Backup Men (22 page)

At the third-floor landing Padillo, his gun drawn, opened the door cautiously to peer down the corridor. He opened it wider and slipped through. Wanda and I followed. She held the Walther in her right hand, her purse in her left. I decided to take the thirty-eight out of my jacket pocket.

The light that we’d seen from downstairs came from an office at the far end of the corridor. We tiptoed toward it, skirting a broken desk, three old wooden file cabinets, and a collection of mismatched office chairs that some former tenant had moved as far as the corridor before he said to hell with it.

The lighted door was half frosted glass and half wood. Carefully lettered in black on the glass was “The Arbitrator, Miss Nancy deChant Orumber, Editor.” Padillo motioned us to the other side of the door where we flattened ourselves against the wall. He took up a similar position next to the door knob, reached for it, turned it, and flung the door open. It banged against something inside the office. We waited, but nothing happened. We waited some more and then a woman’s voice asked in a cool, polite tone, “May I help you?”

She wore a gray leghorn hat with a wide brim and a narrow white band that had some artificial flowers attached to it. Pink roses, I think. She sat behind an old but carefully polished oak desk which was covered with what seemed to be galley proofs. Two sides of the room were lined with bookshelves that contained bound copies that had
The Arbitrator
lettered on them in gold ink and below that the year of their issue. They went all the way back to 1905.

She looked at us with unwavering bright blue eyes that were covered with gold-rimmed spectacles. Her hair was white and she held a fat black editor’s pencil in her right hand. Next to her on a stand was an L. C. Smith typewriter. There was a black phone on the desk and against the outer wall were three cabinets that the door had banged against. Everything was spotlessly clean.

She asked again if she could help us and Padillo hastily stuck his automatic back in his waistband and said, “Security, ma’am. Just checking.”

“This building hasn’t had a night watchman since nine-teen-sixty-three,” she said. “I do not think you are telling the truth, young man. However, you seem too well dressed to be bandits, especially the young lady. I like your frock, my dear.”

“Thank you,” Wanda said.

“I am Miss Orumber and this is my last night in this office so I welcome your company although I must say that well brought up young ladies and gentlemen are taught to knock before entering. You will join me in a glass of wine, of course.”

“Well, I don’t think that—” Padillo didn’t get the chance to finish.

“Nonsense,” she said, rising and moving over to one of the filing cabinets. “There was a time when we would have had champagne, but—” She let her sentence trail off as she brought out a bottle of sherry, placed it on the desk, returned to the file cabinet, and produced four long-stemmed wineglasses which she polished with a clean white cloth.

“You, young man,” she said to me. “You look as though you may have acquired a few of the social graces along the way. There’s character in your face. Some would probably call it dissipation, but I choose to call it character. You may pour the wine.”

I looked at Padillo who shrugged slightly. I poured the wine and handed glasses all around.

“We will not drink to me,” she said, “but to
The Arbitrator
and to its overdue demise.
The Arbitrator
.” We sipped the wine.

“In nineteen-twenty-one a man sent me a Pierce-Arrow. A limousine. The only condition was that I include his name in that year’s edition of
The Arbitrator
. A limousine, can you imagine? No gentleman would present a lady with a limousine unless he also provided a chauffeur. The man was a boor. Needless to say his name was not included.”

She had a lined, haughty face with a thin nose and a still strong chin. She could have been a beauty fifty or sixty years ago, one of those tall imperious types that Gibson once drew.

“What is
The Arbitrator
,” Padillo asked, “San Francisco’s social register?” I think he was trying to be polite.

“Not is, young man, but was. It ruled San Francisco society for nearly forty years. I have been its only editor. Now society in San Francisco is no more and after this edition, neither is
The Arbitrator
.”

She finished her drink in quick, tiny sips. “I shan’t keep you,” she said, moving around her desk and lowering herself into the chair. “Thank you for coming.”

