Flynn's In Page 8

  A roar went up. The men at the bar all were yelling, beating their fists on the bar. A beer bottle got knocked over. People in the booths were stamping their feet.

  “Jets twelve,” Alice said.

  Money changed hands on the bar, just dimes and quarters. Everyone quietly watched the point-after kick. Much less of a yell; much less money changed hands.

  “Least they made one.” Alice looked uncertainly at Cocky. “You here for the hunting?”

  “We are here for hunting,” Flynn said. “Yes.”

  “You can stay at Timberbreak Lodge. That also calls itself a rod and gun club. Basking in reflected glory, I guess.”

  “We passed it on the way down,” Flynn said. “Is that a good place?”

  Alice laughed. “No. People say it’s terrible. Sometimes salesmen escape and come in here for a morning warm-up drink. Get the chill out of their bones. They say they don’t know how it operates as a motel at all. Cold. The wind whistles right through it. No food, no bar. They change the sheets after you arrive. Mister Morris—I had him for science at the high school?—he owns the place. What he don’t know about running a business! The place was built in about a week. He must do some business, though. Every time I drive by it at night the no vacancy sign is lit.”

  “Alice!” a man called from up the bar. “You’re forgetting your old friends!”

  “Coming,” she said, wiping her hands on a bar rag. “He wasn’t a very good science teacher, either. He gave me a passing grade, and I don’t even know what the Third Law is.”

  “Increasing disorder,” Flynn advised, “which we must forcefully resist.”

  “Is that it?”

  “Alice! Your Cousin Joe wants a drink! So do I, while you’re at it.” Alone at the end of the bar with Cocky, Flynn said: “It works. I’ll be damned if it doesn’t.”

  “Money can buy anything,” Cocky said. “Even privacy.”

  “Even secrecy,” Flynn said. “Is there a difference?”

  Cocky’s empty glass was on the bar.

  “Want another?” Flynn asked.

  Cocky shook his head.

  “Better get back, then. I need to call Grover and find out all he hasn’t done.”

  The rifle shot sounded very close to the car.

  Flynn’s car had just been let through the gate in The Rod and Gun Club’s fence, gone a short way up the road, and around the curve down to the left.

  Flynn stopped the car. “Must say I’m curious. You coming?”

  Scraping his left foot behind him through the fallen leaves, Cocky followed Flynn into the woods.

  “No shooting!” Flynn bellowed. “We’re here!”

  Flynn saw the fence through the woods. After a few more steps he saw a man crouching near the fence.

  A young doe was on the ground. Her head was near the fence, facing down the length of her body. From the disturbed leaves around the body it was clear the young animal had thrashed painfully.

  A bullet hole was behind the deer’s right ear.

  Hewitt looked up at Flynn. The rifle was propped on the deer’s haunch.

  Hewitt’s eyes were long and dark.

  Cocky came up behind Flynn.

  “She break her neck on the fence?” Flynn asked.

  Hewitt nodded.

  A rifle under his arm, the guard walked along the fence from the gate.

  “Pretty little animal,” Flynn said. “Newborn in the spring.”

  Standing now, Hewitt slipped his rifle barrel downward under the belt of his coat and tightened the belt. He waved the guard away.

  Kneeling between the doe’s front and hind legs, he lowered his head almost to the ground. He lifted the doe’s stomach onto the back of his neck.

  Hewitt stood on bandy legs, the doe slung around his shoulders. The doe’s head swung freely.

  “I have the station wagon on the road,” Flynn said.

  Carrying the doe, her head bobbing unnaturally, Hewitt walked away from them, up through the woods, away from the road.

  13

  “It’s the best solution we have,” Arlington was saying in a low, conversational tone. “After much consultation.”

  “And you expect me to accept it?” Ashley’s voice was tart.

  “No,” said Lauderdale. “I expect you to continue being stupid and self-destructive.”

  Cocky had gone upstairs.

  Flynn thought he would take the quiet moment to explore the clubhouse. As he drove up he had heard the firing from the skeet shooting range and presumed all the members were out.

