by Clark Howard
She kissed him on the cheek and straightened up, walking around the couch to sit on the floor, facing him across the table.
“What are those?” she pointed to his scattered notes.
“Scraps of information I’ve picked up on two of the men I told you about. Dr. Fox and Reverend O’Hara. I spent the day running general background checks on both of them.”
“Find anything interesting?”
“Interesting, yes; helpful no.” He gathered several of the note sheets together, put them in order, and began reading their contents aloud.
“Dr. Damon Fox, age forty-eight, widower for past three years, wife died of cancer after two unsuccessful operations. Two children, both daughters, both married and living in other cities. Resides alone in the family home in the Rancho section. Brilliant professional background: graduated medical school at the age of twenty-five, spent the next five years on the staff of Krebbs Clinic in general surgery. Then he went to Europe for several years to study brain surgery at Heidelburg. From what I gather he apparently was fascinated by the human brain. When he returned to this country he joined the staff of the Michalson Medical Research Center. For something like ten years he was considered one of the finest surgeons available. Then he did something that surprised everyone who was associated with him: he gave up surgery entirely and returned to school to study psychiatry. He had gone as far as he could in brain repair from without, he said, so he intended to concentrate on what could be done from within. Of course, with his background he was immediately successful in the new field and rose to prominence almost as soon as he started practicing. Today he is one of the most respected and influential men in the medical profession in this state.”
Devlin sat back and lighted a cigarette.
“So much for Dr. Fox,” he went on, exhaling. “Next we have the Reverend Abraham O’Hara: his life reads like a Hervey Allen novel; have you ever read Hervey Allen?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Well, if you had, you’d know what I mean. Just listen to this: born in Hong Kong of a Jewish mother and an Irish father. Grew up in such exotic places as Cairo, Istanbul, and Tahiti; his father was an excommunicated Catholic who became sort of an exiled Protestant missionary. During his early years he had religious training in all three of the major faiths, including his mother’s Judaism. Parents were killed in a monsoon when he was fourteen. He went to Boston to live with his father’s brother. Ran away a year later and, apparently being quite big for his age, signed on as an able-bodied seaman on a freighter bound for Lisbon. Knocked around Europe for four or five years visiting religious shrines and studying various sects and their histories. Finally ended up in a Presbyterian college in England and became an ordained minister. Then, as might have been expected, he broke away from the Presbyterian religion and struck out on his own. Served as a non-denominational chaplain during the Spanish civil war—for both sides. Supposedly knew Hemingway very well. Married a Spanish girl after hostilities ceased.
“Anyway, eventually he returned to the U.S. and managed to solicit enough financial support to begin his own non-sectarian type of religion. Today he has a beautiful, modern church, a large congregation drawn from all walks of life, and he and his wife are active in just about every worthwhile cause you can name. I’ve seen his wife, incidentally; she’s a very lovely Latin type, that unusual kind that seems to age so gracefully, like good wine.” Devlin tossed his notes onto the table and sat back. “And that’s the story on His Worship, Abraham O’Hara.”
“Well,” Jennifer said, “he certainly doesn’t sound like someone who would be mixed up in a kidnapping. For that matter, neither does Dr. Fox.”
“That would be a very logical thought,” Devlin commented, “if this were an ordinary kidnapping. But it isn’t; it can’t be.”
“What kind of kidnapping would you call it, then?”
“I’ll be able to answer that when I find out the motive behind it,” Devlin told her. “Incidentally, do you happen to know what your husband keeps in the locked file cabinet in his office?”
“I didn’t even know he had a locked file cabinet,” she replied. “As I told you yesterday, Walt has kept the business pretty much to himself the past several years. The only person he really confides in is his secretary.”
“Evelyn Lund, yes. But even she didn’t know what was in this particular file. At least, she didn’t last night; by now she probably does.” He glanced at his watch: it was exactly seven o’clock. “Which reminds me, I have a date with Miss Lund to discuss that very subject.” He stood up, folding his notes to fit his shirt pocket. “What are your plans for the evening?”
Jennifer yawned and stretched lazily, her back arching gracefully, breasts thrusting out tightly against the sheer nylon that veiled but did not conceal them.
“I,” she said huskily, “am going to shower in your bathroom with your soap, clothe my naked self in a pair of your pajamas—preferably a pair in which you’ve already slept, so they’ll smell like you—and curl up with one of the books you have lying around here until you finish with the other woman in your life and decide to come home; after which, if you’ll pick up some steaks, I’ll cook them for us and we can have a romantic midnight supper and then—”
Devlin, putting on his coat, turned to find her moving into his arms.
“And then?”
“And then,” she buried her words against his neck, “you can do all those things to me again, like you did before—”
Devlin stroked her long, loose hair and stared past her at the dry, sterile fireplace.
“Not until after I find your husband,” he said quietly. She drew back and looked up at him.
“What does finding him have to do with our making love?” she asked incredulously.
“Perhaps nothing. Perhaps everything. But if I fail to find him in time, if he turns up dead before I put all the pieces of this bloody puzzle together, I don’t want to wonder for the rest of my life if he died because I was in bed with his wife instead of concentrating on my job. ”
Jennifer stared at him for a long moment after he finished speaking. Her eyes seemed to convey the brink of anger, but her lips had parted into a hurt expression.
