Scruff

by Robert Ludlum

  “What makes you so sure the job’ll get done? I’m not. The Senate’s always yelling about economies; it’s a hell of an issue, and always will be. That is, until a highway project or an aircraft plant is closed down in some district. Then suddenly the shouting stops.”

  “Not this time. It’s beyond cynicism now. I wouldn’t have become involved if I thought otherwise.”

  “You’re expressing an opinion. There has to be something else, Frank.”

  Baldwin removed his steel-rimmed glasses and laid them beside his plate. He blinked several times and gracefully massaged the bridge of his patrician nose. He smiled a half-smile, half-sadly. “There is. You’re very perceptive.… Call it the legacy of two old men whose lives—and the lives of their families for a number of generations—have been made most pleasantly productive in this country of ours. I daresay we’ve contributed, but the rewards have been more than ample. That’s the best way I can put it.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “Of course not. I’ll clarify. William Hill and I have known each other since childhood.”

  “Ambassador Hill?”

  “Yes.… I won’t bore you with the eccentricities of our relationship—not today. Suffice it to say, we can’t possibly stay around too many more years; not sure that I’d want to.… This Defense Commission, the subcommittee—they’re our ideas. We intend to see them become working realities. That much we can guarantee; in our different ways we’re powerful enough to do that. And to use that dreadful term, sufficiently ‘respectable.’ ”

  “What do you think you’ll gain?”

  “The truth. The extent of the truth as we believe it to be. This country has the right to know that, no matter how much it may hurt. To cure any disease, a correct diagnosis has to be made. Not indiscriminate labels hung by self-righteous zealots, nor vindictive charges hurled by malcontents.… The truth, Andrew. Merely the truth. That gift will be ours, Billy’s and mine. Perhaps our last.”

  Trevayne had the desire to move, to be physically in motion. The old gentleman opposite him was succeeding in doing exactly what he thought he’d do. The walls were closing in, the corridor defined.

  “Why can this subcommittee do what you say? Others have tried; they failed.”

  “Because, through you, it will be both apolitical and in no way self-seeking.” Baldwin replaced his glasses; the magnification of his old eyes hypnotized Trevayne. “Those are the necessary factors. You’re neither Republican nor Democrat, liberal nor conservative. Both parties have tried to recruit you, and you’ve refused both. You’re a contradiction in this age of nomenclature. You have nothing to gain or lose. You’ll be believed. That’s the important thing.… We’ve become a polarized people, slotted into intransigent, conflicting positions. We desperately need to believe once again in objective truth.”

  “If I accept, the Pentagon and everyone connected with it will run to the hills—or their public relations’ mimeographs. That’s what they usually do. How are you going to prevent this?”

  “The President. He has assured us; he’s a good man, Andrew.”

  “And I’m responsible to no one?”

  “Not even me. Only yourself.”

  “I hire my own staff; no outside personnel decisions?”

  “Give me a list of those you want. I’ll have it cleared.”

  “I call it as I find it. I get the cooperation I deem necessary.” Trevayne didn’t ask these last questions, he made statements which, nevertheless, anticipated answers.

  “Total. That I’ll guarantee. That I can promise you.”

  “I don’t want the job.”

  “But you’ll take it.” Another statement, this time from Franklyn Baldwin.

  “I told Phyllis. You’re persuasive, Frank. That’s why I was avoiding you.”

  “No man can avoid what he’s meant to do. At the moment he’s meant to do it. Do you know where I got that?”

  “Sounds Hebraic.”

  “No.… But close. Mediterranean. Marcus Aurelius. Have you met many bankers who’ve read Aurelius?”

  “Hundreds. They think he’s a mutual fund.”

  3

  Steven Trevayne looked at the expressionless mannequins clad in tweed jackets and varying shades of gray flannel slacks. The subdued lighting of the College Shoppe was appropriate for the quietly wealthy image sought after by the residents of Greenwich, Connecticut. Steven looked down at his own Levi’s, soiled sneakers, and then noticed that one of the buttons on his old corduroy jacket was about to fall off.

