by Stuart Woods
The two men walked from their opposite ends to the middle of the huge floor and embraced.
“Hello, Ricky,” Hickock said. “Thank you so much for coming.” Bianchi was, as always, tanned and slim, and his finely barbered hair had gone snow white.
“Dickie,” Bianchi said, holding him at arm’s length and looking at him. “You lost some weight.”
“Yeah, well, Glynnis made me buy a treadmill.”
Bianchi laughed heartily. “My wife will never get me on one of those.”
“How is she? And your daughter?”
“The wife is the same, maybe a little fatter. Mary Ann is married to the law, you will remember.”
“That must be a little touchy,” Hickock said.
“We manage to get along, mostly by not talking. He’s not a bad fellow, for a cop. I bought them an apartment on the East Side; Mary Ann has never liked Brooklyn.”
“That’s very generous of you.”
“Well, she’s my only daughter, you know, and she’s a tough one, like me. She gets what she wants, always.” He tucked Hickock’s arm into his. “Let’s walk.”
Hickock moved with him and, arm in arm, they promenaded slowly around the empty floor.
“I’m sorry we have to meet like this, but the feds are everywhere these days, have everything bugged. I can’t even talk in my car anymore, and we had to lose a carload of them before coming here today.”
“It’s all right; I understand. I’m just glad you could take the time.”
“Something’s wrong, eh?” Bianchi asked.
“I’m afraid so.”
“Tell me about it.”
“There are two young men who have been circulating rumors about me; they have almost cost me my marriage.”
Bianchi made a noise. “That is awful, to attack a man’s personal life. Is this a business thing?”
“They seem to know more than they should about my business. An employee has talked out of turn.”
“And you want me to, ah, speak to this employee?”
Hickock shook his head. “No; I can take care of him whenever I like. But the two young men are out of my reach.”
“But, perhaps, not out of mine?” Bianchi said, chuckling.
“I hope you are right. They have been very elusive; I have names, but they may be false; I have no address, but they are circulating around the fashionable quarters of Manhattan.” Hickock pulled a copy of Vanity Fair from his overcoat pocket and opened it. “But I have a very good photograph of one of them. He calls himself Jonathan Dryer.”
Bianchi stopped walking, fished a lighter out of his jacket pocket, and struck it, studying the photograph. “A good-looking boy,” he said. He closed the magazine and tucked it into his own overcoat pocket.
“Yes, he seems to do well with the ladies. The other one has used the name Geoffrey Power, and maybe G. Gable.”
“What else can you tell me about these young men?”
“They resemble each other – so much so that they may be brothers. One of them has recently arrived from L.A. One or both of them has some considerable skill as a burglar; he has broken into several large apartments and stolen cash, jewelry – always men’s wristwatches – and a pistol with a silencer attached. One of them may have killed a retired police officer with the stolen pistol.”
“So the police are already looking for them?”
“No, not yet; there hasn’t been enough evidence to connect them to the murder. I have no hard information whatever about these two; everything I have told you is just guessing.”
“How did you come by what you have already told me?”
“I hired an investigator.”
“His name?”
“Stone Barrington. You know him?”
“I know of him; he is a friend of my son-in-law, the cop.”
“He’s very good.”
“Is he still working on this?”
“He’s being called off today. I’m afraid that if he finds them and the police start talking to them, too much of this will get into the papers.”
Bianchi nodded. “I see. Is there anything else you can tell me about these two?”
“No, that’s all Barrington has been able to find out.”
“And it’s only these two you wish me to deal with?”
“There’s a third.” He handed Bianchi a slip of paper. “I haven’t decided what to do about that one yet. If we move, it will have to be an accident; I’ll let you know later about that.”
“I see. So you wish me to find these two young men and then…”
“I want a permanent solution; I don’t want to hear about them again,” Hickock said. “Ever.”
Bianchi nodded. “I don’t blame you; it is what I would do, in the circumstances.”
“I apologize for bringing up money, but I know this will be expensive.”
“You are very kind, Dickie.”
Hickock removed a thick envelope from his other overcoat pocket and handed it to Bianchi. “There’s fifty thousand in there,” he said. “I hope that will cover it.”
“I believe so,” Bianchi said, “unless there are unusual complications.”
“I’m very grateful to you, Ricky,” Hickock said.
Bianchi shrugged. “It is at times like this that one must come to one’s old friends. I am sorry that circumstances prevent us from meeting more often, when there is no business to discuss.”
“I’m sorry for that, too, old friend. Do you know that we have seen each other only a half-dozen times since Yale? I feel badly that I only come to you when I have problems.”
“Do not concern yourself,” Bianchi said. “I know your heart.”
“You are a good friend, Ricky.”
