Which Way to Die? (4 page)

“They're being processed, Tim,” the Warden said. “They'll be along any minute.”

A few moments later a guard brought in the two young men.

Corrigan and Baer looked them over curiously. Prison often speeded up time where non-habitual criminals were concerned. These two were astonishing. At twenty-three neither looked a day older than he had looked at nineteen. The only appreciable difference was in their weight. They had both been well-fleshed at the time they had murdered Audrey Martello. Now they were lean and fit as athletes.

Gerard Alstrom looked remarkably like his father. He was the taller of the pair, with a sharply intelligent face and thick blond hair. The typical Nordic—with the typical Nazi mentality, Corrigan thought. The hair was cut short in prison fashion, as was Grant's. Frank Grant looked nothing like his mother. He was a skinny kid with a delicate build and probably tipped the scales at no more than one-thirty-five. He wore thick-lensed glasses over eyes that had a perpetual peering look; Corrigan remembered the same look from the trial. His hair was black. With a young beard and tight pants he could have passed for a Greenwich Village poet.

Elizabeth Grant flew to her son like a mother eagle defending her young. Frank submitted to her embrace with no enthusiasm; if anything, he looked bored.

“Okay, Mother, okay,” he said.

“Oh, Frankie, Frankie …”

“It's enough.” He pushed away from her. Corrigan could have pushed his face in. The clinging variety of love his mother bore him was probably a pain, but elementary decency should have dictated at least an affectionate toleration. This punk had the decency of a mink.

From the corner of his eye he caught the expression on Baer's face. So Chuck wanted to push his face in, too. Well, we don't have to love him, Corrigan reminded himself, just protect him. And he mentally called the Commissioner a disrespectful name.

John M. Alstrom was no uninhibited bird of prey. He put out his hand to his son almost timidly. Gerard shook it briskly.

“Son,” was all the father said.

“Hi, Dad,” the young man said, far more easily. It would take a great deal to ruffle this bird's feathers.

Frank Grant had turned to Andy Betz with a look that could almost be described as affectionate.

“Hiya, you ugly old ape,” Frank said. He seized the chauffeur's hand and pumped it. “It's good to see that mug of yours again.” So there was at least one human being, Corrigan thought, for whom Frank Grant had human feelings. It interested him.

Betz looked back at his mistress's son with dumb, adoring eyes. Corrigan could only think of a St. Bernard reunited with his master after a long absence.

“It's great to have you back, young mister,” Betz said hoarsely. “Just great.”

“I've missed you, Andy.”

“Me, too!”

“Why don't you two go into a waltz?” Gerard Alstrom said, grinning.

“Shut up,” Frank Grant said in a low hiss. Gerard shrugged and smiled, but Corrigan noticed that he said nothing more. So Frank was the leader of this two-man death squad. He had suspected it four years ago. It was odd, because Gerard could have broken Frank in two.

Frank glanced at Corrigan. “The human bloodhound.”

“You remember me, I see,” Corrigan said.

“I'll never forget you.” It was said in a light, almost mocking tone, but for some reason it made Corrigan prickle.

“Captain Corrigan is to be your police guard to … where we're going,” Narwald, the bald attorney, said to young Grant. “This other gentleman is Mr. Chuck Baer, a private detective we've engaged to act as your personal bodyguard until you leave the country.”

Neither young man said anything. Gerard Alstrom seemed indifferent, and Frank Grant had a sneer on his face.

Corrigan turned away from them abruptly. But Baer forestalled him.

“Isn't it about time Captain Corrigan and I were let in on the security?” the redhead said.

Fellows, the gray-maned lawyer, said, “Mr. Alstrom and Mrs. Grant will return to New York in the limousine. Narwald and I have our own car. A driver is waiting in the yard with one of the prison cars. You and Captain Corrigan, Mr. Baer, and Frank and Gerard will leave in that one.”

“Going where?” Corrigan asked.

“To a farm about ten miles from here. That's only a brief stop. You'll find a helicopter waiting there, piloted by Mr. John Alstrom's personal pilot. He's absolutely trustworthy. Besides, he doesn't yet know where he's to fly you.”

Corrigan frowned. “How does he find out? Baer and I don't know, either.”

“Gerard and Frank will direct him. Actually, he's merely to lift you to a vacant landing field about twenty miles away, where you'll find another car waiting for you.”

“Where do we go from the field?” Baer demanded.

“Gerard and Frank know that, too. Gerard has the keys to the car you'll find there.”

“You mean we're not to know our final destination?” Corrigan said.

“No, no,” the bald lawyer said. “It's an apartment building in the East Eighties in Manhattan.”

Corrigan and Baer looked at the lawyer as if they could not believe their ears.

“The last place an Unimaginative clod like Martello would think to look,” Gerard Alstrom said with a laugh. “He'll expect us to head for some hideaway out of state. Cute, eh?”

Corrigan glanced at him. Gerard's tone suggested that the plan had been his. He had probably sold the two lawyers on its merits, with the help of the parents. And Frank.

Corrigan said dryly, “He may be more imaginative than you think, sonny. He wasn't fooled by the announcement that tomorrow is your release date. Baer and I just chased him and three of his hoods away from out front.”

Gerard's smile vanished. Young Grant began to nibble his nails. John Alstrom and Elizabeth Grant seemed stunned. Corrigan was disgusted with all of them.

“Why didn't you arrest them?” Mrs. Grant demanded shrilly.

“On what charge, Mrs. Grant?” Corrigan said. “They weren't even double-parked. You people had better get it through your heads that this is no game of tag. Martello is shrewd and he's a cold killer. This is what comes of leaving a professional's work to an amateur. The helicopter gambit is a good way to shake a possible tail, but after going to all that trouble you mean to plop the boys down in the heart of Manhattan, within spitting distance of Martello or anyone else who thinks justice suffered a kayo when they were set free. So I go on record here and now: I disapprove the plan. Your smartest move would be to cancel the arrangements you've made, let me and Baer take over, and let us start making new plans from scratch.”

Attorney Fellows said quickly, “You haven't seen the place where the boys are to hide out, Captain. It's as impregnable as a fortress. And you say yourself that with the helicopter lift no one can tail you there.”

Corrigan shrugged. “You're calling the shots. But I want to repeat what I understand the Commissioner has already told you. Since we've had no part in planning the security, the Department can assume no responsibility for what happens.”

“That goes for me, too,” Baer said. “In spades.”

“I assume,” the other lawyer, Narwald, said in an edgy tone, “that won't keep you gentlemen from putting forth your best efforts to protect our clients.”

Corrigan merely looked at him. Baer said, “You can have my resignation right now.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” John M. Alstrom said. “We're all nervous. May I suggest we stop taking up the Warden's time?”

The Warden had been sitting back watching and listening without expression. He said nothing at all.

“Okay, let's get the show on the road,” Baer growled. “I'll need my valise from the limousine trunk.”

An unmarked sedan with a man in ordinary clothes was waiting in the walled yard. Andy Betz retrieved Baer's valise, and Baer tossed it into the sedan trunk and climbed in beside the two freed men. Corrigan got in with the driver.

The gate detail waved them through, but Corrigan said to the driver, “Just hold it a minute,” and he and Baer got out, walked through, and checked the street. It was clear both ways. Then Corrigan and Baer jumped back in, even before the gate closed.

“Don't drive too fast,” Corrigan told the driver. “You two sit well back, in the corners. All right, what are the directions?”

“Drive south,” Gerard Alstrom said to the driver. “There's a farm about ten miles down. We'll point it out when we get near it.”

Frank Grant said, “And remember, fuzz, you've got two mighty precious hides to protect.” He seemed to be enjoying himself.

Corrigan paid no attention to him. He and Baer were too busy keeping watch on their route. Neither spotted a tail.

Gerard greeted the helicopter pilot familiarly; the man's name was Cope. Not until they were airborne did young Alstrom give Cope his flight instructions. This time their destination was a deserted field edged by a secondary road. Corrigan judged that they were a mere eight or ten miles north of New York.

A locked Ford sedan was parked on the shoulder of the road. The helicopter took off and left them standing there.

“No tail—right, Captain?” That was Frank, transferring the sneer from his face to his voice.

