Why she seemed to be stopping the car--there was no sound of her car's tires--before he came out from behind the post.
Why she looked at him so calm and did not appear frightened. Like she expected him to be there.
He sat staring at the pieces of newspaper, thinking again of the notes the creature said he had written, wondering again how he could have given them to the woman, beginning to see the fucking creature was a liar--as a thought related to this lifted him out of the chair.
He went through the kitchen to the garage that was part of the building, and looked in the trunk of his car. There it was in a case--which he opened to make sure--the typewriter he had forgot to drop into Biscayne Bay. He touched the typewriter and the carriage slid out to one side and locked there; he couldn't get it back. So he left the case and took the typewriter into the apartment.
That typewriter got him thinking some more and he sat without moving, letting thoughts of Richard and the woman slide through his mind, seeing the two of them friends, good friends. Seeing the woman, again and again, stopping her car as though she knew exactly where he would be, almost smiling at him, so calm, knowing he wasn't going to hurt her, knowing he was taking pieces of paper.
He sat without moving and thought, Richard isn't coming. Of course not. It was Richard and the woman. He didn't know how. He didn't know why she would be stealing from herself, except that Richard was a liar and maybe she wasn't rich and it wasn't her money they were stealing. Richard was a liar and it was Richard and the woman.
Cundo sat without moving for so long that finally when he moved he knew he would keep moving and get out of here. What was he hiding for? He didn't do nothing. What did he steal, some pieces of newspaper? He didn't have to stay here, he could go any place he wanted...
Because if it was Richard and the woman they wouldn't want him to be caught and talk to the police. So she wouldn't look at pictures and identify him. Afraid he might tell the police about Richard. He would, too.
Uh-oh. It made him think of something else he had forgot about just as he had forgot about the typewriter.
What if it wasn't the woman and the creature stealing the money but the woman and the picture-taker?
He had forgot about that fucking picture-taker.
If he'd had the snubbie when the picture-taker sat in the wheelchair and took his picture... But he had bought the snubbie after, to use on the picture-taker, and then had become too busy preparing to steal a bag of newspapers cut in pieces. Oh, man... crazy.
And thought of the time he walked in the crazy-place in Delray naked, to get information. He had to smile. There was always a way to find out what you need to know.
Sure, call up the woman. Don't worry about the picture-taker, if he's in this or not. What difference does it make?
Call up the woman and ask her she wants to buy a typewriter, cheap. Only six hundred thousand dollars.
See what she says.
Chapter 25
McCORMICK SAID HE DIDN'T WANT to bother her, he could get the manager, with her OK, to let them in. This was Bureau check-list routine, go over any area known to the suspect. Jean said no, it wasn't a bother-- immediately establishing an attitude--she'd be glad to drive up and meet them; not asking, which suspect? In the car she tried on several attitudes from wide-eyed innocence to cold resentment, cutting remarks, but decided she'd been instinctively right on the phone: victim with a passive respect for authority was still the way to play it.
They were waiting downstairs when she arrived, Mr. McCormick and two officers from the Palm Beach County Sheriff's Department with their evidence kits; McCormick explaining they would like to pull a good set of Nobles' prints if they could, also look around in case he might've left something; Jean nodding, following every word, showing how fascinated she was; McCormick saying clues turned up in unexpected places; Jean saying yes, she imagined so; thinking, You sneaky FBI son of a bitch. Both sides buttoned up with respect.
Jean had to play it with a knot in her stomach at first--until McCormick came out of her closet; then, for a while, with mild apprehension. She could have overlooked something. A crumpled sheet of steno paper behind the desk, a scrap of newspaper in the closet. She had gone over the apartment thoroughly once the plan was set. There were no Hefty bags around. No Walther automatic to find unexpectedly. All old Miami and Palm Beach papers had been thrown out...
As apprehension eased, left her, McCormick became fun to watch. Neat but beefy in his seersucker suit, blue Oxford cloth button-down, beige and blue rep tie--he dressed like so many guys she used to know--glancing at his reflections in silver and glass, trying to remain offhand, polite. But losing it as he looked in or behind every closet, cabinet, piece of furniture and found nothing. He did come up with a pair of sunglasses she'd misplaced and her gratitude, at this time and somewhat overstated, apparently rubbed him. With suspicion in his eyes, quiet awareness in hers, he seemed bound to pull out something, if even remotely incriminating.
McCormick said, 'I understand this place was bought for you.'
Jean said, 'That's right.' Nothing to hide.
'But not by your husband.'
'He died,' Jean said. 'A friend bought me the place.'
'A boyfriend?'
'A benefactor.' She loved the word, the prim sound of it. 'You know what he paid? Less than a hundred thousand, back when real estate was relatively sane.'
'I understand,' McCormick said, voice flat, eyes watchful, about to ambush her, 'he was a member of organized crime.'
'A member,' Jean said, smiling. 'As opposed to what, an independent contractor?' Turning the smile then gradually from shy to off. 'That was so long ago.' Getting a little sigh in her tone. 'It was an exciting time and I'm afraid I was, well, impressionable, to say the least. If you will accept that, Mr. McCormick...'
'Jim--'
Wanting to add, Then you'll accept anything.
'But I'm positive this doesn't involve anyone I used to know, Jim... From out of the past.' Starring Bob Mitchum; she'd really wanted the Jane Greer part. Giving him her aware brown eyes straight on. 'Aside from Mr. Zola, of course. He's advised me all through this, suggested I cash in bonds rather than re-mortgage the apartment. I'm not left with much.' Chin up, resolute, but eyes beginning to mist. 'I'll make it though. I can always sell the place, move back to the Coast.' Wistful hint of a smile. 'I know, this is a coast too. But once you've been in film, Jim'--tough line--'there's really only one Coast.'
'I understand,' Jim said.
'I think you should put all your effort into finding Richard Nobles,' Jean said, 'though he's probably far away from here by now.' Looking off, coming back suddenly then to hold his gaze. 'He did mention once he'd love to go out to the Coast, try the movies. Like several hundred others who look just like him try every year, and maybe a couple of them make it in television, wrecking cars. The only thing I can suggest'--sigh, tired but still willing to help--'alert your office on the Coast, send them Richard's picture... and if I should think of anything else in the meantime, Jim...'
Jim told her that once Richard was established as a fugitive the entire Bureau would be on him from Seat of Government through every field office in the country, the case tagged a major.
'I'm flattered,' Jean said.
'Maybe we can have a drink sometime,' Jim said.
'I'd like that,' Jean said. Pause. 'I'd like that very much.'
Not a memorable performance, but not bad. About average. Not nearly as difficult to make convincing as the love scene in Treasure of the Aztecs. God--telling Audie Murphy that neither the sacrificial dagger of Montezuma nor the conquering sword of Cortes could stop her heart, her pagan heart, from throbbing with desire, 'my golden Lord.' And Audie in his jerkin and codpiece squirming, eating it up. She wondered if she could update it and run it past
