It was money, an unbelievable amount of cold green cash, and finding it like this, outside a bank or similar reservoir, had the funny effect of making it look like a lot of printed paper. He jiggled it, and other packets came to view, all fresh hundred-dollar bills packed into pads of similar size.

He shoved off the bouncing dog, got to his feet, and with the plastic case swinging from his fingers he went through the kitchen to the phone in the front of the house, passing Stolz at the table on his way.

Stolz got quickly to his feet, went into his room, and dressed in nothing flat. Marvitch had returned to Las Vegas; there was no way he could reach him at the moment. Marvitch would simply have to look after himself.

Stolz was on his way out the front door when the dog met him, bouncing and barking, tremendously happy that these human beings had arranged at last a place for him to sleep. Stolz aimed a kick at the collie; at the next instant some instinct warned him to look behind him.

The cop was there, the money in one hand and an authoritative gun in the other. “You’ll please wait, sir. Inside.”

Stolz went back inside. He braced himself. He was sharp and fit and clear-headed, healthy as an ox, and it was surprising that a shock like this could make him feel so disorientated and dizzy.

He said to the officer, “I had nothing to do with the kidnaping, nothing at all; even the FBI will understand that. I just bought a piece of the loot.” He shrugged and the motion almost sent him off balance, as if he were drunk.

“It’s a hell of a lot of dough,” the cop said.

Stolz looked at it shimmering with newness inside the plastic case. “Ruin and death,” he said, blurting it out with melodramatic suddenness. “Ruin and death.”

He put his hands over his face and began to weep.

Biographical Note

Notes

Biographical Note

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE