken for yours?”
“Now there’s a question I can’t even answer for you. But I’m certainly grateful he happened along when he did.”
“And in the meantime you’ll be living somewhere on the million dollars you embezzled from your organization.”
“Now there was a financial problem they don’t teach you in school: how to steal a million dollars from the organization and get away with it. Don’t think it was easy; it wasn’t. There were times I was sure it just couldn’t be done, but over the years I managed to shift the money back and forth and over and under with a little help from my partner, until . . .”
“Your partner?”
“Yeah, my partner. Now, now, Mr. Gould,” he scolded, wagging his finger at me. “I do believe you’re stalling for time. I’m afraid I’ve answered all the questions I’m going to.” He lifted a black leather doctor’s bag from against the wall. “After my partner arrives and we’ve made the split, this house with you and Farrow will go up in flames.” He raised his pistol level with my chest. A car could be heard pulling into the gravel driveway.
“Early,” he said with another look at his watch. “I’m afraid your bullet is going to have to wait until our business is conducted, Mr. Gould. It’s just as well. Although we are pretty well secluded, someone may have heard the shot I fired into Farrow here. One gun shot is easily ignored, but two might cause a call to the police. Besides, I want the neighbors to remember that the shot and the fire were very close together. In the meantime, you’ll have to wait downstairs.”
He pointed the way with his gun and I was led into the kitchen, through a five-foot door and down old wooden stairs into a musty cement basement. The light from the bare forty-watt bulb seemed more threatening than illuminating. He pressed me against a metal post and removed a length of rope from a nearby hook. Gray dust particles whirled angrily at the disturbance. He tied me quickly and loosely.
“It isn’t the best of all possible bindings, but it will hold you for the next few minutes until my partner and I have finished. See you later,” he waved, as if making a date for a few drinks at the club. He locked the door behind him.
I looked frantically around the room for the protruding scythes or axes that men in my predicament are always cutting themselves loose with in the movies. But there was nothing like that this time. All I could see was a pile of chopped firewood. Even the post to which I was lashed was smooth metal. The knots were loose enough that I could probably work them free eventually, but he had said he’d be back in a few minutes.
Still, that was better than nothing; I jerked and pulled and tugged until I was certain there wasn’t enough skin left on my wrists to support a pimple. I could feel the knots giving way. I continued wrestling with the rope as two mumbled voices filtered down through the floor. The footsteps of one speaker were slow and deliberate; the other was pacing nervously. I couldn’t make out any words, but from the tone I knew they were arguing. In the meantime, the knots grew looser.
Then there was a scuffle, a cry and a shot. Someone ran out of the house a few minutes later. A car started up and drove away. What the someone had done for those few minutes from the time the shot was fired and the time he ran away became evident by the sudden seeping smoke under the cellar door.
The house was on fire.
More smoke pushed its way into the cellar through cracks in the floor. It swirled and lingered about the light bulb as the room began to fill. I coughed a few times but continued working on the ropes. I could feel it getting hotter around me. The air was thick and stale with smoke. The floor began to buckle under the strain and I hurried to finish before the house collapsed.
It took a few more minutes and flaming boards had already began to drop forebodingly, but I was finally out of the ropes. I rubbed my raw wrists for a moment and then bounded up the stairs to try the door. It was still locked.
It’s very difficult to get a running start on a door when you have to do your running up a flight of stairs. However, I kept trying—to no avail. More floor boards were falling and I noticed that the firewood had caught fire. I ran back down the stairs, picked up one of the burning logs and deliberately set it to the door. Within two minutes the door was on fire and I managed to kick my way through it.
I stalked into the dining room, fanning smoke out of my way as I walked. I was having trouble breathing. So was Bartlett. I almost tripped over his body as it sprawled there next to Farrow’s, a bullet through the chest. He looked surprised, too. Another tragic flaw in his plans, I thought. I gave the room a quick search, but I already knew the money would be gone. Whoever Bartlett’s partner was he had decided to end the relationship rather abruptly. But then a million dollars goes a lot further than half a million.
I gave them both a final disgusted look before running out of the house. As I ran toward Heather’s car, I stopped a moment to look back. The house no longer looked sinister and ominous, merely helpless and used. There was a loud crash inside and the house shifted into a sag. Sirens could be heard whining in the distance.
“My God, what happened in there?” Heather asked when I jumped into the car. “You’ve been in there more than an hour. I heard a shot and a car came and went, and . . .”
“Whoa, slow down. We’ve got to get out of here, I heard sirens coming in this direction. I’ll explain everything once we get out of here.”
She started up the car. The road was too narrow to turn around in, so she backed down the road into Bartlett’s driveway. She saw the fire for the first time.
