The World's Finest Mystery Part 37

Ringerman lay back on the bed and flexed the muscle of his left arm. The scale moved first one way then the other. He reached down and ran his finger along a raised pink scar about four inches long, the memory of a prison gang fight he hadn't wanted to be in.

"You're the crazy one," she said, now holding the gun in both hands to try to keep the weapon steady.

"Maybe," he said. "I've thought about it. I mean whether or not I'm crazy. I don't think so, but maybe. I don't think you're crazy either. A year before I got out I had a friend who got out the year before check on Mom's property. A resort had built up around it. Choice lakefront property. Worth close to a million, maybe more. My friend, Alan, poked around. He was good at it. Con man. Knew how to find out things and use them. Alan found out I had a sister. I had him find you. Not hard. When did you find out you had a brother?"

She had stepped forward now, nearly frantic.

"It doesn't matter."

"Does to me," he said looking at his arm. "Does to me. You're going to shoot me dead. Least you could do is answer and be honest."

"I got a letter from a lawyer," she said. "He was trying to find out who owned the land. I don't know how he tracked me down. He said something about adoption records. That's when I found out about you, about me."

"And you told him you were the only heir?"

"Yes."

"You told him your brother was dead and he believed you? Stopped at that?"

"Yes. He wanted to believe me."

"But you had someone find out I was alive and in prison. I wonder why they couldn't find me. The lawyer. I wasn't that hard to find. But I've known men who've been lost in the system for years. Records lost, misplaced. People mistaken for other people. A guy named Pope released from a twenty-year sentence for tearing a woman's arm out and then raping her. He got out in two years. The Pope who was supposed to get out spent five extra years locked up. Of course, the second Pope was simpleminded. I doubt he knew till another con..."

"Stop it," she screamed. "Stop it. Stop it."

"You got the money," he said.

"I needed it," she said. "We owed almost three hundred thousand. My husband's business went bankrupt."

"It wasn't yours," he said.

"Half of it should have been mine," she said moving closer, but not close enough so he could come off the bed.

"Half of it should have been yours," he agreed. "You got one million two hundred and fifty thousand. You give me six hundred and twenty-five thousand and we'll be even. Law says it's all mine, but I figure half is yours."

"It's gone," she said, removing one hand from the gun to brush back her short hair, which needed no brushing back. "It's spent. We paid off the debt, bought a new house, invested. There's only a little more than than two hundred thousand in the bank."

Ringerman put his hands behind his head and looked at the barred window. She could see the tattooed scale on his bicep quivering, undecided about which way to tip. She remembered that the painting in the other room had the scorpion on the right side of the scale. She watched, sobbing without hearing herself sob, unable to take her eyes from the scale which moved first one way than the other.

"I have to kill you," she said. "I knew you'd get out, that you'd find out what I'd done, that you'd come for your money, put me in jail, humiliate me. I deserved something."

"Half," he said. "You deserved half. I'll take the two hundred thousand. I'll forget the rest, forgive the rest."

"No," she said. "I can't trust you. I've got a life that... I can't trust you."

"Don't pull the trigger, Charlotte," he said still looking out the window.

"I have to. I have to. Oh, G.o.d, I have to."

He heard the click of the trigger as she pulled it back. He heard the tripping sound. Nothing happened. She was crying now, crying and firing.

When Ringerman turned his head toward her, she was crying and moaning, the gun at her side, her shoulders sagging. Ringerman got off the bed slowly and went to his closet. He took out a white terrycloth robe and moved toward her. She saw him coming, let out a whimper like a dog expecting a beating, and backed away. He handed her the robe and took the gun from her hand.

"Put it on," he said quietly.

She obeyed.

"You've had your man watching me," he said. "I had my friend Alan watching you. I came to Chicago to serve out my parole so you'd be able to find me. Alan said you'd try to have me killed. I didn't want to believe it, but I've been wrong lots of times. You can see some of the scars. I knew you were watching me at the supermarket. I dropped the wallet so you'd pick it up."

