Money for Nothing

by Donald E. Westlake

  “We'll just have tea, I think, Roderick,” Mrs. Rheingold announced. “And ask cook if she has any of those cucumber sandwiches.”

  Josh said, “I really can't—”

  “Muddum,” Mr. Nimrin said, “I was in fact looking for young Charles when I received your summons.” Now gazing at Josh, those eyes as blank as fresh-laid tiles, he said, “You're wanted on the telephone, sir. I'll be happy to show you where the instrument is.”

  “Thank you, uh, Roderick,” Josh said, rising. He felt a formal bow was the proper leavetaking ritual with Mrs. Rheingold; presenting it, he said, “It was lovely to chat with you again, Miriam. But duty calls.”

  “Don't be a stranger,” she said gaily, waving her lorgnette, as Josh followed Mr. Nimrin into the hall and around the corner out of sight of the sitting room, where both spun and stuck their pistols into each other's bellies.

  52

  TO BE SHOT IN THE STOMACH is a terrible thing,” Mr. Nimrin whispered.

  “But not immediately fatal,” Josh whispered. “If one of us gets shot, so does the other.”

  “You should not be here!” Mr. Nimrin was so furious the gun in Josh's stomach trembled with his anger.

  “Where are my wife and child?”

  “Sssh! Come back away from the doorway, she has better hearing than you think.”

  They sidled together down the corridor, each with a left-handed grip on the other's right elbow, both pressing the pistol tight against flesh. They moved fifteen feet along the hall that way, like students of a very peculiar form of ballroom dancing, and then Mr. Nimrin stopped and released Josh's elbow long enough to push open the door beside him. “In here, we can talk.”

  They two-stepped their way in, both holding the position, and Josh pushed the door shut behind him with his heel. A guestroom, unmade bed, hunting prints on walls.

  “You don't want to shoot, young Charles,” Mr. Nimrin said, low and angry, with nothing of Roderick at all about him. “The noise would bring them all.”

  “I should think,” Josh said, jabbing the Beretta a little harder into the other man's midsection, “you have enough stomach there to muffle the sound, if I have to do it.”

  Mr. Nimrin's brows beetled, they actually did; astonishing, seen from this close. “This experience, Josh,” he snarled, “has not improved you.”

  “Toss your gun on the bed,” Josh told him, “or I'll find out for myself how sound-deadening your stomach can be.”

  Instead of obeying, Mr. Nimrin tried to rear back so he could look down at the Beretta; but Josh stayed with him. Exasperated, Mr. Nimrin said, “Where did you get that ridiculous toy, to begin with?”

  “From the guy I killed in the apartment over the garage.”

  That stopped Mr. Nimrin. All else forgotten, he stared into Josh's eyes, the two of them as close as the Smith Bros, Mr. Nimrin trying to read if Josh were lying. His own eyes widened. “And what have we awakened here?” he asked; of himself, presumably.

  “Now,” Josh suggested.

  Without further argument, Mr. Nimrin swung his right arm wide and released his own small revolver, which bounced with a dull thud on the mattress on the bed.

  Josh stepped quickly to the bed, grabbed the revolver with his left hand, put it in his left pocket, felt the weight of it tug downward on his pants, and turned back to the scowling Mr. Nimrin. “Why don't you sit in that chair,” he said, “and maybe put your hands in your lap.”

  “‘Keep your hands where I can see them,’ is the cliche,” Mr. Nimrin told him sourly; but he sat on the wooden chair next to the elegant ancient marble-topped dresser, and he did place his hands, palm up, in his lap.

  Josh said, “Where's my wife and child?”

  “Upstairs.”

  “I knew it!”

  It irritated Mr. Nimrin to be confused. “What?”

  “Nothing. How do I get there?”

  “You don't,” Mr. Nimrin told him. “You told me to earn my money, and I am attempting to do so.”

  Josh took a step backward, sat on the bed, and said, “How?”

  “You're all still alive,” Mr. Nimrin pointed out. “I am doing my best to arrange things, but this is a delicate moment. The operation, as you well know, is in a shambles.”

  “I don't care about the operation,” Josh told him. “How do I get to my family?”

  “They are upstairs,” Mr. Nimrin repeated, “in a room, with the door locked, and with Hugo on guard outside.” He made a contemptuous flicking gesture at the Beretta. “You wouldn't want to confront Hugo with that firecracker.”

