Cast a Yellow Shadow (8 page)

“It is in any country,” Padillo said, holding the door open.

We took the zebra-striped cross walk at Connecticut and De Sales. Underhill walked slightly ahead of us at a brisk pace, puffing on his pipe, his thin arms swinging. Padillo moved more slowly, wincing slightly.

“The cut bothering you?” I asked.

Padillo started to say something but the car came out of the space in front of the drugstore and was going at least thirty-five when its bumper caught Underbill's knees and its hood found his chest and slammed him to the pavement. Padillo, slightly behind me, caught my arm and jerked me back. But it wasn't necessary. The green Ford missed me by at least two feet. It rolled over the thin grey man who taught Romance languages and who had no idea as to how he would go about killing someone. Its left rear wheel rolled over his head. The car picked up speed, slowed for a corner at L Street, turned right and disappeared. A man seated by the driver looked back once.

Padillo ignored the pain in his side and moved quickly to Underhill. A crowd formed and everyone was saying “get an ambulance,” but nobody did anything about it. The pipe that Underhill had been smoking lay a foot from what had been his head. Its ashes were spilled on the pavement.

Padillo knelt by the body and his hands went quickly through the pockets. He glanced up at the circle of faces that stared down at him. He picked out one. “Call an ambulance,” he said to a young man. “He's still alive.” The man turned and ran towards the drugstore. Padillo rose and backed into the crowd. I was next to him. We turned and walked down the street towards K, away from the crowd.

“I got his key,” Padillo said.

“Let's try it.”

The LaSalle hotel is about one-third commercial offices, one-third transients, and the remaining third permanent guests who like living downtown. There are no chairs in the small lobby and no one watches who takes the automatic elevators. We took one and got off on the seventh floor and followed the numbers down to the end of the hall. Underhill had a nine-dollar room that had twin beds, an air-conditioner and a television set that was old enough not be be able to get the UHF stations. His worn pigskin suitcase was in the closet along with another tweed suit and an old Burberry raincoat. Their pockets contained nothing; neither did his suitcase.

Padillo went through the bureau drawers while I investigated the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. It had a badger hair shaving brush, soap, a toothbrush and paste, some dental floss, a set of military hairbrushes, and a comb with some grey hairs in it. The items were all neatly arranged. Underhill may have had a cluttered mind, but he kept his personal effects tidy.

Padillo found the address we were looking for in a bureau drawer. It was written in a small black Leathersmith notebook which listed Underbill's wife under the line that read: “In the event of an accident please notify:” I copied the address in Washington that we wanted and Padillo ran through the rest of the notebook quickly. “There's nothing else that seems to be of any use,” he said and tossed it back in the drawer. “I did find this,” he added. He held up an envelope-shaped briefcase and unsnapped it for me. It was packed with five-pound British notes done up neatly in bundles and the label on each bundle said that it contained five hundred pounds.

“The seventeen thousand,” I said.

“Probably.”

“Shall we take it?”

“Better us than the Van Zandt crowd,” Padillo said. “We can get it back to his wife who'll know where it came from.”

“She seemed to know everything.”

“At least she knew about the address of the secret house. What was it?”

“The 2900 block on Cambridge Place, Northwest.”

“You know where it is?”

“Vaguely. It's in Georgetown.”

“That's hardly a Negro district.”

“Not for the past thirty-five years or so.”

“We'd better go back to my place and see if I've had any calls.”

We took the elevator down and crossed Connecticut. On the other side of the street, just across from the Mayflower, a pair of D.C. Accident Investigation cars were drawn up to the curb, their red and white lights blinking and circling. Two policemen were asking questions of some persons who kept shaking their heads as if they knew nothing. Another policeman was measuring something with a tape, and another one was sprinkling sand or sawdust on what looked to be a wet spot on the pavement. Evelyn Underhill had been taken away. I found myself wondering if it had been his first trip to the United States.

We rode the elevator upstairs and as Padillo opened the door with his key we could hear the telephone ring. He crossed the room, answered it, and turned to me. “It's for you,” he said.

