The Glendower Legacy (13 page)

Tonight the call came in on the green telephone. The color coding—red, green, and white—enabled him to know who was on the other end before he answered. It was four o’clock precisely. He gave the green telephone a dirty look, hooked his spectacles over his ears, and extended a liver-spotted, prominently veined hand, clawlike, from the sleeve of his pima cotton pajamas. His outward placidity returned in an instant, though he knew for sure there was a problem. Something had gone wrong with the Chandler scenario. The green telephone meant that it wasn’t Andrew and Liam. It was the other two, the out-of-towners. Pursing his lips, he brushed his white moustache with a parchment knuckle and picked up the jangling green telephone.

By four-thirty his Rolls-Royce was pulling up at the service driveway of the John Hancock Building. The traffic lights in Copley Square blinked on empty, rainswept streets. He extinguished the lights, ducked out of the car, and let himself in through the metal door. He took the elevator to the sixtieth floor. The two floors of heating and air-conditioning equipment overhead throbbed in the stillness of the night.

Alone, waiting, he sat at the glass slab table, packed his Dunhill and got a good smoke going. The unfinished corner of the observation-deck-to-be where he met his operatives was damp and cold and drafty. Puffing clouds of smoke as if it warmed him, he hugged his muffler and raincoat about himself, wondering if it was all still worth it. He was old, his ticker was failing, his blood was thinning, he couldn’t sleep much anymore, and by rights he should be retiring to the arid Arizona desert or a condominium in Florida. But you couldn’t change your nature: he still enjoyed the game … he’d always enjoyed it, for thirty years, and he’d done so well out of it, been so well repaid for his efforts.

Now, let’s see: he forced himself back to the matter at hand. Ozzie and Thorny, he didn’t know as much about them as he would have preferred. In any case, he had no choice but to make do with the men he was sent. But they were sloppy. And they were wasteful. And they were not his kind of people at all.

He’d been so convincing with Andrew and Liam because he’d actually felt much of the outrage he’d portrayed. The murder of Bill Davis was not merely wicked but absurd, obscene. Senseless death was wasteful and drew attention to things better left unattended. But he wasn’t quite sure what tack to take with these two menials … God, the things a gentleman had sometimes to do. Lie down with dogs, get up with fleas.

The red light above the elevator door announced their ascent.

Their actual appearance was a shock.

They seemed to have been set upon by a band of maddened dervishes. The big one, Ozzie, was inexplicably tinged with brown stains, and his broad face was partially hidden by white bandages. He smelled of a greasy unguent. Thorny spoke so raspingly that he was almost impossible to understand: his face was contorted with pain when he spoke and his breath came in short wheezing gasps.

Astounded, the old man heard them out. That Chandler could have left them in such a shambles was very nearly beyond comprehension. Ozzie sat in a full-blown sulk, eyes half-closed, the unbandaged side of his face red and swollen. Exhausted from speaking, Thorny leaned back in the chrome-and-leather chair, shifting his weight gingerly, clutching his chest. Both men seemed weighed down by the old man’s obvious disapproval.

“And after Chandler beat you both into submission and escaped … into the night—we know not where, of course—what then? What did you do? How wide a trail did you leave, thrashing through the underbrush of Cambridge?” The stem of his pipe clicked against his teeth.

“We went to Mass General’s emergency room,” Thorny croaked. “We figured it was the busiest, we wouldn’t be remembered … Used false IDs and insurance cards—”

“Not memorable, eh? A hulking beast drenched in hot coffee isn’t memorable, eh?”

“Did you ever see Mass General’s emergency room? Believe me, there’s nothing to worry about.”

The old man packed the ash down in the bowl of the pipe with his tiny bronze Mr. Pickwick. “I’m horrified,” he said finally, “at your conduct. Such bungling is really beyond any previous experience of mine … You’ve killed two innocent human beings and been dealt with rather roughly by a Harvard history professor without any previous inclination toward violence. In the course of your researches you have learned almost nothing … Have you any suggestions as to how you might advance our cause?” He looked from one to the other: “Come, come, speak up!”

Through the silence came the sound of thunder and the rain lashing the building.

