The Brink of Murder by Helen Nielsen

his suitcase—“
    “A million!”
    “Almost. The count is going up. The last I heard it was over eight hundred thousand. Now if any other man did that Reardon would be calling him every dirty name in the book. Amnesia! How old is Barney Amling—forty, forty-one?”
    “That sounds about right,” Simon said. “I was a sophomore when Amling turned pro’ and I started college a year or two younger than Barney.”
    “Okay, make it forty. A hot-shot football star. A super-hot-shot executive. He must have really pushed himself to get so far up the ladder so soon. But time catches up with all of us. He probably felt himself slowing down, and who wants to come down from a mountain like that? A million dollars is a temptation for any man. I’d like to be a millionaire. I hate paying taxes.”
    “You’ve got a point,” Simon admitted. “I have a friend who thinks Amling is in Argentina.”
    Wabash looked surprised. He wiped a smear of mustard from his mouth and said: “Who told him?”
    “It’s not a him. It’s a her and nobody told her anything.”
    “Then she thinks good. The word isn’t out, of course, but nobody could find a Barney Amling on any passenger list at LAX. Then I used my head and checked those lists myself. A passenger listed as Barry Anderson took a flight on Braniff International on the Friday night Amling disappeared. Destination: Buenos Aires. Reardon followed up with a photo of Amling and it’s been identified by three different flight personnel as the man who made that trip. Not only did this passenger look like Amling—he walked with a limp. Now everybody knows Barney Amling was forced out of football by a leg injury and has limped ever since. I ask you, lawyer, does that sound like amnesia?”
    “Objectively?” Simon asked.
    “Objectively,” Wabash said.
    “It sounds like embezzlement.”
    “Right! That’s why I’m worried about the captain. If he doesn’t stop thinking of this suspect as a boyhood hero, he can blow the case. I hate to see that happen. A good cop is hard to find.”
    “True,” Simon agreed. “A Lieutenant Wabash, for instance, talks more about a case than any cop I’ve known.”
    Wabash didn’t seem to resent the remark. He grinned over the rim of his coffee mug. “Not to just anybody, Drake. Only to you. I know your reputation. You can get anybody off a rap if the fee’s right.”
    “That’s not the only criterion,” Simon said.
    “I’m not criticizing, lawyer. Each to his own—like we said. I just want you to know what you’re up against because I’m not about to close one eye just because Amling’s a national hero.” Wabash put down his empty coffee mug and came to his feet. “At this point,” he added, “I stop talking.”
    “And do you stop following me?”
    “Maybe. Amling had a nice family. He might decide to get in touch and suggest they take a vacation to South America. Then again, it might be another woman he has on the side that he contacts. One way or the other, if he does communicate I’ll hear about it. Argentina isn’t impregnable.” And then Wabash answered the unasked question as to why he had revealed so much of his case against Barney. “If he should try to contact his lawyer,” he said, “it would be smart to report it to the proper authorities.”
    “A lawyer-client relationship is confidential,” Simon said.
    “Not if I can help it,” Wabash concluded.
    • • •
    When Simon left the delicatessen the black and white was gone from the parking lot. He got into the Jaguar and began to drive. He had been in shock from the time Carole Amling brought her story to The Mansion, and Wabash’s information was another jolt.
    All this time he carried the hope that was sustaining Carole. It was all a mistake. Somebody else at Pacific Guaranty was responsible for the theft and Barney would pop up any day now with the story of an impromptu fishing trip into the wilds of Mexico that left him stranded away from all means of