  In the long corridor running from the front hall to the dining room at the rear of the building he had heard the low voices talking. He stopped on the forest green carpet.

  A door to a room left of the corridor was slightly ajar.

  Flynn could not see into the room, but he could hear.

  Rutledge asked, “Do you have any other solution, Ashley? We’ve been waiting a long time.”

  “And I’ve tried just about everything.”

  “You haven’t tried getting out of the way,” said Lauderdale. “When you saw the company going downhill like a rock you could have let us know. I’ve got a lot of money invested in you. I’ve got my kids to think about! I’m about to be a grandfather!”

  “I’m sorry about your kids,” Ashley retorted. “I don’t quite see them in the breadline.”

  “What’s wrong with this concept?” Arlington’s voice was strained patience. “You merge your company with Castor Small Arms—”

  “I’ve tried to discuss merger with them.”

  “At terms impossibly favorable to yourself, I’m sure,” Lauderdale scoffed. “Be realistic.”

  “It’s your only way of avoiding disaster,” Arlington said. “And I’m not the only one who thinks so. Plus, there are your foreign contracts which Washington wants to see fulfilled.”

  “I’ve prostrated myself before Castor,” Ashley said. “They won’t talk merger with me on any terms.” “They’ll talk if we want them to,” Rutledge said.

  “Yes?” Ashley’s voice challenged. “Just how do you expect to carry that off?”

  “With a phone call,” Rutledge answered. “Their biggest small arms plant now is in Wyoming. Fairly isolated. It can be explained to them we foresee difficulties in fuel deliveries in that area…”

  “Oh.”

  Arlington laughed. “That will get them to the negotiating table.”

  Wahler said: “They’ll read that as a threat to sabotage their biggest plant with no fuel or bad fuel.”

  “I don’t even know why we’re talking to Ashley,” Lauderdale said. “Take the company away from him, and then talk merger.”

  “Be fair,” Arlington said. “In fact, Ashley extended credit to certain Latin American parties at the behest of the United States government. It is their failure to pay that has, shall we say, interrupted Ashley’s cash flow.”

  “Ashley made the decision,” Lauderdale charged. “He could have gotten guarantees from somewhere.”

  “They’re putting me out of business.”

  “You’re doing it to yourself.”

  “Your company is an important American resource,” Arlington said. “Besides, some of my banks are carrying your paper. Too much of it.”

  “I want Ashley out,” said Lauderdale.

  The sound of the gong, struck once, reverberated throughout the house.

  Flynn missed the next thing said.

  “Sauna’s warm,” said Rutledge. “Sauna time.”

  Flynn backed down the corridor.

  “I want Ashley out, whatever happens,” Lauderdale repeated. “If there’s to be a merger, I don’t want Ashley to have any position in the merged company. Or he’ll destroy that, too.”

  “For God’s sake, Lauderdale,” Ashley said. “What do you know about anything?”

  “I’ll tell you what I know,” Lauderdale said waspishly. “I know how to get Ashley-Comfort Incorporated hauled before the courts.”


  Backing around the corner into the front hall, Flynn heard Arlington groan. “Oh, my God.”

  14

  “I’ve seen this before.” Angled off his huge chest and shoulders, Flynn’s small head was poised over the portable chess set in his room.

  He moved Black Pawn to Queen Four.

  Cocky took his Pawn.

  “At its most avuncular, it’s called an old-boy network. At its most insidious, a cabal.” Flynn moved his knight to King Bishop Three. “A group of people not commonly believed to be connected with each other associating secretly with each other as a means first, of protecting themselves, and then, of advancing their own interests through surprising and oblique uses of power. They may not know what’s best for the world, or care, but they know what’s best for themselves.”

  Cocky moved Bishop to Knight Five. “Check. You said you wanted to call Sergeant Whelan.”

  “Hate the thought of it.”

  Flynn moved his Pawn to Bishop Three. Cocky took his Pawn. Flynn took Cocky’s Pawn with his Pawn.

