I said, 'You're digging your own grave.'
'What?'
'This so-called kidnapping is right in character for you. You stage the abduction, stir up lots of attention and sympathy for the strike campaign-and collect a hundred grand to finance the rest of the drive. I'll bet Dot Fisher doesn't know about it though, does she? Dot's unconventional, but still a bit old-fashioned in certain inconvenient respects, right?'
He stared at me open-mouthed. 'You think that? You think I'd do that to Dot?'
'So, where did the finger come from? Explain.'
'Look… I…' He was sweating, fidgeting, balling up little wads of chest hair between his fingers. 'Look, it is true that I knew it wasn't Peter's finger in that box. Of course I knew. But the reason I kept my mouth shut about it was not the reason you think. I just thought-I figured that the kidnappers-cops probably-were using the finger to scare us. To scare Dot especially, and impress on all of us just how vicious they could be.
'And since we were already having a hard enough time getting that Bowman asshole to believe us, to take Peter's disappearance seriously, it seemed better if I just… kept my mouth shut. And also-Well, shit, I was afraid somebody like you would have heard about-about my reputation.
And that you'd think Peter and I set the whole thing up. Just like you do now. God, that's the truth!'
'Uh-huh. That's what I thought too, Fenton. At first. When I saw that the finger wasn't Peter's, and knew that you must have known it wasn't, I guessed that you were keeping mum in order to feed Bowman's sense of urgency. But I didn't know so much about you then. Now I do. And I have become skeptical. Highly so.'
'How did you know it wasn't Peter's finger?'
'Dunno. Guess I'm just one of those people who once he's seen a finger never forgets it.'
'Do the cops know this? What you think?'
'Not yet.'
'Don't tell them. Please. It's not true! You'll just put Peter in more danger!'
I said, 'Fenton, you're a self-avowed ruthlessly devious liar and con man. All for the larger cause. Wicked means to a just end. Pulling a stunt like this would be right in character for you. It fits the pattern.'
'That is not true. You're talking like Bowman now. Use friends like that? Brothers and sisters?
Never!'
'It's not your friends you're using. It's me. Strachey, the Millpond flack. I'm the one who came up with the hundred grand.'
'Yes, but-I wouldn't have known it would work out that way, would I? When the ransom note came-and the finger-it was sent to Dot. Obviously by someone who knew that she would be able to get hold of a lot of money from Millpond if she absolutely had to. Somebody so rotten he didn't care at all if Dot lost her home. Do you think I would do that?'
'Nnn. I don't know.'
'Or Peter? You've seen what kind of person Peter is. Would he do a thing like that to Dot? Or to anybody?'
'No. I expect not. Unless… unless he didn't know. You could have gotten rid of Peter for a few days on some pretext while you pulled off this elaborate heist to raise money to finance the rest of your bankrupt campaign. Sent him off to do advance work in the next town or something.
And arrange for some other cohorts, up from the city or wherever, to stage the abduction at the Green Room last night.'
He peered at me with disgust. 'Oh, yes. I have this troupe of actors-McWhirter's Old Vic constantly at my disposal. Sheeeit. And when Peter finds out how I've all of a sudden gotten hold of a hundred thousand dollars? Then what?'
'Nnn. Yeah. Peter would probably give it back.'
He continued to stare at me with the nauseated condescension that was his most natural attitude.
What did Greco see in this creep? Was demented single-mindedness Greco's idea of toughness, substantiality, strength of character? My estimation of Greco had begun to fall. I thought of Timmy. Where was he? Why weren't we together?
On the other hand, what McWhirter had just told me made sense. He was ruthless, but I'd heard no evidence that he had ever betrayed his friends. He was devious and cunning, but Greco, whatever his weaknesses, was not. On the one hand this, on the other hand that.
I said, 'All right, Fenton. I'm more or less convinced. Pretty much. For now.'
'And you won't mention any of this crap you were thinking to Bowman?'
'Not now. No.'
He collapsed against the headboard. 'Thank you. Now, just get Peter away from… those people. That's all I care about. And then you can say anything about me that you want. Just get Peter back.'
'Right. That's what we're all trying to do.'
'Is the money in the mailbox?'
'Yes.'
'I'll pay it back. Wherever it came from, I'll pay it back.'
Watching him carefully, I said, 'Dot and Edith don't know this, but when the pickup is made tonight, the kidnappers' car will be followed. Very, very discreetly. No arrest will be made until Peter is free. But we're all reasonably certain that whoever has done this will be in the lockup by dawn.'
He flinched and sat up again, breathing heavily. 'You told me you weren't going to do anything like that. You and the cops. You agreed it was too dangerous.'
'We lied. We all concluded from experience that Peter's chances are better this way.'
He stared at me with hard, bitter eyes. 'Lying for the higher cause, huh? Wicked means to a just end.'
'Something like that. Yes. To save a life. Nothing terribly abstract or arguable about that.'
'But it's still just your opinion.'
'An informed opinion.'
He started to speak, then just laughed once, harshly. At both of us, I thought charitably.
I said, 'The phone here has been tapped by the police. If you call anyone, you'll be overheard.
Did you know that?'
'No. But why should I care?' He turned away from me onto his side, and lay still except for his breathing, which came and went in deep sighs.
I left him there in the sticky heat and shut the door as I walked out. I passed the cop in the kitchen and went outside again. I sat on the veranda under the stars and tried very hard to rethink the whole bloody mess. I was sure I had been conned by a master. But I couldn't decide who he was. end user
16
I walked down Moon Road toward
Central in the hazy starlight. A quarter-moon hung above the western horizon with three stars inside its crook, like an astrological sign. It was Saturday night on Central Avenue.
'Hi, bet you're a Taurus, aren't you, big guy?'
'No, but you're close. I'm a Presbyterian-born under the sign of a golf ball on a tee. I'm surprised you couldn't tell from the alignment of the divots on my skull.'
'Well, you're certainly a weird one. Huh! Guess I'll just go dance some more. Last call's in ten minutes, but I could just dance forever. '
'For sure.'
The air was still, wet, black. I passed the Deems' house. The living room was lighted behind closed drapes in the picture window. The screen door was open and I could hear raised voices.
'I don't care! I don't care! I don't care!'
'Get back here, I'm not finished with you!'
More distant: 'Jerry, not so loud!'
