I looked at the rest of the money I had taken from Golfin. The two ones
were okay. All the rest had dates in the future. I knew money. I could
spot a phony bill a block away. It was real money.
Either a master counterfeiter had--Another thought struck me. I
compared the serial numbers of the bills. All different. That clinched
it. They weren't phony.
That meant that Golfin was _actually from the future himself_. Then why
had he given me and Sarah Fish that story about prophetic dreams and
amnesia? I thought about that a bit and nodded to myself. He wanted to
give us something we could believe. We wouldn't have believed a raw
statement that he was from the future. Those three dollar bills....
* * * * *
The more I thought about them the less they seemed like a gag. I tried
to recall every detail of Golfin's passing it when he bought his
cigarettes. He hadn't done it like he was pulling a gag. He had taken
his change and walked out. He didn't know he had done anything wrong.
He had assumed a three dollar bill was used here--or now, rather.
My coffee was cold. The girl was looking at me as if she wanted to
close up. I smiled at her and tossed a quarter on the counter and went
out on the sidewalk.
I debated what to do. Should I forget the whole thing? Or should I take
a walk back to Sarah Fish's house and see what was going on? I decided
on the latter.
Her house was dark. No police cars were there. That was not what I had
expected. With a murder, there should be police cars, and the place
should be lit up. Or maybe not. It had been an hour since I left the
place.
I went back to the drugstore and caught the bus down to the Davis
Street El station. Riding on the elevated it occurred to me that maybe
I'd better not go to my apartment. If the police had gotten my wallet
from George Wile they might be waiting for me.
I decided to rent a room for the night and wait until morning. Then
I changed my mind. If I went back to my room I could claim Wile had
picked _my_ pocket. If the police were looking for me they would
eventually get me anyway, since I already had a record of three arrests
for this and that.
I sighed and relaxed, and after a while the train dipped down into the
subway, and I got off and had a late snack at the corner cafeteria.
It was almost midnight when I climbed the stairs to my apartment. When
I opened the door the phone was ringing. I turned on the light and
closed the door, and answered it.
"Ben Smith?" a strange voice said. "This is George Wile."
"Oh," I said. I did some quick thinking. "Oh!" I said in a different
tone. "I remember you. How'd you know my number. Did you find my
wallet? That must be it. I lost it. Thanks a lot for calling me about
it. I'll meet you tomorrow and get it back."
"It was in my pocket," he said coldly. "And my own was missing. I want
it back."
"Yours was missing?" I said. "Hey, wait a minute. If you think I got
it you're crazy. Somebody played a trick on us. There must have been a
pickpocket at Sarah Fish's tonight."
"There was," he said coldly. "You. I took the trouble of calling the
police and found out. I want my wallet and I want it tonight."
"I don't have it. No kidding." I said worriedly. "I'm handing you the
straight goods. By the way, what happened after I left? I heard the
police sirens."
"Someone had called them and said there was a murder. They were pretty
sore about it."
"And there wasn't? Ha Ha?" I said.
"Quit stalling, Smith," Wile said. "I want my wallet back. And
everything in it."
"Haven't got it," I said.
A long sigh came over the phone.
"All right," Wile said. "I sort of expected this. I'll give you five
hundred dollars for it."
I took the phone from my face and stared at it, thinking. Talking
sounds came from the receiver. I put it back to my ear and said, "Come
again? I didn't hear you."
"You heard me all right," Wile said. "Okay, I can get you two thousand
dollars from the bank tomorrow. Meet me at eleven o'clock at State and
Washington, northeast corner."
"Okay," I said. "Be sure and bring me _my_ wallet."
"I will," he said smoothly. His tone became worried. "Is my wallet in a
_safe_ place?"
"Sure," I said, thinking of the spot under the counter where I had slid
it with my foot. "You don't need to worry about it at all."
The line was dead. I realized suddenly that he had trapped me into an
admission that I had his wallet.
* * * * *
This wasn't the same as a little light finger work on a crowded train,
or getting a rubber check chased, or any of the many things I did when
the opportunity arose, to pay my rent. Wile didn't just want these
poison needles back. He was planning to kill me to keep me quiet. But
he wanted the needles and his wallet back too. First.
I thought of Golfin and his reading in the papers that I had been
murdered, and it wasn't funny. I locked the door and wedged a chair
under the knob. Wile now knew for sure I was the one who had his
wallet. He could be on his way down to kill me right now.