  Cocky moved his Bishop to Bishop Four.

  Flynn said, “Guess I better call Grover.”

  The gong sounded. Even on the second floor of the clubhouse the noise made Flynn’s head rock.

  “It can’t be the dinner hour yet,” said Flynn.

  He went to the window. The lawn between the clubhouse and the lake was floodlit. All naked, moving at various paces (Clifford ran, whooping; Buckingham and Arlington jogged; Lauderdale took long strides; Oland small steps; Rutledge and Roberts moved at a sedate pace, talking; Ashley moved slowly, a towel over his shoulders; D’Esopo, head down, plopped along behind) the members, red from the sauna, went down the lawn and splashed in the lake. For the first time, Oland and Lauderdale looked natural to Flynn.

  “Now’s your chance to see your Commissioner in the-altogether-least-he-ever-wore,” Flynn advised Cocky from the window. “Something to remember when you have to sit through his long after-dinner speeches.”

  Cocky did not move.

  “Ach, well,” said Flynn. “I hope they have a heart specialist somewhere on the place.”

  He picked up the phone, dialed seven, and then his office number.

  Through the window he watched the men outside.

  “Grover? Did you have a nice lunch?”

  Waist deep in the lake, Buckingham hit Clifford on the back of the head, seemingly hard, with the heel of his hand. Clifford fell forward into the water.

  “I would have gone home, except you said you’d call. I was giving you another five minutes.”

  “Generous of you.”

  “It’s Sunday.”

  “And you didn’t work Wednesday, Thursday, or Friday. I marked the lack of strife in the office.”

  “Wednesday I spent all day on the Eats Committee.”

  Clifford regained his feet three meters from Buckingham. He did not turn around. He climbed out of the lake and started back for the clubhouse.

  “How do you feel about Sloppy Joes, Inspector?”

  “Never felt about one.”

  “You kidding? I’m talking about Sloppy Joes.”

  “Grover, I never kid. And I seldom know what you’re talking about.”

  “Sloppy Joes. You know, they’re a kind of eats. Do you think you’d like them?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? A lot of guys on the committee do.”

  “First, because they sound sloppy. Second, because they sound like they’re Joe’s. You might consider tripe, though.”

  “What’s tripe?”

  “What you’re talking. Anything important done?” asked Flynn. “You know who killed the old man on the bicycle? You’ve made a good arrest?”

  The members had spent very little time in the cold water. They were slogging up the lawn.

  “I’ve found out as much as I can for now. The deceased is a jeweler named Hiram Goldberg. He was seventy-two years old. His wife said he rode his bicycle to work every day but Saturday.”

  “He was killed Saturday night.”

  “Will you wait a minute?”

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to rush you.” Outside, the floodlights went off. “Take your time. Indeed, do.”

  “Fridays he rode to work, then walked to temple.”

  “Of course.”

  “Saturday nights he’d walk from his temple to his office, pick up his bicycle and ride it home.”

  “Of course. After sundown. After dark.”

  “So he could bicycle to work Monday morning.”

  “I see. This Saturday was he carrying any jewelry, any gems on him?”

  “He wasn’t even carrying money. No wallet even. No identification. That’s why I didn’t know who he was this morning.”

  “Oh, that’s why.”

  “Dead on arrival at Boston City Hospital. Not a rich man, I gather.”

  “And the car that hit him?”

  Flynn heard Grover shuffling papers. “Seven cars were reported stolen within the City of Boston after eight-fifteen Saturday night.”

  “That many? Good grief. Someone should speak to the police about all this. You can’t be doing your job, Grover.”

  “I’m doing my job.”

  “Indeed you are,” said Flynn. “All the above information you got with a single phone call. What was the result of your second phone call, this one to the Vehicular Squad?”

  Grover licked his wound a moment. He could not deny Flynn’s cutting remark.

  “Three cars have been recovered. One was recovered at three a.m. on Lansdowne Street occupied by fourteen year old boys. The operator was charged and released in the custody of his parents.”

