No Questions Asked

18

The afternoon hearst paper gave Fastnaught a good ride on its front page with the headline:

The headline almost had more facts than the story itself, which went on to say than an anonymous phone call had led police to the discovery of the body at the Colony Inn motel shortly before midnight yesterday. The story had Fastnaught’s name and rank right, but it had his age wrong. He wasn’t forty-seven. He just looked that way.

I read all about Fastnaught over a martini and an omelet that I had ordered for lunch at a place on La Cienega that Guerriero had suggested after I told him that I was buying. When I was through reading about Fastnaught I put the paper down and went back to my martini.

“How’d you like Vardaman?” Guerriero said. Since I was buying, Guerriero was having a steak and a beer.

“I was glad I didn’t owe him any money,” I said. “Is he as nasty as he says he is?”

“Nastier. Was he any help in whatever it is that you’re trying to do?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “After lunch I think I’ll go back to the motel and lie down and think about it.”

“Then what?”

“I’ll think about that, too.”

The phone rang at three o’clock. I was lying down so I sat up, picked up the phone on its second ring, and said hello.

“St. Ives?”

“That’s right.”

“You still want to get that book back?”

It was the same voice, the one that was too high to be a man’s and too low to be a woman’s and again it was talking around something, a coin in the mouth, a finger, or maybe even a couple of marbles.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” I said.

“You mean you thought this was Jack Marsh’s voice?”

“I did up until now.”

“You thought wrong. I’ll ask again. Do you want to get that book back?”

“Let’s hear your proposition.”

“One hundred thousand. The same kind of bills as before and no cops this time.”

“That wasn’t my idea.”

“Well?”

“I’ll have to check with the insurance company.”

“You’ve got two hours,” the voice said. “I’ll call you back at exactly five o’clock.”

The phone went dead and I hung it back up. I sat there on the edge of the bed and thought for a moment. The Pliny book was insured for $500,000. The insurance company had already parted with $250,000. To keep from parting with the full half million it might be willing to part with yet another $100,000. But it wasn’t my decision so I picked up the phone and called Max Spivey at Pacifica Life and Casualty.

When Spivey came on I said, “I just got a call from what sounded like that same voice that I talked to in Washington. Whoever it is said that you can buy the book back for one hundred thousand. You haven’t got much time to make up your mind.”

There was a silence. Finally, Spivey said, “I’m thinking.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“I can’t make a decision like that on my own. Can you get over here?”

“Fifteen minutes,” I said.

Guerriero had gone for gas, but he was back in ten minutes. The Pacifica Life and Casualty Company building was about five minutes away on Wilshire and by the time I got to Spivey’s office I was only five minutes late.

It was the first time I had ever seen Spivey behind a desk and although it was a large one he seemed to dwarf it. He had his coat off and his shirt sleeves rolled up and he looked very much like a hard-working business executive who just happened to be twice as big as everybody else.

“We’re going in to see Ronnie at three-thirty.”

I thought back for a moment. “Ronnie Saperstein, isn’t it?” I said. “He’s the guy, the ex-agent, who started all your tits and ass stuff.”

“We like to think of him as chairman of the board. So does Ronnie.”

Spivey leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair. “I called the police this morning after I read about that Washington cop. Fastnaught. I thought I might fill them in on what he was working on. They already knew. He’d checked in with them as soon as he got out here. But they sent a couple of detectives over to talk to me anyhow. This whole thing is turning into a real mess.”

“Did you tell them about me?” I said.

He nodded. “Any reason I shouldn’t have?”

“No.”

“Have you turned up anything?”

I shook my head. “Not much. I did learn that Marsh was in hock to some gambling types in Vegas for about a hundred and twenty-five thousand. The name Vardaman mean anything to you? Carl Vardaman?”

Spivey leaned forward toward me. “It means one hell of a lot to me. It means a quarter of a million dollars to the company. He’s the business associate who’s the beneficiary on a policy that Jack took out with us.”

“Is that what Marsh told you?”

“He said he had gone in on a business deal with Vardaman.”

“Did he say what kind?”

Spivey thought about it. “It was some kind of land speculation. They had optioned a big chunk of land down near San Diego. Marsh said each of them was going to take out a policy naming the other as beneficiary just in case. It seemed legitimate enough. It’s done all the time.”

