Read Online Small Felonies - Fifty Mystery Short Stories by Bill Pronzini - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Bill Pronzini
Tags: Mystery & Crime
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silence but I dislike euphemisms. I prefer to call a spade a spade."
"Damn you, what do you think you know about me?"
"Enough, Mr. Thorpe, to ask—and receive—the inconsequential sum of fifteen hundred dollars a month."
"That's an outrageous demand!"
"Not under the circumstances."
"What circumstances?"
"The rather substantial skeleton in your closet, sir. Yes, very substantial. Need I remind you of the unpleasant details?"
I said stiffly, "Lay your damned cards on the table."
"As you wish." Buchanan leaned back in his chair and made a steeple of his hands. "In April of 1977, you and a Mr. Arthur Powell, a speculator of shady background, contrived to steal, by fraudulent misrepresentation of certain real estate properties, the sum of five hundred thousand dollars. You were successful in this scheme and equally divided the, ah, spoils."
He paused for a moment, watching me. When I said nothing he smiled and went on. "Mr. Powell squandered his share on a variety of wildcat speculations. He died of a heart attack in Los Angeles in 1982—for all practical purposes, a pauper. You, on the other hand, used your share to finance a power play to gain control of Lysander Pharmaceuticals. The power play was successful, with the result that today you are not only head of the company but a well-respected member of this community and a leading candidate for public office. A senatorial seat, isn't it?"
I remained silent.
"And that is why, Mr. Thorpe," Buchanan said, "I believe you will pay me a fifteen-hundred-dollar honorarium each month. If this skeleton of yours were made public . . . well, I shudder to think of its effects on your reputation and your political aspirations. Don't you?"
"How did you find out all this?"
He smiled. "Come now, you really don't expect me to tell you that. There are ways—many ways to find out many things. Shall we leave it at that?"
"I . . . suppose you have proof?"
"Oh yes. Quite enough."
I drew a deep breath, held it, let it out slowly. "All right," I said. "All right, Buchanan, I'll pay."
"Wise decision, Mr. Thorpe! No hedging, no bluff or bluster; exactly what I expected of you, sir."
"You'll want the first payment now, I suppose?"
"If you have the ready cash, that would be most satisfactory. Indeed it would."
I crossed to the bookshelves and removed several volumes of Tolstoy. A small button on the wall behind them slid one of the panels back, revealing my safe. In a few seconds I had it open. A .32 revolver and a sheaf of vital documents were the only contents.
I let my fingers close around the gun, shutting my eyes for a moment to think. Did I have another choice? No, I decided wearily, this was the only way. I lifted the weapon and turned to point it at Buchanan.
His slick black eyes widened in disbelief. He clutched at the arms of the chair, started to rise convulsively.
"Stay right where you are," I said.
He sank back. Fear had turned his face a stark white and completely destroyed his unctuous, patronizing manner. "Have you gone mad, Thorpe? Put that gun away!"
"No, I don't think I will."
"You . . . you can't kill me!" He almost screamed the words. "The evidence I have . . . it's in the hands of a confederate. If I'm found dead, everything will go the authorities—"
"Shut up," I said without rancor. I felt old in that moment, very old. "I'm not going to kill you. Whatever else I may be, I'm not a murderer. But if you move out of that chair, I'll shoot you in the leg, or hip, or shoulder—someplace crippling. I am a good pistol shot."
"Then what . . . ?"
"The police," I said.
"The police! Don't be a fool, Thorpe! If you turn me in, I'll have to tell them about you. I won't have any choice."
"I'll save you the trouble." I moved over to the telephone.
"I intend to tell them myself. Everything, down to the last detail."
"Think what you're doing, man!" he cried desperately. "You'll be disgraced, ruined! And for what? A paltry fifteen hundred dollars a month? For
"Damn you, what do you think you know about me?"
"Enough, Mr. Thorpe, to ask—and receive—the inconsequential sum of fifteen hundred dollars a month."
"That's an outrageous demand!"
"Not under the circumstances."
"What circumstances?"
"The rather substantial skeleton in your closet, sir. Yes, very substantial. Need I remind you of the unpleasant details?"
I said stiffly, "Lay your damned cards on the table."
"As you wish." Buchanan leaned back in his chair and made a steeple of his hands. "In April of 1977, you and a Mr. Arthur Powell, a speculator of shady background, contrived to steal, by fraudulent misrepresentation of certain real estate properties, the sum of five hundred thousand dollars. You were successful in this scheme and equally divided the, ah, spoils."
He paused for a moment, watching me. When I said nothing he smiled and went on. "Mr. Powell squandered his share on a variety of wildcat speculations. He died of a heart attack in Los Angeles in 1982—for all practical purposes, a pauper. You, on the other hand, used your share to finance a power play to gain control of Lysander Pharmaceuticals. The power play was successful, with the result that today you are not only head of the company but a well-respected member of this community and a leading candidate for public office. A senatorial seat, isn't it?"
I remained silent.
"And that is why, Mr. Thorpe," Buchanan said, "I believe you will pay me a fifteen-hundred-dollar honorarium each month. If this skeleton of yours were made public . . . well, I shudder to think of its effects on your reputation and your political aspirations. Don't you?"
"How did you find out all this?"
He smiled. "Come now, you really don't expect me to tell you that. There are ways—many ways to find out many things. Shall we leave it at that?"
"I . . . suppose you have proof?"
"Oh yes. Quite enough."
I drew a deep breath, held it, let it out slowly. "All right," I said. "All right, Buchanan, I'll pay."
"Wise decision, Mr. Thorpe! No hedging, no bluff or bluster; exactly what I expected of you, sir."
"You'll want the first payment now, I suppose?"
"If you have the ready cash, that would be most satisfactory. Indeed it would."
I crossed to the bookshelves and removed several volumes of Tolstoy. A small button on the wall behind them slid one of the panels back, revealing my safe. In a few seconds I had it open. A .32 revolver and a sheaf of vital documents were the only contents.
I let my fingers close around the gun, shutting my eyes for a moment to think. Did I have another choice? No, I decided wearily, this was the only way. I lifted the weapon and turned to point it at Buchanan.
His slick black eyes widened in disbelief. He clutched at the arms of the chair, started to rise convulsively.
"Stay right where you are," I said.
He sank back. Fear had turned his face a stark white and completely destroyed his unctuous, patronizing manner. "Have you gone mad, Thorpe? Put that gun away!"
"No, I don't think I will."
"You . . . you can't kill me!" He almost screamed the words. "The evidence I have . . . it's in the hands of a confederate. If I'm found dead, everything will go the authorities—"
"Shut up," I said without rancor. I felt old in that moment, very old. "I'm not going to kill you. Whatever else I may be, I'm not a murderer. But if you move out of that chair, I'll shoot you in the leg, or hip, or shoulder—someplace crippling. I am a good pistol shot."
"Then what . . . ?"
"The police," I said.
"The police! Don't be a fool, Thorpe! If you turn me in, I'll have to tell them about you. I won't have any choice."
"I'll save you the trouble." I moved over to the telephone.
"I intend to tell them myself. Everything, down to the last detail."
"Think what you're doing, man!" he cried desperately. "You'll be disgraced, ruined! And for what? A paltry fifteen hundred dollars a month? For
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