Read To Catch a Spy for Free Online

to the woman who answered the phone.
    “He’s off today,” she said.
    “I’m his brother Julian,” I said. “I’m in town for one day. Can you give me his phone number?”
    “Brother?” the woman asked.
    “Julian,” I repeated.
    She put her hand over the receiver, but I could hear her muffled voice say to someone, “You know Sam has a brother?”
    I didn’t hear the answer, but she came back on and said, “I’m looking.”
    She hummed while she looked, came back quickly, and said, “You don’t have an accent.”
    “I’ve worked on it,” I said.
    “Say something in Russian.”
    “Huh?”
    “You’re Russian,” she said. “Say something.”
    “ Vosnushev leskronik menchovenola, ” I said.
    “What does that mean?”
    “It means ‘you have a very melodic voice,’” I said, relieved that she knew no Russian.
    She gave me the number. A detective was at work here. I dialed the number. It rang five times and a man with a Russian accent answered.
    “Hello.”
    “Samuel Stinovenov?”
    “Yes.”
    “I’m calling about the cat.”
    “How much?”
    “The reward?” I asked.
    “Yes, how much?”
    “Thirty dollars,” I said, hoping I could get the money back from Louise Antolini.
    “Where you want me to bring cat?”
    “Some questions first,” I said.
    I didn’t ask him to call the cat Granger and see if he came running. Cats answer or don’t answer, depending on their mood. I asked him how old he thought the cat was. He said he thought it was not a young cat. I asked him where he lived. It was near the hospital, just off of State Street. I said I’d be right over.
    “With cash money,” he said.
    “With cash money,” I agreed and hung up, pocketing the photograph of Granger.
    Shelly was still in the dental chair. He was eating an apple and talking to himself. I couldn’t hear what he was saying. I didn’t say good-bye.
    My car was parked right in front of the Farraday Building. Normally, it was so crowded on Hoover and on Main I parked two blocks away at No-Neck Arnie’s. But this was New Year’s Day and a Saturday, to boot. So I had had my choice of spots.
    I drove to Arnie’s. His rusting metal garage doors were open. I drove through them and stopped behind a blue Oldsmobile. Arnie, dressed in his grease-stained gray overalls, was looking into the yawning car. He pulled his head out from under the hood and turned to look at me when I got out of the Crosley.
    “I wasn’t sure you’d be in today,” I said, joining him next to the Olds.
    It wasn’t true that Arnie had no neck. But it was close. Arnie was short, compact, and looked a little like Winston Churchill. Arnie had more hair and no accent.
    “Couldn’t stay home,” he said. “I was too excited.”
    Arnie didn’t look excited. He looked sad, but Arnie always looked sad.
    “What?”
    “Arnie Junior’s coming home,” he said. “He called from a hospital in Hawaii. Wounded again. Shrapnel in the leg. He says he’ll be fine. They’re sending him home.”
    “That’s great,” I said.
    “It’s great,” he agreed. “Wife’s goin’ all around telling her sisters, friends. Me, I just felt like coming in here and taking another crack at this thing.”
    He looked inside near the engine.
    “What’s the problem?”
    “Damn automatic transmission,” he said. “Never works right. Clunks when it changes gear. G.M. says they’re got the problems licked and are going to try it on the Buick after the war. Mistake. Never catch on. What’s so damn hard about shifting gears?”
    “Nothing,” I said.
    “Nothing,” he agreed.
    I took out my wallet and held out the money I owed him. He wiped his hand on his overalls and took the cash.
    “Want a Pepsi?” he asked, knowing my drink of choice.
    He pocketed the money without putting it in his wallet.
    “No time,” I said. “Got to see a guy with a cat.”
    “How’s she running?” he asked as I walked back to my car.
    “Like a refrigerator,” I said.
    An hour