Read Online The Shadow Cabinet by W. T. Tyler - Free Book Online

and he wants to talk to you.”
    He heard the two arguing in the background and a minute later the masculine voice returned, as crisp and mannered as before.
    â€œEdelman here, Mr. Wilson. Mrs. Kramer is very upset about this entire transaction, as I think she has reason to be. It’s almost a week now since she offered you a contract on this property—”
    â€œFive days,” Wilson said. “It was too low.”
    â€œPerhaps, but we’d like to deal directly with the lawyer who’s handling the estate or the owner herself. Mrs. Kramer has only a limited time available to her here in Washington, as she’s explained. Since you’ve become involved, we seem to be getting nowhere. Under those circumstances, I think it perfectly appropriate that Mrs. Kramer be placed in direct contact with the lawyer or the owner, Mrs. Ramsey.”
    Wilson said nothing. Rita Kramer’s voice came back.
    â€œYou get my message, Wilson? I’m tired of you giving me the runaround. I want to talk to the owner, Mrs. Grace Ramsey.”
    â€œShe’s in Majorca.”
    â€œFriday you said Bimini!”
    Wilson had forgotten what he’d said. Grace Ramsey floated around the Mediterranean and the Caribbean like a wisp of high-flying cirrus. “Bimini, Majorca, they’re both the same—out of the country. Abroad. I’ve told you that.” He lifted his feet to the desk and reclined in his chair, ready for another five rounds. After a week of sparring and brawling, a certain basis for communication had been established. “I’m sorry, but you can find something else in Washington. Try those Georgetown brokers, like I suggested—”
    â€œAnd how many times do I have to tell you that’s not what I’m looking for!”
    A long silence followed.
    â€œAre you still there?” she asked finally.
    â€œI’m here.”
    â€œGood.” She slammed down the phone.
    A little after eleven, Wilson led the two women from the reception room down the front stairs. Mrs. Polk had a dead battery and was waiting for a booster charge from a nearby service station. She’d telephoned to ask him to deliver her client and her friend to her residence on his way to an eleven o’clock meeting with an Arlington tax lawyer. The dark-haired client, named Fillmore, was the wife of an army sergeant recently assigned to the Pentagon from Oklahoma. Her blond companion was also the wife of an NCO, and lived in the same transient quarters while waiting to move into a house they’d bought in Annandale. The basement leaked. An aggrieved party, she’d joined Mrs. Fillmore to give her the benefit of her house-hunting experience.
    Waiting for them in the rear parking lot was the boy Wilson had seen skulking between the Audis and BMWs upon his arrival.
    â€œI was wondering where you was sulking at,” said Mrs. Fillmore, her parental tone less friendly than the girlish chatter that had accompanied them down the stairs. She’d told Wilson she was from Arkansas and was a beautician.
    A faint red splash illuminated the boy’s cheek. At closer range, Wilson saw ghostly fingers from a powerful hand still outlined against the left side of his face.
    â€œI was waitin’.”
    â€œMr. Wilson, this here is my boy Willard.”
    â€œHello, Willard.” The name echoed familiarly in Wilson’s mind.
    â€œI guess you heard that name before,” Mrs. Fillmore said. “Say hello to Mr. Wilson, Willard.”
    â€œHello, Mr. Wilson,” Willard said without enthusiasm. The small insect eyes were still stung unnaturally bright.
    â€œI think I know the name,” Wilson acknowledged sympathetically. Willard’s brightness hardened visibly.
    â€œWell, it wasn’t all my doin’,” Mrs. Fillmore admitted philosophically. Her brown purse was shoved under one heavy arm as she pulled on her gloves. A filter-tip cigarette was clamped in the