know why I’m listening because I don’t think that I really want to hear what you’re going to tell me, but I’ll listen anyway.”
“Very well,” Procane said. “You must realize, Mr. St. Ives, that when my journals were stolen I immediately realized that there was a possibility that they would be used for more than blackmail. My fears grew when I learned of the deaths of the Boykins person and of Peskoe, the safecracker. When you returned the journals to me with the four pages missing, my worst fears were confirmed.”
“You’ll have to admit that Boykins and Peskoe might have talked to a lot of people,” I said.
“No,” Procane said. “I don’t think so.”
“Why?”
“Because the four pages are missing. That means that whoever has the pages must know that neither Boykins nor Peskoe talked and probably made sure that they didn’t. That’s why they were killed.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure of only one thing. That whoever has the four pages is going to make use of them.”
“How, by blackmailing you some more?’
“That’s one of three possibilities. But further blackmail would be possible only if I went through with the theft, don’t you agree?”
I nodded and said, “What’re the other two possibilities?”
“One is that whoever has the pages could use them to tip off the outfit from which I intend to steal the million. The drug merchants, as you call them. They might do this for a reward or simply to curry favor. Do you also agree to that?”
“It could happen,” I said.
“The final possibility is the one that will dictate my actions. I’ve decided that it’s the course that will be taken by whoever has the four pages because it offers the most profit and the least risk. Almost no risk at all.”
He paused, perhaps to let my curiosity grow. It did. I was still something of a snoop. “All right,” I said, “what is it?”
“I’m convinced that whoever removed the four-page outline from my journal will follow it to steal the million dollars himself—or rather themselves, because my plan calls for more than one person.”
“Why remove it from the journal?” I said. “Why not just copy it out or even Xerox it?”
“First of all,” Procane said, “they wanted me to know that they have it.”
“To keep you from going through with the theft yourself?”
He nodded. “That’s one reason. But you noticed, of course, that my journals were in my own writing?”
I nodded. I could see where he was going now.
“Well, earlier you predicted that the drug merchants were going to be terribly upset about having a million dollars stolen from them.”
“I don’t think I said terribly, but maybe I should have.”
“Now suppose that you are a drug merchant who’s just been robbed of a million dollars. And suppose you receive a four-page handwritten, detailed outline of the theft along with a note suggesting that the handwriting should be compared with that of one Abner Procane. What would you do, Mr. St. Ives?”
“If I were the drug merchant?”
“Yes.”
“I’d have you dead by sundown.”
12
P ROCANE WENT ON FOR another fifteen minutes about why he was convinced that whoever had blackmailed him out of one hundred thousand dollars was now going to steal a million more from some drug combine and blame everything on him. He built a solid enough case although I couldn’t help but wonder how high his analyst rated him on the paranoia curve.
After a while I grew tired of listening and said, “Okay, you’ve sold me. Now why don’t you just tip off the federal cops and let them nab everyone red-handed—the smugglers, the dealers, and the guys who’re going to steal the million and blame you for everything.”
Procane gave his head a small stubborn shake. “I have a considerable financial investment to protect”
“That’s not it.”
“No?”
“No. The real reason is that you want to be a million-dollar thief. I’ve been listening to you for
“Very well,” Procane said. “You must realize, Mr. St. Ives, that when my journals were stolen I immediately realized that there was a possibility that they would be used for more than blackmail. My fears grew when I learned of the deaths of the Boykins person and of Peskoe, the safecracker. When you returned the journals to me with the four pages missing, my worst fears were confirmed.”
“You’ll have to admit that Boykins and Peskoe might have talked to a lot of people,” I said.
“No,” Procane said. “I don’t think so.”
“Why?”
“Because the four pages are missing. That means that whoever has the pages must know that neither Boykins nor Peskoe talked and probably made sure that they didn’t. That’s why they were killed.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure of only one thing. That whoever has the four pages is going to make use of them.”
“How, by blackmailing you some more?’
“That’s one of three possibilities. But further blackmail would be possible only if I went through with the theft, don’t you agree?”
I nodded and said, “What’re the other two possibilities?”
“One is that whoever has the pages could use them to tip off the outfit from which I intend to steal the million. The drug merchants, as you call them. They might do this for a reward or simply to curry favor. Do you also agree to that?”
“It could happen,” I said.
“The final possibility is the one that will dictate my actions. I’ve decided that it’s the course that will be taken by whoever has the four pages because it offers the most profit and the least risk. Almost no risk at all.”
He paused, perhaps to let my curiosity grow. It did. I was still something of a snoop. “All right,” I said, “what is it?”
“I’m convinced that whoever removed the four-page outline from my journal will follow it to steal the million dollars himself—or rather themselves, because my plan calls for more than one person.”
“Why remove it from the journal?” I said. “Why not just copy it out or even Xerox it?”
“First of all,” Procane said, “they wanted me to know that they have it.”
“To keep you from going through with the theft yourself?”
He nodded. “That’s one reason. But you noticed, of course, that my journals were in my own writing?”
I nodded. I could see where he was going now.
“Well, earlier you predicted that the drug merchants were going to be terribly upset about having a million dollars stolen from them.”
“I don’t think I said terribly, but maybe I should have.”
“Now suppose that you are a drug merchant who’s just been robbed of a million dollars. And suppose you receive a four-page handwritten, detailed outline of the theft along with a note suggesting that the handwriting should be compared with that of one Abner Procane. What would you do, Mr. St. Ives?”
“If I were the drug merchant?”
“Yes.”
“I’d have you dead by sundown.”
12
P ROCANE WENT ON FOR another fifteen minutes about why he was convinced that whoever had blackmailed him out of one hundred thousand dollars was now going to steal a million more from some drug combine and blame everything on him. He built a solid enough case although I couldn’t help but wonder how high his analyst rated him on the paranoia curve.
After a while I grew tired of listening and said, “Okay, you’ve sold me. Now why don’t you just tip off the federal cops and let them nab everyone red-handed—the smugglers, the dealers, and the guys who’re going to steal the million and blame you for everything.”
Procane gave his head a small stubborn shake. “I have a considerable financial investment to protect”
“That’s not it.”
“No?”
“No. The real reason is that you want to be a million-dollar thief. I’ve been listening to you for
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