  “I'll use your gun,” Josh told him. “Maybe I'll use both. They've got to be more effective than firing blanks.” Looking around, he said, “Is there a key to this room? So I can lock you in instead of shooting you.”

  “Don't get too impetuous,” Mr. Nimrin advised. “Hugo is seated in a chair at the top of the stairs. He is a marksman, and I suspect you are not. If he sees you, he will shoot you dead long before you get close enough to harm him with either of those guns.”

  Josh thought about that, and saw that, up to a point, Mr. Nimrin was right. He said, “This is a big house. There's got to be more than one staircase up.”

  “Oh, come,” Mr. Nimrin said, aggravated again. “You're going to sneak up on Hugo? A man who has infiltrated armies, gone through the lines while a major battle raged all around him, killed a general in his villa while surrounded by four thousand enemy troops?”

  Josh said, “What's your idea?”

  “Andrei Levrin,” Mr. Nimrin said, “as you and I both know all too well, is an idiot and a buffoon. Nevertheless, he is in charge in this house at this moment. None of us will accomplish a thing without his cooperation.”

  “Cooperation!”

  “Would you listen to me? Once Andrei gets those miserable uniforms back—”

  “What? Get them back?”

  “It turns out,” Mr. Nimrin said, “Tina Pausto took them.”

  This so astonished Josh that he nearly blurted out the truth. Stopping himself, slamming the brakes on his tongue, he merely shook his head; then, when he felt it safe to open his mouth, he said, “That's crazy. She's one of you.”

  “A mercenary, no more.” Mr. Nimrin shrugged. “Well, most of us are, I suppose. Idealism doesn't last long in this business. But loyalty to your group, to your mission, to your comrades, that is supposed to last.”

  Josh nodded. “All right.”

  “I'm afraid,” Mr. Nimrin said, “Tina went native.”

  “She did what?”

  “She became too much in love with shopping,” Mr. Nimrin explained. “She became corrupted by your western ideals. Self-indulgence. Fashion. Shopping sprees.”

  Remembering the shopping bags the joyous Tina had brought back to the apartment, Josh could see what Mr. Nimrin was talking about, and how it would look to people like him and Andrei Levrin. But still. “But still,” he said. “Why would she steal the uniforms?”

  “To sell to someone else, naturally. She took you to the theater to make the coast clear so the uniforms could be taken.”

  “Last night?”

  “Of course. They were known to be there before that. And you were watched. It is known you did nothing after you returned home. Tina abandoned her post with you, and made a very severe security lapse in bringing you and Mitchell Robbie together.”

  “But even if—Who would she sell them to?”

  “Andrei will find out. My guess is, the Kamastanis. Sold them back their own uniforms, as a way to thwart the operation. Andrei will find out.”

  “He's burning her with matches.”

  “Yes, he likes to stretch these things out,” Mr. Nimrin said. “He has the rest of the day and all night. Today's operation is destroyed, but we are putting together an alternate for tomorrow, between the Mission and the airport.”

  Josh noted that “we,” without comment. He said, “I'm going to get my family out of here today.”

  “I'm sorry, Josh, t
hat's not possible.”

  “If I have to shoot you all,” Josh said, “even that superman Hugo, then that's what I'll do.”

  “Be patient, Josh,” Mr. Nimrin urged him. “Andrei and the others will not let you interfere with the operation. They've failed once, they can't afford to fail again. Mrs. Rheingold thinks you're Charles, go on being Charles until tomorrow.”

  Josh said, “Who is this Charles?”

  “Impossible to say.” Mr. Nimrin waved a vague hand. “Someone from her past. Whenever she meets a new person, she turns him into someone she knew long ago. The original Roderick was her butler who knows when. Fifty years ago?”

  “She makes a wonderful cover for you, doesn't she?”

  “Dotty and harmless.” Mr. Nimrin actually smiled, a rarity with him. “And we would never harm her. Stay with her, be Charles, tomorrow we'll lock you and your family away, the operation will be over before you get out, and after that we don't care what you say or do.”

  There was a time when Josh would have believed Mr. Nimrin, but that time was long past. He said, “I tell you what. Get me that fake suicide note, and I'll go along with you.”

