The Baxter Trust

steps.
    Then light. Sunlight. Outside. In broad daylight, for Christ’s sake, dragging across the sidewalk to the street and ...
    A car. The back seat of a car. Someone beside him, holding him up. Or just holding him. Holding him away from the door. Why? Because the car was not moving, stopped at a light. Now moving, and the hand on his arm relaxing somewhat. Moving, driving. How long? Stop and go. Then cruising, moving right along. Then slowing, twisting, turning. Then different sounds, different rhythms. Tires on gravel, not pavement. A driveway. Stopping.
    Hands again. An open car door. Hands through the door, pulling, dragging, grabbing, supporting. On either side now, bumping up some short steps and through a door.
    Plush carpet. Falling backwards. Onto the carpet? No. Something in his back. Soft. Comfortable. A chair.
    And at last, a dim voice in the fog: “Freshen him up.”
    Movement around him. Footsteps. The clink of glass.
    Then something cold on his forehead. Cold and wet. Water dripping down his face.
    Then something thrust into his hand, and a voice, “Here. Drink this.”
    Hands raising the glass to his lips. The sudden smell. Brandy. Then the taste. Trickling down his throat. Warming him.
    Steve’s eyes blinked, cleared, focused.
    It was a large living room. Richly furnished, as richly as Maxwell Baxter’s. But with a difference. Maxwell Baxter’s living room was rich but tasteful. This living room was just rich. It was gaudy, flashy. Aggressively rich.
    A man sat in a chair opposite him. A large man, powerful. In his mid-fifties, perhaps. The man belonged in the room. He wore a huge gold watch and gold rings.
    A woman sat on the arm of his chair. Mid-twenties. Voluptuous. She also matched the room. A prop. A showpiece. An expensive ornament.
    The man held a brandy snifter identical to the one Steve held. He raised it in a gesture. Polite and gracious, the perfect host.
    “Nice of you to drop in on us, Mr. Winslow,” he said.
    Steve straightened himself with an effort, and glanced around at the two men who stood on either side of his chair. He looked back at his host.
    “Thanks for the invitation,” he said.
    The man smiled. “Don’t mention it. You like the brandy?”
    “Very good.”
    “My private stock. An excellent vintage.”
    Steve’s head was beginning to clear enough to want to try to make some sense out of the situation. “You seem to know me,” he said, “but I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”
    “Ah, excuse me,” said the man. “I am Tony Zambelli.”
    He said it in the manner of one making a pronouncement, and Steve knew he should be impressed, but actually he had never heard the name before. But he knew enough to know that if he were a real, practicing lawyer, he would know the name. He also knew that the name itself did not matter—he knew who Zambelli was.
    “My pleasure,” he said.
    Zambelli smiled. “My wife, Rita,” he said, indicating the girl.
    Steve nodded. Rita looked bored.
    “The boys I believe you know,” Zambelli said.
    “We met. All right, what’s the pitch?”
    Zambelli smiled. “I like a man who gets right to the point. All right, Mr. Winslow. It has come to my attention that you are investigating a blackmailer named Robert Greely. I thought perhaps I could be of help.”
    “How thoughtful.”
    “You apparently are under the impression that Greely was blackmailing Louie here.” Zambelli indicated the man standing at Steve’s left.
    Steve gave him a look. Louie never blinked.
    “That, however,” Zambelli went on, “is incorrect. Louie paid Greely the money, but he was merely the go-between. Greely was actually blackmailing me.”
    Steve looked at Zambelli in surprise. “Why are you telling me this?”
    “Because under the circumstances I believe it will be to my advantage to make sure you have all the facts.”
    “I’m listening.”
    “Very well. Greely was a blackmailer. A few months ago he put the bite on me.”
    “Over what?”
    Again, Zambelli gestured to the girl. “Rita is my second wife. We were married last month.” He said it as if announcing he had purchased a stock.
    “Congratulations.”
    “Thank you. We are very happy. Now then, a few months ago I was in the process of divorcing my first wife. There was naturally the question of a property settlement.”
    “I think I get the picture,” Winslow said.
    “Exactly. Greely got hold of some information which would have been worth several hundred thousand