Code to Zero (10 page)

“Let me think.”

>>><<<

Elspeth was nervous, but she told herself that she did not need to be afraid. She had broken the curfew last night, but she had not been caught. She was almost certain this was nothing to do with her and Luke. Anthony and Billie were the ones who were in trouble. Elspeth hardly knew Billie, but she cared for Anthony, and she had a dreadful feeling he was going to be thrown out.

The four of them met outside the Dean’s study. Luke said, “I’ve got a plan,” but before he could explain, the Dean opened the door and summoned them inside. Luke had time only to say, “Leave the talking to me.”

The Dean of Students, Peter Ryder, was a fussy, old-fashioned man in a neat suit of black coat and waistcoat with gray striped pants. His bow tie was a perfect butterfly, his boots gleamed with polish, and his oiled hair looked like black paint on a boiled egg. With him was a gray-haired spinster called Iris Rayford who was responsible for the moral welfare of Radcliffe girls.

They sat in a circle of chairs, as if for a tutorial. The Dean lit a cigarette. “Now, you boys had better tell the truth, like gentlemen,” he said. “What happened in your room last night?”

Anthony ignored Ryder’s question and acted as if he were in charge of the proceedings. “Where’s Jenkins?” he said curtly. “He’s the sneak, isn’t he?”

“No one else has been asked to join us,” the Dean said.

“But a man has a right to be confronted by his accuser.”

“This isn’t a court, Mr. Carroll,” the Dean said testily. “Miss Rayford and I have been asked to establish the facts. Disciplinary proceedings, if such prove necessary, will follow in due course.”

“I’m not sure that’s acceptable,” Anthony said haughtily. “Jenkins should be here.”

Elspeth saw what Anthony was doing. He hoped Jenkins would be scared to repeat his accusation to Anthony’s face. If that happened, the college might have to drop the matter. She did not think it would work, but perhaps it was worth a try.

However, Luke cut the discussion short. “Enough of this,” he said with an impatient gesture. He addressed the Dean. “I brought a woman into the House last night, sir.”

Elspeth gasped. What was he talking about?

The Dean frowned. “My information is that it was Mr. Carroll who invited the woman in.”

“I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed.”

Elspeth burst out, “That’s not true!”

Luke gave her a look that chilled her. “Miss Twomey was in her dorm by midnight, as the dormitory mistress’s overnight book will show.”

Elspeth stared at him. The book
would
show that, because a girlfriend had forged her signature. She realized she had better shut up before she talked herself into trouble. But what was Luke up to?

Anthony was asking himself the same question. Staring at Luke, mystified, he said, “Luke, I don’t know what you’re doing, but—”

“Let me tell the story,” Luke said. Anthony looked doubtful, and Luke added, “Please.”

Anthony shrugged.

The Dean said sarcastically: “Please carry on, Mr. Lucas. I can’t wait.”

“I met the girl at the Dew Drop Inn,” Luke began.

Miss Rayford spoke for the first time. “The Dew Drop Inn?” she said incredulously. “Is that a pun?”

“Yes.”

“Carry on.”

“She’s a waitress there. Her name is Angela Carlotti.”

The Dean plainly did not believe a word. He said, “I was told that the person seen in Cambridge House was Miss Bilhah Josephson here.”

“No, sir,” Luke said in the same tone of immovable certitude. “Miss Josephson is a friend of ours, but she was out of town. She spent last night at the home of a relative in Newport, Rhode Island.”

Miss Rayford spoke to Billie. “Will the relative confirm that?”

Billie shot a bewildered look at Luke, then said, “Yes, Miss Rayford.”

Elspeth stared at Luke. Did he really intend to sacrifice his career to save Anthony? It was crazy! Luke was a loyal friend, but this was taking friendship too far.

Ryder said to Luke: “Can you produce this... waitress?” He pronounced “waitress” with distaste, as if he were saying “prostitute.”

“Yes, sir, I can.”

The Dean was surprised. “Very well.”

Elspeth was astonished. Had Luke bribed a town girl to pretend to be the culprit? If he had, it would never work. Jenkins would swear it was the wrong girl.

Then Luke said, “But I don’t intend to bring her into this.”

“Ah,” said the Dean. “In that case, you make it difficult for me to accept your story.”

Now Elspeth was baffled. Luke had told an implausible tale and had no way to back it up. What was the point?

