Free Winter Kills by Richard Condon Page A

desk job? No,” he said sadly. “I’m a geologist, Nick—but I thank you.” Every shading of Gander’s manner was melancholy, indicating that bankruptcy can be depressing but also that he had deeper malaise than the loss of money. “If you can’t bear Carswell, try Ed Blenheim in Tulsa.”
    The food arrived. Nick attacked an enormous pile of scrapple, about which Edward VII had said (in that room), “Philadelphia is filled with people named Scrapple, and they all have biddle for breakfast.”
    After a while Miles said, “What did you want to see me about, Nick?” He coughed lightly. “It couldn’t be about the job, because you wouldn’t have had David call me if it were.”
    “I need your integrity,” Nick said.
    Miles winced.
    “A man who was working for Keifetz fell off a crane in Brunei. He knew he was dying. He confessed that he had been one of the two men who had shot my brother.”
    “My God!”
    “He told us where he hid the rifle. Here in Philadelphia. So I wanted to ask you for two favors. Can you arrange for me to meet a high-ranking police official? Second, will you come along with us as witness that the rifle has been found—if it is found?”
    Miles wet his lips. He took a sip of water. He had amouthful of black coffee. He dabbed at his mouth with a napkin, drying it. “Yes,” he said. “I can do those things.”
    “Thank you.”
    “When do you want me to do this?”
    “Now, if you can.”
    “I’ll go out to the hall and telephone.” He got up abruptly and left the table. Nick thought he had become a different man since the bankruptcy. He had to need money. He decided to press it on him. He ordered more scrapple, with poached eggs and fried apples, and more hot toast and coffee. When he was in Asia, he had dreamed of scrapple—a divine marriage of American Indian cornmeal with the genius of German sausage.
    “Well, we were lucky,” Miles said when he came back. “An inspector of police named Heller is on his way over.”
    Nick said, “I don’t believe you when you say you don’t need money. Let’s get this straight, Miles. I am your friend, and there are things you have to make yourself accept from friends. I am worried about you. I want you to tell me how much money you will need, and that will be that.”
    Miles’s eyes suddenly brimmed with tears, but they held. He looked away, and after a time the tears were gone. “The fact is, Nick,” he said, “I would have grabbed that offer last night. But everything was settled last night. I have the money. I don’t need to be a bankrupt.”
    ***
    Deputy Inspector Frank Heller came into the dining room in full uniform, fruit salad across his left chest and a gold badge that gleamed like a searchlight under the commendations. He was a beefy, red-faced, heavy man with hard eyes. He shook hands as though it were a karate maneuver. He sat at the table, refused breakfast, because he never ate breakfast, he said, grudgingly accepted some coffee, then asked if there was anyraisin bread, then asked if he could have some red currant jelly to go along with the raisin bread.
    “Why not have some lamb with the red currant jelly, Frank?” Miles asked.
    “The scrapple is great,” Nick said.
    “Scrapple? Well. I’d like to try some scrapple.” He nodded to the waitress. “What’s up?” he asked Miles.
    “This is all very delicate and confidential, Frank, as you will see,” Miles said.
    The inspector grunted. It was like a random hit on a bass drum. He looked quickly from one face to the other. His eyes had large pouches of blackness under them, as if he had rubbed them with sooty mittens. “Everything is,” he said.
    “Mr. Thirkield is the half brother of the late President Kegan,” Miles said. “We work together in the oil industry.”
    Heller nodded with automatic, sympathetic appreciation, then he caught himself and went on the defensive.
    “We did everything humanly possible to protect your brother here, Mr. Thirkield. But