Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 51, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2006
- Автор: Бетанкур Джон Грегори, Jr. William J. Carroll,
- Год: 2006
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines/Crosstown Publications
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 51, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2006». Краткое содержание книги:
“I’ll borrow it and play it back for him. He won’t dare return. End of problem!”
Smith shook his head. “You overly complicate things, Pit. Remove him and move on with your life.”
“That’s not an option.”
“Your plan is ridiculous.”
“But you’ll help me,” I said.
He shrugged. “I find it fairly amusing. But once it’s done, I have a real job for you in Las Vegas. One for which you are uniquely qualified.”
“As long as I don’t have to break the law,” I said, “I’ll go. I always keep my word.”
The dealer asked, “Ready, gentlemen?” He had finished stacking the cards in the shoe.
Smith excused himself. The prince and I both anted, and our game began anew.
By the time Bob returned, I had won another hundred and forty thousand. A new crowd gathered beyond the velvet ropes. Bob eased his way to the front and signaled me by tapping his wristwatch. Time to catch our plane.
“That’s it for me,” I said, rising. I tossed the dealer a thousand dollar chip. “Thanks for everything.”
“Thank you, sir!” he said, beaming.
I gathered my winnings onto a tray, then limped to the cashier’s station. Mr. Smith sat comfortably ensconced behind the brass grill.
“How much did you win?” he asked in a low voice as I passed him my chips.
“One-point-two million,” I whispered smugly, “plus change.”
“It’s a good thing you were playing with the house’s money. How soon do you want to be abducted?”
“As we leave. We’ll go through the doors onto Atlantic Avenue. Do you have a pen and paper?”
“Here.” He slid them over to me.
I jotted down wiring instructions for the money and passed it back.
“Might as well go through the motions,” I said. “May I have a receipt for the wire?”
Chuckling, he made one up. I tucked it into my little notebook, which I kept in hand as I limped off for the Atlantic Avenue doors. There Bob Charles waited impatiently, pretending to study a marquee. I paused beside him. From the corner of my eye, I saw men in black suits starting to converge on us.
“I already wired the money to my Brazilian account from the courtesy counter. But I don’t think they’re going to let me leave here safely.” Casually, I dropped the notebook. “Cover that with your foot. Pick it up when I’m out the door — they can’t find it on me. It has the passcodes for my anonymous bank accounts. If I can, I’ll catch up at the airport.”
Without bothering to retrieve my coat or bag from the checkroom, I headed for the door. The bellman opened it for me, and shivering at the sudden cold, I stepped outside.
Smith’s men followed on my heels — goons built like refrigerators. I had seen both of them before at Smith’s illegal casino outside of Philadelphia.
A white Town Car sat idling in front, and they grabbed my elbows and hustled me inside. I didn’t struggle.
As I twisted around, we accelerated into traffic. I glimpsed Bob running out the front door. He stood there, staring after me, a look of anger on his face.
He cared what happened to me. I saw it, and in that moment I knew I had made the right decision. Better to handle him myself than let Smith and Jones do it. He was basically a decent guy.
“Thanks, fellows,” I said to the goons.
Mr. Smith sat in the front passenger seat. He opened a small window in the bulletproof partition separating our seats.
“Where next?” he asked. “The airport?”
“Take a ten minute drive, then back to the casino. I have to pick up my coat and bag. Then I’ll catch the bus home.”
“You heard the man,” Smith said to our chauffeur.
“Yes, sir!” he said.
The goons and I settled back.
We didn’t even make it five blocks — police cars with blinking lights cut us off, front and back. Our driver slammed on the brakes; we fishtailed, then came to a screeching halt.
As uniformed officers leaped from their cars with drawn weapons, Smith’s goons reached for their guns.
“Don’t do that,” I said in a low voice. “This has to be a mistake.”
A bullhorn blared: “Get out of the car with your hands up!”
“I’m not happy, Pit,” said Mr. Smith. He got out of the car and raised his hands. The chauffeur and goons did the same.
Slowly, painfully, I followed.
“You are in big trouble,” Smith told the policemen who advanced. “Do you know who I am?”
None replied. They forced his hands onto the roof of his Town Car and began frisking him. Another officer began reading us all our Miranda rights.
That’s when I spotted Bob Charles sitting in one of the patrol cars. He must have gone running to the cops instead of taking off for Brazil with my money. I nodded to him, and he grinned back.
“That’s him — that’s Peter Geller!” he said, climbing out and pointing at me. “They were kidnapping him!”
A police lieutenant took my elbow and drew me to one side. “Mr. Charles flagged down a patrol car,” he said, “and reported your abduction. He said you won big at the casino and they weren’t going to let you keep it. Is that true?”
“No,” I said emphatically. I gestured at the Town Car and Mr. Smith. “This is some kind of misunderstanding. I work for the casino. These men are all friends of mine. We were taking an early supper.”
The lieutenant frowned. “What about the money he said you won? More than a million dollars, wasn’t it?”
“Nonsense. I was playing with the casino’s money. Here — see for yourself!”
I pulled out the yellow copy of the form I’d signed. The lieutenant scanned it, snorted, then said to the other cops:
“Let them go. We’ve made a mistake.”
“Thank you,” said Mr. Smith. He straightened his tie and jacket.
The lieutenant stalked back to Bob, and they exchanged heated words. Bob read the yellow form, then stared at me in disbelief. When the lieutenant made Bob get out and lean up against the hood of the police car, I watched with amusement.
Of course, the officer turned up two wallets — one of them mine — plus the notebook of bank account numbers and plane tickets. He studied them, then stalked back to me.
“Is this yours?” He held out my wallet.
“Yes. Bob was holding onto it for me.”
He frowned. “And two tickets to Rio?”
“Also mine.”
“Notebook?”
“Yep. Mine.”
His eyes narrowed. He knew something odd had gone down, but for the life of him he couldn’t figure it out.
“I think you all had better come with me to the station,” he said.
I shrugged. “As you wish.” To Mr. Smith, I said, “Perhaps you can recommend a good lawyer?”
“He’ll meet us there,” Smith said grumpily, reaching for his cell phone.
I rode in the back of the police car with Bob. The cops hadn’t bothered to handcuff either one of us. Mr. Smith and his goons were following in their Town Car.
“Are you insane?” Bob demanded. “I just saved your life! Why are you doing this to me?”
“Maybe I’m a little bit cranky, but I’m hardly insane.” I chuckled. “You asked me to kick your tires, Bob. Congrats. You passed the test.”
His breath caught in his throat. “A... test. This whole thing...”
“That’s right. And I can almost recommend you to Davy Hunt.”
“Almost?”
“There’s one matter you still have to take care of.”
He looked puzzled. “I don’t understand...”
“Janice.”
He paled. “How... how do you know—”
“Trick brain, remember?” I grinned. “Tell the police how Janice tried to set up Davy using the two of us, and I’ll get you cleared of all charges by morning.”