At The Rod and Gun Club the gong sounded. Immediately the spotlights outside went on. The swirling, furious snow outside Flynn’s window came alive in the light.
“It was the bleeding from his neck… how long did he have to live? I don’t remember…hitting anybody. I don’t know. I never saw a bicycle…”
“I’m sure you didn’t see the bicycle,” Flynn said softly.
Through his window, Flynn watched the naked men dash through the calf-high snow and plunge into the lake. Clifford, Buckingham, Arlington, Wahler tonight, even old Oland, Roberts: all who were left.
“Willy has told the police he was driving. He was at the church, Mister Flynn. I wish he’d been home. I was driving. I had to get Billy to the hospital quickly. I never hit anybody. But I must have. They said the car—”
“Who made the arrest?” Flynn asked. “Who arrested your husband?”
“The police. Some sergeant came last night when we got home from the hospital he was here looking at the car came back this afternoon—”
“Please, Mrs. Matson, for your own sake, try to collect yourself. Take some deep breaths while I talk to you. Will you do that?”
“…All right. Elsbeth always said you’re some kind of… reluctant, she said.”
“Just listen a minute”. Flynn spoke slowly, softly, calmly. “The law really isn’t a bad guy. It’s not really there just to create misery for everybody. You can trust the law to have some understanding. Your car may have hit Goldberg. Probably did. After you hit the bicyclist, you didn’t stop. Here there are clearly what are called extentuating circumstances. You did know you hit something or someone because your husband drove the car a mile from your house and reported it stolen.”
“He said, ‘What happened to the car?’ You know, when we came out of the hospital. Saturday night. I said, ‘Oh, God, Willard.’ Then I remembered I hit something. A noise. A bump in the road. We ran over something. Only then did I remember. Willy said, ‘If you don’t know what happened…’ ” Mrs. Matson again choked with tears.
“You can expect some understanding from the law, Mrs. Matson. Mrs. Goldberg has lost her husband—”
From the other end of the telephone connection came a true wail.
“Come on, woman. Pull yourself together. Mrs. Goldberg is a human being, too. Maybe a mother. Her old husband was out pedaling a bicycle after dark. Trust people to have some sense.”
“The police sergeant who was here—”
“Never mind what he said. These things take time. The law moves slowly, Mrs. Matson. There’ll be plenty of time for everything to get said, everything to get understood.”
“I was trying to tell the sergeant I was driving, I… I was crying so hard.”
“Pulling yourself together is now your job. Is there someone who can stay with you?”
“My sister’s here with me now.”
“Good. How’s Billy doing in the hospital?”
“They’re finding more blood for him. He almost died. The stitches—”
“See? Things are looking brighter all ready. I’ll be back in Boston sooner or later,” Flynn said, almost adding
If at all
. “And
then, believe me, you’ll have the full benefits of my, ah, reluctance. In the meantime, it is most important you do me a favor…”
Sniffling was abating. “A favor?”
“Yes. I seem to be stuck at a phone through which I cannot make outgoing calls. Do you understand?”
A sniffle.
“But your incoming call got through to me. Therefore, it is most important that you call my assistant and get him to telephone me at this number.” Flynn gave her the telephone number complete with area code and even gave her his room number. “Have you written that down?”
“Yes.”
“The man you are to call is Sergeant Gr—Richard T. Whelan, Dick Whelan-”
“Sergeant Whelan? That’s the same man who arrested—”
“Yes, yes. This is a case where you just have to separate bananas and apples, Mrs. Matson. It’s terribly important that you tell Sergeant Whelan to call me at this number immediately. He’s to keep calling until he reaches me. You’ll do that?”
“Yes.”
“If you don’t connect with Sergeant Whelan immediately, tell anyone on the Boston Police you speak to, to contact me immediately at this number.”
“I understand.”
“By the way, how did you get this number yourself?”
“I called Elsbeth, Elsbeth Flynn’s number. Your son answered. He heard me crying. He told me to call you directly. He gave me this number.”
That Winny. So efficient.
“Right. After talking with Sergeant Whelan, will you call my wife—”
“They’re gone.”
“Gone?”
“I never spoke with Elsbeth. Your son said she was outside, waiting for a van. They’ve gone to a concert in Worcester.”
