The Third Figure Read Online Free Page B

for years, but got into financial difficulty. He couldn’t get a loan through regular channels, and finally—rather than lose his business—he took a loan from the Outfit. He didn’t know it was the Outfit, but he knew something wasn’t quite right, either. That’s how it all started—that’s how it always starts, with money. Easy money. A year later the Outfit was running his business, using him for a front. So he finally decided to get out. But he made the mistake of telling his story to the wrong cop—a hack lieutenant who decided to talk it over with the D.A.’s office before putting the guy in protective custody. The lieutenant told the guy to come back in the morning. So the guy walked out of the police station, and that’s the last anyone saw of him—until his body washed up, a week later.”
    “But …” I moistened my lips. “But I’m working for Mrs. Vennezio, not for Russo. All I have to do is give her the murderer’s name. That’s the agreement. It’s got nothing to do with the Outfit.”
    In exasperation, Larsen sharply shook his head. “That’s being just plain naïve, Steve. If you were a—a society reporter, I could understand it. But you’ve spent five years reporting crime. You should know better.”
    “Well …” Indecisively I hesitated before deciding to say, “There’s the money, too. Ten thousand dollars. I—I was thinking that I could put it in a mutual fund. It could be an annuity.”
    “I thought you said it wasn’t the money.”
    “It isn’t. Not entirely. Still, I’d be a fool not to think about it. Newspapers don’t pay that much, George—and the clairvoyance business hasn’t been very brisk lately, either. So when you add it all up—”
    “When you add it all up,” he interrupted, “there’s something that doesn’t sound right. Mrs. Vennezio moves out on her husband. Supposedly she’d’ve divorced him, except that she’s Catholic. She hasn’t lived with him for two years, during which time he’s been keeping another woman. Then Vennezio gets murdered. And now his widow can’t rest until she knows who murdered him.” Larsen shook his head. “It just doesn’t make sense, Steve. There’s something missing.”
    “You haven’t talked to her, though. She’s a—a peasant type. She’s superstitious, and she’s not really very bright—or at least not very sophisticated. Also, she’s a Sicilian, and apparently she was raised to go by either the code of the church or the code of the Mafia, whichever applied. And, in this case, it’s the Mafia. Vengeance. She’s got to know who—”
    “But that’s exactly where the whole thing smells. The Mafia has its code of vengeance, all right. God knows there were enough blood feuds, even in this country—and not so long ago, either. But don’t forget omerta—the code of silence. No matter what happens, you’re not supposed to talk about it—and especially not to the police. Now, you’re not exactly the police, but you’re not exactly the corner grocer, either. And if Mrs. Vennezio is already in hot water with the Outfit, the last thing she’d do is contact someone on the outside. And you know it, Steve. You’re closing your mind to some very obvious points, here. And it could be dangerous. I’m telling you,” he repeated, “that you could end up dead, or at the very least beaten silly, just to remind you not to talk. And then, if you don’t talk, you could actually be indicted for withholding material evidence in a capital crime.”
    “Who’d indict me?” I asked.
    “What?” His voice was short and irritable. I’d seldom seen Larsen really angry, but now his lips were tightened and his jaw was clenched.
    “I said, who’d indict me? The district attorney of La Palada?”
    For a moment I thought he was actually going to lose his temper, something I’d never seen. But he simply said, “La Palada,” as if it were an obscenity.
    “Well, I mean it, George. Who would indict me?”
    “You