Man On A Leash Part 5

"How are you going to find out?"

"Go talk to Richter and Winegaard, to begin with."

"Did they teach you investigative techniques in the CIA? Or just interrogation-the iron maiden-bastinado?"

"Will you cut it out? CIA!"

"Didn't you know you talk in your sleep?"

"I do?"

"Scared you, didn't I? Well, you do, but it's always in Spanish. I've been thinking of enrolling at Berlitz."

"I'm probably talking to the other drivers; Berlitz doesn't teach that kind of Spanish. Anyway, why wouldn't I speak it? My mother was Cuban, and I lived in Havana most of the time until I was fourteen, when she died."

"I know. And then you gave up a career in professional baseball to become a stodgy old businessman in Latin America-"

"You'd be surprised how easy it is for a catcher hitting one sixty to give up a career in professional baseball."

"Stop interrupting me. And this was just before the Bay of Pigs. Odd, wasn't it?"

"If I plead guilty to all charges, can I make love to you again?"

"Well-"

"Now we're getting somewhere. Why didn't I think of copping out before? Did you know I also fomented the Boxer Rebellion and started the War of Jenkins' Ear?"

He arose a little before nine, showered and shaved as quietly as he could, and took a fresh suit and the rest of his clothes out into the living room to dress. This was accomplished with only one or two drowsy mutters from the depths of Mayo's pillow, largely undistinguishable except for something about a G.o.dd.a.m.ned rhinoceros.

He expected to find the kitchen barren of anything edible, the way he'd left it when he had taken off for Baja California, but discovered she'd restocked it, at least for breakfast. He put on coffee, mixed some orange juice, and toasted a cinnamon roll in the broiler of the oven. It would be an hour yet before the bank opened, so he'd have time to talk to Winegaard first. He looked up the number and dialed. Yes, the secretary said, Mr. Winegaard was in and would be glad to see Mr. Romstead. In about fifteen minutes. He scribbled a note to Mayo saying he'd be back before noon and walked over to Montgomery Street. It was a sunny morning, at least downtown, but cool enough to be typical of San Francisco's summer.

There was a customer's room with a number of desks and big armchairs where men were watching stock quotations on a board, with the partners' offices at the rear of it. Edward Winegaard's was large and expensively carpeted, with a ma.s.sive desk, and a mounted Pacific sailfish on one wall. Winegaard was a man near his father's age, trim and in good shape and tanned, with conservatively cut silvery hair. He arose to shake hands and indicated the armchair before his desk.

"It was a very tragic thing," he said. "And I don't understand it. I don't understand it at all."

"Neither do I," Romstead replied. "But all I've had so far is secondhand information, which is why I wanted to talk to you. You've known him for a long time?"

"Twenty-ah-twenty-seven years now."

"Then there's no question he made that money in the stock market?"

"None at all. Why?"

"The police seem to have some doubt of it."

"I don't see why. It was quite easy, looking at it in retrospect; anybody with a good job and a little money to invest every month could have done it. All he'd have to do is study stocks the way your father did." He smiled faintly, like a man remembering some golden age that was gone. "And get into the market when the Dow was in the two hundred to three hundred range, good solid shares were selling at five or six times earnings, and the big glamour issues were still to come.

"I first met him in New York in 1945. I'd just got out of the Army and was with Merrill Lynch. He had about twelve thousand dollars in savings and what I thought were very sound ideas on how he wanted to invest it. I've handled his business ever since. We had arguments, plenty of them-most of which he won-and I'll have to admit that more than half the time he was right.

"Traditionally, you think of s.h.i.+pmasters and seamen as sh.e.l.lbacks and old fogies about a century behind the times, but in the matter of investments Captain Romstead was oriented toward the future all the way. He believed in the new technology-electronics especially, computers, and aeros.p.a.ce. He'd been a radioman himself-"

"I didn't know that," Romstead said.

"Yes. You see, when he first got his officer's papers, he was still sailing in Norwegian s.h.i.+ps, before he became a U. S. citizen. And in those days it was quite common-as he explained it to me-for one of the mates of a Norwegian s.h.i.+p to double as wireless operator. So he had both tickets then.

"It was more or less natural then-especially after he started sailing out of here-for him to see the potentialities of the new electronics issues like Ampex, Varian, and Hewlett-Packard. He also bought IBM and Xerox at prices-and before multiple splits-that would make strong men break down and cry if you started talking about them now. And of course, s.h.i.+pmasters were making very good salaries by then; he was working steadily and buying more stock all the time. His portfolio was worth a million or a little over as far back as 1965."

"Good," Romstead said. "Now, for the second part-the pruning job when he liquidated that two hundred and fifty thousand. How does that jibe with your twenty-seven years' experience with him?"

"It doesn't," Winegaard said flatly. "As my grandchildren would say-no way."

"It was that bad?"

