Part 7 (1/2)
”No. This is hot. You're an eye-witness. Maxon will interview you.
Understand?”
”O.K.; you're the boss, Ole. Anything else?”
”Not right now, but if anything more comes up, call in.”
”Right. 'Bye.” He hung up and leaned back in his chair, c.o.c.king his feet up on the desk. It was Malcom Porter's desk and Malcom Porter's chair.
He was sitting in the Big Man's office, just as though he owned it. His jaw still hurt a little, but he loved every ache of it. It was hard to remember that he had ever been angry with Porter.
Just before they had landed, Porter had said: ”They'll arrest me, of course. I knew that when I left. But I think I can get out of it. There will be various kinds of Government agents all over the place, but they won't find anything. I've burned all my notebooks.
”I'll instruct my attorney that you're to have free run of the place so that you can call in your story.”
The phone rang. Elshawe grabbed up the receiver and said: ”Malcom Porter's residence.” He wished that they had visiphones out in the country; he missed seeing the face of the person he was talking to.
”Let me talk to Mr. Terrence Elshawe, please,” said the voice at the other end. ”This is Detective Lieutenant Martin of the Los Angeles Police Department.”
”This is me, Marty.”
”Good! Boy, have I had trouble getting to you! I had to make it an official call before the phone company would put the call through. How does it feel to be notorious?”
”Great. What's new?”
”I got the dope on that Skinner fellow. I suppose you still want it? Or has success gone to your head?”
Elshawe had almost forgotten about Skinner. ”Shoot,” he said.
The police officer rattled off Samuel Skinner's vital statistics--age, s.e.x, date and place of birth, and so on. Then: ”He lived in New York until 1977. Taught science for fifteen years at a prep school there.
He--”
”Wait a second,” Elshawe interrupted. ”When was he born? Repeat that.”
”March fourth, nineteen-thirty.”
”Fifty-three,” Elshawe said, musingly. ”Older than he looks. O.K.; go on.”
”He retired in '77 and came to L.A. to live. He--”
”Retired at the age of forty-seven?” Elshawe asked incredulously.
”That's right. Not on a teacher's pension, though. He's got some kind of annuity from a New York life insurance company. Pays pretty good, too.
He gets a check for two thousand dollars on the third of every month. I checked with his bank on that. Nice, huh?”
”Very nice. Go on.”
”He lives comfortably. No police record. Quiet type. One servant, a Chinese, lives with him. Sort of combination of valet and secretary.