I took some foresight out of my jacket pocket, a half pint of J&B, and went into the bathroom where I struggled with the sanitary wrapping on a water glass. I poured some of the whisky into the glass, added water, went back into the bedroom, checked the closet to make sure that the suitcase was still there, and sat back down on the edge of the bed to brood some more.
The thieves could have worked it a half-dozen ways, I decided. Both of them could have followed me from New York and called from a pay phone. Or they could have checked into the motel that morning and watched me arrive. Or one of them, the man with the voice that sounded as if he had a mouthful of Band-Aids, could have sat in a parked car, followed my movements through his sunglasses, called the woman, and had her telephone me from their twelve-room duplex on East 62nd Street where she lolled around on the chaise longue while eating hashish-flavored bonbons. Only that didn’t wash because she had talked to somebody when she called me, and it was probably the man with the cottony voice. Or the cat.
My theories had all the substance of a badly spun cobweb so I put down my drink, picked up the phone, and placed a long-distance call to Frances Wingo in Washington. When she came on I said, “This is Philip St. Ives. It was a dry run.”
“You didn’t get the shield?”
“No.”
“But you still have the money?”
“Yes, I still have it.”
“What happened?”
“They tested me to see how well I follow instructions. They’re to get in touch by twelve-thirty tomorrow in Washington at the Madison Hotel. You can do me a favor and make me a reservation.”
“Yes, I will,” she said. “But what happened?”
“I drove to the motel and checked in just like they instructed. A woman called at six, giggled a little, and then told me to be at the Madison tomorrow.”
“Giggled?”
“She seemed to think it was all very funny.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I. But I have no choice except to do what they say.”
“I’ll call Mr. Spencer and tell him what’s happened,” she said.
“All right.”
“He’s growing quite concerned, you know.”
“So am I. You can tell him that I’m just as concerned as he is.”
“Yes,” she said, “I can imagine that you are.” For the first time the tone of her voice edged up above the freezing mark. Not warm yet, but at least some of the chill was gone. “Why do you think they want you back in Washington?”
“I assume that’s where the shield is,” I said. “I also assume that’s where it’s always been. I don’t think it ever left Washington. It’s not something that one would like to lug around part of Manhattan and half of New Jersey.”
“What do you think the chances are for recovering the shield tomorrow? Mr. Spencer will ask.”
“I don’t know. They’re being awfully cagey, but they’re running out of time. I’d guess that there’s a fifty-fifty chance. No better.”
“When will you call tomorrow?”
“When I get the shield back. Or when I’m sure that I won’t get it.”
“Do you want me to call Lieutenant Demeter?”
I thought about that for a moment. “No, don’t call him. I’ll talk to him myself tomorrow.”
We said good-by and I replaced the phone and looked at my watch. It was six-thirty and because I could see no future in fighting the rush-hour traffic, I decided not to leave until seven. I mixed another drink and turned on the television set to a news program which did nothing to cheer me up, but at least gave me the consolation, for whatever it was worth, that a very large number of persons all over the world also had problems, most of which were worse than mine.
At seven I turned the set off, put the key to the room on the dresser, got the suitcase out of the closet, and headed for the rented car. It was still light, daylight-saving-time light, but he materialized at my elbow as if by some kind of magic just as I slammed the lid on the trunk where I’d stored the suitcase.
“Good evening, Mr. St. Ives.”
I turned to look at him. He was wearing a severely cut dark blue suit, white shirt, and a tie that just missed being bashful.
“Ah, the ubiquitous Mr. Ulado. I almost didn’t recognize you in your new suit.”
He smiled and fingered the knot in his tie. “We decided that our other garments had served their purpose.”
“By we, I suppose you mean you and Mr. Mbwato, who must be lurking nearby.”
“Surely not lurking, Mr. St. Ives.”
“It’s a good word and I haven’t had the chance to use it in a long time. Or ‘stealthily’. Another good word that I seldom have the chance to use. It describes the way you move, Mr. Ulado. Where were you hiding, up on the roof?”
“I was waiting behind the next car for you to come out or for the shield to go in.”
“You must be disappointed.”
Ulado smiled politely at that. “If you have a few moments, Mr. Mbwato would like to visit with you.”
“No gun this time?”
“No gun, Mr. St. Ives. Not even a fountain pen.”
“And where is Mr. Mbwato?”
“Just around the corner.”
“I suggest that if Mr. Mbwato wants to talk to me, he can come here. I don’t like to leave my car unattended.”
“Or the $250,000 in its trunk,” Ulado said, smiling again.
“There’s that, too.”
Ulado nodded and disappeared around the corner of the motel. In a few moments the black rented seven-passenger Cadillac drew up alongside my car and the rear door opened. I climbed in and once again Mbwato’s huge presence seemed to transform the Cadillac into an overcrowded Volkswagen.
“Good evening to you, Mr. St. Ives,” he said. He was wearing a medium gray mohair suit, white shirt, and dark blue tie, and the complete outfit had cost him no more than five hundred dollars. They might be starving in Komporeen, I thought, but they still managed to send their emissaries out into the world well draped and well shod.
“I haven’t got the shield,” I said.
“So Mr. Ulado informs me. Pity, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I suppose it is.”
“What happened, Mr. St. Ives?”
“Nothing happened. They just didn’t show up.”
“They?”
“I suppose it’s a they.”
“This was only to test your reliability then?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe they spotted you flouncing around in the Cadillac. Neither you nor it are exactly inconspicuous.”
“Do you mean that they were here at the motel?”
“I didn’t say that. I don’t know where they are. They just called me on the phone and told me the deal was off.”
“But they made another rendezvous, of course.”
There was nothing for me to say to that and Mbwato seemed to realize it. He reached over and patted me on the knee with his left hand which was not much larger than a ping-pong paddle. “Let me assure you, Mr. St. Ives, that if we had been successful in securing the shield this evening, we would have also made certain that you would have retained the funds that are in your trust.”
“You don’t know how relieved I am.”
He gave me the smile then, the one that promised to glow for a thousand hours. “There may come a time when you will welcome our interest and even our participation.”
“I doubt that,” I said.
The smile had vanished. Mbwato was serious now, even grave. “Don’t be too certain, Mr. St. Ives,” he said in a deep, melancholy voice that seemed to rumble up from some forgotten sepulcher.
“I’m not certain about anything.”
That seemed to cheer him up a little. He smiled again and said, “By the way, I took the liberty of ordering a wreath for the funeral of Mr. Frank Spellacy. Anonymously, of course. I hope you approve.”