Never Trust a Partner, page 20
Drexler nodded, then, true to form, opened the case to check the money inside. By then, though, we’d reached the lobby and he had time for only a quick look before the elevator door slid open. The sight of money inside was enough to reassure him, so he closed the case with a decisive snap.
“You can count it when you get home,” I suggested. The sarcasm was lost on him. “Yes,” he said.
“And while you’re at it,” I added, “don’t forget to tear up that receipt I gave you.”
This time he did smile. “Yes,” he said again. “Of course.”
I saw him safely in a taxi, then went down to where the car was parked, tipped the boy I’d asked to watch it, and drove back to the hotel. The Major and Arnold were waiting by the rear entrance. I pulled over to let them in the car.
“Where’s the money?” Arnold said.
“In the trunk compartment,” I said. “Where it’s safe.”
“I take it then,” the Major said, leaning back comfortably, “you had no trouble making the switch.”
“None at all,” I said. “Drexler wouldn’t put up the money without a receipt, then made the mistake of leaving me alone while he put the receipt in his safe.”
“Very good,” the Major said. “Very good indeed, but now I suggest we follow the Good Book once more and shake the dust of this town. I don’t think it will remain so hospitable once our friend Mr. Drexler finds out that he’s carried home only a small fraction of the money on top of stacks of cut paper—and realizes that his favorite F.B.I. man is none other than the Tom James he was so carefully warned against.”
Sufficient Unto the Day
The girl at the receptionist’s desk would have made a good model. At least she had the long slim lines and bony facial structure. Also the faintly aloof air.
“Yes?”
“Would you be so kind,” the Major said, “as to tell Mr. Porterfield that Major McDonlevy and Mr. James are here to see him?”
The girl’s expression didn’t change. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Not exactly,” the Major said, “but I believe he is expecting us.”
“I’ll see,” the girl said. She rose langorously and went back through the door to the inner office, closing it behind her.
The Major looked around and rubbed his hands together briskly. “Very impressive,” he said, “wouldn’t you say?”
“The girl?”
“No, I meant the office.” He smiled suddenly. He was a short man— barely five foot five—with a barrel chest, square ruddy face neatly bisected by a full gray mustache, and a bristle of close-cropped hair the same iron-gray color. Only his eyes didn’t fit the military image. They were very blue and ingenuous—most of the time. “Although I must admit the girl does have her points as well. Nevertheless, I think you’ll find that in this business it pays to keep your mind on the essentials.”
“I’ll try,” I said, “but at the moment it seems to me that the really essential thing would be to get some money coming in.”
“Of course,” the Major said. “But then to make money is why we’re here. I showed you the ad, didn’t I?”
I nodded. The Major had met Porterfield earlier that week as a result of an ad that Porterfield had been running in the local papers offering investors an opportunity to double their money in 30 days. Even if we’d had money to invest, it still would have been too good to be true and I said as much now.
“Of course, my boy,” the Major said, “but that’s precisely what makes it so interesting.” He broke off as the inner door opened. “Ah,” he said, “and now unless I’m mistaken here’s the young lady come back to tell us Mr. Porterfield will see us.” He smiled beamingly at the girl. She looked expressionlessly back.
“You can go right in,” she said.
Porterfield was a tall heavy-set man in his mid-to-late-fifties with a tanned, craggy face and tight curly hair just beginning to go gray. He went well with the office, which was large, carpeted, and paneled in dark expensive-looking oak. The back wall was lined with bookshelves except for the far-right corner where space had been left for a door to the outside corridor. Porterfield rose easily now as the Major and I came in.
“Ah, Mr. McDonlevy,” he said. “Good to see you again.”
“Actually,” the Major said, advancing into the room, “it’s Major McDonlevy. Major Henry T. McDonlevy to be precise, U.S. Army— and, if I may say so myself, the world’s greatest adjutant until some bureaucratic mixup in Washington forced my retirement. Not that it matters any more, but I do like to have these things straight.”
“Yes, of course,” Porterfield said. He seemed slightly taken aback, but the Major went on imperviously.
“I was just telling Tom here,” he said, sitting down and crossing his short legs, “how much I admired your office. Makes me almost wish I wasn’t such a rolling stone. Still,” he added almost regretfully, “I suppose there are advantages.”
“There are advantages to everything, Major,” Porterfield said, back in charge of himself and again exuding heartiness. “It’s just a matter of availing yourself of them.”
The Major looked at him curiously. “You know,” he said, “that was just the point I was going to make to Tom.”
“Good,” Porterfield said. “That means we see eye to eye. I take it that it also means you’ve decided to come in with us.”
The Major cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t say ‘decided,’” he said. “I try to guide my life by the Good Book and where money is concerned I find it pays to be ‘slow of speech, and of a slow tongue’ until all the facts are in. Besides, I’d like Tom here to hear the proposition as well.”