Bianchi embraced Hickock again. “I must go; there is always business to do. I will be in touch through the usual channels when this business of yours has been completed.”
“Good-bye, Ricky.”
“Good-bye, Dickie.”
The two men parted, and each walked to his own elevator.
There was a man waiting for Bianchi on the ground floor, and he handed him the magazine. On the way back to the car he imparted the information he had just learned. “Make copies of this photograph, small ones; put the word out on the street, especially in the good bars and restaurants, that we want to locate both of them. There will be a two-thousand-dollar reward for this information. When they have both – not one, but both – been found, they should die in a way that will seem to be an ordinary crime – a mugging, a robbery. There will be five thousand each for this work, but for the money to be paid, they must both be killed, you understand?”
The man nodded. “Si, padrone,” he said.
They had reached the car. Bianchi held a finger to his lips for silence, then they got in.
“Stone?”
“Yes, Amanda, what’s up?”
“I had lunch with Dick Hickock today, and we’ve decided to call off the DIRT investigation.”
“Really?” Stone asked, surprised. “Why?”
“We talked about it, and we decided it’s just not important enough to continue devoting all this effort and money to it, so will you send me a final bill?”
“Of course. There isn’t much; you’ve already paid most of it.”
“Good, just send it, then. Hope I’ll see you and Arrington soon.”
“Thanks, Amanda.”
“Bye.” She hung up.
Stone turned to Arrington. “Amanda and Hickock are calling off the investigation.”
“Good God! Why?”
“I don’t know. She said something about it not being worth the trouble, but I don’t buy that. They’ve both been very avid about it up to now.”
“This is very strange.”
“I think there’s something going on that we don’t know about,” he said.
“Are you going to stop looking for Jonathan, then?”
“Certainly not. I still have a couple of personal things to talk with Mr. Dryer
about.”
“Maybe you should just let it go, Stone. The whole thing is a little too scary.”
“No, I won’t let it go,” he said.
Chapter 49
Stone got out of the cab at the Washington Square Arch and walked along the north rim of the park, enjoying the clear, cold morning and looking at the small children playing in the new-fallen snow, their mothers or nannies watching over them like mother hens. He crossed the street to a row of elegant townhouses that were occupied by senior faculty and administrators of New York University, then climbed the steps to a highly varnished front door and rang the bell.
A uniformed maid answered the door. “Yes?”
“My name is Barrington; I have an appointment with Dr. Bernard.”
“Oh, yes, he’s expecting you; please follow me.” She led him up the stairs to the second floor, to a set of double doors on the south side of the house, and knocked briefly.
“Come!” a muffled voice cried.
She opened the door. “Dr. Bernard, your visitor is here.”
“Ah, yes; show him in, please.”
The maid admitted Stone, then closed the door behind him. He was in a good-sized library, which could not contain the books that had been stuffed into it. They were everywhere, on every surface, on chairs and on the floor. A row of high windows afforded a fine view of Washington Square Park.
“Mr. Barrington,” the old man said, rising and extending his hand.
“Dr. Bernard,” Stone said, shaking his hand. “It’s been a very long time.” About twenty years.
Bernard waved him to a chair before the fireplace, opposite his own. “Just dump those books on the floor. Yes, it has been a long time, though I’ve read of you in the papers once or twice. You were injured, weren’t you?”
“Yes, sir, a bullet in the knee; occupational hazard. It’s in pretty good shape now.”
“Ah, yes, the occupation you chose. I admit, I never understood it.”
“With hindsight, perhaps it wasn’t the best choice,” Stone said. “But it’s been an interesting life.”
“I see you’ve gained wisdom with age,” Bernard said, a trace of a smile crossing his plump face.
The maid entered with a tray bearing a Thermos, some cups, and a plate of cookies.
“Some coffee?” Bernard asked.
“Thank you; black, please.” He watched as his old professor poured. He hadn’t changed much; a little heavier, maybe; he still wore very fine suits, hadn’t let himself go the way many old men do. He was freshly barbered and shaved, and when he crossed his legs, his most visible foot wore a very expensive shoe.
“You left the police department, I believe.”
“Yes; I was given the boot, really, on medical grounds, with a full salary.”
“And what have you been doing since your retirement?”
“I’m of counsel to Woodman and Weld.”
“An estimable firm. I’ve known Woodman all his life. You said ‘of counsel.’ Not a partner?”
“No. I’m rather a special case there; I work out of my home, which is not far from their offices, handling cases for their clients that don’t quite fit the Woodman and Weld profile.”
“Ah, I see; dirty laundry.”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Are you happy doing this work?”
“I suppose I’d rather be arguing cases before the Supreme Court, but I’m content with my lot.”
