The Third Figure by Collin Wilcox Read Free Book Online

certain watchful stillness in his manner.
    “I said I’d come down and talk to you.”
    “Did she pay you for coming?”
    I nodded. “She paid me a thousand dollars.” I’d already decided to tell him, because I was sure he must know.
    Now he smiled, apparently in genuine good humor. His mouth was full and wide, and the expression was almost a pleasant one.
    “You’re honest, anyhow. It’s hard to find an honest man these days.”
    “I know. I feel the same way.”
    “What’ll you do if I don’t like the idea of you nosing around?”
    “I’ll go back to San Francisco.”
    “Did you tell Aidia that?”
    “I’m not sure whether I did or not, in so many words. But that was the understanding. I can go back to San Francisco any time I like.”
    “And you’ll be a thousand dollars richer.”
    “Yes.”
    “Well, that’s not bad dough. A thousand dollars a day. I could live on that.”
    “It doesn’t come along often, though.”
    He reached for his highball, then raised the glass to me. “Sure you won’t have one?”
    “No, thanks.”
    For a long moment he sipped the drink, watching me. Then, putting the glass aside, he sat up straighter. His manner became crisper as he said, “What d’you write about, exactly, when you report on crime?”
    I thought for a moment before saying, “Mostly, I suppose, it’s murders. That’s what the people like to read about. So that’s what we write.”
    “Ever write much on gambling?”
    “Not much. Most people gamble, one way or the other. So they don’t enjoy reading about it. It’s not news.”
    “Are there many bookie operations going in San Francisco?”
    “Yes,” I answered, as steadily as I could. “San Francisco’s no different than any other city. There’s always a place to put down a bet.”
    “Do you ever write anything about that?”
    “No, I never have.”
    “What about cops? Don’t you write about how they should close down the books?”
    I sighed. I thought I could see where the conversation was going. I didn’t like it, but I’d passed the point of squeamish scruples the day before. It seemed very long ago.
    “We get our news from the police,” I said. “You can’t bite the hand that feeds you.”
    “Have you ever heard of cops up in San Francisco taking payoffs?”
    “Yes, I’ve heard of it. I’ve been on the crime beat for five years. I’ve heard a lot of things.”
    “Have you heard about me?”
    I realized I was gripping the arms of my chair. With a conscious effort I relaxed my hands, then settled back.
    “Yes, I’ve heard about you.”
    “What’ve you heard?”
    “I heard that you took over Dominic Vennezio’s job.”
    He nodded, almost benignly.
    “What else did you hear?”
    I felt the barb of a quick impatience. I’d never liked being quizzed. I didn’t like it now.
    “I’m a reporter,” I said. “I’ve heard a lot of things about you. Some of it I believe, some of it I don’t. I know that Dominic Vennezio had the reputation for being the head of the Outfit down here. If you’ve taken his job, then I imagine that’s what you’re doing. But I don’t really much care, if you want the truth. I’m not making any judgments. I’m a reporter, not a cop. I’ll admit that I wanted to talk to you—very much. You’re news, and that’s—”
    “What’d Aidia say about how Dom got killed?” he interrupted.
    “She doesn’t know who did it. And she doesn’t think you do, either,” I answered promptly. I realized that, surprisingly, I’d taken courage from my own waspish monologue.
    “Do you believe her?”
    “How should I know?” I was aware that my voice had slipped to a plaintive note. I wished he’d go for his Sunday swim and let me go back to San Francisco.
    “How about this ESP?” he was asking. “How’s it done? I mean, do you go into a trance, or what?”
    “No, I don’t go into a trance. It’s difficult to explain in a few words, but basically it’s a simple matter of being in