Another problem. It had been smart of Uhl to do that, pick somebody on the outside to hole up with, somebody that didn’t have any connections to his bent life, but now that everything was blown open it made for complications. With Rosenstein and Parker both descending on him, this Ed Saugherty would probably be calling copper or anyway confusing the issue.
Parker said, “Where does Ed Saugherty live?”
“Philadelphia.”
Another drive. Ninety miles this time. If it weren’t such a time-consuming pain in the ass it would be comic.
Parker asked for the address and wrote down Uhl’s answer. He then had Uhl describe the house, give physical descriptions of Saugherty and the other members of his family, and give a general description of the neighborhood.
A solid, middle-class family in a solid, middle-class development. All very straight, all very innocent, all having no idea how to handle the kind of situation they were in now. With Saugherty’s wife already giving her husband static about Uhl, according to Uhl. What would she be doing with Rosenstein and Parker descending on the household?
In fact, with Rosenstein a day ahead of him, there was no telling what sort of situation existed down there now. The thing could have blown wide open to the cops. Rosenstein could have been in and gotten the money and gone away already. A lot could have happened. Parker could pick Uhl’s brain clean and he’d still be going down there to a blind situation. He could be walking to a house full of law, or a house full of Rosenstein, or even a house where Ed Saugherty had grabbed himself a gun and gone on the alert. Anything could have happened; anything could happen next.
Parker next asked, “Who else knows about the money besides you and me arid Rosenstein and Ed Saugherty?”
“Nobody.”
“Not Barri Dane?”
“No.”
“Not Joyce Langer?”
“No.”
“You’ve been with Ed Saugherty, and Barri Dane, and Joyce Langer. You went to Lew Pearson’s, when you shot him. Where else have you been?”
“Nowhere.”
“Haven’t you seen anybody else?”
“No.”
All right. At least he now was sure of how many were in the game. The odds were still against him, but at least he knew how many were playing. He folded the piece of paper and put it away in his pocket. Then he got to his feet and left the bedroom.
The phone was in the living room, beside the sofa. Joyce Langer was still unconscious. Parker sat down near her feet and dialed the Philadelphia number he’d gotten from Uhl.
It was answered on the second ring by a noncommital voice that asked, “Hello?”
“Ed Saugherty?”
“Speaking,” said the voice. It was vaguely reminiscent.
“I’m calling for George,” Parker said. “You know who I mean?”
“Of course,” said the voice. “Where is George?”
“He thinks it would be safer for you if you didn’t know,” Parker said. “But he wants the money. You know, the suitcase?”
“The suitcase? Oh. Yes, the suitcase.” But the voice seemed doubtful. And it was reminding Parker of something or somebody.
“He wants you to bring it up to New York,” Parker said.
“Sure,” said the voice. “Where is it?”
It wasn’t Saugherty. Saugherty knew where the money was; Saugherty was the only one on earth who knew where the money was. This wasn’t Saguherty.
Then Parker recognized the voice at last, and without saying anything more he hung up and headed for the bedroom.
The voice had been Paul Brock’s.
Four
Uhl was lying there like the body at a wake, his face expressionless. Parker stood beside the bed and said, “Can you open your eyes?”
In a faraway voice Uhl said, “I don’t know.”
“Try.”
Uhl’s eyelids raised. His eyes looked up toward the ceiling, but they didn’t seem to be focused on anything.
“Try sitting up,” Parker said.
