Read Online Don't Lie to Me by Donald E. Westlake - Free Book Online

it at all, Mitch. May I call you Mitch?”
    I nodded, with some reluctance.
    â€œMitch,” he said, “we’re in a very tough situation here. Now, nobody’s perfect, it could be you very innocently have a fact, a bit of information, that could help Allied get off the hook a little. But you don’t want to make waves, that’s understandable. Nobody’s perfect. It was a chance, it was a hope we had, that maybe you could say something that would help us. If we leaned a little more than we meant to, it’s because we’re upset. Nobody thinks badly of you, Mitch, I promise that.”
    Grazko was looking at his watch again. “We got to go,” he said. “The cops said eleven, I want to there early.”
    I said, mostly to Goldrich, “Are the police going to come at me the same as you people, wanting to know if I have some innocent fact, was I approached by somebody, do I know something about something?”
    â€œThey’re just going to ask some questions,” Goldrich said, dismissing it. “Don’t worry, I’ll be there at all times; in the circumstances I’m your attorney, because the discussion is in the area of your role as an employee of the company.”
    I said, “What is this thing that I might be able to help out about, I might know something about?”
    â€œThe cops will tell you,” Grazko said impatiently, “when we get there.”
    â€œNo,” I said. “I walked into this office blind, I’d rather not do the same thing twice.”
    â€œYou can rely on us,” Goldrich said. “We’ll stand behind you, you don’t have anything to worry about.”
    â€œThe way you two are acting,” I said, “I don’t think I want you standing behind me. I want you out front where I can see you. What’s going on?”
    Grazko said, “We’re going to be late. ”
    â€œIf I’m not in your confidence,” I said, “fire me.”
    â€œThat isn’t—” Grazko thrashed around in frustration, then made a violent arm gesture toward Goldrich. “Tell him,” he said. “For God’s sake, tell him and we’ll get it over with.” And he stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him.
    Goldrich gave me a small sympathetic smile. “He’s feeling upset,” he said. “He’s embarrassed because the company’s been caught out in a big one. He didn’t want to tell you because he doesn’t like to even think about it.”
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œThe fact is, somebody has been stripping the museum.”
    I frowned at him. “Stripping it? Since Friday?”
    â€œGod, no. For months, maybe for years. Museum officials say it has to have been going on for at least six months, because of the work involved.”
    I shook my head. “Everything was there on Friday,” I said. “They were doing the inventory, they hadn’t found anything missing at all by Friday night.”
    â€œForgeries,” Goldrich said. “Substitutions. They don’t know for sure how much yet, but they’re beginning to think less than half the material on display is the real thing.”
    â€œGood God!”
    â€œAnd what makes it worse,” Goldrich said, “particularly from our point of view, is that all the forgery work was apparently done in the museum itself, using museum materials.”
    â€œYou mean that workroom downstairs?”
    â€œAnd the copier in the office on the first floor.”
    I remembered that machine; Phil Crane had been using it the other night. A big thing the size of a table-model television set, it was on a worktable near the door. The thing to be copied was placed face down on a pane of glass on top, then covered with a rubber pad. A button was pushed, the machine clicked a while, and a copy slid out of an opening at the bottom front. My first night on the job, I’d been