Free The Drowner by John D. MacDonald Page B

filled with inexplicable guilt. He sat on the edge of the bed in the darkness of the room and smoked a cigarette. The air-conditioner masked the sounds of the night. It made him feel as if the room were in transit, on some strange vehicle moving steadily through the night.

Five
     
    AUGUSTUS DUMAS GABLE, in his Jacksonville hotel room, wiped his face on a hand towel and hoped there was nothing wrong with his heart, no small flaw as yet undetected, because it would be a tragic irony to lose it all that way after finally getting so close to making it. He did not know how much more of it he could endure. One moment he would feel cold and chilled and hollow, convinced of failure, depressed beyond words. Without warning a great hot shuddering flood of triumph would well through him and he would want to yell, stand on his head and giggle.
    The unexpected delay in the decision was the worst part of it. Maybe something was going wrong, but he did not dare ask. These tax boys had to be dealt with delicately. You could dicker with them on a rational basis. Once a citizen had bitched his returns just enough to give them an opening, their objective was to grab all the golden eggs possible without destroying the goose. That meant a settlement just short of the point where the citizen would say the hell with it and take his chances in court. But if you tried to hustle them or con them or, God forbid, try a little discreet bribery, they would smile sadly, slay the goose and pluck him clean. He knew he had gone just as far as he dared, and the rest of it was the waiting.
    Long ago Gus Gable had been deeply amused when he had heard Willie Sutton’s answer to the question as to why he had robbed banks. Because that’s where the money is. Gus was sufficiently objective to realize his own motives had been identical. He had guessed where the money would be, and prepared himself for participation. He had supported himself as a bookkeeper while he had gone after the law degree. After his third, and at last successful attempt to get admitted to the bar, he had stayed with the bookkeeping rather than the practice of law, and gone after the CPA. He passed that with less trouble. And then he began to prove he had been right. A tax attorney who is also a CPA is a rare and valued animal. As he began to thrive, he continued to live small and put the additional income into employees who could take the dog-work off his shoulders. Now he had busy offices on the second floor of Sam Kimber’s building, and he represented half the business interests in the county. Find an obscure but totally legitimate precedent whereby a man can save an unexpected $500 on an annual tax bill, and at his next club meeting he will sing the praises of Gus Gable. And better yet, the word gets around, “When you’re in trouble, get hold of Gus.”
    It was a legitimate recommendation. He had kept his contacts with the tax people on a fruitful level of mutual cooperation. He had not lied or fudged the figures for any client. In another time, in another place, Gus Gable might have been a guide in rough country, and with the same incomparable thoroughness he would have known every obscure track, every water hole, every sign of game and weather.
    With great care and hope and patience he had been tucking money aside and awaiting a chance. He was not married. He had no dependents. He had no expensive personal habits. He had seen lesser men take wild gambles and hit unexpected jackpots. He knew he did not have the stomach for the gambles. He had to find absolutely the correct, the flawless circumstances, and he had sorted out and discarded, reluctantly, several promising situations in the past three years. And now he knew it was within his grasp, courtesy of Sam Kimber.
    In one sense it would be a violation of an ethical relationship. When Sam learned the whole story, as was unavoidable, he might be furious, but given time to think it over he would see the reasons. Gus was merely