of homicide detectives want to talk to me about Bobby Boykins and how he got killed. You knew Bobby, didn’t you?”
There was a brief silence and then the voice said, “Okay, Monday’s out. We’ll make it Tuesday at ten.”
“Where?”
“West Side Airlines Terminal, you know where it is?”
“Tenth and Forty-second.”
“Okay, at ten o’clock you go upstairs to the men’s room. Go in the first crapper stall on the left. If it’s busy, wait till the guy comes out. Then go in, sit down, and wait. Have the money in that same Pan-Am bag. Just wait there until somebody comes into the crapper stall next to you. They’ll push an airline bag under the partition into your stall. At the same time, you’ll push your bag—”
“Not at the same time,” I said. “I’m going to look first.”
“Okay, you look first. Then you push the money over. Then you get the hell out of the men’s room and out of the terminal. And don’t get any funny ideas about hanging around outside and waiting for somebody to come out of the men’s room carrying a Pan-Am bag. By the time they come out of there, it won’t be in there anymore. You got it?”
“I’ve got it”
“Now I’ll tell you how I want the money.”
“All right.”
“In twenties and fifties. Nothing bigger.”
“All right.”
“And when you see those homicide cops tomorrow, St. Ives, I wouldn’t mention anything about where you’re going to be at ten o’clock Tuesday.”
“You did know Bobby Boykins, didn’t you?” I said.
There was a silence that went on for nearly ten seconds until it was broken by the click of the phone as he hung up in my ear. I put Procane’s phone down and then told him what the distorted voice had told me.
Procane was silent for a few moments and then he said, “What did he say when you mentioned Boykins?”
“Nothing.”
“Do you think he’s the one who killed him?”
“Possibly.”
“But you’re not going to tell the police?”
“I don’t have anything to tell them yet. I don’t even know if Boykins was involved. All I know is that Boykins’s dead body was found at a laundromat I happened to be visiting at three o’clock this morning.”
“There must be some connection,” Wiedstein said.
“Maybe. But Bobby Boykins was a small-time con man, not a thief. He wouldn’t know how to steal a hub cap, but he knew a lot of people who do.”
“You’re suggesting that he might have been the thief’s go-between?” Procane said.
I shook my head. “I’m not suggesting anything. But between now and Tuesday morning I’m going to nose around. I know some people who knew Boykins. They might have heard something. Whoever killed him worked him over when they really didn’t have to. He was an old man. When you get that old you don’t refuse to talk because you’ve learned that there’s no percentage in it. The only reason that could have kept Boykins from spilling everything he knew was that he also knew that as soon as he did talk, he’d be dead.”
Procane leaned back in his chair and looked at one of his paintings. This one showed a half-grown deer hesitantly leaving a sunlit copse. I decided that Procane liked to paint sunlight and that he did it very well. The deer was good, too. “It would appear that our simple transaction is becoming complicated, Mr. St. Ives,” he said.
“Extremely so,” I said. “But murder never simplifies anything, although that’s why a lot of them are committed.”
“I never thought of it in just that way.” He paused, as if taking time out to give it a thought or two now. “I do believe you’re right,” he said after a moment. Then he shifted his gaze from the painting to me. “Are you still adamant about working alone?”
“Why?”
“You said that you might nose around in an effort to determine whether Boykins had any connection with the theft of my journals. I was wondering whether you would object if Miss Whistler and Mr. Wiedstein were to do the
There was a brief silence and then the voice said, “Okay, Monday’s out. We’ll make it Tuesday at ten.”
“Where?”
“West Side Airlines Terminal, you know where it is?”
“Tenth and Forty-second.”
“Okay, at ten o’clock you go upstairs to the men’s room. Go in the first crapper stall on the left. If it’s busy, wait till the guy comes out. Then go in, sit down, and wait. Have the money in that same Pan-Am bag. Just wait there until somebody comes into the crapper stall next to you. They’ll push an airline bag under the partition into your stall. At the same time, you’ll push your bag—”
“Not at the same time,” I said. “I’m going to look first.”
“Okay, you look first. Then you push the money over. Then you get the hell out of the men’s room and out of the terminal. And don’t get any funny ideas about hanging around outside and waiting for somebody to come out of the men’s room carrying a Pan-Am bag. By the time they come out of there, it won’t be in there anymore. You got it?”
“I’ve got it”
“Now I’ll tell you how I want the money.”
“All right.”
“In twenties and fifties. Nothing bigger.”
“All right.”
“And when you see those homicide cops tomorrow, St. Ives, I wouldn’t mention anything about where you’re going to be at ten o’clock Tuesday.”
“You did know Bobby Boykins, didn’t you?” I said.
There was a silence that went on for nearly ten seconds until it was broken by the click of the phone as he hung up in my ear. I put Procane’s phone down and then told him what the distorted voice had told me.
Procane was silent for a few moments and then he said, “What did he say when you mentioned Boykins?”
“Nothing.”
“Do you think he’s the one who killed him?”
“Possibly.”
“But you’re not going to tell the police?”
“I don’t have anything to tell them yet. I don’t even know if Boykins was involved. All I know is that Boykins’s dead body was found at a laundromat I happened to be visiting at three o’clock this morning.”
“There must be some connection,” Wiedstein said.
“Maybe. But Bobby Boykins was a small-time con man, not a thief. He wouldn’t know how to steal a hub cap, but he knew a lot of people who do.”
“You’re suggesting that he might have been the thief’s go-between?” Procane said.
I shook my head. “I’m not suggesting anything. But between now and Tuesday morning I’m going to nose around. I know some people who knew Boykins. They might have heard something. Whoever killed him worked him over when they really didn’t have to. He was an old man. When you get that old you don’t refuse to talk because you’ve learned that there’s no percentage in it. The only reason that could have kept Boykins from spilling everything he knew was that he also knew that as soon as he did talk, he’d be dead.”
Procane leaned back in his chair and looked at one of his paintings. This one showed a half-grown deer hesitantly leaving a sunlit copse. I decided that Procane liked to paint sunlight and that he did it very well. The deer was good, too. “It would appear that our simple transaction is becoming complicated, Mr. St. Ives,” he said.
“Extremely so,” I said. “But murder never simplifies anything, although that’s why a lot of them are committed.”
“I never thought of it in just that way.” He paused, as if taking time out to give it a thought or two now. “I do believe you’re right,” he said after a moment. Then he shifted his gaze from the painting to me. “Are you still adamant about working alone?”
“Why?”
“You said that you might nose around in an effort to determine whether Boykins had any connection with the theft of my journals. I was wondering whether you would object if Miss Whistler and Mr. Wiedstein were to do the
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