Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [82]
He sat stiffly, eyes straight ahead as he sipped his drink. Nor did his posture change when Emilio Sebastian appeared at the French doors, saw him, nodded, smiled, and approached the table. His floral shirt and white slacks contrasted with Driscoll’s buttoned-up apparel. A waiter pulled out the chair across from Driscoll.
“Buenos días,” Sebastian said.
“Emilio.”
Sebastian ordered a Bloody Mary. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, David. Your trips to Mexico seem to be less frequent.”
“I come as often as always, Emilio. I simply don’t inform you of my every visit.”
“Of course.” Sebastian looked up through white blooms of the soapberry trees and exclaimed, “A perfect day. We must drink to that, David. How many more perfect days will we have the time to enjoy, huh?”
“When can I have the diaries? Where are they?”
“Well, we seem to have hit a snag,” said Sebastian, moving his elbows off the table—a gesture of retreat.
“What do you mean, a snag? Can I get them or not?”
“Yes, you’ll have them, but …”
“But what?”
“Some additional expenses have come up, and we’ve experienced some delays.”
“Delays?” Driscoll asked, ignoring the matter of additional money.
“Yes, the books are in fragile condition, so they have to be transported with extreme care. We can’t just mail them.”
“But you told me we’d have them by now. Wherever they are, you could have walked them to Los Angeles by now,” Driscoll said, his anger and frustration becoming clear to Sebastian.
“I promise you, I’ll do everything I can to get them for you as soon as possible. If you could just get me another—”
“You want more money now? Pay your expenses from what I already paid you,” Driscoll said loudly, causing several patrons of the restaurant to turn their heads toward the corner table. “Anyway, why did you have him killed?” he asked, quietly now, his thin lips barely moving now.
Sebastian’s puzzled look was exaggerated. “Have who killed?”
“You know who I’m talking about.”
“Oh, yes, the thief from Florida. What was his name, Munsch?”
“Why did you have him killed?”
“I had him killed for … well, for you, of course.”
Driscoll glanced at the waiters and motioned impatiently for them to leave. They misunderstood and approached.
“Not now. Leave us alone,” Driscoll said.
They retreated, casting furtive glances at each other.
Driscoll’s body remained stationary as he turned his head to Sebastian. “Don’t you ever say that again. Do you understand?”
Sebastian smiled. “If you do not wish me to say it, I won’t. But that is the truth.”
“I told you to find him and question him, that was all.”
“And I did find and question him, David. An unsavory type, but that was to be expected considering what he did for a living.”
David Driscoll hated losing patience, detested people who allowed their emotions to dictate their actions. One of his favorite movie characters was E. G. Marshall in Twelve Angry Men, who never broke a sweat in the stifling, excited jury room. But he recognized he was losing patience at this moment. He controlled his voice. “I am not interested in your character analysis of Mr. Munsch, Emilio. I was interested in how much he knew of who’d ordered the painting stolen. I was interested in whether he could link me to my man, Conrad. I distinctly told you that should you feel he could provide a link to me, you were to get him out of the country. I provided money to do that. I didn’t mean in a box!”
Sebastian’s drink was served by a waiter who wasn’t sure he should be there and who immediately withdrew. Sebastian raised his glass. “You have nothing to worry about, David. Sending Mr. Munsch out of the country would only provide you with temporary relief. My solution was infinitely more permanent.”
Driscoll waved for the waiters. “Walnut soup,” he said, “and an endive salad with duck.”
His sudden order took Sebastian by surprise. “The same for me.”
Driscoll now adjusted himself so that he leaned