Free Cast a Yellow Shadow by Ross Thomas

course. “Mr. Underhill, do you have any idea who has my wife and where they may be keeping her?”
    â€œI can probably make a very good guess as to who has her. There’s a chance that I can give you some information as to where she’s being held. But it would seem that’s a rather good bargaining point for me, wouldn’t you say?”
    â€œI suggest that you not bargain with Mr. McCorkle about his wife,” Padillo said.
    â€œNo, I suppose not. It’s a terribly cruel thing to do.”
    â€œBut not as cruel as what Mr. McCorkle will do to you if you don’t tell him.”
    â€œWho has her?” I said.
    â€œWendell Boggs and Lewis Darragh, most probably.”
    â€œWho are they?”
    â€œOne’s Minister of Transport; the other’s Minister of Home Affairs. They’re the ones who met with Mr. Padillo in Lomé.”
    â€œYou’re saying that two of your cabinet Ministers have my wife?”
    â€œProbably did the kidnapping, too. They’re both fairly young chaps—about your age. Quite capable of anything really. I know they’re both here in the country.”
    â€œDo you know where they are staying?”
    â€œThey have a secret house here in Washington, I understand. I was given the address, but it’s with my gear at the hotel. Afraid I can’t remember it. Have a terrible memory for figures and things like that.”
    â€œHow did you learn about the house?”
    â€œMy wife told me. Boggs is my brother-in-law, you know. His wife and mine are sisters and my sister-in-law thought that Wendell was heading for grief so she confided in my wife. Wendell apparently tells his wife everything, poor fellow. I wrote the address down because I knew I would forget it and it possibly might prove useful.”
    â€œWhere are you staying?”
    â€œAt the LaSalle—it’s just across the street.”
    I made my voice slow and my tone measured. “Let’s go across the street and up to your room and find the address.”
    â€œCould we then discuss my plan to botch up the attempt on Van Zandt’s life?”
    â€œWe’ll talk about it,” Padillo said.
    â€œI don’t know what you usually get for a job of work like this, Mr. Padillo, but seventeen thousand pounds is a great deal of money in my country.”
    â€œIt is in any country,” Padillo said, holding the door open.
    We took the zebra-striped cross walk at Connecticut and De Sales. Underhill walked slightly ahead of us at a brisk pace, puffing on his pipe, his thin arms swinging. Padillo moved more slowly, wincing slightly.
    â€œThe cut bothering you?” I asked.
    Padillo started to say something but the car came out of the space in front of the drugstore and was going at least thirty-five when its bumper caught Underbill’s knees and its hood found his chest and slammed him to the pavement. Padillo, slightly behind me, caught my arm and jerked me back. But it wasn’t necessary. The green Ford missed me by at least two feet. It rolled over the thin grey man who taught Romance languages and who had no idea as to how he would go about killing someone. Its left rear wheel rolled over his head. The car picked up speed, slowed for a corner at L Street, turned right and disappeared. A man seated by the driver looked back once.
    Padillo ignored the pain in his side and moved quickly to Underhill. A crowd formed and everyone was saying “get an ambulance,” but nobody did anything about it. The pipe that Underhill had been smoking lay a foot from what had been his head. Its ashes were spilled on the pavement.
    Padillo knelt by the body and his hands went quickly through the pockets. He glanced up at the circle of faces that stared down at him. He picked out one. “Call an ambulance,” he said to a young man. “He’s still alive.” The man turned and ran towards the drugstore. Padillo rose and backed into the