Cast a Yellow Shadow

Eight

I stood in the room and held the phone in my hand and stared at it. Then I put it back where it belonged and turned to Padillo. “They made her scream,” I said. “They hurt her somehow and made her scream.”

He nodded and turned away to look out the window. “They won’t keep it up. They did it for effect.”

“She doesn’t scream much,” I said. “She didn’t scream just because they turned a mouse loose in the room.”

“No. They hurt her. They probably twisted her arm, but they won’t keep on doing it. They have nothing to gain. She doesn’t know where we hid the emeralds.”

“I don’t think I can just sit here much longer.”

“We have to wait,” he said.

“I’d like to wait while I’m doing something.”

“You’re cracking,” he said. “That’s doing something.” He walked over to where I stood by the phone. “You may as well memorize this: Either they’ll kill her or we’ll get her loose, but we can’t do that if you crack because she didn’t get to take her nightie.”

“If I’m cracking, it’s because I believe them. I’m impressed. My wife’s screams have a certain effect on me. I’d believe them if they said they were going to nominate her Miss Department of Commerce.”

“We wait,” Padillo said and his voice was like the snap of a whip. “The waiting’s part of their pressure. It’s hard and they know it’s hard and they also know that her screams will make you jumpy about any rescue plan we come up with. But if we don’t come up with one, she’s dead. And you and I aren’t good enough to operate by ourselves. Maybe a few years ago, but not now. We need help. We have to wait for that help.”

“We wait,” I said.

“All right,” he said. “We wait.”

I forced myself to mix a drink and turn on the television set and watch a program that asked a panel of scruffy housewives to guess the total cost of a hydroplane, a home printing press with three fonts of type, a case of suntan oil, and a year’s supply of cream of potato soup. I guessed $29,458.42. I guessed it aloud, but a woman from Memphis won with a guess of $36,000. I would have liked to have the printing press.

“You watch television much?” Padillo asked.

“Some,” I said. “It’s like China. If you ignore it, it just gets worse.”

Padillo tried pricing the next batch of goodies and placed a poor third, well behind a blonde from Galveston and a grandmother from St. Paul. The grandmother won a motor scooter, some electric stilts that looked interesting, a scholarship to a photography school, a four-foot world globe, and a Japanese sports car. Padillo said he would have liked to have the globe.

The telephone rang and I switched off the set as Padillo answered. It seemed to be long distance and after the operator made sure it was Padillo, she let him say hello. Then he listened. After he was through listening he said: “I’m calling that loan you have with us. I have to call it today.” He listened some more and then said: “Good. I’ll expect you at this address.” He gave the address on Fairmont street where Hardman’s girl friend lived. Then he said goodbye and replaced the phone. “That was Jon Dymec calling from New York. He’s at La Guardia and just missed the shuttle. He’ll catch the next one.”

Within the next half-hour the phone rang twice and each time Padillo repeated his terse conversation. He didn’t have to argue or explain or cajole. All he did was to mention that he was calling the loan.

“Friends of yours?” I asked.

“Hardly.”

“Who, then?”

“Agents I have known. Dymec is a Pole and works for Polish intelligence. He’s got a UN cover, but spends most of his time in Washington. The girl Magda Shadid works for both Hungary and Syria, and they both probably know it but keep her on because she’s inexpensive and they don’t have too many secrets that they give a damn about not sharing anyhow. The last one, Philip Price, is British and uses a soft-drink company as his cover.”

“What’s the handle you have on them?”

“I doubled all three of them. They all work for Uncle Sam now.”

“And if they don’t go along, you’ll tattle to their original employers.”

“That’s it — except that I don’t leave myself quite that open. There are the usual envelopes that our lawyer in Bonn would mail. It’s old, but it works.”

“Didn’t he think you were dead? He told me how sorry he was that you were.”

“I told him to. I called him from Switzerland.”

“He was my lawyer, too,” I said.

“He’s very discreet, isn’t he?”

“The British wouldn’t kill Price just because he’s a double agent.”

“No, but the loss of the fifteen hundred dollars a month we pay him might. If he weren’t a British agent, he’d be off the U.S. payroll.”

“Any of them know each other?”

“I don’t think so, but they may by reputation. They’re not amateurs, and the pros in any business get to know the competition.”

“They must be very fond of you.”

Padillo shrugged and grinned. “They didn’t cross over because they had a change of heart. They doubled when I offered them money. It’s a soft berth, and they don’t want to lose it. That’s why I can put the pressure on them like this — once; I’d hate to try it twice.”

There was a knock on the door and Padillo went to answer it. It was Mustapha Ali and he and Padillo went through their formal Moslem greeting.

“Man, you sure can rattle it off,” Mush said. “How you, Mac?”

“Fine.”

“Hard said to carry you over to Betty’s. You ready?”

