Murder at the Opera - Margaret Truman [110]
“So,” Pawkins said, not turning. “What is it you want?”
“My money. You stole my money
“Is that so?”
Now the former detective slowly turned and faced Josephson, who stood only a few feet from him.
“Tell me how I stole your money
“You…you took the musical scores from Aaron Musinski. He and I were partners. We were to share the money from them
“I see
Pawkins went to a small couch. “Sit down,” he said, pointing to a chair across from a coffee table. Josephson did as he’d been told. Pawkins leaned forward, a smile on his face. “Let’s get a few things straight here, Mr. Josephson. I don’t care what you claim I did. I don’t care whether you lost money, as you claim. I came here as a favor. No,” he said, waving his hand, “I came because I was curious to see what a conniving little Englishman looks like. Now I know
Josephson got to his feet. “I have the proof,” he said, going to the manila envelope on the desk, extracting its contents, and waving them at Pawkins. “It’s all here,” he said, agitated, sweating, eyes darting back and forth from Pawkins to the window, to the door, back to Pawkins. “I know what you did. I hired an investigator. I know how you killed Aaron to get the scores and went to Paris to sell them to Saibrón, how the money went to your secret bank account in the Cayman Islands, how you—”
He stopped in mid-sentence as Pawkins calmly pulled the .22 from his holster. Josephson’s eyes widened at the sight of the weapon, which Pawkins pointed directly at him. “Give me that stuff,” he commanded.
Josephson pressed the papers to his chest and stepped back.
“Come on, come on, hand it over. I want to see this so-called evidence you say you have
“Please, put that away,” Josephson pleaded.
Pawkins looked down at the weapon. “This?” He laughed. “Nice little gun, Mr. Josephson. Doesn’t make a lot of noise, and leaves a relatively small hole.” The smile left his face. “Give me those papers, goddamn it, before I show you how small a hole it really does make
Josephson tentatively approached the table and dropped the papers as though they were aflame.
“That’s better,” Pawkins said. He sat back, the papers in his lap, and scanned them, the .22 resting casually in his right hand. At one point he looked up and said, “Sit down, Mr. Josephson. Relax. You have anything to drink? Be a good host and pour us something
“I don’t have—”
“Sure you do, in the mini-bar over there. You have ice?”
“Yes, I—”
“Good. Scotch will be fine, just a few cubes
“I can call security and—”
“You touch that phone and it’ll be the last thing you ever touch. Add a splash of soda
Pawkins kept his eyes going from the papers to Josephson, who’d taken a mini-bottle of Scotch from the self-serve bar and poured it into a glass. His hands trembled so much that some of the liquor ran down the outside of the glass. He approached Pawkins with the drink, but Pawkins said, “Ice, Mr. Josephson. And a little soda. Come on, now, you’re an Englishman. You know how to make a proper drink, even for an American
After sipping the drink and examining the papers, Pawkins tossed the sheets on the coffee table and stood. Josephson sat in the chair, rigid, small sounds escaping his throat, his eyes never straying from the weapon in Pawkins’ hand. Pawkins came around behind Josephson, who also started to get up, but Pawkins’ firm hand on his shoulder kept him pinned to the chair. He pressed the barrel of the .22 against Josephson’s temple. “Nice drink, Mr. Josephson. Thanks
“Please, I only wants what’s fair,” the Brit said. He was almost crying.
“What’s fair, huh? I like that,” said Pawkins. “I believe in fairness, too. I bet you didn’t know that, did you?”
“I—I’m sure you’re a fair and reasonable man,” Josephson said, his voice quavering. “Don’t you see, the money I would have enjoyed from selling those scores was for my retirement. I’m not a rich man. I have a small shop in Mayfair