Ex Officio

by Donald E. Westlake

  Elizabeth’s body lay in the living room, where it had been since Wednesday afternoon. Sterling had continued to stay in the house, joined by his two daughters-in-law, Howard’s wife Grace and Edward’s wife Janet, the latter there with Edward from Paris. The rest of the family had assembled in town last night and this morning, most of them staying at one of the motels on the highway, Wellington and one or two others staying at Lancashire House, the old hotel in town. Bradford had come up this morning by car, accompanied by Evelyn and Howard and (as though fortuitously) by Gregory Holt; a car full of young men from the family, Thomas Wellington and Albert Bloor Jr. and Robert Pratt (considered family now) and George Holt, had followed Bradford’s Lincoln the whole way.

  Upon arrival in Lancashire, Bradford found himself at once flanked by Harrison on one side and by Senator Meredith Fanshaw on the other. It was not unnatural that they should stay close to him from that point on, from the instant he left the car in front of Sterling’s house.

  Family members seemed to be spread all over town, and an amazing number of them seemed to have sprouted hearing aids, unobtrusive flesh-colored plastic buttons, usually in the left ear. Wellington had supplied these items, which were sophisticated miniature walkie-talkies. Unfortunately, there hadn’t been time to train the family in the use of throat mikes, so communication was strictly one way, but at least it was possible for Wellington to move his forces around.

  William and Walter Wellington, both fiftyish Boston attorneys, drove up and down the route between Sterling’s house and Greenland Cemetery for an hour before the funeral procession was to begin, looking for anything out of the ordinary. The radio receivers in their ears crackled slightly from time to time, but were otherwise silent. Wellington had given them the code number four; instructions to them would be preceded by that number.

  In the church, which would be the one stop on the route, James Fanshaw sat in a rear pew with Joseph Holt, the two discussing in low tones the mental health of both Bradford Lockridges, Senior and Junior. They also kept glancing around for anything that didn’t look just right. And they kept listening to the transmitters in their ears for Wellington to say the number three.

  In the cemetery itself, Eugene White sat in his car just off the gravel road on a high spot where he could see most of the cemetery just by turning his head. Beside him sat Mortimer Wellington, forty-three, New York stockbroker, well-padded by affluence. The number they were waiting for was five.

  A great deal of rapid but careful work had gone into the preparations for the funeral. In the first place, it had been limited to family; an abridged explanation of the situation had been given Sterling, so he would understand anything out of the ordinary in the handling of the funeral, but though he had at once volunteered to take an active role it had been decided that even this crisis should not be allowed to intrude on his farewell to Elizabeth.

  There were to be seven cars following the hearse and flower car, with five family members in each, making thirty-five in all. There were also James Fanshaw and Joseph Holt at the church, Walter and William Wellington driving back and forth along the route, and Eugene White and Mortimer Wellington at the cemetery, they having been the six chosen because none of them was directly related to Elizabeth, and so would not be particularly noticeable in their absence. And finally, Earl Chatham, who had missed yesterday’s meeting but had flown in from the coast last night, and whose number was six, was staying at Sterling’s house while the rest of the family was gone for the funeral. This made a total of forty-one relatives and in-laws surrounding Bradford.

  The procession left the house at twelve-twenty, the church ceremony being planned for one o’clock. Slowly the mourners filed out of the house into cold November sunlight and entered the cars.

  The first car took Sterling, and Elizabeth’s two banker brothers, Albert and Edward Bloor, and their wives, Rosemary and Elaine. Albert had what looked like a flesh-colored hearing aid in his left ear; his number was seven.

  Beginning with the second car, the order of passengers differed wildly from the usual. The second car contained Bradford, his brother Harrison, Meredith Fanshaw, Howard Lockridge and Gregory Holt. Fanshaw wore the hearing aid, and his number was one. The seating arrangement was: Bradford in the middle of the rear seat, Senator Fanshaw on his left, Harrison on his right, Howard and Gregory in two jump seats in front of him. With all four around him that way, he couldn’t see outside very well, but there was no reason for him to want to see outside. He had, in any case, been moody since hearing of Elizabeth’s death, probably because it reminded him of the shortness of the time he also had left.

