Authors: James Thayer
Graham took three steps toward the bank of pipes before he saw the body. It was draped face-up over several of the sharp pipes. The piccolo pipe and two others protruded from the man's midsection, and their tips were covered with blood and bits of intestine. The dead man's hand tightly gripped one of the pipes that had gone through his stomach. His sightless eyes were open, and blood dripped from his stomach onto the cabinet. Michael Graham leaned heavily against the back of a pew as his head went light.
Crown caught up with Heather a half-block from the chapel. He grabbed her arms. His face was grim and his voice was a feral snarl. "Now, one way or the other, you're going to tell me who you've been calling every night after I leave you."
XVII
S
PREADING A LARGE PLUG OF BUTTER
on a saltine cracker was one of Everette Smithson's true joys. He layered it on a quarter-inch high, then carefully squared the corners. He was salivating now, but he took great satisfaction in not even sampling a cracker until the plate was full. It was only 2:30 in the afternoon, a little early for his predinner Scotch, so he opened a beer and poured it into a stein.
His housekeeper, Mrs. Lacey, twittered into the kitchen and wiped cracker crumbs off the counter. Whenever Smithson was downstairs, she followed him around like a cocker spaniel cleaning up after him. She attacked his tobacco shreds, discarded newspapers, empty plates, and crumbs of all types, almost before they settled. At times he wanted to command her to sit or play dead, but she was too good and too cheap to offend.
"Mrs. Lacey, you brought your suitcase?" he asked.
"Just like you said. I'll be washing down the upstairs while you're away. If I work at it eight hours a day, I ought
to have it done by the time you get back in two weeks." She was a thin little woman who owned two print dresses that she wore on alternate days.
"Now, now, Mrs. Lacey, you are overstating the case. A mere dusting is all it needs, my dear."
Smithson squeezed around the game table, where the battle of Arbela still waged, frozen since Sackville-West's visit, and climbed the stairs to his room, beer in one hand, crackers in the other. He bounced up the stairs, if it was possible for one so hefty to bounce, reflecting his jubilant spirits. His small rat teeth were exposed in an unusual grin of self-satisfaction.
Deservedly so. The German stormtroopers, two of them anyway, were safely at the EDC house, being questioned this very minute by Professor Ludendorf. What's more, Smithson had played a vital role in finding them, more important than either Lieutenant Sullivan or John Crown. They wouldn't underestimate his talents again, not with that display of courage and coolness he had given them when he lowered his pistol on the cop. But then, they would never have the opportunity to test him again. Smithson was leaving next morning.
His job was done. He could take his money and leave. He was scheduled for a vacation. His two weeks somewhere. Last year he had gone to Atlantic City, for Christ's sake. This year would be different. He wasn't coming back this year. He had enough money to disappear, and that's exactly what he intended to do. Big money, too. Easy money.
Smithson kicked open the door to his bedroom, put the tray on a lamp stand, and plopped down in his abused easy chair. He flicked on the radio and reached for a newspaper, but he couldn't concentrate.
Mexico. He had never been there, but he believed the travel brochures, and they promised it would be fabulous. His train ticket was to Laredo, Texas. It had taken him ten
minutes to convince the ticket agent he really wanted to go to Laredo. Smithson couldn't give a damn about Laredo, or all of Texas, for that matter. But after Laredo came Monterrey, Mexico City, Mérida. He would probably buy a little place on the Yucatán Peninsula. Maybe in Progreso. Maybe Champotón. He could afford two or three servants, a housekeeper, although he would never find one as inexpensive as Mrs. Lacey, even in Mexico, a gardener, perhaps even a chauffeur. He bit into his first cracker and rubbed the butter along the roof of his mouth. God, that was good. Do they have butter in Mexico?
It hadn't been hard. He hardly knew Sackville-West. The Priest was arrogant and cold, a killer disguised as a businessman. There were terrifying rumors about the Priest, tales of his ruthlessness and his firsthand knowledge of death. There were also stories of his power and influence. Smithson had even heard that Sackville-West had direct access to the president. Improbable. Gunmen, even smooth ones, don't rise that high.
