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Finally, finally, the woman came slinking back, not so crisp, far from cheerful, and not alone. A frowning older woman walked behind her, an older woman who scarcely got rid of her scowl as she extended—as Guil was getting up—the offer of a businesslike handshake.
The young woman said: “This is Yolande Newater, Mr. Stuart, president of Anveney Trust.”
“Ma’am,” Guil said, and suffered his hand to be shaken by a cold, boneless grip.
“Mr. Stuart,” Newater began. “There seems to be an embarrassing problem.”
His stomach went sour. He recovered his hand, folded his arms, tried to keep his temper under control. “That’s the card they gave me when I put the money in. That’s my name. I put money in at Shamesey. They said I could get it anywhere there was a bank and a telephone.”
“Yes, sir. It should be. However.”
He frowned, not understanding this ‘however.’ Frustration boiled up, maybe too fast. He tried to hold it in. “I put in five hundred sixty and change.”
“Yes. I’m not disputing your word, Mr. Stuart, or the card. Shamesey Bank confirms your deposit. I just talked to them.”
Amazing idea. Just talked to a bank in Shamesey. He’d never been the subject of a phone call before.
He didn’t think he liked it, in present instance. “So where’s my money?”
“I trust—” Newater looked intensely uncomfortable. “I trust you know the co-holder was reported deceased.”
“Dead.” He didn’t like vague big words for plain nasty facts. “ Dead. I know.”
“There was a new employee at the counter,” Newater began. Then: “This is awkward.”
“Just say it. You lost the money?”
“We don’t lose money, Mr. Stuart. There was a legitimate claimant.”
“What’s a claimant?”
“A next of kin.”
“Next of kin. Hawley Antrim?”
“Mr. Antrim came in with identification. He was listed…” Newater held out her hand and the other woman, silent, standing by her desk, snatched up a paper and handed it to Newater. “Right here, as Ms. Dale’s next-of-kin.”
She showed it to him, as if it was some special proof that cleared her. It was marks on paper, so far as he was concerned, and he wanted it out of his face.
“Hawley Antrim walked into this place and said he wanted the money. He wanted the money?”
“Either party can close the account. The right descended to Ms. Dale’s legitimate heir. Mr. Antrim was listed on the appropriate paper—”
“The hell with any appropriate paper! He had no right!”
“As Ms. Dale’s heir—”
“He’s a cousin! I’m her partner!”
“It’s not that way on the document, Mr. Stuart. There’s recourse through the court, if you care to sue Mr. Antrim, but that’s not our business. We have to disburse funds to the persons on the card.”
“I gave you the damn card! My name’s on it, right?”
“It is. But—”
“Then give me the damn money!”
The junior woman jumped. Newater frowned and said in a shaky voice, “Mr. Stuart… this is clearly an emotional situation. I ask you—”
“I’m asking you for my damn money, woman. You had no call to give it to Hawley Antrim.”
“Clearly the terms of your partnership weren’t defined in our records. I’m in no position to evaluate the deceased’s intentions in writing regarding another party. I can only follow what information Ms. Dale put on her card when she set up the account.”
“Aby couldn’t read.”
“She clearly answered questions. One of those questions involves heirs and succession in the account.”
“She didn’t know about any succession. You and your words, they wouldn’t mean anything to her, she wouldn’t know what any succession was, any more than Hawley does. That son of a bitch just walked in here and said he wanted Aby’s money, wasn’t that what happened?”
Newater said, aside, hurriedly, “Lila, call Peter.” And to him: “If you’ll just sit down, Mr. Stuart, —”
As ‘Lila’ dived away like a scared cat, ru
“I beg pardon.”
“I need a gun.”
There was appalling, appalled silence from the woman. A shocked stare.
“I ama rider, ma’am. I need the gun to go up to Tarmin. Give me the hundred and we settle it next spring.”
“Mr. Stuart, the right to the money passed to her next of kin. I can show you right on the authorization card—”
“Then some damned fool asked her the wrong question, that’s what I’m telling you. They asked her her relations, they didn’t ask her her partner who’s sharing the account!”
“She had that option. She chose to list Mr. Antrim.”
“She didn’t damn choose!” A hand grabbed his arm from behind. He turned around with the simultaneous knowledge it was a man, and he didn’t question whether the grip meant business: he assumed it did and he grabbed a shirt, twisted, stuck out a foot and the man hit the floor. Hard.
The man, the door guard, went for the gun at his hip from that disadvantage and Guil didn’t stop to think—he kicked the hand before it had the gun clear, and the gun went spi
“Hell,” Guil said, not pursuing anybody. The man with the sore hand was still lying on the ground, the barred doors were shut. Guil walked over where the gun was, figuring not to leave thatin play, and the middle-aged fool scrambled up and tried to jump him from behind.
He didn’t shoot the man. He didn’t pull his knife. He didn’t hit the man with the gun. He just dodged, the man being low to the ground in his dive, shoved him fairly gently as he passed, and the man hit the ground as all of a sudden a bell began to ring.
The man probably realized now he’d been a fool. He sat up on the board floor looking foolish, there wasn’t a bank worker in sight except him, and Guil held the gun by the trigger-guard, so anybody could see he wasn’t holding it on the man.
“I’d give you this back,” he said, “except I’m tired of hitting you. You want to open the door?”
“Can’t,” the guard said sullenly.
“Then get—”
Ru
Guil dropped the gun from two fingers. Thump, onto the boards.
Somebody, then, had to go outside and around back to get a key from Newater.
Ignoring the leveled rifles, Guil rested his rump against a table and stared glumly at the guard, who was getting to his feet, encouraged by the firepower.
Guil was mad. He was damned mad. He was scared, deep down. He had to get out to meet Burn by sundown, or Burn was going to get dangerously restless. He didn’t think the guard was going to back his story. And it didn’t look good from where he stood.
“He’s got a knife,” the guard said.
“You know,” Guil said disgustedly, “you’d be a lot smarter to wait to tell them that, until they find the key.”
“Hand the knife out,” one of the uniformed police said.
“You can come get it.”
“I said hand it over.”
Hell, he thought, he wouldn’t improve the ambient by arguing the point with four rifles aimed at him. He walked over to the bars and took out the knife, tossed it out through the bars.
“He’s a borderer,” a cop said. “He’s got more than one.”
“You want the other?” He bent and took it from his boot, tossed it out. “That’s all.”
“Don’t believe it,” the cop said.
Steps sounded fast behind him. He turned to side-step the fool rushing him, and something jabbed him in the back of the head. Stars exploded. The guard hit him, knocked him against the bars: hands grabbed him, held him.