“What happened in there, Harry? Did you see Mr . . .”
“I’ll tell you on the way, but we’ve got to get out of here!”
She sighed, but drove the car back down the winding road. The sirens grew louder. We were about a hundred feet from the main highway when the police cars and fire engines skidded onto the dirt road. In the front car I recognized Lt. Bower. The road was narrow and we practically had to crawl to squeeze by them. I ducked down out of sight.
“Damn, he’s recognized me!” Heather shouted, plunging her foot onto the gas pedal.
“Stop!” I heard Lt. Bower order
as we flew by the cars and fire engines and onto the highway. As we sped away, I saw Lt. Bower trying unsuccessfully to maneuver a turnabout on the road.
I filled Heather in on everything that happened. She was silent. “I just can’t believe it,” she finally said, shaking her head slowly. “I mean, I knew the man. I can’t believe he planted that bomb and killed Farrow. And he was going to kill you. What kind of man would do those things?”
“A man who wanted a half a million dollars and nobody to answer to. I guess handling all that money every day for someone else finally got to him. And according to his plan even his own organization would think he was dead, so they couldn’t get back at him for embezzling the money. It was a pretty brilliant plan at that; and even with the minor things that had gone wrong before, he probably still could have gotten away with it if he’d have killed me as he intended. Fortunately for me, but not for him, his partner had decided he wanted all the money.”
“Who do you think his partner was?”
I thought again about that, as I had while tied up in the basement.
“I don’t know yet,” I admitted.
We drove on a few more miles, each of us separated by our own thoughts.
“Where are we going now?” she asked.
“Back to the apartment,” I answered quickly. “We need some time to get our thoughts together. Besides, that’s the last place in the world they expect us to go.”
He was waiting for us as we walked in, his gun already drawn.
Chapter Seventeen
“Come in, sit down,” he smiled triumphantly, his toothpick riding his lip like a bronco. “I’ve been waiting here ever since you shook me. That was a nice piece of work, Gould. I knew you had to be smarter than you acted.” Heather and I exchanged looks. “But this time you outsmarted yourself. I figured you’d think this place would be safe, and double back. And to tell you the truth, I really didn’t know where else to look.” He chuckled at his admission, as if it were just another example of how charmingly human he sometimes could be. “Well, did you get the money?” His face became firmly set as he focused on business again.
I crossed the room, wearily oblivious of his gun, and threw myself onto the sofa. Heather remained standing, but watched nervously. I crossed my legs in a big show of being relaxed, and stared at him as if trying to decide whether he could be trusted. I shrugged to show him I knew I had no choice.
“All right Sarris, I can lead you to the money, but I’m gonna want a cut for my troubles.”
“How much?” he asked, deciding whether or not to believe me.
“Half,” I stated flatly.
“Uh uh. No way, fella.”
I made some more show of concentration before answering. “All right, $100,000. You’ve got to remember everything I’ve been through.”
“Agreed,” he said with a smile. He was already deciding how many bullets to pump into me once he had the money. But I needed time. And help.
“All right let’s go,” I said, rising. I pointed to Heather. “She stays.”
“She goes,” he smiled.
“We don’t need her along. She doesn’t know anything about it.”
“She goes. Just in case you’re up to something. And just to take any temptation out of your mind, I’ll take that purse.” Heather handed it to him and he removed the gun, tucking it back into his belt. He gave me a quick professional search just to make sure. “We’ll take your car.”
Heather drove and I sat beside her giving her directions. Carroll sat behind. I strained to remember the correct street, but I had only an idea of the general area. We drove up and down the dark streets looking for something familiar.
“I think you’re trying to pull something here, buddy,” he said suspiciously. “We’ve been going up and down the same streets for the last ten minutes. What gives?”
“I told you, I’ve only been here once. It was just supposed to be a drop. I wasn’t supposed to come back here until I received instructions.”
Being a soldier of sorts himself, the part about waiting until receiving instructions seemed to convince him. At least for the time being.
I recognized the house half a block away, realizing we’d already passed it before. But the house where I had been held earlier that day by the FBI looked somehow different in the dark. Or maybe I was just seeing it with different eyes. I didn’t know or care. All I wanted was for one of them still to be inside, maybe planning a wiretap or working over a college radical. But the windows were all dark. Was it like an office building for them, arriving at 9:00 a.m. and leaving at 5:00 p.m.? Or did someone live there all the time to keep up pretenses? Maybe Miss Lancaster was peering through the curtain right now, already phoning for help. Maybe, one of the guys brought his date here for a little secluded romance.
“Let’s go!” he ordered anxiously when we had parked at the curb. We all got out and walked toward the house. I took a deep breath and prayed for divine intervention. Or at least a cop on the beat.
