Pitt moved very slowly to an antique oak icebox he’d rebuilt into a liquor cabinet and eased open the door. “Would you like a drink, Mr. Casio?”
“A shot of Jack Daniel’s on ice, thanks.”
“A lucky guess. I happen to have a bottle.”
“I peeked,” said Casio. “Oh, and by the way, I took the liberty of removing the clip from the gun.”
“Gun?” Pitt asked innocently.
“The.32-caliber Mauser automatic, serial number 922374, cleverly taped behind the half-gallon bottle of gin.”
Pitt gave Casio a long look indeed. “How long did it take?”
“To make a search?”
Pitt nodded silently as he opened the refrigerator door for the ice.
“About forty-five minutes.”
“And you found the other two guns I squirreled away.”
“Three actually.”
“You’re very thorough.”
“Nothing that is hidden in a house can’t be found. And some of us are more talented at probing than others. It’s simply a matter of technique.” There was nothing boastful in Casio’s tone. He spoke as though merely stating an accepted truth.
Pitt poured the drink and brought it into the living room on a tray. Casio took the glass with his right hand. Then suddenly Pitt dropped the tray, exposing a small vest-pocket.25-caliber automatic aimed at Casio’s forehead.
Casio’s only reaction was a thin smile. “Very good,” he said approvingly. “So there were a total of five.”
“Inside an empty milk carton,” Pitt explained.
“Nicely done, Mr. Pitt. A clever touch, waiting until my gun hand was holding a glass. That shows you were thinking. I’ll have to mark you up to a B-minus.”
Pitt clicked on the safety and lowered the gun. “If you came here to kill me, Mr. Casio, you could have blown me away when I stepped through the door. What’s on your mind?”
Casio nodded down at his briefcase. “May I?”
“Go ahead.”
He set the drink down, opened the case and pulled out a bulging cardboard folder that was held together with rubber bands. “A case I’ve worked on since 1966.”
“A long time. You must be a stubborn man.”
“I hate to let go of it,” Casio admitted. “It’s like walking away from a jigsaw puzzle before it’s completed, or putting down a good book. Sooner or later every investigator gets on a case that has him staring at the ceiling nights, the case he can never solve. This one has a personal tie, Mr. Pitt. It began twenty-three years ago when a girl, a bank teller by the name of Arta Casilighio, stole $128,000 from a bank in Los Angeles.”
“How can that concern me?”
“She was last seen boarding a ship called the
“Okay, so you read the press story about the shipwreck discovery.”
“Yes.”
“And you think this girl disappeared with the
“I’m certain of it.”
“Then your case is solved. The thief is dead and the money gone forever.”
“Not that simple,” said Casio, staring into his glass. “There’s no doubt Arta Casilighio is dead, but the money is not
Sudden interest flared in Pitt’s eyes. He sat down in a chair facing Casio. “All of it?” he asked cautiously.
Casio nodded. “It appeared in dribbles and spurts. Five thousand in Frankfurt, a thousand in Cairo, all in foreign banks. None came to light in the United States, except one hundred-dollar bill.”
“Then Arta didn’t die on the
“She vanished with the ship all right. The FBI connected her to a stolen passport belonging to an Estelle Wallace. With that lead they were able to follow her as far as San Francisco. Then they lost her. I kept digging and finally ran down a drifter who sometimes drove a cab when he needed booze money. He remembered hauling her to the boarding ramp of the
“Can you trust the memory of a lush?”
Casio smiled confidently. “Arta gave him a crisp new hundred-dollar bill for the fare. He couldn’t make change so she told him to keep it. Believe me, it took little effort for him to recall the event.”
“If stolen Federal Reserve currency is in FBI jurisdiction, where do you fit in the picture? Why the dogged pursuit of a criminal whose trail is ice cold?”
“Before I shortened my name for business reasons, it was Casilighio. Arta was my daughter.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. From outside the windows overlooking the river came the rumble of a jetliner taking off. Pitt stood up and went into the kitchen, where he poured a cup of coffee from a cold pot and placed it in a microwave oven. “Care for another drink, Mr. Casio?”
Casio shook his head.
“So the bottom line is that you think there’s something queer about your daughter’s disappearance?”
“She and the ship never made port, but the money she stole turns up in a manner that suggests it’s being laundered a little at a time. Doesn’t that suggest a queer circumstance to you, Mr. Pitt?”
“I can’t deny you make a good case.” The microwave beeped and Pitt retrieved a steaming cup. “But I’m not sure what you want from me.”
“I have some questions.”
Pitt sat down, his interest going beyond mere curiosity. “Don’t expect detailed answers.”
“I understand.”
“Fire away.”
“Where did you find the
“Near the southern coast of Alaska,” Pitt replied vaguely.
“A bit far off the track for a ship steaming from San Francisco to New Zealand, wouldn’t you say?”
“Way off the track,” Pitt agreed.
“As far as two thousand miles?”
“And then some.” Pitt took a swallow of coffee and made a face. It was strong enough to use as brick mortar. He looked up. “Before we continue it’s going to cost you.”
Casio gave him a reappraising eye. “Somehow you never struck me as the type who’d extend a greasy palm.”
“I’d like to have the names of the banks in Europe that passed the stolen money.”
“Any particular reason?” Casio asked, not bothering to conceal his puzzlement.
“None I can tell you about.”
“You’re not very cooperative.”
Pitt started to reply, but the phone on an end table rang loudly.
“Hello.”
“Dirk, this is Yaeger. You still awake.”
“Thank you for calling. How is Sally? Is she out of intensive care yet?”
“Can’t talk, huh?”
“Not too well.”
“But you can listen.”
“No problem.”
“Bad news. I’m not getting anywhere. I’d stand a better chance of throwing a deck of cards in the air and catching a straight flush.”
