Murder Miscalculated by Andrew MacRae

clouded Doris’ face.
    “See you later,” I said and walked away. I was worried Chad might give chase, but I heard Doris tell him to let me go. As I left the dining room, I gave one of the high-heeled waitresses a wave, and she smiled in return. Those shoes may be murder to wear, but I guess I they don’t ruin a sense of humor.

 
     
     
Chapter Eighteen
     
     
    Cochran called me around midnight that night to let me know that Wolfe’s courier had arrived and had checked into his hotel. Tomorrow I’d take his wallet.
    The night went slowly, and it was a relief when morning finally came.
    I dressed and slipped out, avoiding the strained scene that breakfast with Lynn and Barbara would have been. I walked the six blocks from tiny and forgotten Knickerbocker Lane, with its brick and brownstone buildings, to Market Street, where The Meridian Hotel and its twelve stories of chrome and glass lobby presided over the bustle of the morning traffic.
    I arrived fifteen minutes early and pushed through the revolving doors. The Meridian Hotel was familiar and fertile ground to me. At this time of the morning the large lobby was always busy with people in a hurry, their footsteps sounding and resounding on the marble floor. Great glass elevators whisked guests from floor to floor with pneumatic sighs. The robotic keys of a grand piano in the far corner tinkled a cheerful tune that competed with the drone of dozens of conversations.
    A steady stream of men and women clad in business suits walked past me from the direction of the front desk, stuffing receipts and wallets back into their coat pockets and purses. As I had told Cochran, the easiest way to lift a wallet is to let the mark show you where it’s kept.
    I crossed the lobby to the gift shop, where I bought a newspaper. As I returned to the front of the hotel I spotted Talbot and Cochran camped out in a pair of easy chairs. After one more look around I went back outside and waited on the sidewalk.
    The plan was pretty simple. In a few minutes Joey would pull up in the Town Car, having called Zager, the courier, to let him know he was almost there. Zager would leave his room, come down in an elevator and head for the revolving doors and outside. I would go into the lobby, bump into him, take his wallet, keep walking over to the interior door to the hotel garage and make my escape. Nice and simple.
    I hate simple plans.
    There was no reason for anyone to give me a second look as I stood on the sidewalk outside the hotel. To a casual observer I was simply another man in a business suit reading a newspaper, waiting to meet someone. The only ones who took notice of me were a couple of taxi drivers who slowed, checking to see if I needed a ride.
    At nine o’clock a sleek, black car pulled up in front, and I recognized Joey behind the wheel. It was time.
    I pushed through the revolving doors and entered the hotel. Just as planned, Zager was walking toward me. I held my newspaper up to my face and walked right into my target, too quickly for him to step out of the way.
    Piece of cake and smooth as silk I thought to myself as I reached into his coat and let my fingers grasp his wallet. But as I did, I heard a sound from behind him. It was an insistent, metallic sound, like a stack of quarters being dropped an inch onto a tabletop. The sound repeated half a second later, and then again. A quizzical look came to Zager’s face. Then his eyes rolled up, his knees sagged, and he fell against me.
    A tall, thin, almost cadaverous man walked toward me. Though he looked to be in his fifties and was dressed conservatively, he had long, gray hair tied in a tight ponytail. He carried an overcoat over his right hand and forearm. In a second he had passed by.
    I laid Zager on the marble floor. He was gasping for breath. I doubted he had long to live. I slipped his wallet into my own pocket and hoped no one noticed. The concierge arrived and knelt down on the other side of Zager. I got back up and