"A child with a pair of scissors could have done just as well." Winegaard took from his desk a list consisting of three pages clipped together. "This is a copy of our latest statement to him-that is, the shares we held for him in street name. What he did was simply to sell everything on the first page, except for one minor item at the bottom of it. Without going into detail about it, this included two issues we'd bought for him only the week before and that we were very high on, and another he'd had for less than a month and that was performing even better than we'd expected. It makes no sense at all that he would sell these.

"And on the next two pages there were three stocks we'd already more than halfway decided to unload. Approximately the same amount of money involved, around ninety thousand. I argued with him, or tried to, but he cut me off very abruptly. He didn't want to argue about it, he said. Sell at the market opening and deposit the proceeds in his checking account as soon as possible."

Romstead was conscious of growing excitement. Now they were getting somewhere. "Well, look-did he specifically mention the sum two hundred and fifty thousand as the amount he needed?"

"No, he didn't. He'd know, of course, from the previous closing quotations within a few thousand what the list would bring-barring some upheaval in the market overnight. Actually, the proceeds after commission came to something a little over two hundred and fifty-three thousand."

"And what was the item at the bottom of the first page that he didn't sell?"

"Some warrants. Fifteen hundred dollars altogether, around that."

"In other words, he completely ignored everything on the other two pages. And when you tried to bring up some stocks that were listed on these pages is when he cut you off?"

"Hmmmm, yes. That's about it."

"How did he sound to you? Was there anything unusual about his voice or mode of expression?"

"No. Not at all. Your father, let's face it, could be quite brusque and impatient when he wanted action instead of conversation."

"No," Romstead said. "I don't think that's the reason he cut you off."

"What do you mean?"

"I think he was being forced to liquidate those stocks, and the people who were leaning on him didn't know-for some reason-that there were two more pages. Otherwise, they'd have got it all."

"Good G.o.d! Do you think a thing like that is possible?"

"What other explanation can you think of?"

"But how could they hope to get the money? It would be in the bank. And bankers, before they cash checks for a quarter million dollars, are apt to ask for a little identification."

"No. They expected to get it in cash-which is exactly the way they did get it. Before they killed him."

The double gla.s.s doors of the Northern California First National Bank were at street level, and with the wide windows on each side it was possible for anyone to see the whole interior. It was high-ceilinged with ornate chandeliers and a waxed terrazzo floor. On the left, in front and extending more than halfway back, was a carpeted area behind a velvet rope which held the officers' desks. On the right in front was more of the terrazzo lobby extending to wide carpeted stairs leading downward, no doubt to the safe-deposit vaults. Beyond these areas there were tellers' windows on both sides, and then at the back a railing, several girls at bookkeeping machines, and the iron-grille doorway into the open vault. Down the center there were three chest-high writing stands with gla.s.s tops.

One uniformed guard was on duty at the desk at the head of the stairs to the safe-deposit vaults, and he could see another tidying up the forms at the rearmost of the writing stands. Three of the tellers' windows were open, and there were six or seven customers. This is where they did it, Romstead thought, in front of everybody. They had to be good. He went in.

Owen Richter's desk was just inside the entrance to the carpeted area. Richter himself was a slender graying man with an air of conservatism and unflappable competence, and Romstead was forced to concede it didn't seem likely the eyes behind those rimless gla.s.ses ever missed much that went on in the bank or were often fooled by what they saw. He introduced himself and explained why he was here. Richter shook his head.

"There's not a chance, Mr. Romstead. It's exactly as I told the police, and the executor-Bolling, isn't it? Your father, when he came in and picked up that money, was sober, entirely rational, and alone."

"He couldn't have been," Romstead said. "It was completely out of character, something he simply wouldn't do."

"Oh, as for that, I couldn't agree with you more. I've known Captain Romstead for close to ten years. He was very sound and conservative and highly competent in managing money. And because I did know him and knew this was totally unlike him, I was suspicious myself when he first telephoned me, that Monday before the withdrawal, and said he was going to want that amount of money in cash. It's irregular. And also foolish and highly dangerous. I tried to talk him out of it, but got nowhere. He simply said to expedite the clearance, that he wanted the money by Wednesday, and hung up.

"As you're probably aware, there are certain types of swindlers who prey on older people, and while I was sure the con man who'd pick your father for a victim would be making the mistake of his life, I made a note to be on the lookout when he came in, just to be sure there was no third party lurking in the background. I also alerted Mr. Wilkins, the security officer on duty in the main lobby here. He knew the captain by sight, of course."

"You don't know where he called from, that Monday?"

"No, he didn't say. And of course there's no way to tell; it came through the switchboard, and nowadays with long-distance dialing they wouldn't know either."

"He said he'd call back Wednesday to see if the deposit had cleared. Did you by any chance offer to call him?"

"Yes, I did. But he said not to bother; he'd call."

"And what time did he?"

"Around ten thirty Wednesday morning. I told him clearance had just come through, so he said he would be in in about ten minutes."

"Did he specify any denominations for the money?" Romstead asked.

