Pelotta who knows me. Bring him here and let him identify me. His name is Tom Roche. He
owns a cafe.”
“That’s right,” Riskin said. “I’ve talked to him. His name was in the paper. He and his wife,
Alice, and a guy named Solly Brant, identified the body. Because you read about them,
you’re imagining they are your friends.”
I clutched hold of his arm.
“Identified what body?”
“Farrar’s body. Here, take a look at this. You’ll find it all there, just as I told you.”
He took a newspaper out of his pocket and gave it to me. It was all there, just as he had told
me, but there was one thing he had missed out. It said in the paper that I had stolen the
Bentley, and the owner hadn’t come forward to claim it.
I threw the paper on the floor. I felt I was suffocating.
“I’ve tried to trace the Bentley,” he went on, “but the licence plates are phoney. I have
traced the Buick.”
“You have! Who does it belong to?” I asked in a strangled , voice.
“To you, boy. Your name is John Ricca, and your address is 3945, Apartment 4, Franklin
Boulevard, Lincoln Beach.”
“You’re lying!”
“I wish you’d take it easy,” he said. “I told you it’d take a little time for you to accept what
I’m telling you. You’ve been identified.”
It only needed that.
“Who identified me?”
“Your cousin. That’s why you’re in this private room. As soon as he found out who you
were, he arranged for you to have the very best treatment.”
“I haven’t a cousin, and my name’s not Ricca!” I cried, pounding the sheet with my fist. “I
57
don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“He’s your cousin all right. He took a look at you last night when you were asleep. He
identified you right away. The car’s registration clinches it.”
“I don’t believe a word of it!” I was shouting at him. “I haven’t a cousin, I tell you! Do you
hear me! I’m Farrar!”
He scratched his ear while he looked at me. There was that exasperated but kindly
expression on his face people get when they are talking to lunatics.
“Well, look, boy, try to take it easy. Maybe you’d better see him. Maybe you’ll know him
when you see him.”
My heart skipped a beat, then began to race.
“Him? Who do you mean? What are you talking about?”
“Your cousin, Ricca. He’s waiting outside.”
III
He came into the room as silently as a ghost: a short, fat man with a pot belly and short,
thick legs. His face was round and fat, and small, purple veins made an unsightly network
over his skin. He had snake’s eyes, flat and glittering and as lifeless as glass. He was going
bald, and had taken pains to spread his thinning black hair over the bald patches without
much success. His thick, red lips were set in a meaningless, perpetual smile.
One thing I was certain of: I’d never seen him before in my life.
Everything about him shrieked of money: his clothes, his linen, his personal jewellery were
the best money could buy. He had a diamond ring on his little finger: the stone was as big as a
pigeon’s egg.
He came silently across the room: his feet making no sound on the parquet floor. In his
right hand he carried a large bunch of blood-red carnations, carefully wrapped in tissue paper.
