Nothing In Her Way Read Free Page A

“Make me cry.”
    “Mike, please,” she said. “I didn’t know it was you. He said he had somebody in mind—to help us, I mean. A friend of his. But I had no idea who it was.”
    “Never mind who I am,” I said. “I can still guess that—I think. What I want to know is which one of you erratic geniuses is the mother of Elaine Holman, and why?”
    “Well,” she said hesitantly, “I am.”
    So my hunch had been right. She was trying to sell Charlie a gabardine mink. I wondered if she had any idea of the probable odds on that. But it could wait.
    “Well, look,” I said. “I suppose you can explain it Let’s give it a try. I mean, why you’re mixed up in something with Wolford Charles, and what the hell you’re trying to do.”
    She hadn’t changed expression. She was still watching me quietly with those big brown eyes.
    “Isn’t there anything you wanted to tell me first, Mike?” she asked softly.
    “Such as?” I asked, trying to sound tough about it.
    “Well, I’m glad to see you.”
    “I’m always glad to see you, Mrs. Lane.”
    “I’m not married any more, Mike.”
    “Off again, on again, Flanagan.”
    “Jeff was killed. Eight months ago, by a holdup man.”
    “Oh.” I wanted to crawl down a sewer. “I’m sorry, Cathy. I’m sorry as hell.”
    “It’s all right. You were right, anyway. We were about to separate.”
    “It’s too bad.”
    “I’ve missed you, Mike.”
    “And I’ve missed—” I stopped. What was the use in digging that up again? I’d always feel empty when she was somewhere else, and we’d always fight when we were together. You couldn’t win. “But let’s get back to this Holman pitch,” I said briskly. “Start talking, Cathy.”
    “Well, there is an Elaine Holman,” she said.
    “I thought there might be. But where is she?”
    “In New York. I met her last year. And she does have an uncle who’s a banker in a small town named Wyecross near the Mexican border.”
    “But what are you up to?”
    “All right, I’ll tell you,” she said quietly. “I’ve found Martin Lachlan.”
    “You’ve what?” I grabbed both her arms.
    “That’s right.”
    “When?” I demanded. “And why didn’t you write me?”
    “I didn’t know how to reach you.”
    “Wait a minute,” I broke in. “This man in Wyecross—this banker—he’s Lachlan. Is that it?”
    She shook her head. “Lachlan’s in Mexico.”
    “Where in Mexico?”
    “If I tell you, will you help me?”
    “Look,” I said. “I’ve been waiting to catch up with Lachlan as long as you have.”
    “All right. He’s in Lower California—fishing, at La Paz. But he has an apartment in San Francisco, among other places, and that’s where we’ll find him when we’re ready.”
    “Ready, hell. We’re ready now.”
    “No, we’re not,” she said. Then she looked up at me. “Unless—How much money do you have?”
    “Thousand—eleven hundred dollars. About that.”
    “Then we’re not ready. It’ll take a lot more than that even with what I have.”
    I began to catch on. “Then you dreamed up this Holman thing to raise the money? You sold Charlie on it, and he’s going to split with you?”
    “Yes,” she said simply.
    “I see. The end justifies the means.” It always did with her. “Even if it means helping Wolford Charles swindle some man who never heard of Lachlan?”
    “That isn’t quite the case. You haven’t asked me yet who this Wyecross man is.”
    “Who is he?”
    “His name is Goodwin.”
    “What? Not that one!”
    “Yes. Howard C. Goodwin.”
    “You sure it’s the same one?”
    “Mike, darling, I spent a week in Wyecross, doing a survey for—for—I’ve forgotten the name of the agency—I know everything there is to know about everybody.”
    As I said, dullness wasn’t one of her faults.
    I was still holding her arms. For some reason I’d forgotten to turn them loose. “Mike,” she whispered, “you’ll help us, won’t you? I need—I mean, we need