He threw the gun on the bed and turned her around gently guiding her back into the living room.

"I took the bullets out before I came into the bedroom," he said.

She had stopped crying. He sat her down on the sofa, near her shoes. She slumped forward. Her mouth was open. Her face was white and she looked almost her age and his.

"Coffee?" he asked.

"What?"

"You want some coffee?" he asked again.

"You're going to kill me," she said.

"My only sister? No. Took me too long to find you. You want coffee, water, tea?"

"Tea," she said.

"Stay right there," he said gently, "You won't be able to work the locks on the door and you can't get through the windows. Just sit. I'll get the tea."

She sat. Her eyes moved to the paintings on the wall, the dark cell, the portraits and the scale and scorpion. She stared at the scale and scorpion. Somewhere inside she registered the sound of water from the tap in the kitchen, the sound of a humming microwave oven. No time seemed to pa.s.s.

Ringerman stepped back in the room, still clad only in his underpants. He handed her the tea and sat next to her.

"What do you... what are you going to do?" she asked.

"Two hundred thousand even," he said. "Talk to your husband, draw it out, cash. I meet you. You give it to me and you don't see me again unless you ride the Western Avenue bus, which I don't see much chance of. I owe Alan fifty thousand for his help. The rest goes to... I haven't really thought too much about it. The money. You get the money tomorrow. Talk to your husband if you like, but I get it tomorrow or I go to the police. I don't like going to the police. It'll get complicated. You might get by but I don't think so, and a good lawyer'll take the money and your house."

"All right," she said.

"I'd like to see my nephew once, maybe," he said. "You have a photograph?"

She gulped back some tea, put the cup down and reached for her purse, the purse in which she had carried the gun she had planned to use to kill the man who sat next to her gently asking about her son. She took out her wallet and handed it to him. Ringerman opened it and looked at the photographs: Charlotte and her husband, a smiling man with a tanned face and white teeth that looked false; Charlotte alone, a candid of her smiling over her shoulder at the camera in front of a tree; three photographs of a boy, one when he was no more than three, another when he was about seven or eight sitting on a white fence and waving his hand, and the last, a tall boy wearing a suit and tie.

"Looks like me." Ringerman said.

"Yes, a little," she agreed.

He removed all the photographs except the one of Charlotte and her husband and placed them on the table in front of him, side by side.

"I'll keep these," he said.

"Why?"

"The only family I've got. I've got one of our mother and father when they were young. I can get you a copy."

"No, thank you," she said, a touch of her earlier anger returning. "No, no, thank you. They didn't want me. I don't want them."

"Suit yourself," he said. "You can get dressed and go. I'll meet you at the bank at ten in the morning."

"How do you know which bank?" she asked getting up.

"I know."

"Your friend Al?" she asked.

He nodded.

"You can take the gun," he said.

It was her turn to nod.

"Don't think about coming back with new bullets," he said. "I had tape recorders running from the second you came through my front door. I'm putting the tapes in an envelope and mailing them to Al right after you leave. You shoot me and... well you understand."

"I won't shoot you," she said. "I'll get your money.'

She moved to the bedroom and dressed while Ringerman sat waiting. When she was ready, he watched her take a mirror from her purse and reapply her makeup.

"I... you want to hear something crazy?" she said. "Very crazy?"

"I've heard enough crazy in the last hour to last me the rest of my days," he said.

"Maybe... I mean maybe we could be... you know, see each other. You could meet my husband, your nephew."

"I'll pick my time to see the boy," he said. "He won't know. I won't bother him. If you hadn't pulled the trigger in the bedroom, I might have considered your offer, but not now. Not now."

He got out of the chair. She watched him walk to the wall and take down the painting of the scorpion on the scale.

"It's yours," he said holding it out to his sister.

She slung her purse over her arm and took the painting.