“Of course,” Porterfield said. He paused, then rose as a light rap sounded on the outer door. “That must be Barnes now,” he said. “I took the liberty of calling him when the girl told me you were here. He’s the one you want to talk to anyway, because it’s really more his project than anybody else’s.” He opened the door to admit a tall sallowcomplexioned man. “Ah, Carl,” Porterfield said, “you’re just in time. This is Major McDonlevy—the man I told you about—and his associate, Mr.—ah?”
“James,” I said. “Tom James.”
Barnes gave me a limp hand, nodded distantly, then sat down across from the Major. “Arthur tells me you’re interested in our little project.”
“Shall we say I’m interested in considering it,” the Major said. “I won’t know whether I’m really interested until I know more about it.”
“Fair enough,” Barnes said. He was older than Porterfield and angular where the younger man was inclined to paunch. “What’s Arthur told you so far, Major?”
“Only that you have what promises to be a highly profitable land speculation.”
“Hardly a speculation, Major,” Barnes said. “Or a promise. A fact. I travel a lot in my work, checking out potential factory sites primarily for eventual purchase or lease. It takes me to a lot of interesting places and into a lot of interesting records. That’s only by way of background. The important thing is that in tracing down a title recently I came upon a situation of, shall we say, more than passing interest.
“It seems that about fifteen years ago a New York businessman named Elton Peters bought a tract of marshland in northern Indiana. The land was considered worthless and maybe it was. Peters’ idea, however, was to turn it into a private sporting club and duck blind which he and his friends could use any time they wanted. Before he could bring it off, though, he was killed in one of those freak accidents the National Rifle Association says can’t happen to experienced hunters but somehow seem to anyway.
“Be that as it may, his idea died with him. I imagine the attorney for his estate made some effort to sell the land, but found no takers for what was little better than a swamp and ended up writing the whole thing off as a dead loss. Loss or no, though, title passed to Peters’ sole heir, a nephew, who still owns it.
“He wasn’t hard to track down. He’d moved several times, but there’s always a neighbor who remembers or a cousin who’s kept in touch and one thing just leads to another. In any case, he lives in New Jersey and he thinks the possibility of finally getting some money out of ‘Uncle’s swamp’ is the greatest joke in the world. What he doesn’t know is that three years ago the river that fed the marsh shifted its course and as a result his ‘swamp’ is dry as a bone and worth at least four or five times what he thinks it is.”
The Major shifted in his chair. “By George,” he said, “I see what you mean about its not being speculation. Even if the deal falls through, all you stand to lose is your time.”
“That’s right,” Barnes said. “At the worst we get our money back less maybe a few hundred for expenses. At the best, we make a four-or five-hundred percent profit—again less maybe a few hundred for expenses.” The Major smiled broadly. “Well,” he said, “under the circumstances
I don’t see how I could possibly refuse. How much do you need?”
“$30,000,” Barnes said.
“Thirty—”
“That’s the total amount, Major,” Porterfield put in smoothly. “Obviously no one of us has that kind of capital—otherwise why would we need partners?”
“Of course,” the Major said. He seemed relieved. “How much can you put up, Major?” Barnes said.
The Major shifted under his gaze. “Well,” he said. He looked over at me. “Well, I think we could manage $5000. Yes, definitely, $5000.”
“And that’s all?” Barnes said. “Porterfield and I are putting up $10,000 each. We expected you’d be able at least to match that.”
“Well, obviously I would if I could,” the Major said. “Maximize the profits and all that. But I’m afraid $5000 is the most we could go.
Barnes shook his head. “I’m sorry, Major,” he said.
“Oh, come now,” the Major said. “What difference does it make how much each of us invests, since naturally we take our profits only in the same proportion.”
Barnes continued to shake his head. “It’s not that simple,” he said. “I have another man on the string who will have the full $10,030 by the middle of next week. He won’t settle for half. And there’s no reason I should have to, because the only reason we considered you is that we thought you’d have the money now, and obviously the sooner we act the better.” He shrugged. “A bird in the hand’s always worth two in the bush, but all you can offer really is half a bird.”
“Maybe the Major knows someone who’d be willing to take the second half,” Porterfield said.
Now it was the Major’s turn to shake his head. “I’m afraid my only other contact in town is the desk clerk at my hotel and really doubt he’d have that much money even if he were the type to put it up.”
“I doubt it too,” Barnes said. “I’m sorry, Major, but you can see my position.”
“I feel bad about this,” Porterfield said. “I really should have—” He broke off as the phone behind him rang. With a muttered “excuse me” he swung around to pick it up. “I thought I said I didn’t want to be disturbed,” he said into the receiver. . . “I see . . . No, I’d better talk to him.” He looked over at the three of us and made an apologetic face, then spoke back into the receiver: “Yes, O’Connor? . . . It’s here now? . . . No, no problem . . . Yes, of course. This afternoon . . . Yes, I understand.” He put the phone back down and sat silently for a moment, biting his lip. Barnes looked at him curiously. “Something wrong, Arthur?” he said.
Porterfield pulled himself back together with a start. “No,” he said.
He managed a smile. “Nothing I can’t work out anyway.”
“Good,” Barnes said. He rose and turned to the Major. “I don’t think there’s really anything more to discuss,” he said. “It’s just one of those things. Too bad.”