He had also heard of John Crown through the agency's grapevine. Heard how deadly he was with a pistol, how he could have the gun out and back before the target even knew he was a target, how he was assigned to the tough ones. But Crown hadn't cracked this case and wasn't going to. Not the way he was pussy-whipped on the English girl. And the dead Spaniard. He hated those greasers anyway. And that idiot Irish hoodlum. Setting him up with those notes was plain fun. Smithson's smile returned. He reached for another cracker and opened the newspaper.
The phone rang. He swallowed hard to clear his mouth. Smithson hated the phone. It was invariably work, usually some paranoid factory boss whose ball bearings went out and who thought he had found iron filings in the works, probably placed there by Hirohito himself. Smithson pulled the phone onto his lap and lifted the receiver.
"Hello. . . . Why, yes, Miss McMillan. It's a little early for your call, isn't it? . . . What? . . . Where? . . . The cathedral?" Smithson struggled out of his seat. His face lost all its serene composure. "He's coming here? What did you say? Oh, Christ. . . . No, I don't have time now."
He dropped the phone. Sheer terror gripped him so tightly he was immobilized. Crown was coming. Blood rushed to his temples, and he couldn't inhale. His legs were made of lead. Crown was coming. But Smithson wasn't dead yet. He knew the city. He could hide where no one would find him, then catch the train tomorrow. If he could move . . . now . . .
Smithson stepped through his fear, slowly, as if walking upstream. He took several steps, very tiring steps, impeded by futility. Crown was coming from Rockefeller Chapel, Heather McMillan had said. That was only a block and a half away. Smithson could almost see Crown sprinting, pushing himself, propelled by revenge. Jesus, move!
Smithson broke the grip and began to move frantically. He opened his leather satchel and stuffed in a change of underwear and took a step toward the bathroom for his shaving gear, changed his mind, no time, and opened the bottom drawer of his dresser. He pulled out a large manila envelope. Fifty-dollar bills. Thousands of them. They barely fit into the satchel. He pushed his revolver into his waistband under a fold of stomach and draped his tentlike raincoat over his shoulders. Hurry, his brain kept screaming. Hurry.
Crown kicked open Smithson's front door without breaking stride. Mrs. Lacey was sweeping the entryway, and she jumped at the sound of the door buckling and springing open. A madman stood there, gulping air, holding an enormous handgun, looking wildly about with eyes that sparked danger. He grabbed Mrs. Lacey's broom and strode
to the staircase just as Everette Smithson began jumping down the steps.
Crown shoved the broom handle through the banister rails, and it caught Smithson's ankles. His corpulent body toppled forward, spun on the rail, and he landed hard on his back on the landing. Dazed and hurt, but gripping the satchel tightly, Smithson reached for his pistol. Crown slapped it aside as he landed on Smithson and planted a knee in the fat man's stomach. The pistol slid across the entryway past the stunned Mrs. Lacey. Smithson groaned under the weight. Crown put a knife at the base of the Chicago agent's throat and whispered, "Know whose knife this is?"
Smithson gasped and moaned.
"I said, do you know whose knife this is?" Crown pricked Smithson's neck. The fat agent yelped. "I'll tell you. It was one of Miguel Maura's. You ordered Peter Kohler to murder him, and you've been trying to kill me for a week." He shoved the knife into Smithson's neck another fraction of an inch. "I want to know why."
The sprint from the chapel had winded Crown. His words came in bursts on the exhales. And as he spoke, he began to lose control. The anger and hatred bottled up inside him since his friend's death came to the fore and focused on the man beneath him, the man who had plotted Miguel's death, the man who had caused Miguel's knees to pop open, who caused Miguel to be run over by a fishing trawler. Crown increased the pressure on the knife and said in a voice now quivering with rage, "Why, Smithson? Why?"
"The money. This money." Smithson tried to lift the satchel into Crown's view, but his arms were trapped, and he could only wiggle the handle. "Here, Crown, take the money," he sputtered.
Blood ran freely down both sides of Smithson's neck.
Crown's eyes blazed, and his thin face was merciless. He pressed the knife deeper into Smithson's throat, and the Chicago agent squealed in terror and pain.
"Why? Why? Why?" Crown yelled rabidly into Smithson's contorted face.
