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  “Male?”

  “She thinks so, but not sure. It was dark out.”

  “A peculiar time of day for it, Grover. A peculiar time of day.”

  “What’s so peculiar?”

  “Don’t most hit-and-run accidents happen just after the bars close for the night? And how many old men do you see pedaling a bicycle through city streets after dark?”

  “Inspector, here you go again. Two damned fools bump into each other, one of ’em gets dead, and you want to turn the police department inside out.”

  For a brief moment, Flynn envisioned turning Grover inside out. Revealed might be the perfect vacuum.

  “You mean, Grover,” he said softly, slowly, “you suspect the bicyclist of contributory negligence?”

  Usually, Flynn was uncertain of using such terms, as he really did not know what they meant. He never hesitated using such terms with Grover, however, as he knew Grover was less certain of their meaning than he was.

  “You trying to solve your case load by telephone now, Inspector?”

  “I might forwarder,” Flynn grumbled, “with able assistance.”

  “I’m on the Police Eats Committee, Inspector. We’re having a big lunch meeting at the Hotex Lenox.”

  “Grover, I think you know how enthusiastic I am about the level of the culinary arts in the police commissaries being raised above the standard taco.”

  “You don’t like tacos?”

  “Have you yet compiled a list of all cars reported stolen last night after eight fifteen?”

  “What? No.”

  “Isn’t that the thing to do?” asked Flynn. “Don’t people who hit-and-run almost invariably report their cars stolen within an hour or two of the incident? Surely, I would.”

  “Inspector, I’m not going to have time. Each one of us has to count the snack and candy dispensers—”

  “Fortified by the nice lunch at the Hotel Lenox, Grover, you may not have as much time, but surely you’ll have more energy.”

  “Inspector, if you think this is so damned important, why don’t you come back—”

  “I’ll call you later, Grover, in hopes of your having found a car reported stolen with bits of old man and bicycle still adhered to it.”

  Flynn then called Elsbeth and read off the number of his telephone to her.

  Cocky entered the room just as Flynn had poured out the last cup of lukewarm tea in the pot and lit his pipe.

  “Did they feed you, Cocky? Are you the one who got the kippered herrings?”

  “French toast,” said Cocky, going to the chessboard. “Dwight Huttenbach. Age twenty-nine. Married once, Carol Kroepsch, daughter of an upper New York State lawyer with real estate, banking and political interests. Two children: a son, Dwight, they call ‘Ike’; a daughter, Mary. The Huttenbachs, as you probably know, are an old line family of great wealth. One of Huttenbach’s uncles is an ambassador. Huttenbach himself took a liberal arts degree from the University of Virginia, majoring in government, minoring in economics. This is his first term in Congress. The only piece of major legislation he’s introduced so far had to do with pollution.”

  “You’d think a lad like that would go on to law school.”

  “Academic record apparently not good enough for a first-class law school. He played tennis for the University of Virginia, is an A-ranked handball player. He also played trumpet.”

  “Musical, was he? Classical trumpet, jazz?”

  “He liked to play trumpet in marching bands. Would show up at political rallies with his trumpet, and join the band. On Fourth of July he’d go from town to town in his district and play the trumpet in the parades.”

  “What a splendid device,” mused Flynn, “for a young politician with nothing to say.”

  From Cocky’s silence, Flynn gathered he had concluded his report. “What a marvel you are, Cocky. How did you find out all that?”

  Cocky shrugged his right shoulder. “Called Daphne at Old Records. She works Sundays.”

  “Well…” Flynn inhaled on his pipe and let the smoke out slowly as he talked. “Would you believe a twenty-nine year old Congressman, away for a hunting weekend, would have unpacked his suitcase completely, hung every trouser and jacket neatly in a motel room closet, organized every shirt, undergarment and sock in appropriate drawers of the dresser, removed the blade from his razor without replacing it, screwed the cap on his toothpaste, left a bottle of good Scotch whiskey unopened on his bureau and have The Federalist, without a bookmark, mind you, on his nightstand?”