“But the other night—”
“—was different,” Devlin finished the sentence for her. “Both of us were caught up in a moment that neither of us could control. I would have had you then no matter whose life depended on it. But that was a thing that wasn’t planned the way you’re planning tonight. I couldn’t make love to you tonight with a clear conscience. Do you understand?”
“I—I’m not sure if I do or not.” She turned away from him.
“Maybe I’ve explained it poorly—”
“No. No, you’ve explained it very well.” She kept her eyes averted. “It’s—just that I wasn’t expecting it, that’s all. I thought you wanted me again as badly as I want you.”
“I do,” he said quietly. “But I’m much stronger than you.”
“Yes,” she agreed, “you are, much.” She sighed heavily and forced a smile. “All right. You go on and do whatever you have to do.”
“Will you be all right?”
“Of course.”
Devlin nodded and touched her cheek gently. Then he left the apartment.
He rang the bell only once before Evelyn Lund opened the door to admit him.
“Hello,” she said pleasantly.
“Hello.”
Devlin stepped into an entry hall, let her close the door after him, and followed her into an expensively furnished living room with corner windows affording a choice of views.
“Very nice,” Devlin said, noting the luxurious carpeting, smart, modern furniture, and richly framed oils that adorned the room.
“Thank you,” said Evelyn Lund. “Sit down, please. Would you like a drink; I believe I owe you one.”
“I’ll settle for a cup of coffee if you have any.”
“I only have the instant kind; some people d
on’t like it—”
“It’s fine with me.”
Devlin did not sit down but followed her to the kitchen doorway and stood watching while she put a kettle to flame and took cups and saucers from a cupboard. She was wearing Capris and a sweater, and her hair was combed back into a pony-tail.
“You seem so small out of high heels,” he told her. “You look like a teenager.”
“Please,” she said wryly, “don’t remind me of my age. I haven’t been a teenager for quite a few years.”
“How many years?” he asked, suddenly curious.
“You’re certainly not shy about asking personal questions, are you?” She pushed two cups and saucers into his hands. “Here, take these to the coffee table.”
Devlin returned to the living room and she followed him a few moments later with the coffee. He settled into a softly upholstered armchair which, he was certain, must have cost five hundred dollars. Evelyn Lund sat opposite him, at one end of a curved sectional.
“I’m afraid I don’t have very good news for you,” she said. “There was absolutely nothing in Mr. Keyes’ private files to connect him with your Dr. Fox, Reverend O’Hara or Mr. Holt.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive. I went through every page in every file; there was nothing at all.”
Devlin sighed, almost a weary sigh, and sat back in the chair.
“Well, that kills that,” he said, more to himself than to Evelyn Lund.
“They wouldn’t possibly use other names, would they?”
“No,” he answered, shaking his head slowly, “there’d be no need to.” He lifted his cup and sipped at the coffee. “Just out of curiosity,” he said easily, “what does he keep in that file?”
“Oh, personal client information mostly. Things of a confidential nature.”
“Like abortion records, maybe?”
Evelyn colored slightly and her face tightened. “You agreed not to question me about those files if the names you’re interested in weren’t in them,” she reminded him.
“I don’t really have to question you,” he told her. “I can almost guess what would be in the private files of a man—no, not man, that’s the wrong term—of a person like J. Walter Keyes. Besides the abortion records there would be lists of out-of-the-way places to hold private sex parties; there might even be a file of pornographic materials and sources. Then there would be private financial records: who’s paying off who, and for what—”
“If you’re such an expert guesser,” Evelyn said coolly, “why did you put me to all the bother of going through them? Why didn’t you simply guess the contents?”
“Because,” Devlin said, “I thought maybe there was an off-chance that in among all the garbage of this man’s—this person’s—private business there might be some sliver of information that would tell me not only who abducted him but why he was abducted. ”
He put down his coffee cup and leaned forward in the chair, his face suddenly becoming dark and brooding, his black eyes growing blacker.
“Tell me, Miss Lund,” he said in a very quiet voice, “were you surprised to learn that your employer was involved in so much illicit business?”
Again she flushed, a deeper color this time, and when she answered her voice was no longer cool but had become unsteady.
“I—I’m not sure I know what you mean—”
“I think you do,” Devlin said, his flat stare holding her eyes transfixed to his own. “I mean were you surprised today by the things you found in Keyes’ private files—or did you already know about most of it?”
“I’m Mr. Keyes’ private secretary,” she said weakly. “Naturally, some of his personal affairs come to my attention from time to time—”
“That’s probably the way Keyes himself talks,” said Devlin. His eyes narrowed threateningly. “But that’s not the way you’re going to talk, Miss Lund, not with me. For once in your life you’re going to be honest—with yourself as well as me. Did you know before today that Keyes was involved in abortions?”
Evelyn’s lips trembled slightly but still she did not answer. She sought desperately to tear her gaze away from Devlin’s almost sinister countenance, but she could not; the black, piercing eyes held her as surely as magnets hold metal.