  He consulted his watch and was annoyed. It was nearly time. He’d told his sister that he’d drive her and her friends back to Barnegat, but he’d stipulated that they were to meet him by eight-thirty. He had to pick up his date over on Cos Cob by nine-fifteen. He was going to be late.

  He wished to hell his sister hadn’t picked this particular night to have an all-girl gathering at home, or at least not to have promised rides for everyone. His sister wasn’t allowed to drive at night—an edict Steven Trevayne thought was ridiculous; she was seventeen—so when these occasions arose, he was elected.

  If he refused, his father might just find that all their cars were in use and he’d be without wheels.

  He was almost nineteen. He’d be off to college in three weeks. Without a car. His father said no car while he was a freshman.

  Young Trevayne laughed to himself. His father was right. There was no earthly reason why he should have a car. He didn’t want to travel first class; not that way.

  He was about to cross the street to the drugstore and telephone his date when a police car pulled up to the curb in front of him.

  “You Steven Trevayne?” asked the patrolman at the near window.

  “Yes, sir.” The young man was apprehensive; the policeman spoke curtly.

  “Get in.”

  “Why? What’s the matter? I’m just standing here …”

  “You got a sister named Pamela?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do. I’m waiting for her.”

  “She won’t make it down here. Take my word for it. Get in.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Look, fella, we can’t reach your folks; they’re in New York. Your sister said you’d be down here, so we came after you. We’re doing you both a favor. Now, get in!”

  The young man pulled open the back door of the car and got in quickly. “Was there an accident? Is she all right?”

  “It’s always an accident, isn’t it?” said the policeman who was driving.

  Steven Trevayne gripped the back of the front seat. He was frightened now. “Please, tell me what happened!”

  “Your sister and a couple of girl friends started out with a pot party,” answered the other patrolman. “At the Swansons’ guest house. The Swansons are in Maine … naturally. We got a tip about an hour ago. When we got there, we found it was a little more complicated.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That was the accident, young fellow,” interjected the driver. “Hard stuff. The accident was that we found it.”

  Steven Trevayne was stunned. His sister may have had a stick now and then—who hadn’t?—but nothing hard. That was out.

  “I don’t believe you,” he said emphatically.

  “You’ll see for yourself.”

  The patrol car turned left at the next corner. It was not the way to Police Headquarters.

  “Aren’t they at the station?”

  “They’re not booked. Not yet.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “We don’t want any story out. If they’re booked, we can’t control it. They’re still at the Swansons’.”

  “Are the parents there?”

  “We told you, we haven’t been able to reach them,” answered the driver. “The Swansons are in Maine; your folks are in town.”

  “You said there were others. Girl friends.”

  “Out-of-staters. Friends from boarding school. We want the local parents firs
t on this one. We’ve got to be careful. For everyone’s sake. You see, we found two packages of uncut heroin. An educated guess would put the price around a quarter of a million dollars.”

  Andrew Trevayne took his wife’s elbow as they walked up the short flight of concrete steps to the rear door of the Greenwich Police Station. It had been agreed that they would use this entrance.

  The introductions were polite, abrupt, and the Trevaynes were ushered into a Detective Fowler’s office. Their son was standing by a window and walked rapidly to his parents the moment they entered the door.

  “Mom! Dad!… This is a bunch of crap!”

  “Just calm down, Steve,” said the father sternly.

  “Is Pam all right?”

  “Yes, Mother. She’s fine. They’re still at the Swansons’. She’s just confused. They’re all confused, and I don’t blame them one goddamned bit!”

  “I said cool it!”

  “I’m perfectly calm, Dad. I’m just angry. Those kids don’t know what uncut horse is, much less how or where to sell it!”

  “Do you?” asked Detective Fowler impersonally.

  “I’m not the issue, cop!”

  “I’ll tell you once more, Steve, get hold of yourself or shut up!”