  The third car contained the same four young men who had escorted Bradford up from Eustace: Thomas Wellington, Albert Bloor, Jr., Robert Pratt, George Holt. Robert Pratt had the hearing aid, and his number was two. With the four young men was Evelyn, there against Wellington’s wishes, but determined to be no more than one car away from Bradford.

  In the fourth car rode Wellington, with his transmitter and his wife Carol. John Bloor, Boston attorney, also rode in that car, haying been unseated from the car in front by Evelyn, and Edward and Janet Lockridge from Paris completed the group.

  The last three cars were full of wives. In car five, Harrison’s wife Patricia; Howard’s wife Grace; Joe Holt’s wife Margaret; William Wellington’s wife Sara; and Walter Wellington’s wife Milicent. In car six, Earl Chatham’s wife Patricia; Eugene White’s wife Sandra; James Fanshaw’s wife Rita; Mortimer Wellington’s wife Mavis; and a young widow, Katherine White, Elizabeth’s niece and John Bloor’s sister. And in the last car, Albert Bloor Jr.’s wife Jane; George Holt’s wife Marie; John Bloor’s wife Deborah; Gregory Holt’s wife Audrey; and the only teenager present, Wellington’s seventeen-year-old daughter, no longer a virgin, Deborah.

  The cars moved off, headlights burning. Earl Chatham watched them leave from an upstairs window, hearing the undertaker’s men dismantling the platform and other equipment in the living room. By the time everyone got back, the undertaker’s men would have cleaned up and departed, and the caterer’s men would have laid out coffee and drinks and sandwiches.

  At the first turn, Wellington looked to his left, and saw, parked where it should be, the car containing Walter and William Wellington. Its presence there meant they’d seen nothing alarming along their route.

  Wellington spoke into his transmitter: “Four. Precede us by a minimum of a block. If anything bothers you, develop horn trouble.” He had shown them, early this morning, how to rig their car simply so as to wind up with a stuck horn at will.

  The cortege was moving slowly, so the Wellington brothers had no trouble passing them and moving out in front. Wellington watched them go by, and said into his transmitter: “Three.” That was James Fanshaw and Joseph Holt, in the church. “We are en route.”

  In the church, Fanshaw wordlessly got to his feet and walked outside. Holt waited a moment, then stood and began to walk around the perimeter aisles of the church, strolling slowly along as though interested in nothing but the stained glass windows. Outside, Fanshaw strolled back and forth on the sidewalk, studying the faces of the people who passed and the looks of the automobiles parked across the way.

  Their route formed the two sides of a triangle of which the river was the base. From Sterling’s house to the cemetery was the base line, more or less straight, following the river. The church stood in about the middle of town; to get to it, the funeral procession had to travel northwest, at an angle away from the river. Afterward, it would travel northeast to the cemetery, at an angle in toward the river again. And finally it would return to Sterling’s house down the base line of the triangle.

  The first leg of the triangle, from house to church, was a distance of twelve blocks, including two right turns and one left turn. In the seventh block, a tan Mercury suddenly bolted from a side street and rammed the flower car broadside. Two young men, upright-looking and neatly dressed, jumped from the tan Mercury and began to shout at the drive
r of the flower car, blaming him for cutting them off. They seemed unaware of the funeral procession, which had of necessity come to a stop.

  Wellington, four cars back, had seen the accident unclearly, but he knew about it. Though he had nothing so obvious as a hearing aid in his ear, a small tinny voice was speaking in it, describing the accident in fast monosyllables. This was a second line of defense, about which the family knew nothing, a thin line of men, sprinkled along the sides of the triangle, in communication with Wellington and with one another: professionals, ready to step in if needed.

