Flynn's In Read online

  “What? All in this wee room?”

  “Damn’ near, Frank. Personal notes and comments written in dozens of different hands regarding anybody who was or is anybody.”

  “My, my. How does it work? Who actually keeps the records?”

  “I guess they keep it on each other. Explains the dozens of different kinds of handwriting, over the years. I guess when one of them knows something significant about another, he makes a note of it, and it ends up in here.”

  “And why wouldn’t the maligned party come in and take the note about himself out, expunge the record, as it were?”

  “I don’t know. It must be against the rules, I guess.”

  “Schoolboy honor,” said Flynn. “One doesn’t look in the school records regarding oneself. Intrinsic faith in the social system. Enough to make you sick, Cocky.”

  “Listen to this.” Cocky knelt on the floor of the vault and with his right hand flicked open a folder. “This is just the first folder I happened to grab. I studied it to see how the file-keeping system works. It refers to a man who was a member of Teddy Roosevelt’s cabinet.

  His sister, Mary, known to keep to the farm in New Hope, commonly thought to suffer tuberculosis, is reported by her maid (who came to us on The Main Line) as syphilitic. It is fair to suppose she has such from her late husband, who was known to sow his wild oats in New Orleans. However, the possibility cannot be ignored that she has it from her father, about whose early life in France little is known. If she does have it from her father, the present cabinet member must be closely watched for any symptoms of this mentally debilitating disease.”

  “Posh-tosh,” said Flynn. “The dear lady might simply have preferred the company of cows to people.”

  “The file goes on, of course. Fifteen years later, in a different handwriting altogether, there’s this note:

  Charles, the Ambassador’s nephew, applying to us generally for recommendation to Harvard, has been advised instead to think of a career on the family’s ranches in Montana. The family is thought to have a history of syphilitic madness, as Charles’ mother, Mary, died at the farm in New Hope without having been seen by anybody in ages.”

  “That will teach you not to snub society! Pull on your corsets and go out to the party, or your blood will be ostracized for generations to come!”

  “Would you believe it, Frank? All on the gossip of a maid!” “What’s the most recent entry in the folder?” Cocky turned over the bulk of papers to the last.

  Mary, at the age of twenty-one, has taken her Ph.D. degree in astrophysics from Cambridge University, England. She has accepted a position at Smithsonian Observatory, Harvard.

  “Ach! The family might be becoming useful again!”

  “But there’s nothing more about her. And the note seems years old.”

  “She’s a female.”

  Cocky stood up and returned to the file drawers. “I’m just digging out the files regarding the Arlingtons, the Buckinghams, the Cliffords, so on.”

  “Don’t be too long in what you’re doing. I have difficulty believing, no matter how strong the pull of tradition, that our jolly hosts will actually run naked from sauna to freezing lake in a snow storm.”

  “You mean, you’re not joining them?”

  “Under the circumstances, a warm nap in my room seems the more healthful exercise. I’ll swing the vault door almost shut, so the outside door can be closed.”

  “Don’t lock me in here.”

  “And why not? I can’t think of a greater luxury than a warm room, a good light, and a century of fascinatin’ readin’!”

  30

  Flynn’s telephone rang.

  He looked at it incredulously.

  He had just entered his room.

  He grabbed up the receiver. “Thank you for calling.”

  From the other end of the telephone connection came difficult breathing, the wet sound of blubbering, and what was most likely a woman’s voice saying something about “Inspector Flynn.”

  “Elsbeth?” Flynn asked the phone. “Is that you?”

  Not Elsbeth. Flynn had never heard his wife blubber but was pretty sure, if she took to blubbering, her blubbering would not sound like this.

  “Operator? Don’t hang up.”

  “It’s real urgent. Inspector Frank Flynn.”

  “Whoever you are, don’t hang up. Is this one of the operators? One of the operators at Timberbreak Lodge?”

  “Inspector Flynn?”

  “Yes, this is Flynn. Don’t hang up.”

  “Thank God! You’ve got to help us.”

  “I’ll do anything I can. Just don’t hang up.”

  “They’ve come and taken Willy away. In handcuffs!”

  “Willy. I’m sorry to hear it. Who’s Willy?”

  “My husband. Is this Frank Flynn?”

  “Yes, this is Frank Flynn. Inspector. Who are you, please?”

  “Stacey Matson. I know your wife, Elsbeth. We’re on the Mayor’s Special Committee to Build Intra-District After-School Sports. Elsbeth Flynn.”

  True: Flynn’s wife, Elsbeth, served on a committee to build intra-district after-school sports programs for teenagers. Also true: The committee had been named by the Mayor. Flynn was never sure how special that made it.

  “Stacey Matson?”

  “She’s a good woman, your wife.”

  “Thank you, I say for her.”

  “A few times we’ve had coffee together, after the committee has met, you know? She’s had me laughing about her life, the hard times, in Israel, and even earlier, and how you two met, always a refugee, she says of herself.”

  Elsbeth could make anyone laugh. Clearly this woman, Stacey Matson, was not laughing now. She was barely able to control her crying to speak.

  “Yes?” Flynn encouraged. “You know my wife?”

  “Willy is a good teacher, Mister Flynn. He’s about the best there is. You can ask anyone, any of the other teachers at the school, the kids… He’s turned down an executive…”

  Willy Matson. Teacher.

  “Ach!,” said Flynn. “You’re the wife of Willard Matson. Of something-or-other Fairview Road.”

  “Two-twelve.”

  “Hiram Goldberg.”

  The name set off a wave of hysterical weeping from the other end of the telephone connection. Flynn waited for the woman to regain control of herself.

  “Billy…”

  “Take it easy, Mrs. Matson. Whatever you do, don’t hang up. Has your husband been arrested for the hit-and-run killing of Hiram Goldberg?”

  “They arrested him. In handcuffs!”

  “Your car—”

  “Billy! It was Billy!”

  “Someone else was driving the car?”

  “Billy went through a plate-glass window on our sunporch. He was running in the house and tripped, skidded on this little throw rug… His head… through the window…” Stacey Matson sobbed. “Bleeding. His neck was bleeding, his shoulder, arm…”

  “Is Billy your child?”

  “He’s in the hospital. Loss of blood.”

  “How old is he, Mrs. Matson?”

  “Six. Six years old. Willard was meeting with the people down at the church: Montague had picked him up.”

  “Mrs. Matson—”

  “Willy’s told the police he was driving the car. He was at church.”

  “Okay, I-”

  “I was driving the car. Billy was on the front seat, on the blanket I grabbed up. More and more blood. I was driving to the hospital. Billy to the hospital.”

  Flynn’s mind’s eye saw the scene easily, horribly. A woman, a mother, frantic, hysterical, partially blinded by tears, driving her profusely bleeding child to the hospital, driving because she had no alternative but to drive him herself, looking at her child on the car seat beside her soaking a blanket with blood, coming to an intersection after dark, not seeing an old man pedalling a bicycle slowly, just getting through traffic, getting through an intersection, getting her bleeding c
hild to the hospital, perhaps not even knowing she hit an old man, ran over him…

  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.”

  31

  Entering 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?”