“There wasn’t any land deal,” I said. “Vardaman is a collector for some gambling types in Vegas. If whoever he’s trying to collect from is a slow pay, he makes them take out life insurance for twice as much as they owe. When you know that you’re worth twice as much dead as alive it concentrates the mind wonderfully, as I think Dr. Johnson once said. Or something like it.”

I could almost see Spivey’s mind working. “Marsh had somebody in on it with him. If this Vardaman—”

I cut him off. “Vardaman says he can come up with fifteen witnesses who can place him in Vegas at the time that Marsh got shot. He couldn’t fix that many people.”

Some of the excitement drained out of Spivey’s face. He leaned back in his chair. “We’re right back where we were. Which is exactly no place.”

“Not quite,” I said. “You might still get the book back.”

“But we’re still out—” The phone on Spivey’s desk rang. He picked it up, said hello, listened, and then said, “We’ll be right down.” He hung up and looked at me. “That was Ronnie. Let’s go.”

We went down a hall and then into a large corner office that was paneled and carpeted and furnished to look exactly like what an ex-Hollywood agent might think that the office of the chairman of the board of a prosperous insurance company should look like.

A short, wiry man with a lot of pure white hair bounced up from behind a big carved desk. “You’re the hotshot,” he said, moving around the desk and holding out his hand. “I’m Ronnie Saperstein.”

We shook hands and he moved back a little and cocked his head to one side while he examined me with dark eyes that flickered in a tan face that was just beginning to grow a lot of lines. “I was wondering what you’d look like,” he said. “When people are in a funny business, you sort of expect them to look funny. But most of the time they don’t. For example, you don’t. You look like the second lead.”

“The one who doesn’t get the girl,” I said.

“Or the book,” Saperstein said. “But I hear we’ve got a second chance. Let’s sit down over here and run through it.”

We sat down on a couch and a couple of easy chairs that were drawn up around a low coffee table. Saperstein crossed his legs. “You got a call,” he said. “Tell me about it.”

“It was the same voice that I dealt with in Washington. It could be a man; it could be a woman. Whoever it is said they’d sell the book back for one hundred thousand dollars.”

Saperstein looked at Spivey. “What do you think, Max?”

“We’re already out two hundred and fifty grand.”

“But we’re going to be out five hundred grand unless we get that book back. What the hell did we ever start insuring crap like that for anyhow? We should have stayed with tits. Nobody ever stole a pair of tits.”

“Not yet,” Spivey said.

Saperstein looked at me. “What about you, St. Ives? You think whoever called is on the level or do you think they’re just making noises?”

I shrugged. “It was the same voice. I’d say there’s a chance.”

“Good chance or poor chance?”

“Just a chance,” I said.

“Maybe we should turn it all over to the cops,” Spivey said.

Saperstein thought about it. “We turn it over to the cops and what does it get us? The book? Doubtful. The two hundred and fifty thousand we’re already out? Equally doubtful. Whoever we’re dealing with must be expecting cops. They’re probably going to come up with all sorts of conditions that’re going to make cops impossible anyway. Isn’t that the way these things usually work, St. Ives?”

“Usually,” I said.

He looked at Spivey. “How much time have we got?”

“Till five, isn’t it?” Spivey said and looked at me.

I nodded. “That’s right. Whoever called me is going to call back at five.”

Saperstein uncrossed his legs and slapped his palms on his knees. “All right,” he said. “I say go. What’s your end of it, St. Ives, ten percent?”

I nodded. “That’s my usual rate. But what would it be worth to you if I got the book back along with whoever’s got it and whatever’s left of the two hundred and fifty thousand dollars that got lost in Washington?”

Spivey stared at me, a look of curiosity on his face. Saperstein was grinning. “You’d cross the thief?” he said.

I shook my head. “The thief was Jack Marsh. Marsh is dead. We’re dealing with whoever was in on it with Marsh. But you asked me if I’d cross him. Or her. My answer is yes, if the money’s right.”

I could almost see Saperstein’s mind clicking off some figures. “What would you say to seventy-five thousand — if you wrap it all up like you said?”

“That’s an offer?” I said.

“It’s an offer. What do you say.”

“Put it in writing,” I said.