“I see,” the old man said. “Well. We still don’t know where the package is, do we? We’re not even quite sure when and where it disappeared … You discovered Underbill’s name scribbled on a pad in Bill Davis’s bookbag. You went to Underhill Wednesday evening, panicked when he reached for an antique gun which proved to be decorative rather than functional, and killed him … Learning nothing. And even if they don’t know it already, the police will soon know that the same gun killed the boy and poor old Underhill. Everywhere you go, you leave little bits and pieces of yourselves … Chandler’s house is probably full of your fingerprints—looking at you I can’t help but have that feeling.” He pulled his muffler tighter, looked at his watch. “So far as I can tell, we still have only two leads, namely Chandler, wherever he is, and Underbill’s secretary, Nora Thompson. If Bill Davis left the package with Underhill, then she may know where it is or what happened to it. If Chandler has somehow gotten hold of it, we’ve got to find him and watch him. You grasp these possibilities, gentlemen?”

Thorny grunted.

“Would you please check on Chandler’s house? Can you handle that?” He sighed resonantly. “And seek an interview with Nora Thompson … the district attorney approach should work with her, use your credentials, and for God’s sake, don’t kill her. Don’t pull her fingernails out. Remember, we are all God’s creatures. Even you two.” He stood up. “Now go away. You know how to reach me.” He walked to the huge window, turning his back on them, listened while they puffed and groaned and wheezed and scuttled off into the elevator.

The old man waited quietly by himself in the eerie darkness, his mind roving back and forth over the events of the past few days and just how everything had begun to go wrong. Perhaps his mind simply wasn’t as agile as it had once been; leaping back and forth from one set of agents to another wasn’t as much pure fun as it once had been … At one time he’d looked forward to growing old gracefully. What a joke. So many things worked out rather differently than one planned.

He watched the sky lighten over the Atlantic, turn the darkened city a musty, wet gray. Rain continued to spot the enormous pane of glass. He knocked his pipe out on the cement and stuffed it into his raincoat pocket. Before leaving he went to the telescope which would eventually serve tourists when the observation deck was completed. He sighted through it, saw Boston leap into distinct detail before him. Somewhere out there in the drenched city, Chandler was waiting, hiding, perhaps in shock from the unexpected confrontation with what must have been a positively horrifying kind of violence. Somewhere, wet and tired, wandering around in his bathrobe, Chandler must be feeling the squeeze. So what would he do? Where would he go?

The telescope picked out the white towers of Harvard up the Charles, the town houses of Commonwealth Avenue, the huge equestrian statue of George Washington by the Frog Pond in the Public Garden below him. He swept on, turned to Beacon Hill and the golden dome dulled by the rain and dim light of morning. Somewhere, Chandler was out there … Did he know where the goddamn package was? Did he know how to find it?

He let the telescope swing down and pushed the elevator button. He packed his pipe with his thumb, from a suede pouch, while he waited. Chandler must be the key. The package hadn’t just disappeared: with Davis and Underhill dead, there was nowhere else to turn … Chandler would have to lead them to it. But what if Chandler had had enough? The elevator came and he stepped in. Was there any way to encourage the man, get him moving? If Chandler found the package, well, their problems would be over … And balancing Andrew and Liam with one hand, Thorny and Ozzie with the other! Goodness, but it was a great deal for a tired old man! In the Rolls, he lit the pipe and reflected that tough as it was, he’d always bounced back. Just maybe he wasn’t done yet.

Chandler awoke with Ezzard noncommittally sitting on his chest, licking his paw and styling his whiskers. It was seven-thirty and raining. He heard the breakfast sounds coming from the kitchen. He smelled coffee. “Come on, Ezzard,” he moaned, immediately aware of his stiffness, the pains in his nose and ear. Unable to breathe through his nose he’d slept with his mouth open. His tongue felt and tasted like Ezzard’s box.

Polly was eating an English muffin and reading the
Globe
when he staggered into the kitchen. She nodded over the rim of her coffee cup. She was wearing a heavy blue sweater and jeans poked out from beneath the table.

“Make a list of the clothing you need,” she said. “I’m going to stop by your house first—”

“Are you kidding? They might be watching—”

“Don’t worry. I’ll check—if anybody is watching I’ll call you and pick up some things at the Coop. Trust me, I can handle it. God, you look ghastly … eat. Toast a muffin, fry an egg, get your strength back.” She put the newspaper aside and began making a list on scratch paper. “How do you feel?”