Heather McMillan ran into the entryway and stopped abruptly at the sight of the spectacle on the landing. John Crown was kneeling on top of Smithson and yelling hysterically into Smithson's fat face, screaming meaningless words. Crown was insane with fury. Smithson kicked his legs against the banister rail, but he could do nothing to stop his agony. Heather saw Crown dig the blade farther into the fat man's esophagus. Blood spilled inward now, and Smithson coughed and choked on it as he cried.
Heather opened her mouth to yell at Crown, but nothing came. She stepped forward, intent on some act she had not thought of, and stepped on Smithson's pistol. She hesitated only a second, then lifted it with both hands and pointed it at the screaming bodies on the landing.
"John," she yelled as loudly as she could, aware that hysteria was in her voice. "John, stop. Please stop."
Neither man heard. Each was a prisoner of his role, screeching at the other, both incoherent, both in pain.
"Why? Why? Why?"
"John," she screeched shrilly, trying to be heard above them, "I'll shoot!"
Over the pistol sight, she saw Crown push the knife farther into Smithson's throat. Smithson's shriek was drowned in red bubbles.
"Why, Smithson? Why?"
As Heather slowly pulled the trigger, an immense calm overtook her. Now she was in control. With the gun, she could stop the torture, the pain. The pistol click-clicked as the hammer came back, then exploded. A hole the size of a
quarter opened in Everette Smithson's side. His massive body jerked, then relaxed in death.
The tableau froze. The insane rage in Crown's face drained slowly as he realized Smithson was no longer responding. He had not heard the shot. A shiver passed through him as his energy receded, no longer fed by bilious vengeance. He released the knife and stood weakly over Smithson's body, fighting for breath. His hands were shaking. He blinked rapidly several times, trying to control his eyes. He stumbled over the body. His legs could barely maintain his weight.
Heather dropped the pistol and stared vacantly at Crown. He didn't move toward her, but stood away, feeling his composure return in waves. It was the first time in his life he had been completely out of control. He felt sheepish as he said, "I gave you a chance to escape a few minutes ago. Why'd you come here?"
"Escape from what?" Her voice was dull.
"You must know what we do to traitors."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You were reporting my whereabouts to Smithson. For a week, he and Kohler have been trying to kill me, just like they plotted Miguel Maura's death. You told him we would be at the chapel for the rehearsal. That's how Kohler knew where to find me."
"John, I didn't know anyone was trying to kill you. Mr. Smithson told me the first day I got here that part of my job was to report to him about you. He told me that it was regulation procedure and that all he did was mark it down in a book of some sort. He said all agents are watched like this at all times. It's for their own protection." Her eyes were wide, and her words were a tumble.
"You actually believed that?"
"Sure I did. Mr. Smithson was the chief of your Chicago
bureau. You told me that yourself. Why shouldn't I have believed it? He said that even he was watched by someone. It's all routine."
A slow, haggard smile spread over Crown's face. "Christ, you're gullible. For the past week, I thought you were a traitor, and I was angry every time I saw you make those calls late at night."
"You saw me do that?"
"Sure. You're not very good. At secret phone calls, that is. But I must admit, your call to Smithson a few minutes ago scared him. You followed my instructions nicely. Maybe you'll make it yet."
She grinned, but it was cut short as Crown took a few steps and Smithson's body came into her view. "Why did he want you killed?" she asked.
"I'm about to find that out. His motive was money, a satchel full," Crown said, indicating Smithson's case with his thumb. "He and Kohler were working together. There was another murderer, but Miguel took care of him. Apparently they took orders from Smithson. And Kohler has worked with Professor Ludendorf for years. Ludendorf's got to be in on it."
"Where're you going?" she asked as he stepped by her.
"To the EDC house. I've got a few things to discuss with the professor."
Professor Ludendorf scribbled hurriedly across the page. He finished the sheet and paused long enough to dial Crown's number. Again there was no answer. It was imperative he talk to Crown soon, or . . . or . . . it was unthinkable. He dialed again and let it ring ten times. Nothing. He began at the top of the next page and pushed so hard the pencil tip tore through the paper. He thrust the sheet aside and reached for another from the drawer. Please call, Crown. He's probably with that British girl,
Heather. Damn her. It'll be ruined if I don't contact him. Must get this report out. They won't believe it when they read it.
Ludendorf looked up at the click. John Crown stood in the doorway, aiming the Smith and Wesson between the professor's eyes. Crown closed the door behind him without lowering the gun.