"The woman in the other paintings," she said turning her head toward them. "Who is she?"

"No one," he said looking at the paintings with her. "I made her up."

Ringerman walked to the front door, threw open the heavy bolt and turned the other locks. He opened the door.

She stepped into the corridor.

"Tomorrow morning at the bank, ten sharp," he said.

"Thank you for the painting. I wish..."

He was shaking his head 'no', not sure of what she might wish, but certain that he would have no part in making it come true.

"Emma Bovary," he said softly. She didn't seem to hear.

She walked slowly down the hall, painting held out in front of her. Ringerman closed the door and bolted it. The envelope was ready, addressed and stamped. He got the tapes from the two recorders and dropped them into the envelope.

In a few minutes, he would get dressed, go down and drop the envelope in the mailbox a block away. Now he sat in front of the table in his living room and looked at the photographs he had spread out.

They would go in his wallet along with the old snapshot of his parents and if anyone ever asked him about his family, he would show them his collection.

He looked at the photograph of Charlotte for about a minute and said aloud, "We don't look like either of our parents. Not even a little."

He would take the bars off the windows now. He would remove the bolt lock from his front door. He would not keep himself locked in or keep others locked out.

Ringerman touched the image of his sister, got up and moved to the bedroom to get dressed.

Bob Mendes.

n.o.ble Causes.

BOB MENDES was a chartered accountant until 1989, when he became a full-time writer. His lyrical power and style catapulted him to the front ranks of the European authors. He has twice won the Golden Noose, Belgium's highest mystery award, in 1993 for his novel Vengeance, and in 1997 for The Power of Fire. His novels have been translated into French, German, Spanish, and Czech. "n.o.ble Causes," which first appeared in the magazine De Standaard, showcases all of his strengths in one tightly woven story.

n.o.ble Causes.

Bob Mendes.

It was Friday afternoon and pouring with rain. Walter Goldwa.s.ser was the last person to leave the Diamonds International building at precisely two o'clock. He left through a reinforced side door leading to the executive car park. Eighteen seconds after he pulled the door closed behind him, the second phase of the newly installed security system was automatically activated.

His Mercedes SL 600 was parked ten meters away. With his Delvaux calfskin attache case in one hand and a man's pocketbook and his car keys in the other, he risked the plunge through the rain. Halfway between the door and his car, he pushed the remote control b.u.t.ton to unlock the car doors. No satisfying click, no flashing car lights: the remote wasn't working. Of course, the car was in a puddle so he couldn't even put his attache case down. In order to free one hand, he put his pocketbook on the roof of the car. With his thumb he slid the flat emergency key out of the remote and put it in the lock.

As he tried to open the car door, he saw f.a.n.n.y Galinda, the newly appointed secretary, on the sidewalk behind the fence. She was trying to find her way among the puddles, holding a newspaper over her head. She was wearing a white blouse and red pullover, on a black leather miniskirt riding up even farther because of her raised arms, so that he could admire the flawless shape of her thighs and calves in the black leggings even more.

f.a.n.n.y was a Romanian refugee who had been hired a week ago because of her knowledge of Russian and other Slavic languages, in view of the constant expansion of trade with the East. Only this morning she had told him in a confidential mood that she had no friends in Antwerp. The least he could do in this weather was offer her a ride.

He called her name, but she was too busy trying to keep her hairdo and legs dry. She didn't hear him.

Goldwa.s.ser hastily slid behind the wheel and started the engine. Heat sensors and TV cameras recorded the changing situation. Now he had to punch in the code number for the security system on his mobile or radiotelephone within thirty seconds otherwise he would set off the alarm. He made a mistake the first time and had to start over. At last the gate opened. He drove through it. Relieved, he saw f.a.n.n.y standing thirty meters up the road, under the awning of a jewelry store admiring the window display. He turned on the CD player and took his time choosing an appropriate piece of music.