Luke said, “I don’t think Miss Carlotti’s evidence will be necessary.”

“I beg to differ, Mr. Lucas.”

Then Luke dropped his bombshell. “I’m leaving the college tonight, sir.”

Anthony said, “Luke!”

The Dean said, “It will do you no good to leave before you can be sacked. There will still be an investigation.”

“Our country is at war.”

“I know that, young man.”

“I’m going to join the Army tomorrow morning, sir.”

Elspeth cried, “No!”

For the first time, the Dean did not have an answer. He stared at Luke with his mouth open.

Elspeth realized that Luke had been clever. The college could hardly pursue a disciplinary action against a boy who was risking his life for his country. And if there was no investigation, then Billie was safe.

A mist of grief obscured her vision. Luke had sacrificed everything—to save Billie.

Miss Rayford might still demand testimony from Billie’s cousin, but he would probably lie for her. The key point was that Radcliffe could hardly expect Billie to produce the waitress Angela Carlotti.

But none of that mattered to Elspeth now. All she could think of was that she had lost Luke.

Ryder was muttering about making his report and leaving others to decide. Miss Rayford made a big fuss about writing down the address of Billie’s cousin. But it was all camouflage. They had been outwitted, and they knew it.

At last the students were dismissed.

As soon as the door closed, Billie burst into tears. “Don’t go to war, Luke!” she said.

Anthony said, “You saved my life.” He put his arms around Luke and embraced him. “I’ll never forget this,” Anthony said. “Never.” He detached himself from Luke and took Billie’s hand. “Don’t worry,” he said to her. “Luke’s too smart to get killed.”

Luke turned to Elspeth. When he met her eye he flinched, and she realized that her rage must be plainly visible. But she did not care. She stared at him for a long moment, then she raised her hand and slapped his face, once, very hard. He let out an involuntary gasp of pain and surprise.

“You fucking bastard,” she said.

Then she turned and walked away.

Each
Baby Sergeant
motor is 4 feet long and 6 inches in diameter, and weighs 59 pounds. Its motor burns for just 6
¹
/
2
seconds.

Luke was looking for a quiet residential street. Washington was totally unfamiliar to him, as if he had never been here before. Driving away from Union Station he had chosen a direction at random and headed west. The road had taken him farther into the center of the city, a place of striking vistas and grandiose government buildings. Perhaps it was beautiful, but he found it intimidating. However, he knew that if he kept going in a straight line, he must eventually come to a place where normal families lived in regular houses.

He crossed a river and found himself in a charming suburb of narrow streets lined with trees. He passed a building with a sign that read Georgetown Mind Hospital, and he guessed the neighbourhood was called Georgetown. He turned into a tree-lined street of modest houses. This was promising. People here would not have full-time household help, so there was a good chance of finding a place empty.

The street turned a corner and immediately dead-ended in a cemetery. Luke parked the stolen Ford facing the way he had come, in case he had to make a fast getaway.

He needed some simple tools, a chisel or screwdriver and a hammer. There was probably a small tool kit in the trunk—but the trunk was
locked. He could pick the lock if he could find a piece of wire. Otherwise, he would have to drive to a hardware store and buy or steal what he required.

He reached into the back and picked up the stolen bag. Rummaging through the clothes, he found a folder containing papers. He extracted a paperclip and closed the case.

It took him about thirty seconds to open the trunk. As he had hoped, there were a few tools in a tin box next to the jack. He chose the largest screwdriver. There was no hammer, but there was a heavy adjustable wrench that would serve. He put them in the pocket of his ragged raincoat and slammed the lid of the trunk.

He took the stolen bag from inside the car, closed the door, and walked around the corner. He knew he was conspicuous, a ragged bum walking in a nice neighbourhood with an expensive suitcase. If the local busybody called the cops, and the cops had nothing much to do this morning, he could be in trouble in minutes. On the other hand, if all went well, he might be washed and shaved and dressed like a respectable citizen in half an hour’s time.

He drew level with the first house in the street. He crossed a small front yard and knocked at the door.

>>><<<

Rosemary Sims saw a nice blue-and-white car drive slowly past her house, and she wondered whose it was. The Brownings might have bought a new car, they had plenty of money. Or Mr. Cyrus, who was a bachelor and did not have to stint himself. Otherwise, she reasoned, it must belong to a stranger.

