Flynn's In Page 18

  “As long as they have some way of passing the time between dinner and bed. Right?”

  Flynn began his second sandwich. “What makes Roberts the culprit?”

  “Downstairs, in an alcove of the vault, is an ancient log book.” Having the use of only his right hand, Cocky had to manipulate his sandwich, his cup of tea and his chess playing in turns. “After I returned to the vault with my satchel, I looked in the log book, just to see what the most recent entries were. Entries are made fairly regularly—there were about four last week. The most recent entry was on Saturday.”

  “The day the murders started.”

  “Concerning Senator Dunn Roberts.” Cocky moved his Queen to Queen Seven and then reached for a folder he had dropped on the floor. “Naturally, I assumed it was more housemaid gossip, regarding whose son failed trigonometry last term, or whatever.”

  Flynn moved his Queen to King Seven.

  Cocky lifted two pieces of paper from the back of the folder. “This entry is a bit more serious.” He handed one piece of paper to Flynn. “This is Dunn Roberts’ voting record, with dates, as chairman of the Senate Transportation Deregulation Committee. You see, in each case he voted for deregulation.” Cocky then handed Flynn the second piece of paper. “This is a summary of his wife’s bank account over the last two years. Within twenty days of each deregulation vote, Mrs. Roberts’s account benefitted from a sizable deposit.”

  “Source?”

  “Not recorded.”

  “Sizable deposits indeed. Evidence suggests that either Senator Roberts has been accepting bribes, or that his wife is the agreed-upon heiress of a large family that has been dying like flies. How do these boyos keep thinking they can get away with it?”

  Reaching, Flynn slid the papers back into the folder.

  “Because they keep protecting each other, Frank.”

  “As long as they get to continue using each other.”

  “This vault system can only work by the honor method, Frank.” Cocky moved his Rook to Queen Bishop One. “For example: I put something new in your file. To notify the rest of the members I have done so, I note the entry in the log book. Everyone else gets to look, but—”

  “—I, the victim, possibly maligned, do not.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Or, if I do look, I shut up about it, do not protest, argue, or try to correct the file. I take it on the chin.”

  “Murdering off his fellow members is an almost secondary matter. My theory is that Senator Dunn Roberts broke Club rules. Saturday, he looked in his own file and saw what had just been entered against him.”

  “As he probably had a pretty good idea of what the entry was about.”

  Twisting in his chair to do so, Cocky picked a second sandwich from the tray. “He couldn’t remove the entry until he was sure that everyone who had possibly read it had also been removed. Was dead.”

  “So he began killing off whoever had filed the evidence against him in the first place.”

  “But he let Walter March and Caxton Wheeler escape. They, too, could have read the entry.”

  “Both left suddenly.” Cocky was enjoying his second sandwich as much as his first. “Wheeler by car at dawn, March by helicopter. No doubt Roberts figured he could get to them later. It was better for him to stay where most of the people were, and dispose of them one by one.”

  “Especially as they’d all be so cooperative in helping dispose of each other’s bodies.”

  Cocky had to put down his sandwich to move his Rook to Queen Bishop One.

  “But Cocky, old lad, sooner or later the last one left standing at The Rod and Gun Club would have to explain these murders, wouldn’t he?”

  “What murders? Huttenbach shot himself. Lauderdale was trampled by a horse. Ashley died in a car crash. Oland died at home in bed—or will do so as soon as he gets home to bed.”

  Flynn moved his Bishop to Knight Three. “The presumption is that members of the club who are not present know what’s going on here, have been informed and been advising by telephone.”

  “But, Frank, do we know that to be so? Or has that been just one more device to intimidate us?”

  “It has been repeated to us so often, I have been inclined to disbelieve it. My experience is that only lies need repeating.”

  Cocky moved his Pawn to King Rook Four. “I’m sure that Senator Dunn Roberts ultimately is up to reporting that a berserk member of the kitchen help is proven to be the culprit and, of course—”

  “—has been quietly disposed of—”

  “—again, as always—”

  “—to preserve the privacy of The Rod and Gun Club.” Flynn moved his Queen to King Three. “Brilliant, Cocky! Absolutely brilliant! A good job of work!”

