“Our problems are further compounded,” Frances Wingo said, “by the impossibility of keeping the theft from the press any longer. After I informed the Jandolaean Embassy this morning, they insisted that the news be released.”
“That’s understandable,” I said. “Who’s going to announce it?”
“I regret that we must,” she said.
“When?”
“This afternoon. I’ve scheduled a press conference. A spokesman for the Metropolitan Police will be on hand as will a representative of the Jandolaean Embassy.”
“Isn’t that a little unusual?” I said.
“Yes, but I think you’ll agree that the circumstances are unusual.”
I looked around for an ashtray, but found none. Frances Wingo, once more reading my mind, crossed to her desk and came back with one which she placed on the table before me. I lit a cigarette and ignored the mild look of disapproval that appeared on Spencer’s face. It only made him look a trifle more forbidding than normal.
“As thefts go it was unusual,” I said. “Very unusual. Four people were killed — five if you count the guard’s wife who hanged herself. That made it unusual enough to assure it a biennial spread in True Detective for years to come. But what made it really unusual was that there was never any thought of returning the shield. At least not to the museum.”
Spencer chuckled. I had never even seen him smile so the chuckle caught me off guard. It sounded dry and dusty, as if he used it once or twice a year at most, perhaps at Christmas Eve. “Sorry,” he said, “but I’m just recalling that rather lengthy lecture that you gave us when we first approached you about serving as our intermediary. At that time you went to great pains to disavow your responsibility for either the apprehension of the thieves or the solution of the theft. But it seems that last night you actually turned the two thieves, a man and a woman, I understand, over to the police and now you are displaying a certain amount of deductive reasoning in the most Holmesian manner to explain the motive behind the theft. I’m sorry, Mr. St. Ives, but I find it amusing. Why not play your new role to the hilt and tell us that you have deduced where the shield is?”
I ignored him. It’s not easy to ignore a billion dollars, but I did my best. “The theft was planned by Mrs. Wingo’s late husband,” I said.
“That’s not true,” she said, but there wasn’t much conviction in her voice.
“I think it’s true,” I said. “The police think it’s true and the two thieves know it’s true. They told me so last night. Your husband never intended to return the shield to the museum. He did intend to grab the ransom money though. His share would have kept him in heroin for a while and after that, there was always the chance for blackmail.”
“Whom would he blackmail, Mr. St. Ives?” Spencer said.
“The person that he stole the shield for.”
“And I assume that this unnamed person now has the shield?”
“Yes.”
“Remarkable.”
“Not really.”
“So all we need is the name of the person and we can turn him over to the police.”
“That’s right,” I said.
“And you no doubt know who this person is?”
“I think so,” I said.
“You think so; you’re not sure?”
“Fairly sure.”
“Would you tell us?”
“No,” I said. “I’ll tell you, Mr. Spencer, and then, as chairman of the museum’s executive board, you can determine what steps to take. But Mrs. Wingo was married to the man who planned and engineered the theft. As such she comes under suspicion as either an accomplice or an accessory.”
“That is ridiculous,” she said.
“Not ridiculous,” I said. “Not even farfetched. Your husband had an expensive habit. He had exhausted all funds — both yours and his and this was the only way that he could get more. A lot more. As director of the museum, you were in a position to introduce him, casually I assume, to Sackett, the guard. From there on he handled it all except that you were also in a position to tell him about that one door that wasn’t electrically sealed from the inside. The police say it was an inside job. Perhaps they just haven’t figured out how deeply inside it was.”
She stared at me and there was nothing but contempt and loathing in her gaze. I smiled at her, but it was a feeble smile. “It does hang together, you’ll have to admit.”
“You mentioned that you thought that you know who now has the shield,” Spencer said.
“I also said that I’d tell you, but not Mrs. Wingo. If she is an accomplice, and if I’m right about who has the shield, she could easily tip him off.”
“You don’t believe that she has it, do you?” Spencer said.
“Tucked away in the attic perhaps where she can admire it, even gloat over it, during long winter evenings.” He chuckled again for the second time that year.
“No,” I said. “I don’t believe that.”
“Well, Mr. St. Ives, let’s get it over with. My dear, if you’ll excuse yourself.”
She rose and without looking at me or saying anything walked quickly to the door, opened it, and left. Spencer watched her leave. After the door closed he looked at me and this time his green eyes met mine for the first time and held.
“All right, St. Ives. Who?”
I took a deep breath, but it came out as a croak anyway. “You,” I said. “You’ve got the shield.”
Chapter twenty-two
At 4:36 that morning, alone in my hotel room, it had been a much better scene. Spencer had blanched, confounded by the inescapable logic of my accusation. A few drops of perspiration had formed on his upper lip. A tiny vein had started to throb in his temple. Afraid that his hands would develop a telltale tremor, he had thrust them deep into his pockets. Guilt had seeped from every pore and its odor lay heavy in the room. That was at 4:36 A.M. At 11:47 A.M. he did nothing of the kind. For a moment he looked a trifle disappointed, but politely managed to cover that up. His eyes moved away from mine, as if embarrassed. Not for him, but for me.
“I see,” he murmured, and then looked around the room as though he hoped to find something else to talk about, something that would help us both pretend that I wasn’t an utter fool.
It occurred to me then that I would have never made a good cop. There was something lacking. My concept of crime and punishment was skewed. Vengeance was not mine. I was cheerleader for the crooks and a cynic when it came to law and order. And finally, somewhere along the unimproved secondary road that was my life, I had discarded proper veneration for The Job at Hand, a veneration shared in common by all good crooks, cops, and, for that matter, county agents. As a go-between I was an economic grasshopper, a social cipher who in one breath had just accused a billion dollars of being a thief and was about to apologize in the next.
“It all works out,” I said lamely.
“Really,” Spencer said, not at all interested, gazing out the window at the Capitol and frowning slightly as if he thought it could use a new coat of paint.
“First,” the Relentless Inquisitor continued, “you were one of the few persons who knew that George Wingo was an addict. You also knew that he was desperate for money to feed his habit.”
“Mmm,” Spencer said, getting really interested now.
“Second,” I said, “you had enough money to feed it. I don’t know who suggested that he get the guard hooked. I don’t think it matters. At least not to me. But in Wingo you had your engineer and in Sackett your inside man. Through a man named Spellacy in New York Wingo found the thieves. And your go-between.
“Third motive,” I said.