She had good eyesight still, and she could watch most of the street from her comfy chair by the second-floor window, especially in winter when the trees were bare of leaves. So she saw the tall stranger when he came walking around the corner. And “strange” was the word. He wore no hat, his raincoat was torn, and his shoes were tied up with string to stop them from falling apart. Yet he carried a new-looking bag.

He went to Mrs. Britsky’s door and knocked. She was a widow, living alone, but she was no fool—she would make short work of the stranger, Mrs. Sims knew. Sure enough, Mrs. Britsky looked out the window and waved him away with a peremptory gesture.

He went next door and knocked at Mrs. Loew’s. She opened up. She was a tall, black-haired woman, who was too proud, in Mrs. Sims’s opinion. She spoke a few words with the caller, then slammed the door.

He went to the next house, apparently intending to work his way along the street. Young Jeannie Evans came to the door with baby Rita in her arms. She fished in the pocket of her apron and gave him something, probably a few coins. So he was a beggar.

Old Mr. Clark came to the door in his bathrobe and carpet slippers. The stranger got nothing out of him.

The owner of the next house, Mr. Bonetti, was at work, and his wife, Angelina, seven months pregnant, had left five minutes ago, carrying a string bag, obviously heading for the store. The stranger would get no answer there.

>>><<<

By now, Luke had had time to study the doors, which were all the same. They had Yale locks, the kind with a tongue on the door side and a metal socket in the jamb. The lock was operated by a key from outside and by a knob inside.

Each door had a small window of obscure glass at head height. The easiest way in would be to break the glass and reach inside to turn the knob. But a broken window would be visible from the street. So he decided to use the screwdriver.

He glanced up and down the street. He had been unlucky, having to knock on five doors to find an empty house. By now he might have attracted attention, but he could see no one. Anyway, he had no choice. He had to take the risk.

>>><<<

Mrs. Sims turned away from the window and lifted the handset of the phone beside her seat. Slowly and carefully, she dialed the number of the local police station, which she knew by heart.

>>><<<

Luke had to do this fast.

He inserted the screwdriver’s blade between the door and the jamb at the level of the lock. Then he struck the handle of the screwdriver with the heavy end of the adjustable wrench, trying to force the blade into the socket of the lock.

The first blow failed to move the screwdriver, which was jammed up against the steel of the lock. He wiggled the screwdriver, trying to find a way in. He used the hammer again, harder this time. Still the screwdriver would not slip into the socket. He felt perspiration break out on his forehead, despite the cold weather.

He told himself to stay calm. He had done this before. When? He had no idea. It did not matter. The technique worked, he was sure of that.

He wiggled the screwdriver again. This time, it felt as if a corner of the blade had caught in a notch. He hammered again, as hard as he could. The screwdriver sank in an inch.

He pulled sideways on the handle, levering the tongue of the lock back out of the socket. To his profound relief, the door opened inward.

The damage to the frame was too slight to be seen from the street.

He stepped quickly inside and closed the door behind him.

>>><<<

When Rosemary Sims finished dialing the number, she looked out the window again, but the stranger had vanished.

That was quick.

The police answered. Feeling confused, she hung up the phone without speaking.

Why had he suddenly stopped knocking on doors? Where had he gone? Who was he?

She smiled. She had something to occupy her thoughts all day.

>>><<<

It was the home of a young couple. The place was furnished with a mixture of wedding presents and junk-shop purchases. They had a new couch and a big TV set in the living room, but they were still using orange crates for storage in the kitchen. An unopened letter on the hall radiator was addressed to Mr. G. Bonetti.

There was no evidence of children. Most probably, Mr. and Mrs. Bonetti both had jobs and would be out all day. But he could not count on it.

He went quickly upstairs. There were three bedrooms, only one of which was furnished. He threw the bag on the neatly made bed. Inside it he found a carefully folded blue chalk-stripe suit, a white shirt, and a conservative striped tie. There were dark socks, clean underwear, and a pair of polished black wingtips that looked only about half a size too big.

He stripped off his filthy clothes and kicked them into a corner. It gave him a spooky feeling, to be naked in the home of strangers. He thought of skipping the shower, but he smelled bad, even to himself.

He crossed the tiny landing to the bathroom. It felt great to stand under the hot water and soap himself all over. When he got out, he stood still and listened carefully. The house was silent.

