Page 21 of Shall We Tell the President? (Kane & Abel 3)

“What do you mean?”

“What did he look like?”

“Oh, he was a big man, very dark, I think,” she began. Mark tried to remain offhand. It must have been the man who had passed him in the elevator, the man who had earlier kept Father Gregory from going to the hospital and who, if Mrs. Casefikis had known anything at all about the plot, would no doubt have dispatched her to join her husband.

“Did he have a beard, Mrs. Casefikis?”

“Of course he did,” she hesitated, “but I can’t remember him having one.”

Mark asked her to stay in the house, not to leave under any circumstances. He made an excuse that he was going to check on the Welfare situation and talk to the Immigration officials. He was learning how to lie. The clean-shaven Greek Orthodox priest was teaching him.

He jumped into the car and drove a few hundred yards to the nearest pay phone on Georgia Avenue. He dialed the Director’s private line. The Director picked up the phone.

“Julius.”

“What is your number?” asked the Director.

Thirty seconds later the phone rang, Mark went over the story carefully.

“I’ll send an Identikit man down to you immediately. You go back there and hold her hand. And, Andrews, try to think on your feet. I’d like that fifty dollars. Was it one bill, or several? There may just be a fingerprint on them.” The telephone clicked. Mark frowned. If the phony Greek Orthodox priest weren’t always two steps ahead of him, the Director was.

Mark returned to Mrs. Casefikis and told her that her case would be dealt with at the highest level; he must remember to speak to the Director about it at the next meeting, he made a note about it on his pad. Back to the casual voice again.

“Are you sure it was fifty dollars, Mrs. Casefikis?”

“Oh, yes, I don’t see a fifty-dollar bill every day, and I was most thankful at the time.”

“Can you remember what you did with it?”

“Yes, I went and bought food from the supermarket just before they closed.”

“Which supermarket, Mrs. Casefikis?”

“Wheaton Supermarket. Up the street.”

“When was that?”

“Yesterday evening about six o’clock.”

Mark realized that there wasn’t a moment to lose. If it weren’t already too late.

“Mrs. Casefikis, a man will be coming, a colleague of mine, a friend, from the FBI, to ask you to describe the kind Father who gave you the money. It will help us greatly if you can remember as much about him as possible. You have nothing to worry about because we’re doing everything we can to help you.”

Mark hesitated, took out his wallet and gave her fifty dollars. She smiled for the first time.

“Now, Mrs. Casefikis, I want you to do just one last thing for me. If the Greek priest ever comes to visit again, don’t tell him about our conversation, just call me at this number.”

Mark handed her a card. Ariana Casefikis nodded, but her lackluster gray eyes followed Mark to his car. She didn’t understand, or know which man to trust: hadn’t they both given her fifty dollars?

Mark pulled into a parking space in front of the Wheaton Supermarket. A huge sign in the window announced that cases of cold beer were sold inside. Above the window was a blue and white cardboard representation of the dome of the Capitol. Five days, thought Mark. He went into the store. It was a small family enterprise, privately owned, not part of a chain. Beer lined one wall, wine the other, and in between were four rows of canned and frozen foods. A meat counter stretched the length of the rear wall. The butcher seemed to be minding the store alone. Mark hurried towards him, starting to ask the question before he reached the counter.

“Could I please see the manager?”

The butcher eyed him suspiciously. “What for?”

Mark showed his credentials.

The butcher shrugged and yelled over his shoulder, “Hey, Flavio, FBI. Wants to see you.”

Several seconds later, the manager, a large red-faced Italian, appeared in the doorway to the left of the meat counter. “Yeah? What can I do for you, Mr., uh …”

“Andrews, FBI.” Mark showed his credentials once again.

“Yeah, okay. What do you want, Mr. Andrews? I’m Flavio Guida. This is my place. I run a good, honest place.”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Guida. I’m simply hoping you can help me. I’m investigating a case of stolen money, and we have reason to believe that a stolen fifty-dollar bill was spent in this supermarket yesterday and we wonder now if there

is any way of tracing it.”

“Well, my money is collected every night,” said the manager. “It’s put into the safe and deposited in the bank first thing in the morning. It would have gone to the bank about an hour ago, and I think—”

“But it’s Saturday,” Mark said.

“No problem. My bank is open till noon on Saturday. It’s just a few doors down.”

Mark thought on his feet.

“Would you please accompany me to the bank immediately, Mr. Guida?”

Guida looked at his watch and then at Mark Andrews.

“Okay. Give me just half a minute.”

He shouted to an invisible woman in the back of the store to keep an eye on the cash register. Together he and Mark walked to the corner of Georgia and Hickers. Guida was obviously getting quite excited by the whole episode.

At the bank Mark went immediately to the chief cashier. The money had been handed over thirty minutes before to one of his tellers, a Mrs. Townsend. She still had it in piles ready for sorting. It was next on her list. She hadn’t had time to do so yet, she said rather apologetically. No need to feel sorry, thought Mark. The supermarket’s take for the day had been just over five thousand dollars. There were twenty-eight fifty-dollar bills. Christ Almighty, the Director was going to tear him apart, or to be more exact, the fingerprint experts were. Mark counted the fifty-dollar notes using gloves supplied by Mrs. Townsend and put them on one side—he agreed there were twenty-eight. He signed for them, gave the receipt to the chief cashier, and assured him they would be returned in the very near future. The bank manager came over and took charge of the receipt and the situation.

“Don’t FBI men usually work in pairs?”

Mark blushed. “Yes, sir, but this is a special assignment.”

“I would like to check,” said the manager. “You are asking me to release one thousand four hundred dollars on your word.”

“Of course, sir, please do check.”

---