“Hustler?” said Pete.
“You know about hustlers, don’t you? They pretend they don’t know
how to play a game, and they lure unsuspecting marks into playing with them. Then — whap! They win, and win big! That’s the kind of setup Mr. Pilcher likes. It’s the reason he sometimes employs people who have shady backgrounds. He’s more comfortable when he can hold things over people.”
“That’s only smart, isn’t it?” said Marilyn Pilcher.
No one answered her.
The computer beeped, and a message appeared on the monitor: INCORRECT PASSWORD. TRY AGAIN.
CON ARTIST typed Sanchez.
Again the machine beeped and the message INCORRECT PASSWORD appeared.
“You really are a — a rat!” cried Marilyn.
“We can stop anytime,” said Sanchez coolly. “It was your idea!”
“We can’t stop!” Marilyn insisted. “We have to know. But you needn’t be so insulting. You know business is a game to him. He’s like a high-pressure football coach. Would you like it better if he said a lot of corny stuff about always playing fair? No! You’d think he was a wimp, and you’d be right. Winning! That’s what counts, and you know it!”
Jupe had been watching quietly, his eyes almost sleepy. Now he suddenly came to attention. “A game,” he said. “Your dad talked about business as a game? Could that be a clue to the password?”
Sanchez typed in the word GAME. The machine beeped its discouraging beep.
“Try different games,” suggested Bob. “Try ‘football,’ for a start.”
“Football” was not the answer. Neither was “baseball,” “basketball,” or “hockey.”
“My father doesn’t really care for sports,” said Marilyn. “Try another direction.”
Sanchez keyed in MONOPOLY. “That’s a game Mr. Pilcher would like,” he said.
“Monopoly” was not the password.
“Try ‘poker,’ ” said Pete.
Sanchez ran through “poker,” “gin rummy,” “pinochle,” and “blackjack.”
“Card names,” said Jupe. “Try ‘ace’ or ‘king’.
Sanchez tried. “Ace” and “king” were not it, but when the secretary typed in JOKER, the machine beeped, and this time the beep was triumphant. A different message appeared on the screen, COME ON, LET’S PLAY! invited the computer.
“Hot dog!” crowed Pete.
Sanchez typed a command to the computer: LIST/F.
A long list of names appeared on the monitor. Pilcher had a file on Ariago, and one on Durham, the lawyer. Sanchez recognized the name of the manager of Pilcher’s bank in Visalia and the names of other key employees. There was even a file for Mrs. McCarthy, the housekeeper.
And there was a file entitled “Sanchez.”
“He checked up on you, too,” Bob said to the secretary.
“Of course,” said Sanchez. “He checks up on everybody.”
But Jupe saw that there was a slick of moisture on Sanchez’s face. The secretary was sweating.
Marilyn Pilcher saw it too. “What’s in your file?” she demanded.
“Probably the usual stuff,” said Sanchez. “You know, age, education, stuff like that.”
“I want to see it.” Marilyn’s voice was harsh.
“Marilyn, for Pete’s sake —”
“I want to see it!”
Sanchez shrugged. He pressed a key. The cursor moved to his name on the list. He pressed another key. The list vanished and SANCHEZ, RAYMOND appeared on the monitor, followed by the notation REAL NAME, LUIS ESTAVA. SON OF JORGE ESTAVA. PROBABLY TRYING TO GET SOMETHING ON ME. WILL KEEP HIM AROUND FOR A WHILE. A GOOD WORKER. IT’S FUN TO WATCH HIM SWEAT AND BUMBLE.
Sanchez jumped up and headed for the door. “I’m leaving!” he said. “I won’t be back!”
8
The Mysterious Message
“Good grief!” Marilyn put one hand to her throat. “Ray is Jorge Estava’s son! Why, it could be him! Ray could be the kidnapper!” Jupe raised an eyebrow. “He might be the instigator, but he couldn’t have committed the crime himself. He was at the party the whole time, remember? But why would he want to kidnap your father? Who is Jorge Estava?”
“A man who owns… who owned a tire dealership in West Los Angeles. It had a good corner location. Dad wanted the corner for a high-rise office building. Estava wouldn’t sell, not even when Dad upped his offer, so Dad opened a tire dealership right next door to Estava and undersold him. I mean, really undersold him. Estava tried to hang on, but he couldn’t afford to sell at a loss, and Dad could. In six months Estava folded.”
“So the guy’s son gets a job here, using a fake name,” concluded Bob. “He wants to get back at your father, but your father finds out who he really is. I wonder how Sanchez thought he’d get away with it once he found out that your father has everyone investigated.”
“Perhaps he thought his cover story was good enough to fool an investigator,” said Jupe. He sat down at the keyboard and gave the computer the command to print the complete file on Ray Sanchez. The printer clattered to life, and in half a minute the print-out was ready. Jupe read it aloud to his friends.
Sanchez had used the address and telephone number of a high school friend when he applied for the job with Jeremy Pilcher. A routine background check on Sanchez had turned up nothing suspicious, but Pilcher had a private investigator tail the young man anyway. He learned that Sanchez went to the Estava home in Ocean Park every night when he quit work. Pilcher’s investigator talked to the neighbors, pretending to be from an insurance company, and he learned the truth.
“Well, Sanchez/Estava sure has a motive for the kidnapping,” said Bob. “Only — only he doesn’t seem to me like somebody who’d get violent.”
“He isn’t,” said Marilyn. “And this bishop’s book thing — it doesn’t make sense. Not for Ray Sanchez and… and I don’t feel well.”
She sat down in front of the larger computer and shut her eyes. “I can’t believe it was Ray. If Ray did it, he’d have found a way to sabotage this computer. It must be someone else.”
Jupe nodded. “Okay. Let’s look at some other files.” He called up the file on Ted Ariago.
The information on Ariago looked routine at first. Ariago was a widower. He had no children, and he lived in a town house in the Larchmont area. Before taking the position of manager of the Santa Monica branch of the A. L. Becket Department Store, Ariago had been director of operations at a non-Pilcher enterprise — South’s Specialty Stores. The dossier on Ariago quickly became more than routine. The man had once been arrested and charged with attempting to defraud an insurance company; there had been a fire in a building Ariago owned, the insurance company suspected arson. The charge was dismissed for lack of evidence.
Then, Ariago had left South’s Stores amid rumors that he had taken payoffs from builders and suppliers who worked on projects for the company. There was also a terse note at the end of the file: “Woman-chaser.”
The file on Chuck Durham, Pilcher’s lawyer, was almost as interesting as the one on Ariago. Durham was a gambler, addicted to horse racing, poker, and also to taking some high risks on the stock market. Pilcher suspected him of using funds that he held in trust for some minors, and had threatened to contact the bar association and ask for an investigation of his accounts. Pilcher felt the threat would “keep him in line.”
The file on the man who managed Pilcher’s bank in Visalia showed he had a less-than-honorable discharge from the Navy. Pilcher knew it and let the man know that he knew it.
Jupe called up file after file. One secret after another flashed on the monitor. Even Mrs. McCarthy had her fatal flaw. She was addicted to the weekly bingo games at St. Athanasius’ Parish.
“I don’t think this is getting us anywhere,” said Marilyn Pilcher at last. “All it shows is that… that we had a houseful of people yesterday who hated Dad’s guts. He doesn’t have any friends. I hate that. And I hate it that he took the trouble to find out all this stuff.”