They Call Me Patrice

They went toward a door marked “Manager, Private.” A pleasant-faced, slightly stout male wearing horn-rimmed spectacles was waiting to greet them.

“Come in and meet my old friend Harve Wheelock,” Father Hazzard said to her.

They seated themselves in comfortable leather chairs in the private office, and the two men lit cigars.

“Harve, I’ve got a new customer for you. This is my boy Hugh’s wife.” He off-handedly palmed an oblong of light-blue paper onto the desk, left it there facedown.

“Sign here, honey,” the manager said to her, reversing his pen.

Forger, she thought scathingly. She handed the form back, her eyes downcast. The strip of light-blue was clipped to it and it was sent out. A midget black book came back in its stead.

“Here you are, honey.” The manager tendered it to her across his desk.

She opened it and looked at it, unnoticed, while the two men concluded their friendly chatting. At the top it said “Mrs. Hugh Hazzard.” And there was just one entry, under today’s date.

Five thousand dollars.

Chapter Eight

His arm was draped negligently atop the car door, elbow out. The door fell open. He made way for her by shifting leisurely over on the seat, without offering to rise. His indolent ignoring of manners was more insulting than any overt rudeness would have been.

“I’m sorry I had to call. I thought you’d forgotten about our talk. It’s been more than a week now.”

“Forgotten?” she said. “I wish it were that easy.”

“I see you’ve become a depositor of the Standard Trust since our last meeting.”

She shot him an involuntary look of shock, without answering.

“Five thousand dollars.”

She drew a quick breath.

“If you get around enough in the right circles you find out interesting things.” He smiled. “Well?”

“I haven’t any money with me. I haven’t used the account yet. I’ll have to cash a check in the morning and—”

“They give a checkbook with each account, don’t they? And you have that with you, most likely—”

She gave him a look of unfeigned surprise.

“I have a fountain pen right here in my pocket. I’ll turn on the dashboard lights a minute. Let’s get it over and done with. The quickest way’s the best. I’ll tell you what to write. To Stephen Georgesson. Not to Cash or Bearer. Five hundred.”

“Five hundred?” she repeated.

“That’s academic,” he replied.

She didn’t understand what he meant, and was incautious to let him go on past that point without stopping him.

“That’s all. And then your signature. The date, if you want.”

She stopped short. “I can’t do this.”

“I’m sorry, you’ll have to. I don’t want it any other way. I won’t accept cash.”

“But this passes through the bank with both our names on it, mine as payer, yours as payee.”

“There’s such a flood of checks passing through the bank every month, it’s not even likely to be noticed. It could be a debt of Hugh’s, you know, that you’re settling up for him.”

“Why are you so anxious to have a check?” she asked irresolutely.

A crooked smile looped one corner of his mouth. “Why should you object, if I don’t? It’s to your advantage, isn’t it? I’m playing right into your hands. It comes back into your possession after it clears the bank. After that you’re holding tangible evidence of this — of blackmail — against me if you should ever care to prosecute, which is something you haven’t got so far. Remember, up to this point, it’s just your word against mine. I can deny this whole thing happened. Once this check goes through, you have proof.”

He said, a little more tartly than he’d yet spoken to her, “Shall we get through? You’re anxious to get back. And I’m anxious to pull out of here.”

She handed him the completed check and pen.

He was smiling again now. He waited until she’d stepped out and he’d turned on the ignition. He said above the low throb of the motor, “Your thinking isn’t very clear, nor very quick, is it? This check is evidence against me, that you’re holding, if it clears the bank and returns to you. But if it doesn’t — if it’s kept out, and never comes up for payment at all — then it’s evidence against you, that I’m holding.”

The car glided off and left her standing behind looking after it with shattered consternation.

It seemed months, years of agony before their next meeting. Actually it was only three weeks.

She all but ran toward the car along the night-shaded street, as if fearful it might suddenly glide into motion and escape her. She clung to the top of the door with both hands when she’d reached it, as if for support.

“I can’t stand this! What are you trying to do to me?”

He was smugly facetious. His brows went up. “Do? I haven’t done anything to you. I haven’t seen you in the last three weeks.”

“The check wasn’t debited.”

“Oh, you’ve had your bank statement. That’s right, yesterday was the first of the month I imagine you’ve had a bad twenty-four hours. I must have overlooked it—”