“Answer me,” he said, again in his terrible, quiet voice.
“Yes,” she nearly blurted out, the word sounding as her tormented eyes sprung their first tears.
“And the illicit sex, you knew about that also?”
“Yes—”
“You knew aboueverything, didn’t you? The whole rotten way he lived?”
“Yes—yes—yes—” her voice broke and she buried her face in her hands.
Devlin stood up and looked down at her sobbing form. His face was a cold mask that betrayed no pity, no sympathy.
“I thought so,” he said, as much to himself as to her. “I thought so the moment I stepped into this showcase apartment that you call home. Working girls don’t live like this, you know, unless they’re being kept or paid off for something. Tell me, how much does Keyes pay you for being his private secretary? ”
He waited a moment but she did not answer him. He turned and crossed to the entryway. At the door he paused and looked back at her.
“You told me last night that you were sorry for Abigail Daniels; sorry that she ended up in the state asylum. You should be sorry; you helped put her there.”
He opened the door and left, hearing her sobs drift after him.
Twenty
Alone in his locked, windowless room, J. Walter Keyes lay fully clothed stretched across the bed, staring at the ceiling. His eyes were wide, their pupils fixed; his lax mouth hung open loosely. He lay very still, contemplating his fate.
They meant to kill him, of course; he was positive of that much. They had already said that he was their first subject—victim would be more like it—and that they intended to make an example of him. Probably they would devise some perverted way of doing it, to make themselves look good, to make what they were doing seem just and right. Perhaps, he thought, they would crucify him; nail his body to a cross and prop him up in public for everyone to see—
He shuddered at the thought and flicked out his tongue to nervously moisten his lips. Dirty bastards, he silently cursed. No better than criminals, the lot of them. What right did they have to subject him to this kind of torment and torture? Them and their almighty truth; truth this and truth that, truth, truth, truth—that was all they ever talked about, their excuse for everything they did. Truth, truth, truth. Crazy bastards, all of them—
He felt acid building up inside him and sat up on the edge of the bed, holding his stomach with both hands. Goddamn stomach acting up again; that was their fault, too. They’d made a physical wreck of him, keeping him locked up like some goddamned wild animal, not letting him have any exercise or fresh air—
He made a futile attempt to belch, failed, and walked across the room to enter the bathroom. The bottle of pills they had given him was on the lavatory next to a water glass. His Oriental keeper had brought them to him the previous day after he had complained of stomach pains. He had not taken any of them; he was afraid to, they might be poison. But tonight his stomach was bad, really bad—
What the hell, he decided, reaching for the bottle. They wouldn’t do it that way, not the quick, painless way with poison; that was too easy, too uncomplicated for them. He shook a single pink tablet into the palm of one hand. As he raised it to his lips, he glanced at his reflection in the mirror and suddenly froze.
What if it was poison? he thought. What if it was just a trick to make him take his own life so they wouldn’t have his death on their collective consciences? Suppose this innocent-looking little pink pill would make him go to sleep and never, never wake up again—
His hand began to tremble and he uncurled his fingers to let the tablet fall into the lavatory. It did not fall, however; it clung to the sweaty palm of his hand. He felt himself go very warm wit
h a heat that flushed through his body. Staring at the little pink tablet, a mild panic set in and he violently shook his hand to rid it of the damned evil pill. Still the tablet refused to be disengaged. Muttering another curse, he shoved his hand under the faucet and turned the water on full force. It came out scalding hot and burned him. He snatched the hand back, cursing in pain. As he did he caught a glimpse of the pink tablet floating swiftly down the drain.
With tears in his eyes, Keyes gently patted his outraged hand with a towel until it was dry. Son of a bitch—
His stomach was burning worse than ever now so he turned on the cold water, let it run for a moment, and filled the glass. He drank it down in long, forced swallows, feeling it spread out along the wall of his stomach and temporarily reduce the burning acid that was plaguing him so relentlessly. He sighed with relief, knowing but not caring that within half an hour the water would be subdued and the acid once again would be in control.
Leaning forward against the cold formica of the lavatory counter, Keyes studied his face in the mirror. He looked bad, very bad. He was pale and his eyes looked sick; his mustache needed trimming and waxing; his jowls were beginning to hang. He would, he thought, have a hell of a time getting some cunt to give him a tumble in this condition. He probably wouldn’t even be able to get into a pushover like Abby looking the way he did now—
Abby: the thought stuck in his mind. What a tender little snatch that one had been; and all his, too; wrapped up and tied, his own personal piece. A brilliant fucking score, if he did say so himself.
Thinking about her, Keyes unbuttoned his shirt and rubbed his fingertips into the thick hair on his chest. Ah, she was something, really something! Any time, any place, any way he wanted it—like a fucking trained dog. Sit up, Abby; roll over, Abby; eat me, Abby—
He smiled a leering smile at himself in the mirror and slipped out of his shirt, dropping it to the floor.
My little protege, he thought, chuckling softly. My little true love. We had so much in common. Sure we did. One thing especially: we were both crazy about Walt Keyes.
