"A name can be changed," She was implying that Loraine wasn't her real name anyway.
"You can't change the way you look. Every man who sees you is going to remember you."
"You're exaggerating my appeal," she said. "Besides, I know something about makeup and disguise." She got off the bed and said, "Are you trying to talk me out of helping you?"
"No," he said. "I just want to understand exactly why you're doing this so I have a better idea of what's going to happen later. For instance, I wouldn't want you to go through with this with the idea of bringing your twenty percent back to Baglio and telling him all you learned about us while you were counted as a friend."
"I'd have to be a fool," she said.
"I know."
"But I'm not."
He sighed. So much like Elise. "I know that too."
"Well?"
"Deal," he said again.
She went to the closet and started tossing out suits, trousers and dress shirts. When everything was cleaned out of the way, she asked him to step back and to direct the flashlight on the floor between them. Kneeling, she studied the floorboards a moment, got her nails into the cracks on both sides of one of them, tugged at it, let it go. She tried the one beside it, which looked identical to the first, sighed when it rattled and came away in her hands, a two-inch-wide and four-foot-long strip of wood. She put it out of the way, revealing a lever that lay under the tightly fitted but unnailed board.
"I'd have found that in no time," he said.
"Of course," she said. "And you'd have gotten Bachman too. But I'm along to help you get the money, which you didn't even know was here."
"Go on," he said.
She pressed the lever down with the heel of her hand. On Tucker's right the entire back wall of the closet swung inward, a feature that negated the need for a telltale seam in the middle of the wall where an ordinary secret door might have been.
He said, "Is Baglio a chronic paranoid?"
"Among other things."
The wall swung wider open.
"Don't feel you have to catalogue them."
The room beyond the closet was nearly as large as the guard's bedroom on the other side, lighted by fluorescent ceiling strips, windowless. Merle Bachman was strapped in the bed against the far wall, looking their way and trying to grin.
Tucker saw at once why Bachman had not been forced to tell Baglio what he knew, why he was still alive and why they still had a chance to keep their identities intact. The crash in the Chevrolet had ruined the small man's lovely smile by breaking loose eighty percent of his teeth and splitting both his lips. The upper lip was split clear to his septum and swollen four or five times larger than it should have been. He had to breathe through his mouth, since the lip closed off his nostrils, and his breathing was so noisy Tucker wondered why that hadn't been audible even through all these walls.
Bachman made a gagging sound that was apparently some sort of greeting, though it didn't succeed any better than his smile.
"You can't talk?" Tucker asked.
Bachman made chortling sounds.
"Then don't try," Tucker said. "You sound disgusting. And while you're at it, wipe that-smile? — off your face."
Bachman didn't try to speak again, but he kept smiling. His left eye was puffed shut and his right was blackened, though not swollen like the other. Several fingers on both hands had been splinted and bandaged by Baglio's doctor. Otherwise, he looked well enough.
"No broken legs or arms?" Tucker asked, kneeling at the bed. "Just shake your head."
Bachman shook his head no.
"Can you walk?"
Bachman shook: no.
"Why not?"
It was a badly phrased question. Bachman looked earnest and began to make gagging noises again, trying to explain.
"Forget it," Tucker said. "You're drugged, aren't you?"
Bachman sighed and nodded yes.
Miss Loraine said, "Shall we get on with the second part of it-the money?"
"It's here?" Tucker asked.
"Yes. But he doesn't know it," she added, nodding to Bachman.
"Get it, then."
She walked away from the bed to the back of the room, where she opened the door of a white metal storage cabinet bolted to the wall.
He stepped up beside her and said, "What gives?"
"The wall." She slid away the metal back of the cabinet, revealing another lever exactly like the one in the closet floor, pressed it down. The cabinet which was bolted to the wall beside this one swung into the room, revealing a narrow storage space large enough for a few suitcases, or for a body. Right now it contained just suitcases.
"A hidden room inside a hidden room," Tucker said, amazed.
"He's a clever man," she said.
Tucker said, "Then why didn't he take this into town? Why'd he leave it here?"
"Ross didn't know who'd hit him," she explained. "He thought it might be someone inside his own organization, and he left the cash here because he didn't trust sending it into town again-not until he could get Bachman to talk."
"A careful man."
"This time he was too careful," she said. "Let's get it out of here." She hefted the smallest suitcase and carried it back to Bachman, while Tucker muscled the other two out of the niche and followed her.
They put the cases on the low table next to the bed and opened them one at a time. The two largest were packed with tightly wrapped bills, while the smaller was half full and padded out with butcher's paper.
"Ahhh," Merle Bachman said. He seemed surprised that the cash had been in the room with him; apparently Miss Loraine was telling the truth when she said he hadn't known about it.
Tucker said, "We scored after all."
While Miss Loraine went to find suitable clothes to wear for an airborne escape, Tucker explained the situation to Shirillo and Harris. The kid accepted it, trusting Tucker, but Harris, more agitated than ever, had some questions.
"She's a woman," he said. "Can she keep her mouth shut when we get out of this?"
"As well as you can," Tucker said. Then, to soften that, he added, "Or as well as I can."
Harris said, "She'll run out of money fast. She'll squander it, and then she'll start making plans."
"I don't think so."
"If she does, though, she'll come back to one of us, some way, and want more."
"She won't."
"Okay, she'll run back to Baglio."
"He'd kill her."
"Maybe she's too dumb to know that."
"She's not. She knows the risks, and she knows how to handle herself. We can trust her; we have to."
"Not necessarily," Harris said. He looked ugly. Maybe his wound was hurting him again-or maybe it had nothing to do with that look.
Tucker said, "We can't kill her, if that's what you mean."
"Why not?"
"I made a deal with her."
"So?"
Tucker said, "Is that the way you'd have me do business? Remember, I've made a deal with you, too. If I can give my word to her, then kill her, what's to keep me from working the same thing with you?" Before Harris could answer, he said, "No, we can't do business that way. Besides, killing her would make the whole caper too hot. Baglio can cover up the death of one of his gunmen easily enough. But that woman's got a family somewhere, a life outside of the organization, and her death would probably mean the police getting into the act sooner or later."
Harris wiped at his face. His gloved hand came away black, and some of his disguise was gone. "I hope you're right about her," he said.
"I am. And cheer up. Now you can retire, like you want."
Tucker went back to the hidden room, leaving Harris and Shirillo to guard the stairs, and unstrapped Merle Bachman, helped him out of the bed, tried to get him to stand on his own feet. As Bachman had warned with a shake of his head, that proved impossible. Evidently he hadn't been permitted on his feet during the last couple of days, hadn't eaten anything in all that time-couldn't have because of his ruined mouth-and had only drunk what he was forced to drink to keep from dehydrating. His weakened condition, magnified by the pain killers that the doctor had prescribed, had turned his legs to rubber which bent and twisted under him. Finally, though, Tucker got him to the end of the corridor under the attic door and left him with Shirillo.