I heard three short muted whistles which sounded like a stuttering robin with adenoids. I turned questioningly toward Carroll who was jerking spastically in some macabre dance. There was blood on his face. The gun flew out of his hand, I couldn’t see where in the dark, but I grabbed the one from his belt and pulled Heather around the corner of the house. We crouched there shaking.
I scanned the area as best I could in the dark, looking for whoever fired those shots. I raised my gun and pointed it in the general direction of the Western Hemisphere. I thought I saw something move behind the car.
“Use your gun!” Heather gasped.
I saw the movement again, and taking careful aim, pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened.
The hammer refused to budge. I checked the safety, and it was off. I saw the movement again. It was coming closer.
“It won’t work,” I explained rapidly. “It must have broken something when it dropped down the stairwell.”
There was a movement again, and I tried to shoot again, but still nothing happened. The trigger wouldn’t even pull back.
“Jiggle it!” Heather cried in the finest tradition of belief in American technology, as if the pistol trigger were somehow comparable to a stubborn toilet lever.
“It’s no use, we’ll have to run for it. I’ll run through the yard to draw him away, and you try and double back to the car. I should be on the next street over by then and you can pick me up. Okay?”
She nodded bravely, her lips pressed tightly together.
“Mr. Gould? Mr. Gould, is that you?” a familiar voice called out. “You okay?”
The sandy-haired nephew of Mr. De Young strolled up the sidewalk unscrewing a silencer from his gun.
“Am I glad to see you!” I exclaimed as Heather and I stood up. I introduced them. They exchanged salutations.
“Do you mind helping me move the body?” he asked. “This is a pretty quiet neighborhood and it wouldn’t do for anybody to see a body.”
I helped him drag the body across the yard to the house belonging to Mr. De Young’s semi-retired employee. We pulled it through the kitchen door, across the floor and into the connecting garage. The sandy-haired boy tucked Carroll against the wall with a few deft shoves with his foot. When we returned to the kitchen, Heather was standing next to the old man who I’d seen raking leaves earlier.
“Uncle Nat, this here’s Mr. Gould and Miss Stephens,” he said conscious of his manners.
“Sure,” the old man smiled, “I knew it was him right off. Saw him next door this afternoon. They rough on you, boy?”
“Not too bad. I’ve been through worse.”
“You’re pretty lucky then. Those boys can get mean sometimes.”
“Uncle Nat, why don’t you show our guests into the living room while I phone in.”
“Sure thing, Carl,” he said happily, escorting us into his cozy living room. He fixed us a drink and chatted about the weather and some political developments that were currently in
the news. Heather did most of the talking, and I could see she was enjoying talking to him. Carl entered a few minutes later.
“Say Carl. How was it you just happened along here when you did?” I asked.
“Oh I didn’t just happen along. We’d heard that you’d been picked up by the cops, but that you’d escaped. I was told to keep a lookout in case you were picked up by the feds again and brought here. When I saw the three of you approach the house next door, I knew something was wrong. I recognized Sarris right off, though he’s not really a local boy. He’s just brought in on special assignments. He had a girl’s name, Evelyn or something.”
“Carroll.”
“Yeah, that’s it. Can you imagine being named Carroll. How’d you get him out here anyway?”
I told him. He looked impressed.
“Gee, Mr. Gould, that was pretty clever, but it almost didn’t work,” he reminded me. Believe me, I didn’t need any reminding.
We talked for a while longer, Heather and I grateful to be able to relax safely. There was a knock at the door, and Mr. De Young’s associate, Mr. Walker entered. He was dressed in a powder-blue business suit and carrying a leather attaché case. He greeted everyone and sat down. Carl made him a drink.
“Well, well, Mr. Gould, that was a close one. I don’t mind telling you that Mr. De Young expressed great concern for your safety. He feels we owe you a debt of gratitude that can’t be paid in good intentions, but only in results. What happened this afternoon at the airport?”
“I was spotted by two of Lt. Bower’s men, so I had to leave.”
He hmmmmmed to himself. “They’re moving faster than we had anticipated. But no matter. We’ll get you safely out of town by morning. Mr. De Young insists upon it.” He leaned back and smiled sympathetically. “You must have had a hell of a day, Mr. Gould. Probably one you won’t forget too soon.”
“I hope I live long enough to forget it.”
“Yes, I know just what you mean. This is a tough business out here. Not quite like stealing cars and using credit cards, is it? They play for keeps here.” He sipped his drink. “You see this gold earring I wear?” I nodded. “What was your first impression when you saw me wearing it this afternoon?”
The Goulden Fleece (Harry Gould Thriller Book 1) Page 13
