Frances Wingo needed another sip of water. “Last Friday, at 11:15 in the morning, I received a call from a man who seemed to be speaking with a voice that he artificially muffled. He informed me that the shield would be returned in exchange for the sum of $250,000. He then insisted that Mr. St. Ives here was to serve as the intermediary, or go-between. He gave me the name of Mr. St. Ives’ attorney in New York, said that more details would be forthcoming, and then hung up. I immediately called the police, told them what had happened, and then called Mr. Spencer. He authorized me to call Mr. Myron Greene who is Mr. St. Ives’ attorney and to arrange this meeting of the executive committee and Mr. St. Ives. I have heard no more from the man who demanded the $250,000.”
She stopped again and took another sip of water. I expected her to go on, but she remained silent and the silence lasted almost thirty seconds until Spencer spoke.
“I recommend that we pay the $250,000 — plus Mr. St. Ives’ fee which is, I’m informed, ten percent.” He addressed his remarks once again to the imaginary guest at the end of the table.
“We are responsible, I suppose,” Senator Kehoel said.
“What about insurance?” Teague said.
“We’re covered,” Spencer said.
“So it’s all right then,” Teague said.
It was the wrong thing to say. Spencer shifted his green gaze from the imaginary guest to Teague. “No,” he said, “it is not all right. This museum has suffered the theft of a priceless, irreplaceable work of art, one that threatens to cause an international incident. Furthermore, the museum’s reputation for security has been damaged, perhaps irreparably. No, Mr. Teague, it is not all right.”
Senator Kehoel hurried to say something while the flush rose in Teague’s face. “Perhaps we should first determine whether Mr. St. Ives is willing to serve as intermediary. Are you?”
“Yes,” I said. “I suppose I am.”
“And to help apprehend the thieves?” Spencer asked.
“I’m afraid that’s not my job,” I said.
“Twenty-five thousand dollars should buy something more than a messenger boy,” Spencer said.
“It does,” I said. “It buys you a link to the shield, something you don’t have right now. All you’ve got is a phone call from a muffled voice and you really don’t know if it’s for real or a hoax. But you’ve already made your decision: you’ve decided that you want the shield returned more than you want the thieves caught and you’re willing to pay a quarter of a million dollars for what you want. Of course, what you’d really like is to get the shield back and the thieves caught at the same time. It’s an understandable reaction. Just about everyone would have it, but it doesn’t work that way.”
Spencer was once more staring at the spot an inch or so above my left eyebrow. “How does it work, Mr. St. Ives?” he said.
“You pay me twenty-five thousand dollars to make sure that you don’t pay a quarter of a million for nothing. It’s happened before, of course, especially in kidnaping cases where the ransom has been paid and the kidnap victim has been killed. The go-between business is really a matter of trust. You trust me with a quarter of a million in cash because you believe I won’t part with it until I’m convinced that I can get the shield back. The thieves trust me because they’re convinced that they won’t wind up with a suitcase full of cut-up newspaper and a couple of hundred cops popping up from behind the bushes. And the cops trust me because they know that I’ll give them every scrap of information about the thieves that I get — once the shield is returned. And finally, the twenty-five thousand pays me for whatever risk I take. There’s always the chance that I’ll wind up with a bullet in my back, you with nothing, and the thieves with a quarter of a million and an African shield that they can hang up in the living room next to the Playboy calendar.”
“And that’s as far as your services go?” Frances Wingo said.
“Yes,” I said. “That’s as far as they go and I think it’s far enough considering the risk involved. If what you think you need is a little derring-do, someone who’ll meet the thieves at the old mill at midnight, whip out his Smith & Wesson, and cart them, a 50-pound suitcase full of money, and a 68-pound shield down to the nearest precinct station, then I’m not a candidate for the job. I’m not even a dark horse.”
“That could be the reason that the thieves insist that you serve as go-between, Mr. St. Ives,” Spencer said, still fascinated by the spot on my forehead. “You must have something of a reputation for caution.”
“Some might call it cowardice,” I said.
“Yes,” Spencer said, “I suppose that some might.” He shifted his gaze from my forehead to the imaginary guest at the end of the table. “I recommend that we engage Mr. St. Ives to carry out the negotiations for the return of the shield. Senator?”
Senator Kehoel nodded. “I agree.”
“Mr. Teague?” Spencer said.
“He has my vote,” Teague said.
“Then it’s agreed,” Spencer said. “You will accept the assignment, Mr. St. Ives?”
“Yes,” I said, “provided you accept the conditions I’ve mentioned.”
“They are acceptable,” Spencer said. “Is a deposit or a retainer the usual form?”
“One half,” I said.
“Will you see to it, Mrs. Wingo?” he said.
“Of course,” she said.
“Now that you’re the museum’s official go-between,” Spencer said, “what will be your first move?”
“I’ll go back to New York and wait for someone to call or write me a letter or send a telegram.”
“You won’t remain here in Washington?”
“When whoever stole the shield asked for me, they knew that I lived in New York, so I assume that’s where they’ll get in touch with me.”
“You think the exchange will be made there, Phil?” Teague said.
“It could be,” I said. “There or here or Kansas City or Miami. They might be moving around.”
Spencer got up slowly from the table. “You’ll keep us informed through Mrs. Wingo,” he said.
“Yes.”
As the rest of us began to rise the bartender-waiter hurried over with a telephone. “It’s for you, Mrs. Wingo,” he said. “Your secretary says it’s important.” She nodded and he plugged the phone into a jack underneath the table.
After she said hello she said, “Yes, Lieutenant,” and then she listened for several moments. Finally she said, “I’m sorry to hear that, but thank you for calling.” She hung up the phone and the waiter unplugged it and took it away.
“That was Lieutenant Demeter of the Metropolitan Police Robbery Squad,” she said. “Two children playing in Rock Creek Park discovered the body of a dead man. He’d been shot. He was identified as John Sackett, the guard who didn’t show up for work Friday morning.”
Chapter four
When the young negro secretary with the pleasant smile brought the machine-signed check in, Frances Wingo merely glanced at it and then pushed it across her desk to me with the eraser of the unsharpened yellow pencil that she kept bouncing against the inlaid wood.
“You may still back out, right?” she said as I put the check away in my wallet.
“I’ve been thinking about it.”
“Because of what happened to the guard?”
“It did give me a new perspective.”
“The obvious one?”
“Obvious to me anyway.”
“You mean whoever killed the guard stole the shield?”