The Major nodded slowly. “I suppose,” he said. “You will keep us in mind, though, in case this other man can’t come up with the money either?”
Barnes smiled wryly. “It’s hardly likely,” he said. “But if it makes you feel better, sure.” He nodded to Porterfield. “I’ll be talking to you later, Arthur,” he said and went out the same door he had come in by.
There was a short-strained silence. Then the Major started rise. Porterfield waved him back. “Don’t be in such a hurry, Major,” he said. “Maybe we can work something out yet.”
“How so?” the Major said. “You heard the man. He won’t give.”
“No,” Porterfield said. “But maybe I will. How would you like to buy half of my share? Even-steven. For $5000, cash on the line.”
The Major looked at him thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t mind that at all,” he said. “The question is, though, why would you want to sell?”
“And the answer is I wouldn’t if I had any choice. The fact is, though, that not too long ago I took a big plunge. Without going into details, what I’ve done essentially is extend the franchising concept to the small manufacturing area. It’s a wide-open field, and in the long run it will pay off handsomely. For the short run—well, all new businesses need lots of capital and frankly I was stretched pretty thin even before Barnes came up with his proposition. But—well, four-hundred percent profit. There was just no way I could turn that down.”
“No,” the Major said, “of course not.”
“Anyway,” Porterfield said, “to come up with the money I did what I had to. Nothing desperate, of course. I didn’t embezzle or steal. But I did cut a few corners here and there.”
“Like what?” I said.
“Well, for one thing I found I could buy industrial diamonds— which the franchises use in their cutting tools—for a quarter the price I’d pay here if I bought in Holland. So I arranged through a mutual friend for an airlines crewman to pick them up for me whenever he made a run to Amsterdam. The problem is he’s here now—a good two weeks before I expected him. And since the deal is strictly cash and carry, I either pay up and take delivery this afternoon before his return flight or I lose the shipment, which I can’t afford because it would mean reneging on the contract and forfeiting at least some of the franchises.”
“I see,” the Major said. He looked even more thoughtful. “I hate to profit by another man’s misfortune,” he said, “but on the other hand—”
“On the other hand,” Porterfield finished for him, “you’re a fool if you pass up the opportunity. Don’t worry about it. In your place I’d do the same thing. The important thing is, are you willing to do it? And how fast can you put your hands on your money? Because there isn’t much time to spare.”
“Well,” the Major said slowly, “I’d have to go to the bank—half an hour, say. Forty-five minutes at the most.”
Porterfield bit his lip again. “That’s cutting it pretty close,” he said. “To be on the safe side, rather than come back here, you’d better take the money directly out to the airport. I’d go with you but I have to stay here in case O’Connor calls back.”
“Of course,” the Major said. “May I ask how we will recognize him?”
“No problem,” Porterfield said. He rose and went to his coat closet to get out a brown-leather attaché case. “You carry the money in this,” he said. “Then when you get to the airport, go to the newsstand in the international terminal, pick up a newspaper, and stand in front pretending to read it with the case on the floor beside you. O’Connor will contact you there. He’ll have an identical case which he’ll set down beside yours while he asks the dealer for an out-of-town paper—the Louisville Courier Journal. That’s your cue to pick up his case and casually stroll off, leaving him yours with the money.”
He paused as I frowned. “Something the matter, Mr. James?” he said. “Yeah,” I said. “Why all the rigamarole?”
Porterfield smiled self-consciously. “I suppose it does sound a little cloak-and-daggerish,” he said, “but better that than risking some alert customs agent spotting an out-and-out exchange.”
“Customs agent! You mean these diamonds are being smuggled in?”
“Of course,” Porterfield said. “I thought you realized that.”
“No,” I said, “I didn’t .”
The Major cleared his throat. “Ah,” he said, “I think perhaps I did. Not that it makes any difference, though. In for a penny, in for a pound, eh?”
“That’s the spirit, Major,” Porterfield said. He held out the briefcase.
The Major took it.
Later as we were riding down in the elevator, I said, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
The Major smiled. “I haven’t let you down yet, my boy, have I?”
“No,” I admitted. “But isn’t there something in that Good Book that
you’re so fond of quoting about there always being a first time?” He looked at me blankly. “Not that I’m aware of,” he said.
It was fairly crowded at the airport, but even so I had little difficulty staking out a spot near the newsstand to wait—or recognizing O’Connor when he appeared. He was a small sharp-faced man wearing a dark double-breasted jacket and matching trousers that suggested a uniform without quite being one. True to Porterfield’s word he was carrying a brown attaché case that was at least a close match for mine if not exactly identical. He set it down about two feet from my own case while he browsed at the counter.
I hesitated even after I heard him ask for the Louisville paper, then, remembering the Major’s “in for a penny, in for a pound,” picked his case up and walked off. I didn’t look back even when the commotion broke out behind me.
Porterfield’s secretary wasn’t at her desk when I got back to his office, but after a moment Porterfield himself came out to greet me. He looked at me curiously. “Didn’t the Major come with you?” he said.