“Ach, they’ll be gone until midnight.” Flynn then said: “It’s a school night!”
“I’ll try the number for you, but I’m sure they’re gone.”
“Yes, do. Then try to get some rest.”
“They have Willy in jail!” Fresh tears bubbled through the phone line.
“They’re not hurting him, Mrs. Matson. They’re just booking him. Did either of you ask for a lawyer?”
Outside, with greater haste, the men were rushing through the snow up from the lake. Waving his arms, walking backward, Arlington clearly was trying to hurry Oland along.
“We don’t have a lawyer.”
“Don’t be afraid of anything. It will take a judge to set bail. By that time, maybe I’ll be back….”
“Thank you, Flynn. Inspector.”
“Try not to worry. Your son will be all right. Your husband’s all right.”
“Oh, I pray the Lord.”
“Get some rest. But please call Sergeant Whelan first.”
“I will, Inspector. Thank you.”
Holding the receiver in one hand, Flynn broke the telephonic connection with the fingers of his other hand. Putting the receiver back to his ear, he released the button.
The line was dead.
He dialed O.
The line remained dead.
Outside, the spotlights went off.
Flynn put the telephone receiver back in its cradle.
There was a gentle knock on his door.
Softly, Flynn said, “Come in, Commissioner.”
E
ntering Flynn’s room, Police Commissioner Eddy D’Esopo said, “Been looking for you.”
Flynn came around the bed. “Oh, I’ve been taking a stroll through the woods, as did yourself. Then I went for a bit of a sleigh ride.”
D’Esopo looked large and dark and heavy in the small room. Both his size and his boyish grin doubtlessly had contributed to his rise to the top job in the police force.
“You skipped the sauna and cold bathe?” Flynn asked.
“I took a short cut: a warm shower in my room.”
Flynn’s borrowed hunting coat was on the bed. The tree branch that might have been the weapon that killed Ashley was on the bureau.
“Frank, we need to talk.”
Flynn sat in his chair at the chessboard. “Pull up a pew.”
D’Esopo sat heavily on the bed, on the other side of the coat. “I owe you apologies. For whatever damned fool thing I said to you out in the woods. For getting you up here in the first place, getting you into all this…”
“You made a mistake, all right,” growled Flynn. He leaned over to take off his hiking boots. “You had too much faith in my amazing intellect. You thought I’d arrive in the middle of the night and reveal all with the rising sun.”
“Not really. Your intellect does amaze me. At least, I hardly ever know what you’re talking about.”
“Maybe because I’m very stupid.”
“And you know more about this kind of people…Well, I mean, Frank, you didn’t work your way up threatening pushcart peddlers with citations in the North End.”
“You really don’t know much about me, Eddy.” Flynn pushed his boots away with his stockinged foot.
“I’ve guessed a few things, over the years. Frank, since you came on the Boston cops you know I’ve been asked not to pry into your background. And you know what? I may be wrong,
but it seems to me this request has come from the same sort of people who are the members of The Rod and Gun Club. Am I wrong? A call from The White House switchboard, a letter from a Supreme Court Justice, cryptic letters from this agency, that agency. Washington, Ottawa, London. What am I supposed to think?”
“What, indeed.”
“Then you come here and disdain these guys, insult them. I’m not blaming you.”
“Oh.”
“You can understand my calling you up here in the first place. And then you brought Concannon.”
“You are blaming me for that.”
“By the way, where is Concannon?”
“Looking into something for me.”
“Originally, it was just Huttenbach who was dead. The members ran around, adjusting the evidence—”
“I never knew you were so given to euphemisms, Eddy.”
“I knew you could work all that out.” D’Esopo’s hands seemed enormous on his thighs. “Yes, I did.”
From his jacket pockets Flynn fished his pipe, tobacco, scraper, wooden matches and began to build himself a smoke. “And then Lauderdale, and Ashley, and…”
“I was not in on your being drugged, Frank. I just thought poor little Concannon fell asleep. When you began to turn vague and glassy-eyed…”
“And when the evidence regarding Lauderdale’s death began to be ‘adjusted,’ as you put it? The corpse dressed for a horseback ride—”
“I had nothing to do with that, Frank. I went to my room.”
“You went to your room, Commissioner, and let it happen.”
