Montaro Caine A Novel - By Sidney Poitier Page 0,73

eyes offered no hint as to what thoughts were taking place behind them. Then, as if he knew that the younger man was growing uncomfortable, Davis lowered his eyes to the documents Rothman had laid before him as corroborating evidence for the improbable tale he had just reported upon his return from San Remo. Among the items scattered upon the table were copies of Dr. Howard Mozelle’s notes, Caine’s memo to his professor, and photographs of two coins.

Davis fingered several of the documents. Then, finally, he held up a page on which the names of the coins’ purchasers were typed in boldface. He abruptly laid the document back on the table and turned to Bob Wildenmiller.

“Kritzman Fritzbrauner,” Davis said.

Wildenmiller nodded slowly. He knew the name; both he and Davis had reckoned with it before.

Davis turned back to Rothman. “Alan, I’ll be a son of a bitch if this isn’t the damndest thing I’ve ever heard of.”

“Richard, it struck me the same way, but I went through it step by step.”

“It’s a real attention getter all right,” Davis said. “It’s bizarre, it’s off the wall, but I’m not convinced how genuine it all is. I’ve listened to what you said. I’ve examined these documents, but I’ve got to tell you, after sixty-two years of living, my better judgment tells me there’s a hell of a catch hidden somewhere.”

“I understand,” Rothman began cautiously, “but what if there is no catch? Forgive my saying so, but what if you’re wrong?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” chortled Davis, who liked to surround himself with people who had the guts to question him. “But if I am, and this fairy tale is for real, then Alan, I’ll be the most flabbergasted son of a bitch you’ll ever see.”

“I know it sounds preposterous,” Rothman continued. “But can we afford to simply ignore it? Particularly in the face of the opportunities that will fall in our laps if this whole thing turns out to be legit?”

“I think you’re letting yourself be captured by the upside of this thing, Alan. It might have blurred your vision. I always say in any game,” Davis continued, channeling the part of himself that had once played Division I football, “if you want to be an effective player, you’ve gotta see the ball clearly from every side.”

Rothman glanced around the table to gauge how the others were reacting. “But we have a limited window of opportunity,” he replied. “Two weeks down the line I don’t want us to find out that there was no catch, and that Caine actually does have some kind of revolutionary formula. If that happens, all our efforts will be dead in the water.”

Richard Davis sighed heavily, leaned back in his chair, folded his hands behind his neck, and pulled his head forward to stretch his spine.

“What do you think, Bob?”

Wildenmiller took his time in responding. He weighed sound judgment against gut reactions and searched his feelings. It was his nature to always anchor decisions in the concrete of hard evidence, yet he was now being asked to offer an answer that could only arise from intuition.

“I think we should hear what the girl has to say,” Wildenmiller finally said.

“You do, eh?” said the billionaire. He then turned to Alan Rothman and signaled with a slight nod of his head. Bolton pulled out his cell phone and keyed in a number.

Downstairs, an air-conditioned limo was parked in front of the Brougham Arms Apartments. The chauffeur behind the wheel had been listening to the ball game on the radio. The Mets were playing the Pirates, the score was tied, and two men were on base with Angel Pagan coming up to the plate. But the moment his stern-faced passenger’s cell phone rang, the chauffeur turned off the radio and waited quietly as he heard Thomas Bolton’s voice on the passenger’s speakerphone.

“Wallace?” Bolton asked.

“Here,” Carlos said from the back of the limousine.

“Bring her up.”

“Right away.”

The chauffeur leaped from the car, then scrambled to open the curbside door. Cordiss Krinkle emerged from the backseat of the limo, followed by Wallace, then Victor.

“Hold it, Victor,” Wallace said. “You stay here.”

Wallace took Cordiss’s arm and guided her into the Brougham Arms while Victor stood beside the limo, chewing on his bottom lip and muttering to himself as he watched the two disappear into the lobby. He thought of how satisfying it would be to punch Carlos Wallace in the mouth, even though he was most angered by Cordiss’s refusal to insist that he