  “No, I won’t!… I’m sorry, Dad, but I won’t! These jokers got a phone tip to check out the Swansons’. No name, no reason. They …”

  “Just a second, young man!” broke in the police officer. “We’re not jokers’ and I would advise you not to use that kind of language!”

  “He’s right,” added Trevayne. “I’m sure Mr. Fowler can explain what happened. What was this phone call, Mr. Fowler? You didn’t mention it when we spoke.”

  “Dad! He won’t tell you!”

  “I don’t know!… That’s the truth, Mr. Trevayne. At seven-ten this evening the desk got a phone call that there was some grass at the Swansons’; that we should look into it because there was a lot more involved. The caller was male, spoke with kind of a … well, high-toned speech. Your daughter was the only one mentioned by name. We followed it up.… Four kids. They admitted sharing a single cigarette between them during the last hour or so. It was no party. Frankly, the patrolman suggested we forget it. But by the time they radioed in their report, we’d gotten another call. Same voice. Same person. This time we were told to look in the milk box on the Swansons’ guest-house porch. We found the two packages of heroin. Uncut; we figure two hundred, two hundred and fifty thousand. That’s a lot of involvement.”

  “It’s also the most transparent, trumped-up incrimination I’ve ever heard of. It’s completely unbelievable.” Trevayne looked at his watch. “My attorney should be here within a half-hour; I’m sure he’ll tell you the same thing. Now, I’ll stay and wait, but I know my wife would like to go out to the Swansons’. Is that all right with you?”

  The detective sighed audibly. “It’s fine.”

  “Do you need my son any longer? May he drive her?”

  “Sure.”

  “Can we take her home?” asked Phyllis Trevayne anxiously. “Take all of them back to our house?”

  “Well, there are certain formalities …”

  “Never mind, Phyl. Go on out to the Swansons’. We’ll call you as soon as Walter gets here. Don’t worry. Please.”

  “Dad, shouldn’t I stay? I can tell Walter …”

  “I want you to go with your mother. The keys are in the car. Now, go on.”

  Trevayne and Detective Fowler watched the two of them leave. When the door was shut, Trevayne reached into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. He offered one to the police officer, who refused.

  “No, thanks. I eat pistachio nuts instead these days.”

  “Good for you. Now, do you want to tell me what this is all about? You don’t believe there’s any connection between that heroin and those girls any more than I do.”

  “Why don’t I? It’s a very expensive connection.”

  “Because if you did, you’d have them down here and booked. Precisely because it is expensive. You’re handling the entire situation in a very unorthodox manner.”

  “Yes, I am.” Fowler walked around his desk and sat down. “And you’re right, I don’t believe there’s a connection. On the other hand, I can’t dismiss it. Circumstantially, it’s explosive; I don’t have to tell you that.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “This’ll surprise you, but I may be guided by your attorney.”

  “Which reinforces my statement.”

  “Yes, it does. I don’t think we’re on opposite sides, but I’ve got problems. We’ve got the evidence; I certainly can’t ignore it. On the other hand, the manner of our getting it raises questions. I can’t legally hang it on the kids—not considering everything …”

  “I’d have you in court on false arrest. That could be expensive.”

  “Oh, come on, Mr. Trevayne. Don’t threaten. Legally, those girls, including your daughter, admitted using marijuana. That’s against the law. But it’s minor, and we wouldn’t press it. The other is something else. Greenwich doesn’t want that kind of publicity; and a quarter of a million dollars’ worth of uncut heroin is a lot of publicity. We don’t want a Darien here.”

  Trevayne saw that Fowler was sincere. It was a problem. It was also insane. Why would anyone want to incriminate four young girls to the extent of throwing away such an enormous sum of money? It was an extraordinary gesture.

  * * *

  Phyllis Trevayne came down the stairs and walked into the living room. Her husband stood in front of the huge glass wall looking out over the sound. It was long after midnight, and the moon was an August moon, shining brightly on the water.

  “The girls are in the adjoining guest rooms. They’ll be talking till dawn; they’re scared out of their wits. Can I get you a drink?”