Corrigan made no reply. Frank shrugged; Gerard took a key from his pocket, unlocked the car, and climbed under the wheel.

“Hold it,” Corrigan said. “I'll drive.”

“No, Captain,” Gerard said. “I will. I haven't felt a wheel under my hands for over four years.”

“You're a reckless driver.”

“How do you know?”

“All smart-alecks are.”

“One down,” Gerard said. “I'm not a reckless driver at all. Reckless driving is for the birds. What do you think of that?”

“Then show me,” Corrigan grunted. He got in beside Gerard; Frank and Baer sat in the rear.

About a mile from the field the secondary highway ran into Route 9. Gerard turned south toward the city. Whether he had been pulling Corrigan's leg or telling the truth was irrelevant. He drove carefully, which was all Corrigan cared about.

There was no conversation until Gerard suddenly said, “Tell me something, Captain. How does it feel to knock yourself out getting a case up against somebody, only to find your chicken walk home free a few years later?”

“Not good,” Corrigan said.

“You were pretty lucky,” Gerard said. “If that stupid dog hadn't dug up that flower bed, the body would never have been discovered.”

Corrigan said, “If you geniuses had bothered to check the kind of fertilizer your father's gardener used, you never would have buried her with a dog on the premises. Bone meal draws dogs the way sugar does ants.”

Gerard looked irritated. From the rear seat Frank Grant said, “Why don't you keep your big mouth shut, Gerry?”

“What d'ya mean, why?” Gerard demanded. “Corrigan knows we killed her, Frank.”

“You're a fool,” Frank said softly.

“Oh, stop acting superior,” Gerard snapped. “We can't be tried again. Double jeopardy. For all the harm it can do, I can yell it through a loudspeaker on Times Square on New Year's Eve. In fact, that's an idea. What do you think, Captain? Could we get into trouble pulling a stunt like that?”

Corrigan did not answer him.

“The captain isn't feeling conversational,” Gerard said.

“You're not only a fool, Gerry,” his partner-in-murder said, “you're a loudmouth fool. Hasn't it occurred to you that while Corrigan and Mr. Baer here were pretty sure we did it, you've now removed all doubt?”

“So what?” jeered Gerard. “Fat lot of good it'll do 'em.”

“Well, don't be so free with your confessions in front of our folks, especially my mother. And Andy. Mother, Andy, and your father are probably the only three people in the United States who think we're innocent, and I'm not sure about your father.”

“Hell, he knows we did it. He's smart. Smarter than that doting mama of yours and that fathead of a chauffeur. Dad knew it before Corrigan did.”

“You know something, Alstrom?” Chuck Baer said. “Your pal is right. You've got a mouth like a steam whistle. I knew you were a can of worms, but I'm wondering how long I'm going to be able to take you. Not long.”

“You shut up and do your job!”

“Nobody tells me to shut up, killer,” Baer said in a perfectly even voice. “Taking your dad's money isn't going to stop me from shoving your teeth down your throat. And don't forget it.”

“Watch the road,” Corrigan said. “You're beginning to drive erratically, Gerry.”

Frank Grant chuckled.

“What the hell are you chuckling about?” Gerard Alstrom cried. “You think you're so goddamn brainy. You want me to tell you something, Frank? That brilliant plan of yours stank! If we had followed my suggestion of cutting her up and cremating the pieces in the lab's electric furnace, there wouldn't have been anything for that hound to dig up.”

“We would have had to break into the lab,” Frank Grant said. “If the watchman had caught us with a sackful of human remains, we'd have had it then and there.”

“We could have killed him, too.”

“He was armed and we weren't. Besides, the lab was burglar-alarmed. I took the calculated risk. The burial was less dangerous.”

“It put us away for four years! I never should have let you talk me into it.”

“You let me talk you into it because I'm a born leader and you're a born follower,” Frank said.

“I've got a two-points ad on you in IQ!”

“IQ scores can vary ten points just because of metabolism alone. A slight cold or a heavy lunch—almost anything—can affect the score. Anyway, what's two points? Intelligence consists of other factors than IQ.”

“What factors?”