  The faint flicker in Mr. Nimrin's eyes was all Josh needed. “I don't know if I can do that. How would I explain to Andrei?”

  “Yes, you're right. Oh, good,” Josh said, “you're wearing shoes with laces.”

  Surprised, Mr. Nimrin looked down at his polished black oxfords. “Of course,” he said. “The butler always dresses properly.”

  “Take the laces out of the shoes.”

  Indignant, Mr. Nimrin said, “Oh, really, Josh, are you going to—”

  Josh was on his feet, the Beretta pointed at Mr. Nimrin's face. The trembling in his arm now was anger, not fear. “We are not debating,” he said. “Laces.”

  Mr. Nimrin blinked at him. He wanted to debate, Josh could see that, but he could also see that Mr. Nimrin at last did understand that the debate was over. Grunting a little, he bent forward and unlaced both shoes, then sat up and extended them toward Josh, draped on his palm.

  “Stand up. Up. Put the laces on the chair. Lie down on the floor on your stomach.”

  “I will not lie—”

  “You will lie on the floor on your stomach, with a bullet in you or without.” Josh let Mr. Nimrin see him push the little lima bean safety up. “Now.”

  “This is very undignified,” Mr. Nimrin told him. Using the chair for a prop, he sank to his knees, then stretched out face down on the floor.

  Josh walked around him and picked up the laces. “Arms behind your back.”

  “You're putting us both at risk with this,” Mr. Nimrin told the floor, but he put his hands behind his back.

  Josh went down on one knee, that knee in the small of Mr. Nimrin's back. Ignoring Mr. Nimrin's ooojj he said, “Thumbs together.”

  “This is outlandish.”

  At some point, Josh would have to put the Beretta down to tie the knot, but not yet. Holding the gun against Mr. Nimrin's back, he used his free hand to loop one of the shoelaces twice around those fat thumbs. Then, swiftly, he laid the Beretta on Mr. Nimrin's back, tightened the lace, made a quick knot. Mr. Nimrin twitched beneath him, wanting to take advantage, but the knee in his back held him in place. Josh made a sturdier knot, looped the lace twice more, made another knot, put the second lace in his shirt pocket for whomever he met next, then picked up the Beretta and got to his feet.

  “Josh, it's too tight, there's no blood to my thumbs.”

  “Tough. I'll help you up now.”

  Josh put the Beretta in his pocket and rolled Mr. Nimrin over like a Yule log onto his back, then sat him up by his shoulders, got his hands under those shoulders, and heaved him to his feet. Mr. Nimrin would have immediately toppled forward, but Josh grabbed his linked hands and pulled him back.

  Not looking toward Josh, a subdued Mr. Nimrin said, “This is extremely painful.”

  “Good. It'll keep you focused. Let's go.”

  Now Mr. Nimrin twisted around to stare at Josh. “Where?”

  “To see Hugo.”

  53

  JOSH OPENED THE HALL DOOR. “WHICH WAY?”

  “If you insist on putting both our lives at risk,” Mr. Nimrin said, “we should go up the stairs Hugo is not observing. To the left.”

  Away from the main staircase and the sitting room that contained Mrs. Rheingold. “You lead,” Josh said, and followed, his hands in his pockets, clasping the unfamiliar but really quite comforting handles of two pistols.

  Partway down the hall, Mr. Nimrin stopped at a door on the right. “You'll have to open it.”

  “Stand in front of it.”

  Mr. Nimrin gave him a look. “You've become an excessively distrustful person.”

  “I wonder why.”

  Josh took the Beretta out of his right pocket, stood behind Mr. Nimrin with the barrel pressed against the man's back, and reached around him to pull open the door, which revealed a utilitarian flight of wooden stairs leading straight up.

  “As you see,” Mr. Nimrin said.

  “You go first,” Josh told him.

  “I'm not sure of my balance.”

  “I hope you don't hurt yourself,” Josh said, without sympathy. “Go first.”

  So Mr. Nimrin went first, leaning far forward and frowning at the steps, so as not to topple backward. Josh followed, pulling the door shut behind him.

  Midway up was a small landing, where the staircase turned right. Mr. Nimrin was about to make the turn when Josh stopped him with a hand on his arm. Josh crowded onto the landing with him and whispered, “What's up there?”

