Stolen Away

I got up and began to pace. “Do you expect him this evening?”

“Possibly. At this point, do we care? I’m convinced Means is perpetrating the biggest hoax of his career. You were right all along, Nate. I was a fool.”

Suddenly I wasn’t so sure who the fool was. If I’d stayed with Evalyn, and not gone back to reenter the Jafsie sweepstakes, maybe I’d be on top of things, instead of underneath the weight of it all.

“What is it, Nate? What’s wrong?”

“Call Means. Get him over here. Now.”

I was perched out of sight in the balcony, from which that reporter friend of Evalyn’s had supervised her first meeting with the notorious Gaston Bullock Means. And like Evalyn’s reporter friend, I was armed. The nine millimeter was snugly beneath my left shoulder.

Below me, in a room lit only by the fireplace, Evalyn—still wearing the dowdy robe, smoking yet another cigarette—paced. Before long, Garboni announced, and ushered in, her awaited guest.

Massive Gaston Means, who had rushed here to see Mrs. McLean, eager to be of help, stood before her like a shaved bear in a suit. That suit was dark blue and vested with a blue-and-red tie; he looked like a Southern senator, the kind a lobbyist could buy for a cigar, a drink and a whore.

“I was afraid, Eleven,” Means said in his mellow manner, “that you had lost faith in me.”

“Please sit down, Means.”

“‘Hogan,’ my dear. I must insist.”

Their voices rose to me, echoey but distinct.

She sat; arms folded, head erect. “Let’s dispense with the melodrama for once. Tell me the truth, Means. Tell me how much more money you want.”

“I don’t want anything,” he said, sitting on the nearest couch, homburg in hand. “The four thousand expenses you gave me is sufficient.”

Evalyn hadn’t mentioned that, though later she confirmed it: Means had asked for, and gotten, four grand from her as an expense account, above and beyond her hundred grand he was “holding.”

“You look tired, Eleven. Are you well?”

She was lighting up a fresh cigarette. “Is the ‘book’ well, is more to the point. What news do you have?”

He gestured broadly. “As you know, I’ve just been in Chicago. A member of the gang was sent there, a few days ago, by the Fox, to unload the fifty grand Lindbergh paid that other negotiator. But the Fox’s man hasn’t had any luck—no buyers. The banks have the serial numbers, you know.”

“So I’ve read in the papers.”

“The gang is pretty sore at Lindy for marking that money. I’m trying to convince them that your one hundred thousand isn’t marked.”

“Thank you. So what’s our next move?”

Means leaned forward conspiratorially, clutching his homburg like a tiny shield. “The gang wants clean money to replace the marked stuff they got from Lindbergh. They’re willing to sell that marked fifty thousand back for thirty-five thousand, unmarked.”

“And I suppose that thirty-five thousand is to be taken out of my hundred thousand?”

He leaned back, surprised, almost insulted. “Oh no—that hundred thousand is not to be touched under any circumstances. The moment a deal for the marked money goes through, the hundred thousand might be needed on a moment’s notice, for the return of the ‘book.’”

Evalyn blew out smoke. “Means, have you still got that money of mine?”

“Your money? Why, of course!”

“Where is it?”

“In a safe down at my family home in Concord…and has been since right after you saw it in my home that day. Surely, Eleven, you can’t imagine I would’ve taken that money with me to Aiken or especially to Texas—and run the chance of having it hijacked!” Smilingly, he patted his chest. “You don’t know Gaston Means.”

“Sometimes I wish I didn’t. This thirty-five thousand—who’s going to put that up? I haven’t got that much in cash.”

“I tried to raise it myself, my dear, from a bookmaker friend of mine. But, alas…”

That was it; that was all I could take.

I came down the stairs. My footsteps were like gunshots. Means looked around, startled. He rose from the couch, turning, his moon face intense, his hand drifting toward his coat pocket.

But I already had the nine millimeter in hand.

“Don’t,” I said without enthusiasm.

He didn’t. His face was slack, the dimples lost in fleshiness; his tiny eyes were wide.

Evalyn’s eyes glittered; she seemed a little afraid, and a little excited by my entrance. She liked melodrama, too.

“I’ll need a few moments alone with Mr. Means,” I told her. She’d been warned I might do this. She nodded and went quickly out.

“Eleven!” he called after her, pawing the air. She didn’t answer. A door closed, heavily.

I walked over to him. “Hands up, Means. You know the procedure.”

“What’s the meaning of this, Sixteen?”

“You remembered my code number. I’m flattered.” Patting him down, I found a small automatic, a .25. In his fat hand it would have looked like a party favor. I tossed it gently on the couch.

“Who are you?” he asked indignantly.

“Not the chauffeur. What do you really know, Means?”

He gave me his innocence-personified expression; he looked like a dissipated cherub. “Know?”

With measured sarcasm, I replied, “About the Lindbergh case.”