On the Other Hand, Death

He did a double take, then bridled. "What the fuck is going on? What time is it?" He grabbed at a wristwatch on the bedside table, glared at it, then wrapped it around the circle of white flesh on his wrist. "Christ, it's not even eleven yet."
"You ignored my question."
He lay back against the headboard and examined me
sullenly. Suddenly he snapped, "Of course I knew it wasn't Peter's finger! Of course I would know that!"
"You didn't mention it to anybody. That strikes me as odd. It gets me to thinking."
He blinked, looked alarmed. "Jesus! Do the cops know?"
"Know what, Fenton?"
"The finger—that it wasn't—"
"Where did you get it? I've been wondering. Men's fingers are hard to come by. Not as rare as . . . hens' teeth. But rare."
"Where did I get it?"
"Or whoever."
He sat up with a jerk and Hung his legs over the edge of the bed. His feet stank. I backed away and eased onto a desk chair.
McWhirter's face had reddened. He sputtered, "I know what you think."
"What do I think?"
"That I set this up."
"Why would I think that?"
"Because I—You must have found out that I play the game by rules I didn't make. Rules that I don't like but that somebody else made, and for now they are the rules."
"Your nose is a little cockeyed. I hadn't noticed it before, but now I do. How come?"
In his confusion, he couldn't help grinning daffily. "You heard that story? Great. Well, so what? It's true. Other people had been bloodied by the cops that night, the fucking savages. But those cops had taped over their badge numbers. The one who hit me hadn't. And I had his number. Simple justice."
"Simpleminded justice. You became one of them."
"Ho, Jesus!" He shook his head, looked at me as if I were a bivalve. "The same old liberal bullshit. You should
be a judge, Strachey, or write newspaper editorials."
I said, "You're digging your own grave."
 "What?" 
"This so-called kidnapping is right in character for you. You stage the abduction, stir up lots of attention and sympathy for the strike campaign—and collect a hundred grand to finance the rest of the drive. I'll bet Dot Fisher doesn't know about it though, does she? Dot's unconventional, but still a bit old-fashioned in certain inconvenient respects, right?"
He stared at me open-mouthed. "You think that? You think I'd do that to Dot?"
"So, where did the finger come from? Explain."
"Look . . . I . . ." He was sweating, fidgeting, balling up little wads of chest hair between his fingers. "Look, it is true that I knew it wasn't Peter's finger in that box. Of course I knew. But the reason I kept my mouth shut about it was not the reason you think. I just thought—I figured that the kidnappers—cops probably—were using the finger to scare us. To scare Dot especially, and impress on all of us just how vicious they could be.
"And since we were already having a hard enough time getting that Bowman asshole to believe us, to take Peter's disappearance seriously, it seemed better if I just . . . kept my mouth shut. And also—Well, shit, I was afraid somebody like you would have heard about—about my reputation. And that you'd think Peter and I set the whole thing up. Just like you do now. God, that's the truth!"
"Uh-huh. That's what I thought too, Fenton. At first. When I saw that the finger wasn't Peter's, and knew that you must have known it wasn't, I guessed that you were keeping mum in order to feed Bowman's sense of urgency. But I didn't know so much about you then. Now I do. And I have become skeptical. Highly so."
"How did you know it wasn't Peter's finger?"
"Dunno. Guess I'm just one of those people who once he's seen a finger never forgets it."
"Do the cops know this? What you think?"
"Not yet."
"Don't tell them. Please. It's not true! You'll just put Peter in more danger!"
I said, "Fenton, you're a self-avowed ruthlessly devious liar and con man. All for the larger cause. Wicked means to a just end. Pulling a stunt like this would be right in character for you. It fits the pattern."
"That is not true. You're talking like Bowman now. Use friends like that? Brothers and sisters? Never!"
"It's not your friends you're using. It's me. Strachey, the Millpond flack. I'm the one who came up with the hundred grand."
"Yes, but—I wouldn't have known it would work out that way, would I? When the ransom note came—and the finger—it was sent to Dot. Obviously by someone who knew that she would be able to get hold of a lot of money from Millpond if she absolutely had to. Somebody so rotten he didn't care at all if Dot lost her home. Do you think I would do that?"
"Nnn. I don't know."
"Or Peter? You've seen what kind of person Peter is. Would he do a thing like that to Dot? Or to anybody?"
"No. I expect not. Unless . . . unless he didn't know. You could have gotten rid of Peter for a few days on some pretext while you pulled off this elaborate heist to raise money to finance the rest of your bankrupt campaign. Sent him off to do advance work in the next town or something. And arrange for some other cohorts, up from the city or wherever, to stage the abduction at the Green Room last night."
He peered at me with disgust. "Oh, yes. I have this troupe of actors—McWhirter's Old Vic—constantly at my disposal. Sheeeit. And when Peter finds out how I've all
of a sudden gotten hold of a hundred thousand dollars? Then what?"
"Nnn. Yeah. Peter would probably give it back."
He continued to stare at me with the nauseated condescension that was his most natural attitude. What did Greco see in this creep? Was demented single-mindedness Greco's idea of toughness, substantiality, strength of character? My estimation of Greco had begun to fall. I thought of Timmy. Where was he? Why weren't we together?
On the other hand, what McWhirter had just told me made sense. He was ruthless, but I'd heard no evidence that he had ever betrayed his friends. He was devious and cunning, but Greco, whatever his weaknesses, was not. On the one hand this, on the other hand that.
I said, "All right, Fenton. I'm more or less convinced. Pretty much. For now."
"And you won't mention any of this crap you were thinking to Bowman?"
"Not now. No."
He collapsed against the headboard. "Thank you. Now, just get Peter away from . . . those people. That's all I care about. And then you can say anything about me that you want. Just get Peter back."
"Right. That's what we're all trying to do."
"Is the money in the mailbox?"
"Yes."
"I'll pay it back. Wherever it came from, I'll pay it back."
Watching him carefully, I said, "Dot and Edith don't know this, but when the pickup is made tonight, the kidnappers' car will be followed. Very, very discreetly. No arrest will be made until Peter is free. But we're all reasonably certain that whoever has done this will be in the lockup by dawn."
He flinched and sat up again, breathing heavily. "You
told me you weren't going to do anything like that. You and the cops. You agreed it was too dangerous."
"We lied. We all concluded from experience that Peter's chances are better this way."