The Procane Chronicle

25

Miles Wiedstein and Janet Whistler listened in silence until I had finished telling them about Procane and Constable and what I had done with the heroin.

They were seated in a couple of chairs in my apartment. I was at the poker table. The suitcase rested on top of it. It was closed.

A silence began when I stopped talking. It continued for several moments. Finally, Wiedstein said, “I want to drink.”

“That’s dumb,” Janet Whistler said.

“I didn’t say I was going to have one; I said I wanted one.”

“There’s some Scotch and gin over there,” I said, nodding toward the Pullman kitchen.

“Don’t force it on him.”

“It’s there if he wants it.”

“I don’t want it enough,” Wiedstein said. “Not yet.”

“The cops will know we were there,” Janet Whistler said. “Mrs. Williams will tell them we were there.”

“We had dinner with Procane,” I said. “That’s all. Then we left. At eight-twenty.”

“And drove around,” Wiedstein said. “Sightseeing.”

I nodded. “That’s right.”

“What if the neighbors were snoopy?” Janet said.

“It doesn’t matter,” Wiedstein said. “If they were, they saw the four of us come back. Two men went in the house. It could have been Procane and Constable — not Procane and St. Ives.”

“I wandered around on my own after dinner.” I said. “I caught a picture I’d missed in New York. Then I flew back here.”

Janet Whistler looked at Wiedstein once more. “What was Constable doing with us?”

“Visiting Procane,” he said. “We picked him up at the airport after we let St. Ives out downtown.”

We sat there for several moments, thinking about our alibis and how rotten they were. But unless the police got lucky, we would never have to prove them. And if the police got really lucky, alibis wouldn’t matter in the least.

Wiedstein rose, walked over to the kitchen, and took down a bottle of Scotch. He uncorked it and sniffed the aroma. He put the cork back and replaced the bottle. He turned and looked at Janet for a moment. Then he looked at me.

“What do you think your cut should be, St. Ives?”

“Of a million dollars?”

“That’s right. Of a million dollars.”

“Nothing.”

He let himself look surprised. “Scruples?” he said. “It’s a little late for those, isn’t it?”

“I’m all out of scruples,” I said.

“What about a third?” he said. “You killed Constable. That should be worth about a third of a million.”

“To you?” I said.

He nodded. “Sure. To me. Why not?”

I shook my head. “No thanks.”

He turned to Janet Whistler. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“How do you want to split it?”

“I don’t care,” she said. “I’m not going to fight over it. If we start fighting over it, one of us will wind up dead. It’s not worth that. Not to me anyway. Do what you want to with it.”

“You want me to tell you how much you get?”

“Yes, she said, “that would be all right.”

“A fourth,” Wiedstein said.

“A fourth,” she said. “Fine. A quarter of a million. Two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand. That’s fine.”

“Count it out,” he said.

She rose and moved toward the poker table. She walked slowly. When she was halfway there she turned toward me and made a small, somehow helpless gesture. “Have you got anything I could put it in?”

“I’ll find something,” I said.

She nodded and continued toward the poker table. When she reached it she turned and looked back at Wiedstein. “You’re taking the rest?”

“Would you object?”

She shook her head. “No, I wouldn’t object.”

I went to a closet and rummaged through it until I found a ziparound overnight bag. I carried it over to the poker table. “Here,” I said. “You can use this.”

She zipped open the bag and then lifted the top of the suitcase. For nearly a minute she stood there and stared at the money. Wiedstein rose and moved over to the table and also stared at it. I stared, too.

“Count it out,” Wiedstein told her.

She nodded and started placing ten-thousand-dollar packets in the overnight bag. The ones made up of hundred-dollar bills were approximately half an inch high. The ones with fifty-dollar bills were twice that. After she put twenty-four of the packets in the overnight bag, she took a ten-thousand-dollar packet of fifty-dollar bills, stripped off its paper band, carelessly divided it, and placed about half of the bills in her purse, the rest in the overnight case.

“That’s it,” she said, zipping up the case.

“Not quite,” Wiedstein said.

“What else?” she said.

“Insurance.” He started counting ten-thousand-dollar packets onto the poker table. When he had counted fifty of them onto the table, he closed the suitcase and looked to me.

“Now you’re in just as deep, St. Ives.”

“A half-million dollars’ worth,” I said.

“Procane’s share,” Wiedstein said and picked up the suitcase that now contained his own share — a quarter of a million. “Come on,” he said to Janet, “I’ll give you a ride home.”

“I don’t want it,” I said.

“You’ve got it anyway.”

They moved toward the door, each of them carrying a small fortune and leaving a larger one behind. Wiedstein opened the door. Janet Whistler gave me a small wave of her hand and then went through it. She didn’t say good-bye. She just waved.

“What’ll I do with it?” I said.

Wiedstein stopped at the open door and looked at me, a small smile on his face. “With half a million dollars?” he said.

“Yes.”

“You’ll think of something.”