  “That’d be nice. We both could use one.”

  Phyllis crossed to the small built-in bar to the left of the window. “What’s going to happen?”

  “Fowler and Walter worked it out. Fowler will release the finding of the packages and the fact that they were uncovered as a result of telephone tips. He’s forced to do that. But he won’t mention any names or locations on the grounds that an investigation is under way. If he’s pressed, he’ll say that he has no right incriminating innocent people. The girls can’t tell him anything.”

  “Did you talk to the Swansons?”

  “Yes. They panicked; Walter calmed them down. I told them Jean would stay with us and join them tomorrow or the day after. The others are heading home in the morning.”

  Phyllis handed her husband a drink. “Does it make any sense to you? At all?”

  “No, it doesn’t. We can’t figure it out. The voice on the phone was moneyed, according to Fowler and the desk sergeant. That could mean any of thousands; narrowed somewhat because he knew the Swansons’ guest house. That is, he didn’t hesitate calling it ‘the guest house’; he didn’t describe it as a separate building or anything like that.”

  “But why?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe someone has it in for the Swansons; really in for them, a quarter of a million dollars’ worth. Or …”

  “But, Andy,” Phyllis interrupted, remembering and choosing her words carefully. “The man who called used Pam’s name. Not Jean Swanson’s.”

  “Sure. But the heroin was left on the Swansons’ property.”

  “I see.”

  “Well, I don’t,” said Trevayne, raising his glass to his lips. “It’s all guesswork. Walter’s probably right. Whoever it was was probably caught in the middle of two transactions and panicked. The girls came along; on the surface, rich, spoiled, easy scapegoats for an alibi.”

  “I can’t think like that.”

  “I can’t either, really. I’m quoting Walter.”

  The sound of an automobile could be heard in the circular driveway in front of the house.

  “It must be Steve,” said Phyllis. “I told him not to be too late.”r />
  “Which he is,” added Trevayne, looking at the mantel clock. “But no lectures, I promise. I liked the way he behaved himself tonight. His language left something to be desired, but he wasn’t intimidated. He might have been.”

  “I was proud of him. He was his father’s son.”

  “No, he was just calling it as he saw it. I think the word is ‘bummer.’ ”

  The front door opened, and Steven Trevayne walked in, closing it slowly, firmly behind him. He seemed disturbed.

  Phyllis Trevayne started toward her son.

  “Wait a minute, Mom. Before you come near me, I want to tell you something.… I left the Swansons’ around ten-forty-five. The cop took me downtown for my car. I drove over to Ginny’s, and we both went to the Cos Cob Tavern. We got there about eleven-thirty. I had three bottles of beer, no grass, nothing else.”

  “Why are you telling us this?” asked Phyllis.

  The tall boy stammered, unsure of himself. “We left the place about an hour ago and went out to the car. The front seat was a mess; someone had poured whiskey or wine or something all over it; the seat covers were ripped, ashtrays emptied. We figured it was a lousy joke, a really lousy joke.… I dropped off Ginny and started for home. When I got near the townline intersection, I was stopped by a police car. I wasn’t speeding or anything; no one chased me. This patrol car just flagged me down at the side of the road. I thought maybe he was stuck, I didn’t know.… The cop came over and asked me for my license and registration, and then he smelled the inside and told me to get out. I tried to explain, but he wasn’t buying any of it.”

  “Was he from the Greenwich police?”

  “I don’t know, Dad. I don’t think so; I was still in Cos Cob.”

  “Go on.”

  “He searched me; his partner went over the car like it was the French Connection. I thought they were going to haul me in. I sort of hoped they would; I was sober and everything. But they didn’t. They did something else. They took a Polaroid shot of me with my arms against the car—they made me stretch out so they could search my pockets—and then the first cop asked me where I’d come from. I told him, and he went to his patrol car and called someone. He came back and asked me if I’d hit an old man on the road about ten miles back. I said of course not. Then he tells me this old guy is in critical condition in the hospital.…”