  “I don’t see that there is any other answer.” Cocky placed his Queen on Queen Knight Seven.

  Flynn glanced at his watch. “If you’re right, if our murderer is Roberts, there’s not much we can do about it at the moment, as our Senator is driving a corpse over hill and dale through a snowstorm. It’s not yet nine thirty. But, if what you say is true, he will be back.” Flynn moved his Queen to Bishop One. “I trust you noticed, Cocky, that during this evening’s dinnertime game, everyone accused everyone else—”

  “—but no one accused Dunn Roberts.”

  “And when it came Dunn Roberts’s turn, cleverly he shifted the accusations to the outsider, our esteemed Commissioner Eddy D’Esopo. More tea? What a villain!”

  “And it was Dunn Roberts who made Wahler go discover Rutledge’s body.”

  “Suggesting Dunn Roberts knew Rutledge was dead. I think you’ve caught yourself a real villain here, Cocky, ol’ lad.”

  Cocky took Flynn’s Bishop Pawn with his Queen.

  “But, Cocky, frankly your brilliant, practical solution rather frustrated my thoughtful, philosophical bent.” Flynn’s Queen took Cocky’s Queen.

  “Frank, even I have moments of impatience, if not intolerance, of your philosophical bent.”

  “I’ve been taken with the theory that the murders at The Rod and Gun Club have been being accomplished by an outsider.”

  “I know. That’s why you drove me to Bellingham. That’s why you interviewed Carl Morris, Carol Huttenbach, stopped at that tavern.”

  “The Three Belles of Bellingham. I’m sure those ladies would be pleased if they knew how much I’ve thought of them in this monastic environment.” Flynn drained his tea cup, “It’s just that elite groups are so seldom attacked successfully from within.”

  “Who else is there? Commissioner D’Esopo.” Cocky took Flynn’s Queen with his Rook. “Paul Wahler.”

  “Yes. Wahler.” Flynn leaned over the chessboard. “Now that Rutledge is dead. Clearly, Wahler could want Rutledge’s death to appear as one of several murders seeking a more general than specific solution. Wahler is executor of Rutledge’s business affairs, and doubtlessly could profit heavily from Rutledge’s death. And having been rejected by the membership, he has no real reason to protect the privacy, or secrecy, of The Rod and Gun Club. In fact, I suspect he’d rather enjoy turning the old place inside out.”

  “Taylor?”

  “I’ve considered each possibility…” Flynn moved his King to Bishop Two. “Tell me, Cocky ol’ lad. You’ve been to his cabin. For what does Hewitt need kerosene?”

  In surprise, Cocky studied the chessboard.

  In greater surprise, Cocky then studied Flynn’s face.

  “Hewitt’s cabin has electricity,” Cocky said. “An electric stove. Lights. Heat. The cabin has baseboard radiators.”

  “That was a damned good game of chess. I’m surprised I won.” Flynn arose from the chessboard. “Seeing the weather’s so inclement, I suggest we start a little early for Hewitt’s cabin.”

  36

  “I needn’t remind you,” Flynn said in a voice softened even more by the snow, “Hewitt is a professional hunter. He cannot speak, but he can see and he can hear. He knows these woods better than you know The
Old Records Building on Craigie Lane. If he comes through the door of his cabin and sees any shape against the snowscape other than the rocks and trees he knows so well, hears any sound—”

  “I know, Frank, I know.”

  Flynn was hunched over behind the boulder. He was sure Cocky, even standing erect, could not be seen from Hewitt’s lit cabin.

  “Cold?” Flynn asked.

  “Just my feet.”

  “Sorry we couldn’t take the time to outfit you with a proper pair of boots.”

  Flynn had insisted Cocky wear Flynn’s overcoat over his own. As a result, Cocky looked rather like a short, round bear. Flynn wore the borrowed hunting jacket.

  To avoid laying down a direct visible track in the snow, they had taken a circuitous route from the clubhouse to Hewitt’s cabin. Walking through calf-high snow in two overcoats, partially paralyzed in his left side anyway, Cocky had progressed only by refining a lunging-ahead motion, a vertical sidestroke led by his right shoulder and right leg.

