The Anonymous Client

21

The expert shook his head. “They’re not the same.”

Steve frowned. “You sure?”

He nodded. “Of course I haven’t done a thorough analysis, but just from a preliminary look I can tell. They’re very similar-probably both Smith Corona-and both in very poor condition. But the alignment’s different. The two letters were both done on the same typewriter, but the note about ‘all good men’ is different. For one thing, the t is broken on the note. It shows up in ‘the,’ ‘time,’ ‘to’ and ‘party.’ Whereas in the letters it’s not broken. That alone is conclusive.”

“Couldn’t it have been broken after the letters were typed?” Steve asked.

“No. That’s just one instance. There are others. Of course, I’m just giving you an off-the-cuff answer. If you want a careful analysis it will take some time. But believe me, it’s conclusive.”

Steve nodded grimly. “Thanks.”

“You want a complete analysis?”

Steve shook his head. “What do I owe you?”

“If that’s all you want, fifty bucks.”

Steve nodded.

“How you gonna pay?”

“In cash.”

“Fine. What name you want on the receipt?”

“No receipt.”

Steve walked out of the office building into the din of Broadway. A crew with a jackhammer was tearing up the sidewalk. Steve detoured around them, stood on the corner, and looked around.

Damn. Was it the jackhammer that was giving him the headache?

Or the letters?

Steve took the letters and the note out of his jacket pocket. Well, at least this time he was prepared for it. He took a stamped, self-addressed envelope out of his other pocket. White, business size. No perfume this time. Steve put the letters and the note in the envelope, sealed it, and dropped it in the mailbox on the corner.

Steve sighed and rubbed his head.

What a fucking mess. Bradshaw hadn’t sent the letters. Bradshaw wasn’t his client. Somewhere out there was a person with a half a dollar bill. A person who held Steve’s fate in his hands. A person who could walk up to him at any minute and suddenly turn his world upside down.

Steve shook his head angrily. Damn it. Snap out of it. Think.

Steve realized he hadn’t been thinking clearly at all so far. He’d been too caught up in the events, events so bizarre and outlandish they seemed straight out of one of Tracy Garvin’s detective thrillers. That was the problem. The whole thing just didn’t seem real. I mean, come on. Anonymous letters, ten thousand dollar cash retainers, and mystery clients, for Christ’s sake. It just couldn’t be.

But it was. That was the thing Steve had to concentrate on. It could happen and it had happened. Someone had sent him ten thousand bucks in the mail.

And there had to be a reason why.