  Wellington, into the transmitter: “One.” That was Meredith Fanshaw, in the second car beside Bradford. “Cover.”

  Fanshaw leaned forward in the seat, saying, “Interruptions?” That was the word he was to use in giving the others Wellington’s instruction to cover.

  At once, the four men around Bradford were all leaning forward, moving back and forth, pointing this way and that, discussing the reason for having stopped, so surrounding Bradford with gestures and bodies and talk that he couldn’t possibly see or hear anything that was going on outside.

  Ten seconds had passed since the accident. A green Chevrolet was passing the stopped cortege on the left. Wellington said, “Two. Shield.”

  The doors of the third car, behind Bradford’s, opened, and out spilled the four young men who had been tailing him all day. Robert Pratt and the spectacled, balding-at-twenty-eight-but-handball-enthusiast young banker, Albert Bloor Jr., trotted forward to stand on the left side of Bradford’s car. George Holt and twenty-one-year-old Thomas Wellington hurried to stand on the right.

  The green Chevrolet stopped beside Bradford’s car, arriving at the same time as Robert Pratt and Albert Bloor Jr. The Chevrolet’s right-side doors opened, and three young men climbed out, one from the front, two from the back, leaving the driver. At the same time, the two young men from the Mercury began to move down from the flower car on the other side.

  Robert held one of the young men against the side of the Chevrolet, so he wouldn’t be able to roll with it, and hit him three times in the face. Meanwhile, Albert was holding the other two off with weaving jabs.

  Across the car, George Holt and Thomas Wellington stepped forward to greet the pair from the Mercury.

  Wellington, into the transmitter: “Four.” Walter and William Wellington. “Return. Block green Chewy.”

  Bradford, trying to see past everyone, said, “What’s going on out there?” Vague confused movement, that’s all he could see.

  Gregory, purposely misunderstanding as they all crowded even closer to Bradford, “Some sort of accident. I sure hope it doesn’t hold us up long.” Everyone else agreed, at length.

  In Wellington’s car, John Bloor said, “I better get up there with them.” He got out of the car, and trotted forward.

  The young man Robert had held against the car was now on the ground. Robert and Albert Jr. were struggling with the other two, no one able to get an advantage in the narrow space between the Chevrolet and Bradford’s car. On the other side, Thomas Wellington had one of the young men from the Mercury down and was straddling him and hitting him. The other one from the Mercury had George Holt down, but George was refusing to let go, and the two were rolling on the pavement. Thirty seconds had passed since the accident.

  Wellington moved his lips, but didn’t seem to speak. What he had said, subvocally, was, “Give me some siren.”

  A siren wailed, sounding a few blocks away.

  The driver of the Chevrolet began to honk his horn, either for the others to hurry the job or to give it up. William and Walter Wellington came driving back, and angled across the street to block the Chevrolet, whose driver kept on honking while starting to back away, trying to avoid being blocked.

  Wellington was sub-vocally giving a description of the Chevrolet.

  Thomas Wellington had knocked out his opponent, and was now scrambling over to help George Holt.

  John Bloor arrived to help Robert and his cousin Albert, attacking the two from the Chevrolet at a different angle.

  George’s opponent leaped to his feet, fought off Thomas Wellington, and ran.

  There was practically no traffic in this residential neighborhood at noontime of a weekday; they had the area virtually to themselves.

  The two conscious young men from the Chevrolet broke and ran, trying to get back into their car, which was still moving in reverse down the street, trying to keep the Wellington brothers from maneuvering it into a cul-de-sac.

  Wellington: “Four. Let them go.”

  The Chevrolet, no longer being blocked, leaped forward and made a screeching turn at the next corner. Three of the attackers departed on foot. Two were unconscious on the pavement.

  Wellington: “Two. Get the Mercury out of the way.”

  Thomas Wellington, Robert Pratt, both Bloors and George Holt trotted up to the flower car. The Mercury had dented its side panel, and punctured its own radiator, but that seemed to be about all the damage. Robert got behind the wheel, shifted into neutral, and steered while the others pushed the car back into the side street and left it at the curb.