  Over the chessboard, Cocky turned his face to Flynn, so Flynn could see him smile.

  Flynn said, “So far, the set is worth the price of admission.”

  Cocky said, “I can’t find the telephone switchboard.”

  Flynn glanced at the phone by his bed.

  “You’d think a big place like this, all these important people here, would need a telephone switchboard.”

  “Indeed I would,” agreed Flynn. “By the way, Cocky, who was that who took off in the helicopter?”

  “Walter March.”

  “Suppose he just went out to buy a newspaper?” Flynn put on his jacket. “I think Rutledge was expecting me an hour or two ago. I trust this time he has something to say, and the goodness to say it.” Watching Cocky over the chessmen, Flynn asked, “Stumped already?”

  Cocky moved Pawn to King Bishop Four.

  Flynn took Cocky’s Pawn.

  Cocky moved his Knight to King Bishop Three.

  “Ach.” Flynn put his pipe in his jacket pocket. “You want me to think, do you?”

  “I think, Inspector, this will be one of our more unusual games.”

  7

  Paul Wahler, still dressed for Wall Street, opened the door to Suite 23 at Flynn’s knock.

  Inside the living room of the suite, Charles Rutledge turned, saw Flynn, and immediately hung up the phone.

  “Well, Flynn.” Rutledge now was dressed in a loose tweed jacket and gray flannel slacks. He glanced at his watch. “Almost lunch time.”

  “That’s all right with me,” said Flynn. “My breakfast came disguised as French toast.”

  “Doubt you’ll do much better for lunch. You know these private clubs.”

  “Do I?”

  “I mean, it’s hard to keep cooks. It’s hard to get cooks who are much good in the first place to come up here and live in the woods. Cooks are like moths: attracted to heat and bright lights.”

  Rutledge smiled his appreciation at his own simile to Wahler, who smiled his appreciation back.

  “Well, Flynn, did you inspect the scene of the accident?”

  “Accident…” mused Flynn. “I surveyed the scene of a grand mistake.”

  Rutledge glanced at the open door, nodded to Wahler. Wahler closed the door to the corridor.

  “Sit down, Flynn, and tell me what you mean.”

  Again Rutledge sat with his back to the window light. Flynn sat in a flowered two-seat divan.

  Wahler opened a folder on his lap and occasionally made a note in it.

  “It’s a critic you want,” said Flynn. “One with a special interest in stage sets. A stage set, you know, is designed so action taking place in it is made credible.”

  Wahler took a note.

  Rutledge waited for Flynn to go on.

  “Even if your boy-Congressman were suffering from Angelism, any fool could tell you he did not unpack himself in that motel room, or spend a minute in it. I can tell a professional unpacking job when I see it. Your butler named Taylor, was it? He unpacked me in the same precise manner while I was down admiring his handiwork at Timberbreak Lodge.”

  “Huttenbach’s things were placed in a reasonable manner in the room at Timberbreak Lodge,” Wahler stated.

  “If the local police aren’t prone to notice,” Flynn said, “his wife will, when she comes to pack him up.”

  “His wife is here,” Rutledge said. “She is distraught, of course. A friend drove her up. Carl Morris showed her the room
, briefly. Morris is packing Huttenbach’s things.”

  “Um…” Flynn ran his hand over his jaw and remembered the early hour at which he had shaved. “Even a great director can’t make a bad stage set work.”

  “The scene of the accident, Flynn,” Rutledge said.

  “What accident?” Flynn looked summarily at Rutledge. “He was murdered.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Rutledge. “But how do you know?”

  “How could anyone not know? A young man took his shotgun outside, at eleven o’clock at night, to a lightless place, to clean it? I don’t know what time it began to rain here last night, but my guess is that eleven o’clock the temperature was no more than ten degrees centigrade. This young man went outdoors at that hour in that weather to clean his shotgun dressed in a tweed jacket, light woolen shirt, open collar? Or perhaps you’re going to tell me he was heading out at that hour, dressed that way, on an expedition to shoot snipe…”

  “His behavior isn’t inconsistent with someone committing suicide,” Wahler stated.

