found an alcove furnished with chrome and imitation leather couches. A standing ashtray filled with sand held an accumulation of cigarette butts and chewing gum wrappers. There were anti-smoking signs on the walls, but they had to do something for people who refused to quit. Besides, when you just came back from visiting Great-aunt Matilda on her death bed, you needed all the help you could get.
“Now,” Morton Kleiner said, “what’s this about the old man’s insurance? You’re going to weasel out of it? You insurance guys are all the same. Best friend when they’re trying to sell you a policy, don’t know you from dog-turd when you have a claim.”
Lindsey took a deep breath. He almost knew who it was Kleiner reminded him of. It was that close, absolutely that close. He blinked and saw the other face on the inside of his eyelids. He made an effort to freeze the image; he’d come back to it later and he knew he’d pin it down once and for all.
“I tried to explain upstairs, Mr. Kleiner, I’m not here about a life policy on your grandfather. I don’t even know if he has one. Do you know—” turning to face Jayjay Smith “—do you know if he has a desk at the mansion? Any kind of files or records? Maybe a safe deposit box at a bank?”
“I think he has a box of papers.” She pressed her hand to her eyes. She was dressed informally again, jeans and a blouse with a bulky sweater over it, her hair done back in braids. A long coat was folded over the back of the couch where she sat. Lindsey figured that she and Morton Kleiner were of an age, maybe ten years older than he was, maybe a little less. But she looked younger today than she had at the mansion. She must have had a better night’s sleep than Lindsey had.
“You ought to check there, Mr. Kleiner.” Lindsey took out his pocket organizer and offered Kleiner an International Surety card. “That’s my office number. If you think your grandfather has a policy with us, phone there and we can put it into the computer and find out, even if you don’t turn up the policy itself.”
Kleiner stared at the card in Lindsey’s hand for a few more seconds than necessary, then he took it. “Sure,” he said. “Fat chance you’d admit there was a policy if I didn’t have it to wave in your cheap faces.” He was wearing a heavy green plaid jacket. It hung open over a red plaid shirt. He shoved Lindsey’s card into a pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit up.
Lindsey heaved a sigh. “I give you my word, sir, International Surety is a legitimate, ethical company. We have branches all over the world, millions of policies in effect. If you grandfather is insured with us, and if he dies, International Surety will pay. But I’m here to get information about the stolen Duesenberg. That’s another matter altogether.”
“Why don’t you get out and look for it, then, if the God damned car is so important to you? Why are you hanging around Kaiser sniffing after my grandfather? Or you sniffing after something else?”
Lindsey blinked and saw the face on the inside of his eyelids again. He knew who it was. Hans Schumm, a scowling, lantern-jawed onetime actor—a sort of all-purpose bully and sadist. He’d specialized in playing snarling Nazis in low-budget programmers in the 1940s. Lindsey wondered if he was still alive today. If so he’d look more like old Mr. Kleiner than his obnoxious grandson.
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