“No, it doesn’t. But just the same, it opens up a lot of possibilities, wouldn’t you say?”
“Look, why come to me? I don’t know anything.”
“Mrs. Conradin remembers you from the funeral,” Commac said.
“She says you spoke to her at the mortuary.”
“Well, so what?”
“That newspaper clipping I mentioned. It carried general descriptions of the only two bandits whose faces were seen.”
“So?”
“They match both Conradin and you, Mr. Kilduff.”
“For Christ’s sake!” he exploded. “You just said they were general descriptions. I look like a million other guys, and so did Jim Conradin.”
“Sure,” Flagg said. “We know that.”
“Do I strike you as some kind of hoodlum?”
“Nobody said anything about hoodlums.”
“Who else would rob an armored car?”
“Six young guys who thought they had a foolproof scheme worked out,” Commac said. “Maybe ex-soldiers, regimented and disciplined.”
“What is it you’re trying to say, Commac?” Kilduff asked. “That I was one of the six men? That Jim Conradin and I were both in on it? Is that it?”
“Were you?” Commac asked quietly.
Well, there it was. The question. No long speeches now, Kilduff. One word, that’s all, just one word.
Yes.
“No,” he said. “And I resent your accusations.”
“I’m not making any accusations, Mr. Kilduff.”
“What the hell else would you call it?”
“You know,” Flagg said softly, “if you
“If I was involved, and I’m not, I’d still be a fool to admit it.”
“Maybe so,” Commac said.
“Listen, I don’t know where Conradin got that money his wife found and I don’t care. If he was in on that robbery, I never knew anything about it.”
“All right, Mr. Kilduff,” Commac said in a placating way. “Now, suppose you tell us a little more about Conradin.”
He lit another cigarette from the butt of the first one. “Like what?”
“Do you remember the exact date of the last time you saw him?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Just like that? Without consideration?”
“I don’t remember. It was after we were discharged.”
“Then it was in February of 1959.”
“Yes, February.”
“And where was that?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Granite City?”
“No.”
“I thought you didn’t remember.”
“Goddamn it, you’re trying to confuse me!”
“Take it easy, Mr. Kilduff,” Flagg said.
“Christ,” Kilduff said.
“Can you give us the names of some of Conradin’s friends?” Commac asked. “Other than yourself, that is.”
“I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember any of his friends?”
“No.”
“I thought the two of you were buddies?”
“We were.”
“Well, all right. Then give us the names of some of your
I can’t do it, Kilduff thought, I can’t tell them, it’s no use, and I’m going to pieces sitting here. I’ve got to see Drexel, I’ve got to talk it out with him, I’ve got to have some time to think. He got on his feet and stood there trembling. “I don’t have to answer any more of your questions,” he said. “You’ve got no right to come here like this and accuse me, and I don’t have to answer any more.”
They looked up at him impassively.
“Listen,” Kilduff said, “if you think I’m some kind of criminal, why don’t you arrest me? Why don’t you take me downtown and book me and grill me in the back room? Isn’t that the way you people do it?”
“No, that’s not the way we do it,” Commac said softly. “And we couldn’t arrest you if we wanted to. You know that as well as we do. The Statute of Limitations has long since run out on the Smithfield robbery.”
“Then what are you digging it up again for?”
“It’s our job,” Commac said simply.
“Well, I think you’d better leave now. I don’t have any more to say to you.”
They got to their feet in unison. Commac said, “I think you’ve said quite a bit already, Mr. Kilduff.”
They moved unhurriedly to the door and Commac opened it and Flagg said, “We’ll be in touch.” They went out and Commac closed the door very softly behind them.
12
In his room at the Graceling Hotel, the limping man lay in darkness, his hands clasped behind his head, resting, thinking. Through the rain-streaked glass of the single window, he could see the coral-tinged light from some proximate but unseen neon sign blink on and off, on and off, on and off through the thinly falling night mist. Faint automobile sounds drifted through the panes and beneath the wood frame, muted, directionless.
The luminescent dial of his wristwatch read: 10:25.
Five minutes.
Everything was ready. He had all the items he needed—save for the one he would buy on the way—in a large, double-strength shopping bag with braided-twine handles. The Ruger .44 Magnum Blackhawk revolver was freshly oiled and freshly cleaned and freshly loaded, wrapped again in the chamois cloth at the bottom of the American Tourister briefcase. He wouldn’t need it, of course; but it was there, and it was ready. Just in case.
He watched the greenish second hand of his watch sweep another minute away.
10:26.
In one hour, perhaps an hour and a half at the outside, barring difficulties unforeseen, Green would die.
And there would only be Orange.
The limping man smiled faintly in the darkness and swung his legs off the bed and sat up and gained his feet. He found his canvas shoes and put them on, and put on his overcoat, and lifted the shopping bag and the briefcase from the glass-topped surface of the writing desk. He went to the door and opened it and stepped out into the hallway and locked it behind him.
He looked at his watch again.
It was exactly 10:30.
Fran Varner stared at the telephone in the kitchen of her Santa Clara apartment, willing it to ring, willing Larry’s voice to be on the other end, knowing that it wouldn’t ring at all, waiting for a few more minutes to pass so that she could dial his number again for the twentieth or thirtieth time since six o’clock.