  “Truly stolen.”

  “The second was discovered outside a doctor’s house in Brookline.”

  “Gunshot victim, do you suppose?”

  “The doctor says he doesn’t know how the vehicle got there. His wife called Brookline Police at nine o’clock this morning asking the vehicle be taken away.”

  “Why?”

  “It was a hearse, Inspector.”

  “Ah, yes. Doctors’ wives are always sensitive about their husband’s reputations.”

  “The third was found by officers patrolling Elm Street in the South End at noon today. Routine license checking. Returned to owner Willard Matson, 212 Fairview, also South End.”

  “Was Matson’s car found within walking distance of Matson’s house?”

  The gears ground away in Grover’s head. “About a mile, mile and a half away.”

  “That’s the car, Grover. That’s the one we want. I’ll stake your life on it. Was it inspected for bits and pieces of jeweler before it was returned to the owner?”

  Flynn heard a page turn.

  “It doesn’t say.”

  “I want that car inspected tonight,” Flynn said.

  “Tonight!”

  “I want you to inspect that car tonight, Grover. Personally. If there’s anything suspicious about it, I want it impounded, whatever you have to do, to get it inspected properly by forensic tomorrow.”

  “Frank,” Grover sighed. “Why tonight? You know the bowling league meets—”

  “Because it’s Sunday, Grover. Auto repair shops are closed on Sundays. Tomorrow is Monday. Auto repair shops are open on Mondays.”

  Another sigh.

  “Don’t hyperventilate, man. It might put color in your cheeks.”

  “212 Fairview is not on my way home.”

  “Tonight it is. I’ll call you in the morning.”

  Flynn went to the chessboard and moved his Bishop to Queen Three.

  Again the gong sounded, making Flynn wish he’d left his ears at home.

  “That must be for dinner.” Flynn sat down across from Cocky. “No hurry, I’m sure.”

  “Frank?”

  “Been thinking, have you?”

  “Paul Wahler isn’t really one of them, is he? He’s not a member of The Rod and Gun Club.”

  Flynn cast his mind’s eye over the
men he had just seen duck into the cold lake. Wahler was not one of them.

  “Paul Wahler,” said Flynn, “is like Timberbreak Lodge. A front. What did the Bellingham belle named Alice say? ‘Basking in reflected glory.’”

  Cocky castled.

  Flynn studied the board. He castled, too.

  “Well,” said Flynn. “A whole new game. Might as well break for dinner. However fresh the raw materials, I’m sure dinner has been cooked to bland school fare. We should have bought biscuits in downtown Bellingham. That’s the trouble with you and me, Cocky. Always thinking of the wrong thing.”

  15

  Cocky limped downstairs while Flynn returned to his room to answer the phone. It had rung just as he was closing his door.

  “Timberbreak Lodge,” he answered. “Where the elite meet.”

  “Da? The house is in an uproar.”

  Not that there was any question in his mind as to who was speaking, Flynn knew “The house is in an uproar” would be spoken only by his nine year old son, Winny. At least, he was sure Winny was the only nine year old who would say such a thing.

  “What’s wrong, Winny?”

  “Well, you see: Randy and Todd have been feeling that Jenny has been spending too much time in the bathroom.”

  “There are two bathrooms.”

  “They’ve been observing that Jenny might be getting too conceited.”

  “She has every reason to,” said the father of the perfect thirteen-year-old daughter.

  “They suspect her of practicing facial expressions in the bathroom mirror.”

  “But they don’t know, do they?”

  “There’s some evidence. Every time she comes out of the bathroom she uses her face like a film star meeting the public. You know, the look-but-don’t-touch expression.”

  “Condescending.”

  “Yes. Well, I think Randy and Todd decided they didn’t like being her public and decided to protest.”

  “Winny, what did they do?”

  “They ran the piano up against the bathroom door.”

  Flynn could just see his twin teenage sons doing so. Not only doing so, but doing so quickly and quietly.

  “Yes?”

  “Jenny couldn’t get out.”