  “No behavior is inconsistent with someone committing suicide.” Then Flynn smiled broadly. “But why would a young man commit suicide with The Federalist waiting for him on his bedside table?”

  Wahler smiled wanly and took a note.

  Flynn sighed. “A shotgun pellet went through his upper lip and shattered one tooth. Another entered his eye and did its killing work. Good God, man.” Flynn sighed again. “A man aiming a shotgun at himself and pulling the trigger would blow his head completely off, unless he had arms the lengths of telephone poles. Have you no idea how it would look? Your man, Dwight Huttenbach, was shot from a considerable distance away, surely from outside his own reach!”

  Astutely, Wahler said, “We should have blasted him from close-up.”

  “And you can’t tell me you’re fooling for a minute these country boys you’ve assembled as discoverers of the evidence! A country doctor, a country sheriff, a country mortician. They’re insulting you by going along with this charade!”

  Rutledge shifted his feet on the rug.

  “I’m sure it’s hard scrubbing a living out of these hills,” Flynn continued. “And I’m also sure the good citizens ’round here have every reason to consider the welfare of their own families ’way ahead of the question as to how some rich kid from far away happened to have his brain penetrated by shotgun pellets. But I trust whatever it is you’re paying them, it’s in the true coin of the realm, not just the currency of fear and intimidation.”

  Rutledge was looking calmly at Wahler. “So what’s your conclusion, Flynn?”

  “I feel like a schoolchild,” said Flynn, “having to recite my multiplication tables before going home. Huttenbach did not shoot himself. From the state of the bottoms of his shoes, I would say he was shot indoors, most likely in a fairly large room. He was shot here, at The Rod and Gun Club. It wouldn’t take me many minutes to find that room. He wasn’t shot in the grand hall downstairs; I’ve already looked—unless you have closets full of replacement lampshades, rugs and window glass. After he was dead, his belongings were moved into Room 22 at Timber-break Lodge. And his body was laid out next to Timberbreak Lodge with very little attention paid to appearances. Good grief,” Flynn said. “His hair was even matted on his forehead. Not a very likely occurrence for someone shot from the front and blown backwards!”

  Rutledge continued his calm gaze at Wahler.

  Wahler said, “As Inspector Flynn pointed out, it was dark out there.”

  In his soft voice, Flynn expostulated, “Of all the arrogance!”

  “Flynn,” Rutledge said, “we’re trying to spare his family.”

  “Is that the truth?” snapped Flynn. “We’ve already established it wasn’t suicide.”

  “There’s a certain onus even to murder—”

  “Bloody well right,” said Flynn. “People die of it! I’ll tell you what the onus is.” Flynn sat forward. “Huttenbach was staying here, at The Rod and Gun Club. Huttenbach was murdered here, at The Rod and Gun Club. And you boys truly don’t know who murdered him, or why. But you care less about that than you do about something else. So in the dead of night, Wahler and Taylor and I don’t yet know who else, move his body off the property, outside the fence, down to Timberbreak Lodge. And you move his belongings into Timberbreak Lodge and scatter them about with the precision of a computer. And you get Carl Morris, for a decent amount of change, I expect, to agree that Huttenbach was staying at Timberbreak Lodge for the weekend. And that he was killed there. Then you arrange to have me come up, pretend I’m registered at Timberbreak Lodge itself, to give some big-city authority to the paid-for findings of the Chief of Bellingham’s Road Department. And in what coin of what realm do you expect to pay me?” Flynn sat back in his chair. “All you’re concerned about is keeping The Rod and Gun Club out of it.”

  Rutledge stood up and went into his bedroom. He returned with a shotgun.

  From a bookcase, he took two rags and a can of gun oil.

  “You’re every bit the man I thought you were, Flynn.”

  Rutledge sat down, broke open the gun, and checked to see the barrels were empty. Then he began cleaning it.

  Rutledge laughed. “Don’t know what we would have done, if you’d come back from Timberbreak Lodge having believed—or saying you believed—all our arranged evidence. Then we would have had a problem.” He ran an index finger along the oiled barrel, apparently just for the pleasure of it. “Wahler will take you downstairs in a few minutes to show you where Huttenbach was murdered.”

