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Authors: Donald Westlake
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mean in London?”
“I Concorded last night. When are you free?”
If Walter Greenbaum were troubled enough by something to fly personally to London rather than phone, fax, or wait, Max should take it seriously. “Now,” he said, and hung up, and said to the managers, “Good–bye.”
• • •
Walter Greenbaum was a stocky man in his fifties, with deep bags under his eyes that made him look as though he spent all his time contemplating the world’s sorrows. Once, when a friend pointed out to him that the removal of such bags was the easiest trick in the plastic surgeon’s playbook, he had said, “Never. Without these bags I’m no longer a lawyer, I’m just a complainer.” And he was right. The bags gave his every utterance the gravity of one who has seen it all and just barely survived. And yet, he was merely doing lawyer–talk, like anybody else.
“Good morning, Walter.”
“Morning, Max.”
“Coffee? Have you had breakfast?”
“There was a break–in at the Carrport facility on Long Island last weekend.”
I am hearing this for the first time, Max reminded himself. Sounding mildly concerned, he said, “A break–in? That’s what comes from leaving the place empty. Did they get much?”
“Perhaps a quarter million in silver and other valuables, plus a car.”
Max’s mouth dropped open. His mind stalled. He couldn’t think of a single response to pretend to have.
Walter smiled thinly into the silence he’d created, and said, “Yes, Max. He went back. He escaped from the police, and he went back to the house.”
“Back? Back?” What does Walter know?
They were standing in the white–and–gold living room of the suite, with views of the Thames outside the windows, where black birds tumbled in a strong wind beneath plump hurrying clouds. Neither of them gave a thought to the view, as Walter gestured at a nearby white sofa, saying, “Why don’t you sit down, Max? Before you fall down.”
Max sat. Walter pulled a white–and–gold Empire chair over near him, leaving tracks in the white carpet. Seating himself in front of Max like a sorrowing headmaster, he said, “I’m your attorney, Max. Try to tell me the truth.”
Max had now regained control of himself. So; the burglar had escaped from those incompetent policepersons, had gone back to the house (in search of his ring?), had stripped the place, and then had stolen a car to transport his loot away from there. And somehow, as a result, Max’s own participation in the evening’s events had become known. Not good.
He said, “Walter, I always tell you the truth. If there’s something I don’t want to tell you, I simply don’t tell you. But I don’t lie.”
“You should have told me,” Walter said, “that you meant to violate the orders of the bankruptcy court.”
“You would have insisted I not do it.”
“Who was the woman?”
“With me, in Carrport?” Max shrugged. “Miss September.” But then another awful thought struck. “Does Lutetia know?”
“Not yet.”
“Walter, this is not something for a wife to hear, not now, not ever. You know that, Walter.”
“I certainly do,” Walter agreed. “Which is another reason I wish you’d mentioned your plans before acting on them.”
“I don’t see … why … why …” Max ground to a halt, took a deep breath, and started again: “How did it come out? About me? ”
“Apparently,” Walter told him, “the officers originally meant to cover up for you, but once their prisoner slipped out of their hands they could no longer do that, they didn’t dare do it, they were in too much trouble as it was. There was also the fact you made the 911 call.”
“I can’t believe — Walter, if you’d seen that fellow, that burglar, you wouldn’t — How on earth did they manage to lose him? He was as docile as a cow!”
Walter shook his baggy head. “Don’t trust those who are docile as cows, Max.”
“I can see that. So he went
“I Concorded last night. When are you free?”
If Walter Greenbaum were troubled enough by something to fly personally to London rather than phone, fax, or wait, Max should take it seriously. “Now,” he said, and hung up, and said to the managers, “Good–bye.”
• • •
Walter Greenbaum was a stocky man in his fifties, with deep bags under his eyes that made him look as though he spent all his time contemplating the world’s sorrows. Once, when a friend pointed out to him that the removal of such bags was the easiest trick in the plastic surgeon’s playbook, he had said, “Never. Without these bags I’m no longer a lawyer, I’m just a complainer.” And he was right. The bags gave his every utterance the gravity of one who has seen it all and just barely survived. And yet, he was merely doing lawyer–talk, like anybody else.
“Good morning, Walter.”
“Morning, Max.”
“Coffee? Have you had breakfast?”
“There was a break–in at the Carrport facility on Long Island last weekend.”
I am hearing this for the first time, Max reminded himself. Sounding mildly concerned, he said, “A break–in? That’s what comes from leaving the place empty. Did they get much?”
“Perhaps a quarter million in silver and other valuables, plus a car.”
Max’s mouth dropped open. His mind stalled. He couldn’t think of a single response to pretend to have.
Walter smiled thinly into the silence he’d created, and said, “Yes, Max. He went back. He escaped from the police, and he went back to the house.”
“Back? Back?” What does Walter know?
They were standing in the white–and–gold living room of the suite, with views of the Thames outside the windows, where black birds tumbled in a strong wind beneath plump hurrying clouds. Neither of them gave a thought to the view, as Walter gestured at a nearby white sofa, saying, “Why don’t you sit down, Max? Before you fall down.”
Max sat. Walter pulled a white–and–gold Empire chair over near him, leaving tracks in the white carpet. Seating himself in front of Max like a sorrowing headmaster, he said, “I’m your attorney, Max. Try to tell me the truth.”
Max had now regained control of himself. So; the burglar had escaped from those incompetent policepersons, had gone back to the house (in search of his ring?), had stripped the place, and then had stolen a car to transport his loot away from there. And somehow, as a result, Max’s own participation in the evening’s events had become known. Not good.
He said, “Walter, I always tell you the truth. If there’s something I don’t want to tell you, I simply don’t tell you. But I don’t lie.”
“You should have told me,” Walter said, “that you meant to violate the orders of the bankruptcy court.”
“You would have insisted I not do it.”
“Who was the woman?”
“With me, in Carrport?” Max shrugged. “Miss September.” But then another awful thought struck. “Does Lutetia know?”
“Not yet.”
“Walter, this is not something for a wife to hear, not now, not ever. You know that, Walter.”
“I certainly do,” Walter agreed. “Which is another reason I wish you’d mentioned your plans before acting on them.”
“I don’t see … why … why …” Max ground to a halt, took a deep breath, and started again: “How did it come out? About me? ”
“Apparently,” Walter told him, “the officers originally meant to cover up for you, but once their prisoner slipped out of their hands they could no longer do that, they didn’t dare do it, they were in too much trouble as it was. There was also the fact you made the 911 call.”
“I can’t believe — Walter, if you’d seen that fellow, that burglar, you wouldn’t — How on earth did they manage to lose him? He was as docile as a cow!”
Walter shook his baggy head. “Don’t trust those who are docile as cows, Max.”
“I can see that. So he went
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