  “A kind of dormitory,” Mr. Nimrin said, low but not whispering.

  “Who's there?”

  “No one at the moment.”

  Josh took the revolver out of his left pocket and trained both guns on Mr. Nimrin's back. “Go ahead.”

  So, bent like an osteoporosis victim, Mr. Nimrin went up the second half of the staircase, Josh close behind him, and at the top the staircase opened into the middle of a large low-ceilinged room. A railing ran around three sides of the stairwell. The room, as Mr. Nimrin had said, was a kind of dormitory, with a dozen cots, a variety of mismatched armoires, an old wooden kitchen table, and a few chairs. Recent messy occupation was obvious.

  Josh said, “Who's been living here?”

  “Part of the time, the assassination team.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “At your apartment,” Mr. Nimrin said, sounding surprised that Josh wouldn't have realized that.

  Josh was also surprised. “What are they doing there?”

  “The assignment is still to dispatch Freddy Mihommed-Sinn,” Mr. Nimrin reminded him. “They're already in position, so they might as well stay there until the new plan is finalized. With or without uniforms, they are determined to make that gypsy curse come true.”

  “They? You were saying ‘we’ a little while ago.”

  “I am still a part of the organization,” Mr. Nimrin said.

  “Where's Hugo?”

  Mr. Nimrin nodded at a closed door in the left wall. “That leads to a hall, paralleling the one just below. Storage rooms on both sides. At the end is the other staircase. Hugo will be there, where he can see the hall, the stairs and the room where your people are being kept.”

  Josh nodded. “Remember how we opened the last door?”

  “Josh,” Mr. Nimrin said, “I know you don't trust me.”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Josh, please. If it is necessary for Hugo to shoot me in order to get at you, he won't hesitate an instant. Rethink this. You know where they are, you know they're safe. Why push the situation?”

  “Because the situation,” Josh told him, “as you know, hasn't changed. The deal is, my family and I are still supposed to be found dead with that suicide note, so your crowd can get off with no one the wiser. That's what you're planning, Mr. Nimrin, just as much as Andrei Levrin or anybody else. If one of your co-conspirat
ors wants to shoot you in order to get a clear shot at me, that just gives me a few extra seconds, and tells you you should have been more careful about hanging out with bad companions. Stand by the door.”

  Mr. Nimrin sighed. “You're killing us both,” he said.

  “Better than your idea.” Josh stood behind him, Beretta against his back, and reached around for the knob. “I tell you what,” he said. “When we go out there, you say, ‘We come in peace.’”

  “I think not,” Mr. Nimrin said.

  54

  ASIMPLE, MORE RUSTIC CORRIDOR, narrower than the hall downstairs and uncarpeted. At some distance away, with more hall beyond him, Hugo sat on an armless wooden chair, its back tilted against the left wall. He was in right profile to Josh, not noticing them at first because he was absorbed in an issue of German Playboy. His hand in Mr. Nimrin's back, Josh propelled him forward at a steady pace, not too fast, because he didn't want his shield to stumble and fall and leave Hugo a clear view of fire.

  At last Hugo did look up from his studies. He frowned, peering at the odd couple approaching him. In no hurry, he got to his feet, dropped the magazine onto the chair, and asked Mr. Nimrin a question.

  “In English,” Josh cried, compelling Mr. Nimrin faster, needing to get close, closer.

  Hugo laughed. “Oh ho,” he said, and spoke again, not in English.

  Anticipating what was to come, Josh wrapped his left arm around Mr. Nimrin's torso, clutching him tight, at the same time keeping his legs pumping, pushing them both forward.

  Hugo was taking from his pocket a revolver Josh knew well; he'd already fired that gun today, to no effect except to make a smudge on this Hugo's white shirt. In fact, the slob still wore the same shirt. While Mr. Nimrin tried to twist left and right, tried to shake free of the arm holding him, Josh reached over the other man's shoulder, aimed the Beretta the best he could at that smudge on Hugo's shirt, and fired.

  The sound was much louder in this enclosed space. Where did the bullet go? Angry at himself, Josh saw the fresh scar of its progress. Wide to the right, it had gouged along the right side wall far behind Hugo, then angled out to the hall again and finally punched into the closed door down at the very end which, not having been latched, now swung lazily open, to reveal stacks of upright rolled carpets.