Ding-dong. Ten minutes to six, and Dortmunder watched eagerly as Grace Fallon went over to open the door, though he didn’t stand yet, just in case this was somebody other than somebody with his clothes.

But, no, here came Andy Kelp, with two suitcases, only one of them Dortmunder’s. And behind him Stan, with a suitcase. And behind him Tiny, with a duffel bag.

Dortmunder stood, coattails forgotten. “Everybody?” he asked. “And packed?”

“It’s over, John,” Kelp said, and handed Dortmunder his suitcase.

Dortmunder wanted to go to some other room and change into actual clothing, but he had to know: “Over? What’s over?”

Stan answered, “Forget the cars.”

Dortmunder shook his head. “Forget the cars? After all this? Why?”

Stan said, “Because they aren’t there any more.”

Kelp said, “It was awful, John. We stood there and watched them go.”

“On trucks,” Tiny said. He sounded as though the trucks themselves were an insult.

Dortmunder said, “I don’t get it.”

Chester said, “John, do us all a favor. Get dressed. Use our bedroom.”

“Don’t say anything till I get back,” Dortmunder warned them, and was gone a very short period of time, to come back dressed like a person, not like either a refugee or a butler. He said, “Okay, now what?”

Kelp said, “Because Monroe Hall lost his memory, his wife can’t get at the money he had stashed, so she’s selling everything.”

“Starting with the cars?”

“Turns out,” Kelp said, “Hall really didn’t own those cars. A museum does.”

“That was a scam,” Chester said, “so he could keep the cars and not have to turn them over to the bankruptcy court.”

Kelp said, “Well, it was a scam and it wasn’t a scam. This car museum in Florida really does own them all, but Hall got to keep them at his place. Now, with the situation like it is, the museum wants their cars. So today, they left.”

Dortmunder said, “So that’s it? We plan, we prepare, we do everything right, and it’s over? Just like that?”

Stan said, “There’s still some of that other stuff Arnie Albright said he’d take.”

Dortmunder shook his head. “I did not come here to load a car with music boxes,” he said. “I am not a pilferer, I got my dignity. If there’s no cars there, there’s no reason to go there.”

Kelp said, “That’s why we all packed up and came over.”

Tiny said, “I’m not going back to that place. If I did, I’d break something.”

Dortmunder sat down on the sofa, where he’d been for so long in the overcoat. “I’ve been drinking coffee,” he said.

Grace Fallon said, “I believe we have some bourbon.”

“Thank you,” he said simply.

After getting concurring nods from everybody else, she left the room and Stan said, “One drink, and we might as well drive back to the city.”

“Forever,” Chester said. “That’s how long I’m gonna listen to Hal Mellon’s jokes.”

Dortmunder said, “You know, I’m beginning to realize what the worst of it is.”

Kelp looked interested, but apprehensive. “There’s a worst of it?”

“If we’re not pulling a heist here tonight,” Dortmunder told him, “you know what we’ve been doing the last three days? We’ve been having jobs.”

67

SUNDAY AFTERNOON. Chuck Yancey had never had to stand guard duty himself at the gate before, and he didn’t like it. It was demeaning. It was beneath him. And it was only necessary because Judson Swope had pulled a bunk. Out of here some time yesterday afternoon, never showed up for his midnight tour on the gate. Frantic last-minute calls in all directions, and finally they got Mort Pessle to fill in, but that meant Mort wasn’t available for his normal tour today. Shorthanded without Swope, Chuck Yancey found himself doing gate duty with Heck Fiedler. At least it gave him an opportunity to make Heck’s life miserable, but it was still a comedown.

Also boring. There’d never been much traffic through this entrance on weekends, and now that Mrs. H was shutting the place down, laying off everybody but Yancey and his crew, there was no traffic at all, not for the first six hours.

But then, at five minutes to two, an unremarkable sedan turned in and stopped at the bar, and Yancey’s spirits rose for just a second, until he saw the occupants; the two plainclothesmen from CID, making such pests of themselves on Friday. Lieutenant Orville, who was driving, and the other one.

Yancey stepped out of the shack to see what these two wanted—the case was over, wasn’t it? — and Orville said, “We want to talk to Fred Blanchard.”

“I’ll see if he’s around,” Yancey said, because in truth he hadn’t seen anybody from the main house today. Back inside the shack, he called the main house and got no answer at all, then tried the house where Blanchard and Swope and a couple others were living and got the same result.

Back outside the shack, he reported as much: “Nobody around.”

Orville nodded as though some deep suspicion had been confirmed. “He’s been living here, hasn’t he?”

“Until tomorrow, that’s right.”

“We’ll want to see his place.”

“I’ll have to escort you,” Yancey said, and called in to Heck, “Be right back.”

Heck smiled and nodded, glad to see him go, and Yancey got into the backseat of the cops’ car to direct them to the green house, and along the way Orville, looking too often at Yancey in the mirror for somebody supposed to be steering a car, said, “You may wonder why I’m still after Fred Blanchard, what with Hall being found and the case over.”

“I may,” Yancey agreed.

“You may say,” Orville said, “that Lieutenant Orville, he’s just got his nose out of joint because he didn’t catch up with that Mark Sterling fella, but that would not be the case, would it, Bob?”

“Absolutely not,” said the other one.

“Mark Sterling just fell into their laps,” Orville explained. “I never even got a look at him. So that’s one of the kidnappers, but there’s at least four more. And don’t forget the butler.”

“I won’t,” Yancey promised.

“And who did the butler used to work with, down in Washington, D.C.?”

“Blanchard,” Yancey told him.

“Exactly! I didn’t trust Blanchard from the second I saw him. I knew he was hiding something, and I am going to find it.”

When they stopped in front of the green house, it had an empty look to it even before they got out, hammered on the door, opened the door, stood in the living room, and yelled, “Hello?”

“Nobody here,” Yancey said.

“Which is Blanchard’s room?”

“I would have no idea.”

“Well, Bob, I guess we’ll search the whole place.”

Yancey thought of mentioning warrants, but it was no skin off his nose. Nor, as it turned out, was it to be much of a search. The house had been stripped of all personal possessions. Nothing left but rumpled sheets and open closet doors.

“So they all went,” Yancey said, as they trooped back down the stairs.

Orville said, “All?”

“The new hires.”

“The new hires!”

“My security guy Swope, Blanchard, the new chauffeur, and the butler. Of course, the butler was already gone.”

Orville said, “With his personal property?”

“Well, somebody packed it up and took it away,” Yancey said, and the phone rang, echoing in the empty house. “I’ll get it,” Yancey said. “Probably Heck at the gate.”

It was. “Got a guy here,” Heck said. “Old friend of Blanchard’s, wants to talk to him.”

“We’ll be right there.”

•

The old friend of Blanchard’s didn’t look like anybody’s old friend. Tall and bony, he had yellow hair close-cropped like Yancey’s, but somehow looking more menacing on this bozo, and mean blue eyes that studied them as though they were meat and this was lunchtime.

Before anybody else could speak, the bozo turned those eyes on Orville and the other one and said, “Fred Blanchard?” Yancey wondered why his right hand was up by his jacket lapel.