He dried himself with one of Mrs. Bonetti’s pink bath towels—another wedding present, he guessed—and put on undershorts, pants, socks, and shoes from the stolen bag. Being at least half dressed would speed his getaway if something went wrong while he was shaving.

Mr. Bonetti used an electric shaver, but Luke preferred a blade. In the suitcase he found a safety razor and a shaving brush. He lathered his face and shaved quickly.

Mr. Bonetti did not have any cologne, but maybe there was some in the bag. After stinking like a pig all morning, Luke liked the idea of smelling sweet. He found a neat leather toiletries case and unzipped it. There was no cologne inside—but there was a hundred dollars in twenties, neatly folded: emergency money. He pocketed the cash, resolving to pay the man back one day.

After all, the guy was not a collaborator.

And what the heck did that mean?

Another mystery. He put on the shirt, tie, and jacket. They fitted well: he had been careful to choose a victim his own size and build. The clothes were of good quality. The luggage tag gave an address on Central Park South, New York. Luke guessed the owner was a corporate big shot who had come to Washington for a couple of days of meetings.

There was a full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door. He had not looked at his reflection since early this morning, in the men’s room at Union Station, when he had been so shocked to see a filthy hobo staring back at him.

He stepped to the mirror, bracing himself.

He saw a tall, fit-looking man in his middle thirties, with black hair and blue eyes; a normal person, looking harassed. A weary sense of relief swept over him.

Take a guy like that, he thought. What would you say he does for a living?

His hands were soft, and now that they were clean they did not look like those of a manual worker. He had a smooth indoor face, one that had not spent much time out in bad weather. His hair was well cut. The guy in the mirror looked comfortable in the clothes of a corporate executive.

He was not a cop, definitely.

There was no hat or coat in the bag. Luke knew he would be conspicuous without either, on a cold January day. He wondered if he might find them in the house. It was worth taking a few extra seconds to look.

He opened the closet. There was not much inside. Mrs. Bonetti had three dresses. Her husband had a sport coat for weekends and a black suit he probably wore to church. There was no topcoat—Mr. Bonetti must be wearing one, and he could not afford two—but there was a light raincoat. Luke took it off the hanger. It would be better than nothing. He put it on. It was a size small but wearable.

There was no hat in the closet, but there was a tweed cap that Bonetti
probably wore with the sport coat on Saturdays. Luke tried it on. It was too small. He would have to buy a hat with some of the money from the toiletries bag. But the cap would serve for an hour or so—

He heard a noise downstairs. He froze, listening.

A young woman’s voice said, “What happened to my front door?”

Another voice, similar, replied, “Looks like someone tried to break in!”

Luke cursed under his breath. He had stayed too long.

“Jeepers—I think you’re right!”

“Maybe you should call the cops.”

Mrs. Bonetti had not gone to work, after all. Probably she had gone shopping. She had met a friend at the store and invited her home for coffee.

“I don’t know . . . looks like the thieves didn’t get in.”

“How do you know? Better check if anything’s been stolen.”

Luke realized he had to get out of there fast.

“What’s to steal? The family jewels?”

“What about the TV?”

Luke opened the bedroom window and looked out onto the front yard. There was no convenient tree or drainpipe down which he could climb.

“Nothing’s been moved,” he heard Mrs. Bonetti say. “I don’t believe they got in.”

“What about upstairs?”

Moving silently, Luke crossed the landing to the bathroom. At the back of the house there was nothing but a leg-breaking drop to a paved patio.

“I’m going to look.”

“Aren’t you scared?”

There was a nervous giggle. “Yes. But what else can we do? We’ll look pretty silly if we call the cops and there’s no one here.”

Luke heard footsteps on the stairs. He stood behind the bathroom door.

The footsteps mounted the staircase, crossed the landing, and entered the bedroom. Mrs. Bonetti gave a little scream.

Her friend’s voice said, “Whose bag is that?”

“I’ve never seen it before!”

Luke slipped silently out of the bathroom. He could see the open bedroom door but not the women. He tiptoed down the stairs, grateful for the carpet.

“What kind of burglar brings luggage?”

“I’m calling the cops right now. This is spooky.”

Luke opened the front door and stepped outside.

He smiled. He had done it.

He closed the door quietly and walked quickly away.