“Listen, Frank, I’ve been honest with you. I’m indebted to these guys, more than I can ever repay.”
“Is that what’s bothering you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Ashley introduced you to this fun-and-games social club. Ashley’s dead. Huttenbach’s family foundation took on your
unwell child. Huttenbach’s dead. What did Lauderdale ever do for you, Eddy, that you arranged his death?”
D’Esopo’s eyes became huge as he stared at Flynn. “You’re kidding.”
Flynn was packing his pipe. “I think when most people think of murder, they think of it with a specific weapon in mind, either a gun, or a knife, or a club, or a rope. A policeman, such as yourself, Eddy, has the experience to think of murder as something that can be done in a variety of ways. You wouldn’t expect someone with a policeman’s experience to be consistent, necessarily, in the way he chooses to murder people. You’ve seen murder done by shooting, strangling, stabbing, clubbing…haven’t you?”
The size of D’Esopo’s eyes had not diminished. “Yes. Of course.”
Flynn held the lit match over the bowl of his pipe and puffed several times. “Is that all you have to say?”
“Frank, are you out of your damned mind?”
“Always a possibility, of course.” The pipe was going well. “How come you didn’t react when I just included ‘knife’ and ‘stabbing’ among methods of murder?”
“Christ, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never know what you’re talking about.”
For a short moment, Flynn wondered precisely how intelligent one has to be to become commissioner of police in a major city. Or how good an actor one must be.
D’Esopo put himself into a more relaxed position on the bed. He turned, leaned back and rested on one elbow. He looked less comfortable. “What I don’t understand, Frank, is that although I think you know these guys better than I do, are more comfortable with them, you seem much more critical of them than I am.”
“That’s because I do know them.”
“Okay, they’re very upper class. I’m not one of them. As you pointed out, I never will be.”
“The difference between us, Eddy, is that you won’t be and I wouldn’t be.”
“What are you talking about? A bunch of guys who like to go hunting and fishing and play poker together—”
“They’ve bought you, Eddy. To the point where you summoned me up here to protect their privacy, or secrecy, if you will. They neutralized you, at least to the point that since Saturday night you have not functioned as a trained and responsible police officer or, even, frankly, a very good citizen.”
“I said I’m indebted.”
“You’re also intimidated.”
“That may be right.”
“You have the idea that whatever these ‘big guys,’ in your view, do, must be right.”
“I didn’t become Police Commissioner without a certain amount of political savvy.” D’Esopo stood up as if he were going somewhere and then stood still. He put his hands in his pockets.
“I’m sure of it,” Flynn said.
“And if you’re not a realist—”
“It’s ever wrong.”
“What’s wrong? Make sense, God damn it, Frank!”
“Elitism.”
D’Esopo’s eyes were blazing down at Flynn in his chair. “If you know how to get along in this world without people, Frank, without a little ’you scratch my back, I’ll scratch your back,’ please tell me how.”
“Sure, we all have places in our backs we can’t reach,” Flynn admitted. “Isn’t that why we get married?” Flynn sucked on his pipe.
“Cut the bullshit, Frank. A few facts. I want to hear a few facts.”
“Pick up the phone, Eddy.” The Commissioner looked across the bed at the telephone. “It’s dead. It’s been cut off. You may not make an outgoing call. Try to leave the grounds of The Rod and Gun Club. The guard at the gate is gone. The gate is triple-chained and padlocked. And I can tell you from personal experience, the fence is electrified to a high voltage.”
“Not true. This can’t be true.”
“What do you think of a system, Eddy, which neutralizes you, and me, and once we are neutered, to change a verb on you, keeps us prisoner?”
“Is this literally true, Frank? Or are you talking in some kind of high-nonsense symbols again?”
“Try the phone. We’re prisoners, Eddy.”
D’Esopo walked around the bed and picked up the telephone receiver.
Flynn glanced at his watch. Grover had not called in. No one from the Boston Police had. Had Mrs. Matson been too distraught to understand, to keep a promise? If one call had come through, another ought to be able to; or was that one call some sort of an electronic coincidence?
D’Esopo dialed
O
, waited another moment, rattled the buttons. Then, slowly, he hung up.
“I came here, to your room…” he said.
“Yes?” encouraged Flynn.