“We’re ready,” Padillo said. “I just want to put this in the hotel safe.” He picked up the leather case that contained the seventeen thousand pounds that he was supposed to earn for not killing Van Zandt and we took the elevator down to the lobby. We found the assistant manager and got the briefcase stored away and then we got in the Buick that Mush drove. It was parked in a tow-away zone, but it didn’t have a ticket.

“That TV set in the back along with the phone makes ’em think that the cat who owns this machine would just get a ticket fixed anyhow,” Mush said. “It’s good as diplomatic plates.”

We turned up Seventeenth Street to Massachusetts, went around Scott Circle, and took Rhode Island to Georgia Avenue. The traffic at four-thirty in the afternoon wasn’t heavy, and Mush made good time, driving the Buick hard with a lot of skillful use of its power brakes.

“If a man wanted to defend himself in this town,” Padillo asked, “what kind of gun could he lay his hands on?”

Mush turned his head to look at Padillo. “You wanna grease gun?”

“Pistol.”

“Fancy shooting or close up?”

“Close up.”

“Get you a Smith and Wesson .38 belly-gun.”

“Can you get two?”

“No trouble.”

“How much?”

“Hundred each?”

“They’re sold. Now if I wanted to get a knife, what would I do?”

“Switchblade or shakeout?”

“Switchblade.”

“You wanna throw it?”

“No.”

“I’ll get one. Be fifteen dollars.”

“You want a switchblade, Mac?” Padillo asked.

“Just make sure it’s got a pearl handle,” I said. “I’ve always wanted a pearl-handled one.”

“Might not be real pearl,” Mush said.

“Do the best you can,” Padillo said.

Mush let us out in front of the apartment and sped off, presumably in search of our arsenal. We walked up the steps, found Betty’s apartment again, and Padillo knocked while I knelt down to unlace my shoes.

“The white rug,” I said.

Hardman answered the door in his stocking feet and Padillo knelt down to take off his shoes. “Mush wasn’t too early?” Hardman asked.

“Just right,” I said.

“They’s a good one tonight at Shenandoah Downs in the fourth,” he said. “They runnin Trueblue Sue at nine to two.”

“With a rhyme like that you can put me down for ten.”

“Ten to win,” he said and wrote it down in a small blue book.

“You ever win?” Padillo asked.

“I did last spring — or was it winter?”

“You big winner, Mac,” Hardman said.

“That means I don’t owe him any money.”

Betty came in from the bedroom, said hello, glanced at our feet to make sure that the shoes were off, and sailed on into the kitchen.

“I’m sending her to the pictures,” Hardman said. “You want me to stick around or disappear?”

“We’d like you to stay,” Padillo said.

“Who’s comin?”

“Three friends of mine — a Pole, a Hungarian-Syrian, and an Englishman.”

“You’re not much on matched pairs.”

“They were handy and they owe me a favor or two.”

Betty marched through again and disappeared into the bedroom. She came out almost immediately wearing a mink stole that looked as if it might still be breathing.

“I need fifty dollars,” she told Hardman, planting herself in front of him, her right hand extended. She carried her shoes in her left.

“You just goin to the movies, woman!”

“I might do some shopping.”

“Uh-huh,” Hardman said, reaching into his pocket and taking out a roll of bills. “You better not do your shoppin in the store that fancy coat’s from. Folks there might like to have it back.”

“This coat hot?” she said, her voice going from a low contralto to a searing soprano.

“You know it is.”

She drew the fur around her and rubbed her chin against the collar. “I’m going to wear it anyhow.”

“Here’s fifty dollars. You can come on home about nine.”

She took the fifty and tucked it in her purse. It seemed to be an easy, practiced gesture. She moved to the door and opened it. “You gonna be here?” she asked Hardman. This time she used a little girl’s voice.

“I don’t know yet.”

“I’d sure like you to, Hard,” she said, using the small voice again.

The big man preened a little in front of his male friends. I didn’t blame him.

“We’ll see,” he said. “You just run along now.”

“There’s a pot of coffee on the stove,” she said and left.

We all decided to have coffee and Hardman served it with quick, efficient movements. “You never knew I used to work the dinin cars on the B&O, did you?”

“I thought you had to be over sixty,” Padillo said.

The front door chimes rang before Hardman could tell us about his railroad career. He opened it and a man asked if Mr. Padillo was there. Hardman said yes and the man came in.

“Hello, Dymec,” Padillo said. He didn’t offer to shake hands.

“Padillo.”

“This is Hardman. This is McCorkle.”

He nodded at us and glanced around the room. “You mind takin off your shoes?” Hardman said.

The man looked at him without expression. He was about thirty-four or thirty-five, with a face that looked as hard as concrete and had about the same texture and color, except for two patches of red on the high cheekbones. The patches could have been caused by either weather or tuberculosis. I voted for weather; Dymec looked as if he had never been sick in his life.

“Why?” he asked Hardman. The way he said it sounded as if he had been asking why all his life and nobody had ever given him a very good answer.

“The rug, baby. The lady of the house don’t want it messed up.”