"Yes. In fifties and hundreds. I gave instructions to have it counted out and ready for him in the vault. As you'll see, from my desk here I can see the whole lobby, from the vault on out to the front doors, and even the sidewalk outside, through the windows. I told Mr. Wilkins he would be here in a few minutes, so he was on the lookout, too. I think it was just ten forty exactly when your father came in."

"Was there anybody behind him?" Romstead asked.

"No. Not immediately behind him. By the time he'd walked over to my desk there was another man came in, but I knew him. He owns a restaurant down the street and has been a bank customer for years. The captain came on over to the desk here. He was carrying a small bag-"

"Do you remember what kind it was?" Romstead interrupted. "And what color?"

"Gray. It was just the common type of airplane luggage you can buy anywhere, even in drugstores. I asked him to sit down, but he refused; he seemed to be impatient to get on with the transaction. I tried again to tell him how dangerous it was, carrying that much money around the streets, but he waved me off rather abruptly. So I told him if he'd write out the check, I'd go back to the vault and get the money for him, but he said he'd go with me. Mr. Wilkins came over, and the three of us walked back. The captain took out his checkbook and stopped at one of the stands out there to write the check and sign it. We went on to the railing there outside the vault, and I asked to have the money brought out. It was banded, of course, and the captain accepted our count as we put it in the bag. He thanked me, and Mr. Wilkins and I walked to the front door with him."

"And n.o.body followed him out?"

"No. We were particularly on the lookout for that, but it was a minute or two before anybody else went out, and again it was a customer I knew. I still didn't like the transaction, so I stepped out on the sidewalk myself just to be sure there was n.o.body waiting for him outside. He went up to the corner, waited for the light, and crossed Montgomery. He was still alone, n.o.body following him."

Romstead glumly shook his head. "Well, that seems to be it."

"Yes, there's not a chance in the world he was being threatened or coerced in any way. All the time he was here at my desk he could have told me without being overheard. And back there by the vault Mr. Wilkins and I were both alone with him. Also, when he crossed Montgomery, he pa.s.sed right in front of a police car, stopped for the light."

But, d.a.m.n it, Romstead thought, it had to be. There was no other answer. "How many people were in the lobby altogether?"

"Several came in and went out during the whole period, but I don't think there were ever more than eight at one time."

"Was there anybody who was strange to you? Who wasn't a customer and you couldn't remember seeing before?"

"Yes. There were two." The answer was unhesitating and precise. "One was a young woman with blond hair, wearing dark gla.s.ses. I think she was buying travelers' checks. The other was a hippie type with a big bushy beard, a headband, and hair down to his shoulders. He was wearing one of those poncho things and had a guitar slung over his shoulder."

"What was he doing? He doesn't sound much like a regular bank customer."

"He was counting his change. I guess he'd been panhandling." Distaste was evident in Richter's tone. "He came in just a few minutes before the captain and was at that middle stand there with a double handful of nickels, dimes, and quarters spread out on it, counting them."

"He didn't have one hand under the poncho, any TV routine like that?"

"Oh, no. Anyway, he was still here after the captain went out. He was at one of the tellers' windows. Getting currency for all that silver, I suppose."

"I just don't get it," Romstead said. "There's only one thing that strikes me as a little odd. You asked him to sit down here and write the check, but he refused. Then he stopped at one of the stands and wrote it. Didn't he have a pen?"

"Oh, I offered him one."

"Did it strike you as strange?"

"No-o. Not really. It was my impression, I think, that he didn't want me to go after the money-that is, it'd be quicker if he went too."

"Well, when he stopped to write it on the way back to the vault, was it the stand where the hippie was?"

"No. It was the one at the rear."

"Then the hippie couldn't have seen the amount?"

"No, not unless he had exceptional eyesight-" Richter stopped, his eyes thoughtful. "Yes, he might have. As I recall now, he finished his counting and had gathered up his silver while your father was writing out the check, and he went past on the other side of the stand, going to one of the tellers' windows. But I don't think that's significant; he could just as easily have seen, or guessed, what the three of us were doing back there by the vault with the bag, if he had robbery in mind. Anyway, as I said, he was still in the bank after your father left."

Romstead walked back to the apartment, feeling baffled and frustrated. How could he be right and wrong at the same time?

6

"If the first supposition is right, then the second one has to be too," he told Mayo. "Richter missed it, and now I've missed it; but it still has to be there."

"Not necessarily," she replied. She was wearing the housecoat and a pair of mules, but she'd combed her hair and put on lipstick. She was perched crosswise in a big armchair in the living room, sipping coffee. "You're projecting your hypothesis from an opinion, not a known fact, when you say it couldn't have been kidnap. It could have been a girlfriend."

"A quarter million dollars?"

"Men as tough and as promiscuous as your father have turned out to be vulnerable, the same as anybody else, thousands of times. In which case he'd have come in alone to get the money. It wouldn't have been voluntary, by any stretch of the imagination, but they wouldn't have to be there."