“Not really, but I will.”
“We’ll be back shortly,” he told Sylvia as I opened the door.
We walked down the hall to the elevator and I punched the button.
“They’re not FBIs?” I said.
He shook his head. “I lost them at the fourth bar we hit. We weren’t followed here. I doubt that they’d sit outside waiting for me. They’d have made sure I was in your place. They’re supposed to be protecting me, not just pulling a surveillance job. I’d say the FBI pair, or their relief, is waiting for me in the lobby of the Mayflower.”
“Who’s out front?”
The elevator came and we got in. Padillo took his revolver out of his topcoat pocket and tucked it into the waistband of his trousers.
“Let’s find out.”
The elevator stopped at the lobby and we got out and walked to the thick glass entrance doors. I could see the car across the street, about thirty feet to the left. The two men were still in it, their faces turned towards us, but obscured by their hats. They saw us coming through the apartment doors and the one nearest the street and nearest to us rolled down his window.
“When we get to the end of the sidewalk,” Padillo said, “shake hands with me, turn around, and go back to the lobby. I’ll go the left. Walk to the lobby and turn around.”
We got to the end of the sidewalk and we shook hands. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Padillo said, more loudly than he normally would, and started walking slowly to his left. I moved quickly to the doors of the lobby and turned. I could see Padillo as he drew parallel with the car across the street. The car’s engine started. Padillo dived for the lawn to his left and while he was in the air somebody shot at him. He rolled as he hit the ground and came up with the revolver in his hand. The man in the righthand seat of the car fired again, but the car was moving. The shot echoed as the sound waves bounced between the apartment buildings. The car was a grey Ford Galaxie and its tires squealed for what seemed to be seconds as they spun away from the curb. I watched its taillights blink when the driver hit the brakes to make the corner. The car skidded as it turned and then it was gone. Some lights came on in an apartment across the street. Padillo ran back to the lobby doors and we moved quickly to the elevator. It was still at the ground level and we got inside and I punched the button for my floor. Padillo was holding his left side and biting his lower lip.
“Hurt?” I asked.
“Like hell,” he said.
“You moved real pretty. What tipped you off?”
“You get a good look at them?”
“No.”
“I did when I was right across the street from them.”
“Recognize anyone?”
“Not the one at the wheel. Just the passenger.” The elevator stopped at my floor and we got out and walked quickly down the hall. I put the key in the lock and turned it.
“Who was it?”
“Our British cousin,” he said. “Philip Price.”
Eighteen
I was watching Sylvia Underhill tape a new bandage to Pa dillo’s side when the phone rang. I answered it and a male voice asked for Mr. Michael Padillo. I passed him the phone and he talked briefly, mostly in monosyllables, and then hung up.
“That was one of our friends from the FBI,” he said. “They’re getting tired of sitting around the lobby of the hotel, so they called Iker and asked him what to do. He suggested that they call here. I told them to go home.”
“How does that feel?” Sylvia asked.
Padillo looked down at the bandage. It was a neat job. “Much better, thank you.”
He picked up his shirt and started putting it on. He only winced slightly when he poked his left arm through the sleeve.
“You may as well stay here tonight,” I said. “If Price is looking for you—” I let the sentence trail off.
“He won’t be looking any more tonight.”
“Do you think he knows that you saw him?”
“I doubt it. He was counting on surprise and didn’t know I was curious about who was in the car. He’ll show tomorrow when we split the money — if we get it from Boggs.”
“He said he’d have it.”
“I’ll call the trio tomorrow and set the meeting for eleven at Seventh Street,” Padillo said. “Price will be there, tweedy as hell, and looking as if he’s just come from communion.”
“Only one more thing,” I said.
“Why did he take a shot at me?” Padillo said.
“That occurred to me.”
“Somebody must have told him to.”
“Who?”
“I could give you a list.”
“You have no idea?”
Padillo shook his head. “None.”
I stood up and looked at my watch. “It’s now three-thirty of a Sunday morning. There are extra toothbrushes in the medicine cabinet. You can argue about who gets the couch if you want to, or work out your own sleeping arrangements. I’m no gentleman. I’m using my own bed.”
“We’ll figure something out,” Padillo said. Sylvia suddenly became busy putting the adhesive tape and the gauze back in the first aid kit.
I walked over to the bar and poured myself a drink. “I’ll say good night. The alarm will be set for eight. With luck, I won’t hear it.”
I went into the bedroom, stripped off my clothes, and sat on the edge of the bed and smoked a cigarette and sipped the Scotch. I set the alarm and put out the cigarette. It had been a long, hard day. I lay back on the bed and closed my eyes. When I opened them again the alarm was ringing and I realized I had to get up and start all over again.
It hardly seemed worthwhile.
I stood in the shower for ten minutes and let the hot water beat on my neck. Then I turned it off. I didn’t try the cold although they say it opens your pores. I didn’t care whether mine were open or closed. Shaving was a problem, but I got through it without cutting anything important, and after I brushed my teeth, I congratulated myself again on the fact that they were all mine. There were a couple of nice gold crowns, far back, but essentially they were the original equipment. I combed my hair, which seemed to take less and less time each day, and then there was nothing else to do but get dressed and meet the new day which would probably be worse than yesterday but better than tomorrow.
Padillo was dressed and sitting on the couch holding a cup of coffee and a cigarette when I crossed the livingroom towards the kitchen.
“The water’s hot,” he said.
“Uh.”
I poured some on top of the coffee, put in a spoonful of sugar, and stirred. I picked up the cup and saucer and went back into the livingroom and sat down carefully. I tried the coffee.
“They’ve got it foolproof,” I said. “It’s impossible to make a good cup.”
“Uh.”
“She still asleep?”
“I think so.”
“How’s your side?”
“Stiff.”
“How was the couch?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
I didn’t have any more questions. Padillo got up and walked into the kitchen and made himself another cup of coffee. The door chimes rang as he came back into the living-room. I got up and opened the door. It was the thin man who had let us into the trade mission, still wearing his black suit and his grave manner.
“Mr. Boggs asked that I deliver this,” he said and handed me a brown paper sack, the kind that you bring the week’s groceries home in. I took it, unfolded the top, and looked inside. There was a lot of money inside.
“Do you want me to sign anything?” I said.
The thin man permitted himself a smile. “That won’t be necessary. Mr. Boggs said he himself would deliver the remainder.”
“Thank Mr. Boggs for me.”
“Yes, sir,” the thin man said and turned to leave. I closed the door.