Davidian Report Read Online Free PDF Page B

desk. No sense in advertising your comings and goings to strangers. There was a new man on the desk, a tall, thin, younger one, with a face like a sea gull.
    It was as gray as fog out. Steve covered the few blocks to Oriole’s steadily but without undue speed. Let them wait. He pushed hard on the doorbell this morning. There’d been a flutter behind the starched lace when he climbed the steps.
    Mr. Oriole’s face was wobbly. He hadn’t washed, hadn’t changed his clothes. “Come in, Mr. Wintress, come in.”
    Deliberately Steve delayed. “What’s up?”
    The flabby hand pointed towards the parlor. The green hangings were pulled apart, just enough for a narrow man to pass through. “Come in. Mr. Schmidt is waiting.”
    There was always a Smith or a Schmidt or a Smithsky. This one was a precise middle-aged man, wearing a banker’s blue suit and a conservative tie of blue on navy blue stripes. His black shoes were small and high-polished, his fingernails dull-polished. His rimless glasses had no expression.
    Mr. Oriole said, “This is Steve Wintress, Mr. Schmidt.”
    Schmidt said, “I’ve heard much of you, Mr. Wintress.” He shook hands like a man in a countinghouse. There was no warmth in his voice. It could have been a tape recording.
    Steve inclined his head. The parlor was small and hadn’t been redecorated since the house was built. It was golden oak and green plush, as crowded with furniture as the hall. A luxuriant fern sprayed green fronds from a table by the front window. Steve took the straight chair by the side window, leaving the plush one for Schmidt; the light for Schmidt’s face, for Steve’s back. He asked again, “What’s up?”
    Schmidt said, “Albion is dead.” His hand tightened imperceptibly on the newspaper he was holding. Early edition of the p.m.’s.
    Steve reached for it. Schmidt had to lean far out of his chair to pass over the paper. It was a trick Steve had learned too long ago to remember where. To make the other fellow subservient. The story was a small one near the foot of the front page. “The body of Frederick Grasse—” that had been Albion’s name—“was found early this morning,” and so on. Officialdom believed that Grasse, feeling unwell, stepped outside the terminal for fresh air. Heart attack.
    Steve read it word for word. He handed back the paper, again letting Schmidt come out of the chair for it. He propelled the question, “Who killed him?”
    Mr. Oriole twisted his dirty hands. Schmidt said, “You believe he was killed?” His voice was dry as a pod.
    “I don’t think he dropped dead so he couldn’t meet me.” Steve came out of the chair and began pacing the square of old carpet. It could make guys like Schmidt and guys like Oriole nervous. “It wasn’t the Feds—”
    Schmidt interrupted virulently. “The F.B.I.! Cossacks! Tools of the capitalist dictators—” He was primed to go on with the well-worn speech but Steve cut him off.
    “Don’t tell me. Write your congressman.” He walked over to Schmidt and stood above him, making him lift up his glassy eyes. “It wasn’t the Feds. They take us alive. They want talk, not dead men. Who killed Albie?”
    Schmidt said rigidly, “We will find out.”
    “Okay. And while you’re finding out, what do I do? Play the ponies?” He walked back to the gushing fern. “Albion was carrying the information I need for this job. I’ve got to have that dope.”
    “You will have it.” Schmidt eyed Mr. Oriole.
    “By tomorrow morning.”
    Oriole’s mouth drooped. “It is impossible!” At the warning of Schmidt’s face, he explained hurriedly, “Mr. Albion worked for long weeks. We do not know how many places he visited, how many persons with whom he spoke.” The excuses were not being accepted. He swallowed hard. “It will be difficult.”
    Steve was brusque. It was either that or weep with the guy. “You think we’re the only ones after the Davidian report? Who came in on my plane last night?