I said hello and the voice on the other end said: “You don't seem overly concerned about the continued well-being of your wife, Mr. McCorkle.” It was a voice that just escaped being British. It was closer to an Australian or a Cape Town accent.

“I'm concerned,” I said. “Do you have my wife?”

“Yes, we do. Until now she has been quite comfortable. But you have been disobeying our instructions, Mr. McCorkle. Those instructions were quite explicit.”

“Let me talk to my wife.”

“You were instructed to tell no one about Mr. Padillo's assignment.”

“We've told no one,” I said. “I want to talk to my wife.”

“You talked to Underhill.”

“I can't help who comes into a hotel room.”

“What did Underhill want, Mr. McCorkle?”

“He wanted to stay alive for one thing. Just put my wife on the phone.”

“Did you tell him about Mr. Padillo's assignment?”

“We didn't have to tell him; he already knew. Somebody's wife told him; maybe it was yours. Now can I talk to mine?”

“Does Mr. Padillo plan to carry out his assignment? I must again caution you, we are deadly serious.”

“Yes,” I said. “He plans to carry it out, but only if I talk to my wife and find out whether she's still alive.”

“Very well, Mr. McCorkle, you may say hello to Mrs. McCorkle.”

“Fredl—are you all right?”

“Yes, darling, I'm all right; just terribly tired.” Her voice was quiet, almost resigned.

“I'm doing everything I can. Mike's here.”

“I know. I heard.”

“Are they treating you all right?”

“Yes, they're treating me fine, but—” And then her voice broke off and she screamed and the man's voice came back on the phone.

“We have treated her well, up until now, Mr. McCorkle. You see, we really are in earnest.”

Then he hung up.

EIGHT

I stood in the room and held the phone in my hand and stared at it. Then I put it back where it belonged and turned to Padillo. “They made her scream,” I said. “They hurt her somehow and made her scream.”

He nodded and turned away to look out the window. “They won't keep it up. They did it for effect.”

“She doesn't scream much,” I said. “She didn't scream just because they turned a mouse loose in the room.”

“No. They hurt her. They probably twisted her arm, but they won't keep on doing it. They have nothing to gain. She doesn't know where we hid the emeralds.”

“I don't think I can just sit here much longer.”

“We have to wait,” he said.

“I'd like to wait while I'm doing something.”

“You're cracking,” he said. “That's doing something.” He walked over to where I stood by the phone. “You may as well memorize this: Either they'll kill her or we'll get her loose, but we can't do that if you crack because she didn't get to take her nightie.”

“If I'm cracking, it's because I believe them. I'm impressed. My wife's screams have a certain effect on me. I'd believe them if they said they were going to nominate her Miss Department of Commerce.”

“We wait,” Padillo said and his voice was like the snap of a whip. “The waiting's part of their pressure. It's hard and they know it's hard and they also know that her screams will make you jumpy about any rescue plan we come up with. But if we don't come up with one, she's dead. And you and I aren't good enough to operate by ourselves. Maybe a few years ago, but not now. We need help. We have to wait for that help.”

“We wait,” I said.

“All right,” he said. “We wait.”

I forced myself to mix a drink and turn on the television set and watch a program that asked a panel of scruffy housewives to guess the total cost of a hydroplane, a home printing press with three fonts of type, a case of suntan oil, and a year's supply of cream of potato soup. I guessed $29,458.42. I guessed it aloud, but a woman from Memphis won with a guess of $36,000. I would have liked to have the printing press.

“You watch television much?” Padillo asked.

“Some,” I said. “It's like China. If you ignore it, it just gets worse.”

Padillo tried pricing the next batch of goodies and placed a poor third, well behind a blonde from Galveston and a grandmother from St. Paul. The grandmother won a motor scooter, some electric stilts that looked interesting, a scholarship to a photography school, a four-foot world globe, and a Japanese sports car. Padillo said he would have liked to have the globe.