  “Simply,” Flynn said, “it occurred to me your friend, Hewitt, wanted you and me away from the main clubhouse shortly after ten o’clock.”

  “And he had gotten a big supply of kerosene from the kitchen.” They had been standing still long enough in the woods so that Cocky’s outer overcoat and Flynn’s borrowed hunting jacket were whitened by the falling snow. “Why didn’t I think!”

  “At least, I’m glad it came up in conversation.”

  “Hewitt was in the storeroom.” Cocky’s voice was low, devoid of inflection. “Huttenbach, healthy, spoiled man, sloppy hunter, came in, probably walked right by Hewitt without seeing him, hearing him. And Hewitt just picked up one of the shotguns that was there, loaded it, and blasted him.”

  “Probably impulsively. But after years and years of wanting to do some such thing.”

  In the black and white world of the snowy wood, Flynn remembered the speechless sadness in Hewitt’s face looking up from the twisted corpse of the doe which had broken her neck against the electrified fence. What had that fence meant to Hewitt? The decades of wild, loud, drunken, careless slaughter of fish and game within that fence; the endless, indifferent ability to restock the fish and game; the senseless despoilation of the forest?

  “Lauderdale in an evening gown is sitting shrieking at the piano,” Cocky continued, “and Hewitt, who cannot speak at all, comes through the window behind him, maybe with a piece of rope which just happened to be in his pocket, and throttles him.”

  “A dying man,” Flynn said. “He had nothing to lose. And he had something to say. And no other way of saying it.”

  “Hunting out by the Rumble de Dump, he just walks up behind Ashley and bashes his skull in with a tree branch.”

  “And I left Hewitt to guard the body,” Flynn chuckled. “Score one for me. We think of the Hewitts of this world as the salt of the earth.”

  “Frank, think of the shit he’s had to listen to, for years, on these hunting and fishing trips. They knew they could say anything they wanted in front of Hewitt. He couldn’t repeat it. Big talk. Mean talk. Nasty talk. Drunken talk. The secret characteristics and foibles of each other and of others who run the world.”

  “We kill all the deer!

  “And drink all the beer!

  “Live without fear!

  “Sure no one can hear!” quoted Flynn.

  “Hewitt could hear. Everything. Years and years of everything. And they were destroying the world he cared for. He goes to Rutledge’s room with a hunting knife—”

  The lights in the cabin went out.

  “He’s accustoming his eyes to the darkness before coming out,” Flynn said. “Hewitt’s not the urban-type hunter you’re used to, Cocky. Once that door opens, do not move a muscle.”

  “Not by half,” Cocky muttered.

  The center of the cabin wall grew darker. The door had opened.

  All around them the landing snow hissed.

  Only vaguely could Hewitt’s silhouette be seen against the cabin wall.

  As he stepped out from the cabin and became silhouetted by the snow it became clear that under his right arm Hewitt carried a long gun. What looked like a paint bucket swung from his left hand.

  “That the kerosene?” Flynn whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay,” Flynn said softly after Hewitt had walked into the line of trees nearer the dirt road. “If you follow me, Cocky, follow at a good distance.”

  “Can’t keep up with you anyway.”

  “And, by the way, Cocky: I suspect of Hewitt himself would advise you not to get into that straight line between himself and his cabin.”

  Flynn left Cocky behind the boulders.

  Following a course parallel to Hewitt, well behind him, Flynn kept to the woods outside the cabin’s clearing. Walking, Flynn did not pick up his feet much, but pushed them along under the snow. The toes of his boots stopped at rocks and roots without tripping him.

  In the woods near the road, Flynn waited. Standing stock still behind a tree, he watched Hewitt come down the road. He walked through the snow as a city person would along a sidewalk in June.

  It was a shotgun Hewitt was carrying.

  After passing Flynn, down the road, nearer the clubhouse, Hewitt stopped. He looked around. Obviously he had found Flynn’s and Cocky’s tracks crossing the road on their way to his cabin. Flynn supposed Hewitt was trying to guess from the amount of new snow that had fallen in the tracks how much time had passed since the tracks were fresh.

