Flynn's In (18 page)

Flynn took a long look at Rutledge.

Even stabbed to death in his chair, Rutledge did not look surprised.

Cocky went first through the door to the corridor.

Flynn took the key from the inside of the lock, closed the door, and locked it.

“As corpses seem so hard to keep track of around here,” Flynn said, “let’s try to keep this one to ourselves.”

“M
illions!”

“It’s not millions.”

Flynn didn’t dare peer through the small round window of the sauna. He could not do so without being seen by the men inside.

He stood in the gymnasium out of sight of the windows, trying to ascertain who was in the sauna by identifying the voices.

“Bless my pointy Irish ears,” he said to himself.

“Too damned much money. And I don’t see it’s doing us any damned good.” That was Buckingham’s slightly whiskey-grated voice.

“The arrangement was made.” Arlington’s voice was precise, pedantic.

“Yeah, but this was not why the arrangement was made.” Dunn Roberts’ was the reasonable voice of a committeeman.

“The arrangement was made—”

“To keep you whole, financially, while you’re jerking the strings of the federal government.” Buckingham.

“Okay. Everyone agrees having Arlington an economic guru in Washington is of benefit to the club and everyone in it.” Clifford’s voice was clear, young, virile.

“Should be.” And Oland’s was soft, old and somewhat petulant.

“And is it proving a benefit?” Wahler’s voice had both deference in it and the prosecutor’s edge.

“Of course.” Arlington.

“No. I really mean, are there benefits which can be simply evidenced on paper to support the belief that Arlington’s being in Washington—”

“‘Evidenced on paper!’ I hope not!” Buckingham.

“You may be sure, my being in Washington has been of enormous benefit to The Rod and Gun Club and its members.”

“There’s no reason why Arlington should suffer financially by government service. Especially when he has friends.” Oland.

“He had to separate himself from his banking income—“Clifford.

“Overtly, yes.” Roberts.

“His personal expenses rose. His personal income diminished.” Clifford.

“So he was given access to The Rod and Gun Club’s capital.” Oland.

“It wasn’t our point to permit him to greatly increase his personal wealth.” Buckingham.

“Why wasn’t it? It can be assumed that, during these years of his private life, he would be doing so, if he were in the private sector.” Oland.

“Not to the point of grabbing capital, making personal investments with it, taking the profits himself.” Buckingham.

“I’m not sure you’re right.” Oland.

“What good does it do the membership?” Roberts.

“A certain amount of tit for tat. The point is that the membership benefits in other ways. I have no doubt that it does.” Oland.

“The point, Oland, is that a hell of a lot of capital has been appropriated by our friend, Arlington.” Buckingham.

“And if we all get killed off…” Roberts.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Arlington.

“Tell me who approves of what you’re doing. Not Rutledge. Not Lauderdale. Huttenbach wanted a complete accounting, immediately.” Buckingham.

“It was Ashley who blew the whistle on you, Arlington.” Clifford.

“A personal accounting? How dare any of you—“Arlington.

“It seems we need something, Arlington.” Clifford.

“What I’d like to know is what is the consensus now about Ashley-Comfort? Now that Ashley’s dead.” Arlington.

“I guess there are no obstacles to our doing what we want now.” Roberts.

“Arlington, you’re changing the topic of discussion. You’ve put your hands on millions…”

As Buckingham continued the indictment in the sauna, Flynn drew quietly away.

Arlington, Buckingham, Clifford, Roberts, Wahler, Oland: They were all baking in the sauna, while Cocky was breaking into the vault.

“Good man.” Flynn stood in the door of the vault.

Under a single, dangling light bulb, file folders at his feet, Cocky stood inside the vault.

The vault was as large as a walk-in closet. Deep filing cabinets stood tight against each other from floor to ceiling. There wasn’t really room for Flynn to enter.

“Everyone’s accounted for,” said Flynn. “They’re chirruping away in the sauna like so many broilers singing
Home on the Range
. Except our honored Commissioner of Police. If he’s in the sauna with the rest, he is maintaining a humble silence.”

From an opened drawer, Cocky took another folder and dropped it on the pile on the floor.

“By the was, it was an
a
. I refer to the cryptic note on Rutledge’s telephone pad. Arlington is too much into the
capital
of The Rod and Gun Club. The complaint is not that he is spending too much time in the
capitol
. In fact, if I interpret correctly the chirruping I just heard from the chick incubator, I’d say that the membership of The Rod and Gun Club essentially provided Arlington with the means to feather his own nest while in Washington, in return for federal favors generally done the membership. But Arlington seems to have taken a bit too much advantage of the offer, and certain members began to cry ‘Foul!,’ among them, Ashley, Huttenbach, Lauderdale, and Rutledge. Now Buckingham, in particular, has begun to peck away. And, sure, wasn’t it Rutledge who said Arlington was incapable of violence, that if Arlington
’ever saw a deer close up, he’d try to pet it?”

“For all his economics degrees, financial wisdom, position
in the banking world, Arlington himself isn’t all that wealthy.”

“Beginning to discover things already, are you?”

“His father lost the family fortune and went deep into debt trying to build a railroad along the Amazon River.”

“The Amazon,” clucked Flynn, “has taken in much more gold than it has ever given up. So the present-day Arlington had every reason to discover how money works on paper.”

“But he’s never really had any of his own.”

“If I understand what I just heard, Arlington recently has appropriated barrels of the stuff. And, of course, being draped in the federal mantle, he knows they won’t publicly call him to account. Ach, well, I’m sure it’s all a game the boyos are playing to squeeze ever more favors out of the current federal economic guru. What else are you finding, Cocky?”

“The behind-the scenes story of American political, business and family life for the last century, is all.”

“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.

“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:

“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.

“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’!”

F
lynn’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 child to the hospital, perhaps not even knowing she hit an old man, ran over him…