Put a Lid on It by WESTLAKE DONALD E

Author:WESTLAKE, DONALD E. [WESTLAKE, DONALD E.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, mobi
Tags: FIC030000
ISBN: 9780446554435
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Published: 2008-12-14T05:00:00+00:00

28

AS THEY STEPPED away from the bungalow, Meehan looked over toward the guest house, and said, out of the corner of his mouth, “Pipe that.”

What they hadn't been able to see while walking toward the bungalow were the three cars parked in a blacktop area behind the guest house. One was a black Daimler, one an orange Honda Civic, one a green Chevy Celebrity.

“Him, and staff,” Bernie suggested.

They walked on, rounding the guest house, aware now that there must be people in there. Meehan said, “I think he's living in the guest house. Suppose the staff lives in?”

“The man's eighty, he doesn't want to be out here by himself.”

“I don't want him out here at all,” Meehan said.

They followed Burnstone Trail back to the main house, where Meehan said, “I just want to take a look.”

“Me, too.”

They went up on the porch and looked in windows at mounds of furniture covered by white sheets. Then they went back to the trail and continued on away from there, Meehan saying, “The big house is too big for him, living alone. So he's in the little house, with a couple staff. So how come he doesn't have a family? How come there's no Clendon Burnstone V?”

“Maybe four was enough,” Bernie said.

They walked on, the house receding behind them, and Meehan said, “I don't see how we do it with him in the guest house.”

“It's a problem,” Bernie agreed.

“It's a problem of noise, mostly,” Meehan said. “We can't do the job without backing a truck up to the place, and you can't tiptoe a truck.” (Not one of the ten thousand rules, just an observation.)

“You can't hide a truck anywhere around here either,” Bernie said, “on all these empty roads. You know, to stake the place out and wait for him to leave.”

“If he's even gonna leave,” Meehan said. “On the other hand, I don't like confrontation.”

“I know what you mean,” Bernie agreed. “But it's true, every once in a while, the only way to get from here to there is tie up a householder.”

Meehan shook his head. “I'd like to find another way.”

“I've seen that collection now,” Bernie said, “and I want it. And I want to take it away from him.”

“I know.”

Bernie frowned. “But, you know,” he said, “I didn't see the other part. This package of yours.”

“Oh, it'll be there,” Meehan said. “I noticed, some of those cabinets had little drawers.”

“For bullets,” Bernie said, “flintlocks, gunpowder pouches, things like that. He said so.”

“The package'll be in there, too,” Meehan said, and saw a car coming down the road toward them, a maroon Cadillac Seville. “Gotta deflect these guys,” Meehan said, and held up a hand.

There were two men in the Cad, stout, florid-faced, in suits and ties. They stopped, and the driver buttoned his window down, and Meehan leaned close to say, “You fellas from the Committee?”

“That's us,” said the driver. “Owen Grassmore, and this is Herb Greedly.”

“Fred Leeman,” Meehan said, pointing at himself, “and this is Dave Harkin.”

“How'd you do,” everybody said.

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