opened the door after Padillo identified himself.
She nearly winced when she saw me, but all that she said was, “Still the mute witness, Mr. McCorkle?”
“I speak up from time to time.”
After we were in the room she turned to Padillo. “Well?”
“I’m in.”
“How much?”
“How much can you afford?”
“Fifty thousand, plus ten thousand for whoever killed my brother.”
“Just the name?”
“Just the name.”
“Amos Gitner thinks you might have done it.”
“That’s not worth ten thousand.”
“I didn’t think it would be. How much front money, Wanda?”
She looked away from him and ran her left forefinger up and down the dark blue material that made up the pants of her suit. “Five thousand.”
“Business must be bad all over. Kragstein and Gitner could only offer me seventy-five hundred and from what I hear, they’ve been working regularly.”
“We took it on a contingency basis.”
“So did they.”
She turned back to him and when she spoke her voice was low and level and very hard. “Just get me that name and you’ve got the ten thousand, Padillo, even if it takes every last cent I’ve got.” She turned away again, as if the melodrama of the statement embarrassed her. “What did Kragstein and Gitner say?”
“That they didn’t kill Walter.”
“What else?”
“That they get a bonus if Kassim doesn’t sign certain papers. No bonus if he does sign, but doesn’t make it back to Llaquah.”
“A sliding scale,” she said. “Did they mention who’s paying them?”
“No.”
“Did you ask?”
“Yes.”
“And you turned them down?”
“That’s right.”
“What did they say?”
“Not much.”
“Gitner must have said something.”
“He seemed to think that I’m getting old.”
She inspected him carefully, much as she might inspect a cold-storage chicken that had been a trifle long in the freezer. “You are, you know.”
“Everybody is,” Padillo said.
“Well, does the five thousand hold you?”
“Forget it.”
“What do you mean, forget it? What are we playing now, Padillo, one of your clever little games?”
“No games. I’m in for free and if I find out who killed Walter, you get that for nothing, too.”
“I don’t like anything when it’s free,” she said. “If it’s a gift horse, I look in its mouth. Since it’s from you, I might even ask for X rays.”
“Don’t.”
“Why?”
“Because,” he said, “you might find out how old and tired he really is.”
Wanda Gothar’s room wasn’t the best that the Hay-Adams had to offer, nor was it the worst. The view from the two windows was mostly of AFL-CIO headquarters, which was across Sixteenth Street, and the room was furnished with a double bed, a few chairs, a combination dresser-writing table, and the inevitable television set. It was a commercial traveler’s room, one to sleep in for a couple of nights, three at the most, before hastening back home or on to the next town. From the looks of the room she could have been there for an hour or for a month because there was nothing in it that seemed to belong to her. No suitcase, no cosmetic kit, nor even a box of Kleenex or a paperback book. I decided that she was either a highly experienced traveler or a compulsive neatener, one of those who gag at the sight of a crushed-out cigarette in an ashtray.
She was turned toward the windows, her back to Padillo and me, when she said, “All right. When do you start?”
“As soon as you give me some answers,” he said.
“Such as?”
“Why did you fake the note from Paul?”
She turned from the window and made a small gesture with her left hand, as if the question were hardly worth an answer. “We were almost broke and we needed help. The only way we landed this assignment was by assuring them that you’d be in on it. You and Paul had been close and we thought that you might feel something—a sentimental obligation perhaps. That was dumb of us.”
“You should’ve
She nearly winced when she saw me, but all that she said was, “Still the mute witness, Mr. McCorkle?”
“I speak up from time to time.”
After we were in the room she turned to Padillo. “Well?”
“I’m in.”
“How much?”
“How much can you afford?”
“Fifty thousand, plus ten thousand for whoever killed my brother.”
“Just the name?”
“Just the name.”
“Amos Gitner thinks you might have done it.”
“That’s not worth ten thousand.”
“I didn’t think it would be. How much front money, Wanda?”
She looked away from him and ran her left forefinger up and down the dark blue material that made up the pants of her suit. “Five thousand.”
“Business must be bad all over. Kragstein and Gitner could only offer me seventy-five hundred and from what I hear, they’ve been working regularly.”
“We took it on a contingency basis.”
“So did they.”
She turned back to him and when she spoke her voice was low and level and very hard. “Just get me that name and you’ve got the ten thousand, Padillo, even if it takes every last cent I’ve got.” She turned away again, as if the melodrama of the statement embarrassed her. “What did Kragstein and Gitner say?”
“That they didn’t kill Walter.”
“What else?”
“That they get a bonus if Kassim doesn’t sign certain papers. No bonus if he does sign, but doesn’t make it back to Llaquah.”
“A sliding scale,” she said. “Did they mention who’s paying them?”
“No.”
“Did you ask?”
“Yes.”
“And you turned them down?”
“That’s right.”
“What did they say?”
“Not much.”
“Gitner must have said something.”
“He seemed to think that I’m getting old.”
She inspected him carefully, much as she might inspect a cold-storage chicken that had been a trifle long in the freezer. “You are, you know.”
“Everybody is,” Padillo said.
“Well, does the five thousand hold you?”
“Forget it.”
“What do you mean, forget it? What are we playing now, Padillo, one of your clever little games?”
“No games. I’m in for free and if I find out who killed Walter, you get that for nothing, too.”
“I don’t like anything when it’s free,” she said. “If it’s a gift horse, I look in its mouth. Since it’s from you, I might even ask for X rays.”
“Don’t.”
“Why?”
“Because,” he said, “you might find out how old and tired he really is.”
Wanda Gothar’s room wasn’t the best that the Hay-Adams had to offer, nor was it the worst. The view from the two windows was mostly of AFL-CIO headquarters, which was across Sixteenth Street, and the room was furnished with a double bed, a few chairs, a combination dresser-writing table, and the inevitable television set. It was a commercial traveler’s room, one to sleep in for a couple of nights, three at the most, before hastening back home or on to the next town. From the looks of the room she could have been there for an hour or for a month because there was nothing in it that seemed to belong to her. No suitcase, no cosmetic kit, nor even a box of Kleenex or a paperback book. I decided that she was either a highly experienced traveler or a compulsive neatener, one of those who gag at the sight of a crushed-out cigarette in an ashtray.
She was turned toward the windows, her back to Padillo and me, when she said, “All right. When do you start?”
“As soon as you give me some answers,” he said.
“Such as?”
“Why did you fake the note from Paul?”
She turned from the window and made a small gesture with her left hand, as if the question were hardly worth an answer. “We were almost broke and we needed help. The only way we landed this assignment was by assuring them that you’d be in on it. You and Paul had been close and we thought that you might feel something—a sentimental obligation perhaps. That was dumb of us.”
“You should’ve
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