The telephone rang and I switched off the set as Padillo answered. It seemed to be long distance and after the operator made sure it was Padillo, she let him say hello. Then he listened. After he was through listening he said: “I'm calling that loan you have with us. I have to call it today.” He listened some more and then said: “Good. I'll expect you at this address.” He gave the address on Fairmont street where Hardman's girl friend lived. Then he said goodbye and replaced the phone. “That was Jon Dymec calling from New York. He's at La Guardia and just missed the shuttle. He'll catch the next one.”

Within the next half-hour the phone rang twice and each time Padillo repeated his terse conversation. He didn't have to argue or explain or cajole. All he did was to mention that he was calling the loan.

“Friends of yours?” I asked.

“Hardly.”

“Who, then?”

“Agents I have known. Dymec is a Pole and works for Polish intelligence. He's got a UN cover, but spends most of his time in Washington. The girl Magda Shadid works for both Hungary and Syria, and they both probably know it but keep her on because she's inexpensive and they don't have too many secrets that they give a damn about not sharing anyhow. The last one, Philip Price, is British and uses a soft-drink company as his cover.”

“What's the handle you have on them?”

“I doubled all three of them. They all work for Uncle Sam now.”

“And if they don't go along, you'll tattle to their original employers.”

“That's it—except that I don't leave myself quite that open. There are the usual envelopes that our lawyer in Bonn would mail. It's old, but it works.”

“Didn't he think you were dead? He told me how sorry he was that you were.”

“I told him to. I called him from Switzerland.”

“He was my lawyer, too,” I said.

“He's very discreet, isn't he?”

“The British wouldn't kill Price just because he's a double agent.”

“No, but the loss of the fifteen hundred dollars a month we pay him might. If he weren't a British agent, he'd be off the U.S. payroll.”

“Any of them know each other?”

“I don't think so, but they may by reputation. They're not amateurs, and the pros in any business get to know the competition.”

“They must be very fond of you.”

Padillo shrugged and grinned. “They didn't cross over because they had a change of heart. They doubled when I offered them money. It's a soft berth, and they don't want to lose it. That's why I can put the pressure on them like this—once; I'd hate to try it twice.”

There was a knock on the door and Padillo went to answer it. It was Mustapha Ali and he and Padillo went through their formal Moslem greeting.

“Man, you sure can rattle it off,” Mush said. “How you, Mac?”

“Fine.”

“Hard said to carry you over to Betty's. You ready?”

“We're ready,” Padillo said. “I just want to put this in the hotel safe.” He picked up the leather case that contained the seventeen thousand pounds that he was supposed to earn for not killing Van Zandt and we took the elevator down to the lobby. We found the assistant manager and got the briefcase stored away and then we got in the Buick that Mush drove. It was parked in a tow-away zone, but it didn't have a ticket.

“That TV set in the back along with the phone makes 'em think that the cat who owns this machine would just get a ticket fixed anyhow,” Mush said. “It's good as diplomatic plates.”

We turned up Seventeenth Street to Massachusetts, went around Scott Circle, and took Rhode Island to Georgia Avenue. The traffic at four-thirty in the afternoon wasn't heavy, and Mush made good time, driving the Buick hard with a lot of skillful use of its power brakes.

“If a man wanted to defend himself in this town,” Padillo asked, “what kind of gun could he lay his hands on?”

Mush turned his head to look at Padillo. “You wanna grease gun?”

“Pistol.”

“Fancy shooting or close up?”

“Close up.”

“Get you a Smith and Wesson .38 belly-gun.”

“Can you get two?”

“No trouble.”

“How much?”

“Hundred each?”

“They're sold. Now if I wanted to get a knife, what would I do?”

“Switchblade or shakeout?”

“Switchblade.”

“You wanna throw it?”

“No.”

“I'll get one. Be fifteen dollars.”

“You want a switchblade, Mac?” Padillo asked.

“Just make sure it's got a pearl handle,” I said. “I've always wanted a pearl-handled one.”