  Hewitt hesitated a long moment, looking around, listening.

  Then he went on.

  Flynn decided he had seen enough, knew enough to pursue Hewitt openly, confront him. In the dark of the night the man was headed for the clubhouse with a shotgun and a bucket of kerosene.

  By the time Flynn had scrambled through the snow-filled, rocky ditch onto the road, Hewitt had disappeared.

  “Hewitt!” Flynn bellowed.

  Hurrying now, Flynn ran down the road following Hewitt’s tracks.

  The tracks went off the road, to the left, across a ditch and into the woods. The path wandered uphill through the woods.

  Halfway up the hill, Flynn stumbled. He landed on his hands and knees. He raised his head and yelled, “Hewitt!” He realized Hewitt could think Flynn was calling for him down at his cabin.

  When he stood up, Flynn broke into as much of a run as he could manage up the rest of the path.

  He found himself at the back of the clubhouse, facing the back porch. The lights in the kitchen were off.

  On the porch, something struck the gong, just lightly, just touched it. Nevertheless, it made a noise.

  Someone crouching beside the gong stood up.

  Flynn ran toward the back of the house.

  Hewitt was swinging the bucket, throwing kerosene widely over the back wall of the porch.

  Hearing Flynn, he turned around, dropped the bucket. He picked the shotgun up from where it leaned against the gong.

  In a rush Hewitt came down the few stairs of the porch. He carried the shotgun at an angle high across his chest. He looked like a canoeist changing his paddle from one side of the boat to another.

  Slipping in the snow, Flynn raised his left arm to catch the blow. Flynn yelled, loud, twice.

  Nothing hit his left arm.

  The shotgun stock cracked against the side of his head, just above his left ear.

  Falling, Flynn thought how nice the snow would feel against his face.

  He never felt it.

  First he heard the flames. Then many excited Vietnamese shouting orders.

  Someone was holding him in a sitting position in the snow, facing away from the clubhouse. A warm hand was on the back of his neck.

  Flickering light from the flames were turning the snow around Flynn red, yellow.

  Brown, thin bare legs, bare feet were in the snow beside him.

  A high voice asked, “You okay?”

  Flynn nodded his head and regretted the pain
. “I’m okay.”

  The hand left his neck. The bare feet flew from the snow like two little birds.

  Flynn looked around from where he was seated in the snow.

  A half dozen agile Vietnamese, the kitchen help, bare arms and feet flashing warmly in the firelight against the snow, were scooping up armfuls of snow and throwing it at the fire. Flames were climbing the back walls of the porch curling up the struts holding up the roof. Smoke billowed out from under the roof. Now the lights were on in the kitchen, the kitchen door open. The flames were moving fast over the old timber, but the Vietnamese were moving even faster.

  While Flynn watched, one side of the gong’s smouldering oak frame collapsed. Like a huge discus, the gong fell to the floor of the porch with a sour clunk. Its own weight caused it to roll slowly off the porch. It dragged its frame with it into the snow.

  The Vietnamese cheered.

  The kitchen help seemed to be making rather a party of the fire. Barefooted in the snow, their movements made a pretty dance.

  Their job was greatly aided by the collapse of the porch roof. The snow on the roof helped smother the fire.

  Hands in the snow, Flynn pushed himself into a kneeling position. Another concentrated push and he was standing in the snow. He swayed slightly.

  For a moment he felt nauseous. His fingers felt the bump over his left ear. He watched the Vietnamese working on the edges of the fire. A kitchen window was smoked, cracked.

  Then he started down the hill, going off the path, to the right, following Hewitt’s tracks.

  Of course Flynn could not move fast over rough ground downhill through the snow. What he wanted was to breathe deeply, evenly through his nose. What he really wanted was to lie down in the snow.

  And he was not thinking about what he was doing with great clarity. He had been following Hewitt before he was cracked on the head. He had gotten up and begun following Hewitt again.

  When he came to the dirt road it took him a moment to figure out what he was seeing. In the middle of the road, he turned in a slow circle.

  Hewitt’s tracks went to the right along the road, in as straight a line as the road permitted, to the right of the tracks he had made coming from his cabin.