We turned to go, but she said, “Do you know something? Today is my birthday. I had quite forgotten. I am eighty-five.”

“Our best wishes,” I said.

“I’ve edited
The Arbitrator
since nineteen-o-nine. This will be the last edition, but I said that, didn’t I? May I ask you something, young man? You with the brooding eyes,” she said, nodding at Padillo.

“Anything,” he said.

“Can you think of a more ridiculous way to spend a lifetime than deciding who should or should not be considered members of something called society?”

“I can think of several,” he said.

“Really? Do tell me one to cheer me up.”

“I’d hate to spend a lifetime worrying about whether I belonged to something called society.”

She brightened. “And the bastards did worry, didn’t they?”

“Yes,” Padillo said, “I’m sure they did.”

We started moving up the stairs again, checking each floor as we went. There was nothing on any of them but dust and dirt and discarded furniture.

We stopped before taking the stairs that led to the seventh floor. Padillo turned to look at Wanda and me. “I don’t think we’re going to be much of a surprise,” he said.

“It’s a set-up?” I asked.

“When Kragstein dropped the name of this building,” Wanda said, “he didn’t drop it casually.”

“Well?” Padillo said.

“Let’s go,” I said. He looked at Wanda. After a moment she nodded.

“I’ll take the center of the corridor,” he said. “McCorkle will take the right.” He glanced at Wanda. “You take the left. If something happens, dive in the nearest office. If not, we’ll bust into the office with lights just like we did before.”

The seventh-floor corridor was much the same as the others. There was dust and some untidy piles of abandoned office forms. Two scarred desks on broken legs tilted toward each other. Next to them was an old-fashioned water cooler minus its glass bottle. Light shone through the frosted pane of a closed door toward the end of the corridor.

We moved slowly, checking each office. They were all empty. Once more we took up positions flat against the wall on each side of the lighted door. Padillo turned the knob and gave the door a hard shove. It swung in, banging against the wall. Padillo crouched as he darted in, his automatic extended like a fat steel forefinger. I followed, going in low and fast and then scuttling crablike to my left. I needn’t have bothered. There was nothing in the office but the king and Scales.

They were seated on the floor leaning against the right wall. Their legs were tied at the ankles with what appeared to be steel wire. Their arms were behind them, apparently bound at the wrists. Broad strips of white surgical tape were plastered across their mouths. Their eyes were as wide as they could get them.

Wanda Gothar stood next to me as Padillo moved over to the king and reached for the strip of surgical tape. He grasped one end and gave it a hard yank. The king yelled. A voice behind me said, “Don’t turn, Padillo.”

He turned anyway, his move incredibly fast, but it wasn’t any use. Something hard jammed itself into my right kidney. Padillo stopped his turn, bent forward, and placed his automatic on the floor next to his right foot. He straightened and shrugged.

The voice behind me said, “I didn’t think it would be so easy, Mike.” It was Gitner’s voice.

“There was a time he’d have tried for your legs,” another voice said. I’d heard that one before, too. It was Kragstein’s. “But that was a long time ago, wasn’t it, Michael?” His voice came from behind and to my left. I assumed that Wanda Gothar had a gun in her kidneys, too. I didn’t turn my head to look.

“Slowly and carefully, McCorkle,” Gitner said. “Bend down and put your gun on the floor, just like Padillo did.”

“You do the same, Wanda,” Kragstein said.

I did as I was told and when I straightened, Gitner said, “Turn slowly to your left, McCorkle. Very slowly. Walk over to the wall and lean against it, arms and legs apart, just like on TV.”

“Padillo goes first,” Kragstein said.

“All right, Padillo, move,” Gitner said.

Padillo headed toward the wall opposite the king and Scales. He moved past my line of vision. I had nothing to look at now but the bound pair on the floor. The king smiled at me tentatively, but I didn’t smile back. I didn’t feel like it.

“All right, McCorkle. Your turn.”