  “In the middle of the night,” Wahler stated, “it isn’t easy to arrange anything that would even fit into the category of a hunting accident.”

  “You’d be surprised, Flynn”—Rutledge squinted down one barrel, then another—“if you knew some of the names who approved of our midnight decision, however faulty it appears to you.”

  “Faulty and criminal,” said Flynn.

  “Criminal,” Rutledge said easily. “Yes.”

  “Governor Caxton Wheeler,” Flynn said, “was departing as we were arriving. At dawn.”

  “God!” Wahler grinned. “His valet-bodyguard-driver! It’s impossible to get him to move! They call him Flash because he’s so incredibly slow!”

  “Is he someone else who helped move the body?” Flynn asked.

  Waher said, “Yes.”

  “Walter March took off in a helicopter a couple of hours ago.”

  “Yes, he did,” said Rutledge. “Our members have to keep to their own schedules.”

  “And,” said Flynn, “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing sitting here, letting you clean that shotgun before my very eyes!”

  “You’re being understanding, Flynn,” said Rutledge evenly.

  “Understanding, am I? A less phlegmatic man might be having apoplexy! You know I have no power in this jurisdiction to make arrests!”

  Wahler said, “We know.”

  “Huttenbach’s father was an old friend,” said Rutledge. “From schooldays. His father was a founder of The Rod and Gun Club. I knew him, too.”

  “And when young Huttenbach wanted to run for Congress…?”

  “Some of us here at The Rod and Gun Club have been advising him all along. Actually, since before he started school.”

  “Grooming him, you mean,” said Flynn.

  “Advising him to make the most of his opportunities,” amended Rutledge. “Dwight had a brilliant future.” Rutledge tested the pull on the shotgun’s triggers. “It may not seem it to you at the moment, Flynn, moving his body in the middle of the night and so on, building a stage set, as you call it, but we’re deeply concerned about Dwight’s murder.” Rutledge snapped the shotgun closed. “We want it investigated. We want to know who did this and why.”

  Rutledge leaned the shotgun against his chair.

  Flynn rubbed his forehead. “You want me to run a private investigation.”

  Rutledge said, “You, got it.”

  “And how can I
investigate when there can be no control over the situation? When all the evidence has been tampered with before I got here? When a potential presidential candidate slips through the hole in the fence at dawn? When a major American newspaper publisher helicopters out of here between breakfast and lunch?”

  “Ah,” said Rutledge. “Now you see one of the problems. You may not be pleased at our use of local authorities, term us ‘arrogant’, as you did, but do you think the Inspector of Roads could get control over this situation?”

  “State authorities could get control,” said Flynn, “if you gave it to them.”

  “Have Caxton’s name dragged through a murder investigation? Have Walter’s competing newspapers hint at his complicity in a shotgun killing?”

  “Have it revealed unto the world,” countered Flynn, “that such a place as The Rod and Gun Club exists?”

  Rutledge stood, wandered behind his chair, and looked through the small window.

  “That’s the fact of life, Flynn. That’s what you’re dealing with. Local police aren’t equipped to investigate this incident, and you know it. And we do want it investigated quickly and well. D’Esopo named you, and you are the man for the job.”

  “You’ve got to understand,” Wahler offered humbly, “the members of The Club, well, when they have a legal problem, they call in the top attorney in the country for advice. When they have a medical problem—”

  “I’m complimented,” said Flynn. “When they need bread, they have toast.”

  “They’ve gotten in a special private investigator,” Wahler concluded lamely.

  “What you’ve run into here, Flynn,” said Rutledge looking through the window at thousands of fenced-in acres, “is privacy. An idea diminished by contemporary society, but still, not a bad idea at all.”

  “And what other problems do I have?” asked Flynn.

  “Another problem is pretty obvious,” Rutledge said to the window pane. “Obviously, the bastard who shot Dwight Huttenbach is one of us.”