I knew it was my duty to stay with them. I was convinced that the presence of so much cash money on that gambling ship, so large and obvious and available, would have to attract criminals, as bees are attracted to the honey pot. And now we see I was right.”
This was it, this was coming to the point at last. There’d always been something wrong about Cathman, something that didn’t ring true, and it was tied up with his fixation on gambling. And now Parker himself had made an appearance in this diatribe, along with Marshall Howell, and the others, all of them certain underworld characters. And all to what purpose?
Parker read on. More pounding on the dead horse, more self-congratulation. Parker skimmed to the bottom, and moved on to page 3, and midway down it he read:
“My recent contacts with career criminals have made it possible for me to be of very material assistance in capturing the gang involved in the crime and also in recovering at least part of the stolen money. In return for my assistance, which could be obtained nowhere else, and which I am offering freely and completely, I would expect proper publicity for my contribution to the solution of this crime. That publicity must include my reasons for having sought out these criminals in the first place, which is my conviction that gambling inevitably brings crime in its wake. I would need the opportunity to make these views widely known to the public. I would insist on at least one press conference
“
Insane. The son of a bitch is insane. The dead horse is riding him.He’s so determined to prove that gambling leads to crime that he’s got to rig the crime. He went out to find people to commit the crime for him; first Howell, then Parker. Point them at the ship, give them every bit of help they want, so after they do their job he can say, “See? I was right. Gambling led to the robbery, so shut down the gambling ship. And listen to me from now on, don’t shunt me off into retirement, as though I was old and useless and not valuable any more.”
There was no way to make that fly. Was he so far gone into his own dreams, his own fantasy, that he didn’t see it couldn’t work?
Does Cathman really believe he can tell the law he knows details about a robbery, but he won’t give them over unless he gets a press conference? If he clams up, that’s already a crime. He’ll have no choice, once he sends this goddam manifesto to whoever he’s going to send it to the governor, probably, being the megalomaniac lunatic he is he’ll have no choice but to tell the law everything he knows.
And everything he knows is Parker.
“at the tone seven-thirty. Expect high clouds today, seasonable temperatures
“
Cathman’s radio alarm clock. It went on, talking about this and that, and soon it would tell Cathman his designer robbery had come off according to plan. Time he should type up that letter neat and send it out.
Along with what? What else would Cathman have to give? Parker’s name and phone number written down somewhere. Maybe a diary? How much of his own involvement with the heist was he figuring to admit? (They’d get the whole thing out of him in five minutes, which he wouldn’t be likely to realize.)
Cathman is a danger and an irritation and a lunatic, but he has to be talked to, for just a little while, to make sure all of the danger and all of the lunacy is known about. What else are Cathman and his idle hands up to?
Parker folded the four pages, folded them again, put them in his left hip pocket. Then he picked up the Python from the desk and walked down the hall and stopped in the bedroom doorway.
Cathman lay on his back now, pajama’d arms over the covers, still frowning as he stared at the ceiling. He didn’t notice Parker right away, and when the excited news announcer began the story of last night’s robbery all he did was close his eyes, as though the effort to make that robbery happen had merely left him exhausted.
“Turn it off,” Parker said.
Cathman’s eyes snapped open. He stared at Parker in terror. He didn’t move.
Parker pointed the Python at the radio. “Turn it off or I shoot it off.”
Cathman blinked at the gun, at Parker’s face, at the radio. At last he hunched himself up onto his left elbow and reached over to shut it off. Then he moved upward in the bed so he could slump with his back against the headboard. He looked dull, weary, as though his sleep had not been restful. He said, “I didn’t know you’d come here. I didn’t think you’d actually give me the money.”
Parker almost laughed at him. “Give you the money? I just read your confession.”
“My con? Oh. That’s not a confession.”
“The cops will think it is.”
Cathman sat up straighter, smoothing the covers with his hands, looking at Parker more carefully. He had finally realized his survival was at issue here. He said, “You don’t think I intend to mail that, do you?”
“With copies to the media.”
“Certainly not,” Cathman said. He was a bureaucrat, he lied effortlessly. He said, “It occurred to me, there was a remote possibility you people might get caught, and then, what if you implicated me?In that case, I had that letter to show, the letter I would have said I was just about to mail.”
“What else” Parker said, and too late he saw Cathman’s eyes shift, and something solid shut down his brain.
9
Voices, far away, down a yellow tunnel, then rushing forward:
“All I want is the money.”
“Why would I know where any”
“You ranthis thing! It’s yourrob!”
“I never did! I’m not a thief!”