  The young man Robert had knocked out got dazedly to his feet. Greg Holt looked levelly at him from the window of Bradford’s car. The young man looked around, and went trotting uncertainly away.

  In the lead car, Sterling was opening and closing his fists on his knees. “To do this to Elizabeth,” he kept saying. “To do this to Elizabeth.” His two brothers-in-law and their wives looked at him in helpless compassion.

  Wellington: “Four. Back to your post, one block ahead.”

  The Wellington brothers’ car made a U-turn and sped away.

  John Bloor was running back toward car number four. His cousin and Robert and the other two were already climbing back into the third car, where Evelyn anxiously began to ask them if everybody was all right, while looking exclusively at Robert. Fifty-five seconds had passed since the accident.

  The hearse began to move. The flower car followed. The seven cars with the mourners came in their wake. The final young man was sitting up in the street, rubbing his head and looking after the procession. He got to his feet, very unsteady, and walked away, going half a block before a blue Buick pulled to a stop near him and two cold-looking men got out and took him by the arms. “Hey!” he said. “What are you grabbing me for? What did I do?”

  They didn’t answer him. They put him in the car and took him to a small old brick building downtown, where they led him to a room already containing the driver of the Chevrolet and two of the other four attackers. They kept him there two or three minutes, and then took him away by himself to a fairly large men’s room. There were four of them, and one of him. They stood around looking at him, and one of them soaked a white terrycloth towel in a sink full of water, then squeezed some of the water out. Holding the wet towel, he said, “Before I ask you the questions, I want to explain why you should give me the answers.” And then he began to hit the young man with the towel.

  iii

  THE FOUR YOUNG MEN in the maroon-and-black Pontiac were silent until one of them said “We’ve still got to get Lockridge.”

  “Without any of them getting us.”

  “Naturally.”

  “I don’t care what you say,” said a third, “they were ready for us. They were out of their car before Joey even had the Chevy stopped.”

  “So they know our plans,” said the first. “We can change them. We don’t have to make the try at the cemetery.”

  “Fine,” said the fourth. “But what do we do instead?”

  “They’ll go back to the house. We’ll wait for him there.”

  “Then what?”

  “The house is right on the river. We find ourselves a motorboat, we take Lockridge out the back door, into the motorboat, across the river.”

  “What good does that do us?”

  “The nearest bridge is ten miles away at Clark’s Ferry.”

  “Okay, we can’t be followe
d. But we’re on the wrong side of the river. How do we get back to the farm?”

  The first said, “We pick up a car on the other side, over in Millersburg. I know how to jump wires. We drive up to Sunbury, come back across the river up there, and come on back south. They’ll be looking for people going the other way, but they won’t be looking for people coming back this way.”

  “I like that,” said the third.

  “But first we’ve got to get a motorboat,” said the fourth. “How do we do that?”

  “To start,” the first told him, “we go to the river.” Being the driver, he now faced front and started the engine, then paused to say, “Any problems?”

  There were no problems. He nodded, and the Pontiac moved away from the curb.

  South of town there were a number of elderly summer cottages along the river, some with boathouses, locked up now for the winter. In the third of these into which the young men forced their way, they found a motorboat whose engine would start without a key. They flipped coins democratically to decide which one would operate the motorboat, and the other three closed the boathouse doors again after he’d taken the boat out into the river. They stood on shore and waved to him, and he waved back, then turned the prow upstream and went chugging slowly northward. He was in no hurry, and the slow speed was quieter, less likely to draw attention.

  The other three returned to the Pontiac, and drove north up route 11/15 to where the campus started on their left. They drove through the south gate, parked in a student parking area, and walked across the campus to the main gate, which faced the president’s house. They all had vague troubled feelings, memories, regrets, as they walked across the campus, which showed as small frowns around their mouths and eyes, but which none of them mentioned to one another.