“Wonderful. For a man my age who’s been beaten to a pulp and chased halfway across Boston in the middle of the night. English muffins should make me good as new …” He split a muffin and dropped the two halves into the toaster.

“Okay, first I go to your place and get the clothes. What do you need?”

“Raincoat, shirts, a sweater, there’s a pair of gray slacks, a pair of cordovan shoes, socks, a brown tweed coat, that’s about it.”

“Professor—”

“Colin.”

“Colin, aren’t you forgetting something?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“Hmmm. Aren’t you the sexy little thing.”

“I fail—”

“No underwear. Very provocative.” She batted her eyes at him, smiled dazzlingly.

“Yes, yes, bring underwear. And a duffel bag. Who knows when I’ll be back.” He told her where to find the clothing.

“Right. Two, I’m going to stop at your office and dig out the bug. Do I need a key?”

“Pocket of the brown jacket. Why?”

“Evidence. And I want to have it checked. Place of manufacture. You never know what you might find out. Three, I’m going to check on McGonigle and Fennerty—”

“Look, I’m telling you, they’re real, I saw their papers …”

“Right, well, I’m going to check.” She stood up and left him buttering his muffin. Munching, he followed her back into the living room. “Would you pour a saucer of cream for Ezzard, please? And put half a can of catfood in his dish … I’ve got a lot to do.” She looked at her Carrier tank watch with the sapphire on the stem. “I’ll be back by ten. That’ll give us time to get out to Lexington by eleven.” She slipped into a sheepskin jacket and pulled on the tight brown gloves. “Why don’t you get all cleaned up so you’re ready when I get back. I hate to wait.”

He watched from the window as she went to her car. Water was coursing in the gutters, dripping steadily from her soaked awning. She looked up and waved. Her car was a dark green Jaguar XKE, maybe five years old. Naturally.

By a quarter past ten they were crammed into the Jaguar’s front buckets and Chandler felt like himself again, showered and out of his ratty old bathrobe. The three synchronized wiper blades swept furiously across the narrow expanse of rain-spattered windshield as Polly maneuvered through traffic toward Lexington. He sighed, trying to accustom his long legs to being stretched almost full length before him. He watched her in profile, concentrating on driving, both hands in the tight gloves wrapped around the wheel. She was devastingly good-looking, there was no getting around that, and he found himself growing curious about her. For instance, he’d found complete masculine shaving gear in her bathroom medicine chest, along with a variety of prescription pills, cosmetics, cough syrup, Tampons, dental floss, several toothbrushes in various colors. When he’d told her he’d used the razor, shaving cream, and the lime aftershave, he’d expressed the hope that their owner wouldn’t object. He’d given the speech some premeditation, knew he was prying, and couldn’t help himself.

“Don’t trouble yourself, I’m the owner,” she’d replied archly. “You can never be too prepared for—well, the unexpected guest.”

He’d let it drop, curiosity growing but too inhibited to pursue the inquiry. Now, watching her, he imagined the energy with which she must continually be courted by the men in her life. That was the trouble with women: you always got to sex and jealousy and the touchy business of your masculinity, simple and straightforward, and their blasted feminine game-playing. Of course, he’d been the one playing the curiosity tango, not Polly. Well, the hell with it. She was nothing to him; it was all an accident. She was after a story and that was all there was to it. He had to keep that clear in his mind.

“So what happened in Cambridge?” he asked.

“Well,” she pursed her lips, preparing, as if the video was about to roll. “I drove past your house on Acacia, everything seemed calm and deserted, but I went on around the corner and parked on Ash—”

“Call it Windmill Lane—a bit of history, prettier—”

“Then I went through a couple of backyards, sneaked up your back steps—you know, you really shouldn’t leave your back door unlocked—and went in, got your stuff—”

“I wasn’t home to lock up, sorry.”

“Right. Then I came back downstairs, took a look at the mess, peeked outside to make sure the coast was clear and guess what I saw?”

“Please—”

“A red Pinto parked across the street, a little way toward Hawthorn, full of two guys who looked a lot like the goons you did it to last night … big one with bandages all over his face and a little one with that porkpie hat. They were getting out and heading toward the house.” She looked at him expectantly, made a wide-eyed scared face.