Free Man on a Leash by Charles Williams

covering him, and they missed it. What other forms of extortion are there? He was too tough to pay blackmail, even if they had something really serious on him, which I don’t believe for a minute. Kidnap? I’m the only family he had, and nobody tried to kidnap me.”
    “Maybe they’d read ‘The Ransom of Red Chief,’ “ she said.
    “Smartass.”
    “How are you going to find out?”
    “Go talk to Richter and Winegaard, to begin with.”
    “Did they teach you investigative techniques in the CIA? Or just interrogation—the iron maiden—bastinado?”
    “Will you cut it out? CIA!”
    “Didn’t you know you talk in your sleep?”
    “I do?”
    “Scared you, didn’t I? Well, you do, but it’s always in Spanish. I’ve been thinking of enrolling at Berlitz.”
    “I’m probably talking to the other drivers; Berlitz doesn’t teach that kind of Spanish. Anyway, why wouldn’t I speak it? My mother was Cuban, and I lived in Havana most of the time until I was fourteen, when she died.”
    “I know. And then you gave up a career in professional baseball to become a stodgy old businessman in Latin America—”
    “You’d be surprised how easy it is for a catcher hitting one sixty to give up a career in professional baseball.”
    “Stop interrupting me. And this was just before the Bay of Pigs. Odd, wasn’t it?”
    “If I plead guilty to all charges, can I make love to you again?”
    “Well—”
    “Now we’re getting somewhere. Why didn’t I think of copping out before? Did you know I also fomented the Boxer Rebellion and started the War of Jenkins’ Ear?”
    * * *
    He arose a little before nine, showered and shaved as quietly as he could, and took a fresh suit and the rest of his clothes out into the living room to dress. This was accomplished with only one or two drowsy mutters from the depths of Mayo’s pillow, largely undistinguishable except for something about a goddamned rhinoceros.
    He expected to find the kitchen barren of anything edible, the way he’d left it when he had taken off for Baja California, but discovered she’d restocked it, at least for breakfast. He put on coffee, mixed some orange juice, and toasted a cinnamon roll in the broiler of the oven. It would be an hour yet before the bank opened, so he’d have time to talk to Winegaard first. He looked up the number and dialed. Yes, the secretary said, Mr. Winegaard was in and would be glad to see Mr. Romstead. In about fifteen minutes. He scribbled a note to Mayo saying he’d be back before noon and walked over to Montgomery Street. It was a sunny morning, at least downtown, but cool enough to be typical of San Francisco’s summer.
    There was a customer’s room with a number of desks and big armchairs where men were watching stock quotations on a board, with the partners’ offices at the rear of it. Edward Winegaard’s was large and expensively carpeted, with a massive desk, and a mounted Pacific sailfish on one wall. Winegaard was a man near his father’s age, trim and in good shape and tanned, with conservatively cut silvery hair. He arose to shake hands and indicated the armchair before his desk.
    “It was a very tragic thing,” he said. “And I don’t understand it. I don’t understand it at all.”
    “Neither do I,” Romstead replied. “But all I’ve had so far is secondhand information, which is why I wanted to talk to you. You’ve known him for a long time?”
    “Twenty—ah—twenty-seven years now.”
    “Then there’s no question he made that money in the stock market?”
    “None at all. Why?”
    “The police seem to have some doubt of it.”
    “I don’t see why. It was quite easy, looking at it in retrospect; anybody with a good job and a little money to invest every month could have done it. All he’d have to do is study stocks the way your father did.” He smiled faintly, like a man remembering some golden age that was gone. “And get into the market when the Dow was in the two hundred to three