Dymec looked around at the rest of us, saw that our shoes were off, and sat down on a chair and took his off. He wasn’t breathing hard when he straightened up.

“How’ve you been, Dymec?” Padillo asked.

“I heard you were dead.”

“Like some coffee?”

Dymec nodded his head, which seemed to have no curves, only corners and planes and lines. He had mouse-colored hair that was cropped close and big ears and small grey eyes. “Cream,” he said and his lips barely moved when he spoke.

Hardman served him a cup of coffee and he balanced it on the arm of the chair.

“What do you have going, Padillo?”

“We’re waiting for two others. I’m just going to explain it once.”

“You’ve got two too many now.”

“Your English is damned near perfect.”

“You can call me in this time,” Dymec said. “I wouldn’t try it again.”

Padillo shrugged and leaned back in his chair and pressed his hand against his side. He was due for a change of bandages.

The door chimes sounded again. Hardman was up quickly, moving his weight without effort.

“Mr. Padillo, I believe, is expecting me,” another man’s voice said.

“Uh-huh. Come on in.”

“This is Philip Price,” Padillo said when the man was in. “At the door is Hardman. On that chair is Dymec and this is McCorkle. How are you, Price?”

“Well,” the man said. “Quite well.”

“Do you mind takin off your shoes?” Hardman said. “We’re trying to keep the rug nice.”

“Hello, Dymec,” Price said. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“The shoes, baby,” Hardman said.

“I took mine off, Price,” Dymec said. “It’s as the gentleman said: We’re trying to keep the rug nice.”

Price knelt and took off his right shoe and put it carefully by a chair. He looked up at Dymec. “Where was the last place we ran into each other? Paris, wasn’t it? Something to do with NATO, I believe.” He changed his position and knelt on his right leg and took off his left shoe. “The name wasn’t Dymec then, was it?”

“And yours wasn’t Price.”

“True. Well, Padillo, now that you’re back from the dead how have you been?”

“Fine. Would you like some coffee?”

“Please. Where would you like me?”

“Any chair,” Padillo said. The Englishman took one where he could face the door and keep the rest of us in view. Hardman went into the kitchen and brought him back a cup of coffee. “You want any sugar or cream?”

“Just black, thank you.” We sat there and sipped our coffee and looked at each other. The Englishman appeared prosperous. He had on a bluish-grey tweed suit with a white shirt and a dark blue and black tie. The shoes under his chair were black, as were his socks. He had a slim build that looked deceptively frail until you noticed his shoulders. His eyes were brown and their lids seemed to droop over them as if he were only partly awake. I guessed him at around forty-five although there was no grey in the long brown hair that covered the tops of his ears. Maybe he dyed it.

“Seriously,” Price said to Padillo, “I heard you were missing and presumed dead. Can’t say I went into mourning.”

“I just took a little vacation,” Padillo said.

“South, I should say, by the tan you’re wearing.”

“South,” Padillo agreed.

“Africa?”

Padillo smiled pleasantly.

“Could it have been you who—”

“West Africa,” Dymec said. “I heard about it. Somebody dumped a lot of arms there. A great deal of 7.62 millimeter stuff.”

“You always did have an ear for languages, Dymec,” Padillo said. “You’re talking like an American now. When I first met you, it was more of a Manchester sound.”

“He talks good as I do,” Hardman said.

Price made a show of looking at his gold wristwatch. “Are we waiting for something or—”

“We’re waiting,” Padillo said.

We sat there in our stocking feet in the fancy apartment in the northwest section of Washington, D.C., the Negro, the Spanish-Estonian, the Pole, the Englishman, and the Scotch-Irish saloon-keeper, waiting for the Syrian-Hungarian woman to arrive. We sat there and drank the coffee in silence for fifteen minutes before the door chimes rang again.

“I’ll get it,” Padillo said. He rose and opened the door.

“Hello, Maggie, come in.”

She came in and the wait had been worth it. She was probably twenty-six or so, and her dark long hair hung carelessly about an oval face whose enormous black eyes swiftly took in everyone in the room. The eyes were complemented by a near-perfect straight nose that just escaped being a shade too long. Her mouth was wide and it was smiling at Padillo. It was a warm, dazzling smile and it looked as if it were used a lot to get a lot of things. She wore a loose coat of soft wool that was woven into large black, white and brown hounds-tooth checks. She said hello to Padillo and turned so that he could take her coat. She wore a white knit dress and her figure was close to perfection. She knew how to stand, how to walk and how to show it all off to its best advantage. Padillo put her coat on a chair.

“May I present Miss Magda Shadid,” he said. We all rose. She was worth getting up for. “Mr. McCorkle, Mr. Hardman, Mr. Dymec and Mr. Price.”

She nodded at each of us. Then she turned to Padillo and said: “I have something for you, Mike.”

“What?”

“This.”

She was the only woman I ever saw who slapped a man with her left hand after first feinting with her right.