He prodded me over to the wall. Padillo and Wanda were already leaning against it. I assumed the position, something I’d never done before, and found that I didn’t like it. Gitner ran his hands over me, but discovered nothing that he wanted.

“Why aren’t they dead?” Padillo said.

“That should be obvious, old friend,” Kragstein said. “They’re far more valuable alive. We’ve come to an understanding.”

“You get a cut of the five million, right?”

“Let’s just say that under the new arrangement we now work for the king.”

“There’s nothing new about that,” Padillo said.

“I don’t follow you, old friend.”

“I may be getting slow, Kragstein, but you’re getting dumb. You’ve always worked for the king. You just didn’t know it.”

23

THERE WAS a silence that lasted for nearly fifteen seconds until the king made a noise that began as a scornful laugh but ended as a nervous titter.

“Turn around, Padillo,” Kragstein said, his voice sounding strained and tight. “Keep your hands behind you.”

I sensed rather than saw Padillo straighten and turn. “Like this?” he said.

“Like that,” Kragstein said. “Now let’s have that remark again.”

“About how dumb you’re getting?”

It sounded like a slap. A hard one. “Your wit has always bored me,” Kragstein said. “You’ve got ten seconds to explain it.”

“It’ll take longer than that,” Padillo said.

“Take the tape off Scales’s mouth and undo their hands,” Kragstein said and I assumed he was talking to Gitner. There was a brief silence and then I heard the tap being ripped off. Scales didn’t yell.

“All right, Padillo, start,” Kragstein said.

“Who approached you?” Padillo said. “Somebody we both know in England?”

“Who told you?”

“Scales. He didn’t tell me really. He said that somebody who had once been in British Intelligence recommended me. Now who could that be?”

“Clegg,” Kragstein said, breathing the name out.

“Harold Clegg,” Padillo said. “He also recommended the Gothars, according to Scales. How did Harold look when he aproached you, Kragstein? Well, I hope.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Gitner said. “Why would they hire somebody to bodyguard them and then turn around and hire somebody to try to kill them?”

“Nobody ever said you had brains, Gitner, but I’ve always credited Kragstein with some.”

Kragstein forgot to hit Padillo again. I heard someone walk across the room. When Kragstein spoke again, his voice sounded farther away. He said only one word: “Talk.”

“He’s raving,” Scales said. “Padillo’s angry because his incompetence frightened his Majesty and forced us to seek refuge elsewhere. He’s obviously trying to save his own—” A hard slap interrupted Scales. He whimpered a little.

“Talk,” Kragstein said again.

“I’m telling you the truth,” Scales insisted. His voice broke on the last word and rose to a high falsetto.

“He says you’re lying, Padillo,” Kragstein said.

“You didn’t hit him hard enough. Try the king.”

“Don’t hit me!” the king said. He sounded frightened.

“It will be far worse than a simple blow, I’m afraid, if you don’t talk. Now I’m going to ask some questions.” Kragstein paused. “They can be answered with a yes or no. If I think that you’re lying, I am going to hurt you. If you continue to lie, I am going to hurt you very bad. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” the king said, “it’s clear.”

“Did Harold Clegg recommend the Gothars and suggest that you retain my services? And did Clegg also recommend Padillo?”

“I didn’t retain anyone,” the king said in a whisper so low that I could barely hear it. “I don’t know any Harold Clegg.”

“Did Scales?”

“I don’t know.”

There was a thud or a thump that was followed by a high-pitched scream. I assumed that Kragstein had kicked the king. “I don’t know!” he screamed.

“It was Clegg,” Scales said in a dull, resigned tone. “He recommended the Gothars and also Padillo. I used another intermediary to get him to recommend you, but Clegg didn’t know it.”

“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” Padillo said. “We’ve all been working for the same boss. You’ve been trying to kill him and we’ve been trying to keep him from getting killed and he picks up the tab for both operations.”