Bernard nodded. “Contentment is devoutly to be wished, perhaps more than glory.”
“Perhaps.”
“I always saw you as a very fine trial lawyer.”
“I do some trial work, but maybe not the kind you saw me doing. As a matter of fact, I recall that you saw quite a different calling for me.”
“Ah, yes. Is that what you’ve come to see me about? A little late in life for that sort of thing, isn’t it?”
“Probably so.”
“They’re in such a mess now, after that Aldrich Ames business. Makes me regret that I steered young men their way. Still, some of them have served honorably. As for the rest, well… the Company always finds somebody to do that kind of work, much as Woodman and Weld have found you.”
That stung. “Well, what you describe as Woodman and Weld’s ‘dirty laundry’ is still honorable work,” Stone replied.
“Of course, and I know you’ve conducted yourself honorably. I apologize for what must have seemed a slur.”
“Not at all, sir.”
“So, why have you come to see me?”
Stone took the ad from Vanity Fair from his pocket and handed it to Bernard. “I want to find this man,” he said, “and there’s some indication that he may have picked up certain unsavory skills while working for some federal agency.”
“This is not at all in my line,” Bernard said. “Why do you want to find him?”
“He may have been involved in some very serious criminal matters.”
“How serious?”
“He may have committed a number of burglaries in New York, including one at my house, during which I was attacked. The burglaries exhibited certain skills that are not possessed by your garden-variety burglar. He may have an accomplice, who may be his brother.”
“What else?”
“He may be implicated in the murder of a retired police officer, a man who sometimes worked for me.”
“That’s very serious indeed,” Bernard said. “What exactly is it you wish me to do?”
“If you still have contacts in place, I would be very grateful if you could make some inquiries for me. Any background information on this man would be very helpful. I don’t even know his real name.”
“What aliases has he been using?”
“Jonathan Dryer.”
Bernard burst out laughing.
“What is it?” Stone asked, puzzled.
“That is the name of a man who ran some of the training courses at a place called ‘The Farm.’ He was not terribly well liked by many of his students.”
“What did he teach, if I may ask?”
“The sort of skills that might be useful in a burglary.”
“I see.”
Bernard picked up the telephone at his side, pressed a single button, and waited. “Hello, this is Samuel Bernard,” he said. “Is he in?” He waited a moment for his party to come on the line. “Good morning, Ben,” he said. “I’d like to fax you a photograph and see if you can come up with anything on the subject. He may have had some training at The Farm; he’s been using the alias Jonathan Dryer.” He smiled. “Yes, I thought that would amuse you. I’ll send it along now, shall I? Good, see you soon, I hope.” He hung up and turned to Stone. “Will you excuse me for a few minutes, Mr. Barrington?” He rose and went into an adjoining room and, through the open door, Stone could see him using a fax machine. While it was working, he came back to the door and closed it.
Stone poured himself some more coffee and gazed idly out the window at the children in the park. Perhaps twenty minutes had passed and he had nearly dozed off when the telephone rang and was answered in another room. Then it rang again; Stone could see two lighted buttons on the instrument next to Bernard’s chair.
Another few minutes passed, and Bernard returned, holding two sheets of paper. When he had settled himself in his chair and poured himself some more coffee, he looked up at Stone. “Now. You and I must understand each other; what I am about to impart to you goes no further, and I include the police in that admonition. In fact, you may not even say to anyone that we met. Is that understood?”
“Completely.”
“Your man’s name is Thomas Bruce; he is thirty-four years old. His father was a career naval officer who rose to the rank of captain; his parents are both dead. He has an electronics engineering degree from Rennselaer Polytechnic Institute; he has a brother, Charles, thirty-three, and a sister, Lucille, thirty-seven. He was recruited out of college, probably by someone very like me, and underwent a year’s training before bei
ng assigned overseas. He served in half a dozen countries and returned to this country four years ago. He was separated from the service involuntarily during a period of cutbacks. His last known address was in northern Virginia, but that was three years ago.”
“Is there an address for his brother or sister?”
Bernard scribbled down something on a pad and handed it to Stone. “A New Jersey housewife, apparently – Mrs. Randall Burch – but that address is three years old, too.”
“Thanks, I’ll check that out.”
“The brother is quite something else,” Bernard continued. “His last known address was the California correctional institution at Chino. He was serving five to seven years for – you’ll like this – burglary. He went in four years ago, and I should think it’s quite likely that he has been paroled by now. I suppose you could locate his parole officer and get his last address, but from what you’ve told me it sounds very much as though he might have left California, doesn’t it?”
“It does. Anything else?”
“Thomas Bruce was rated very highly for his technical skills, but his psychological evaluation showed a propensity for violence. He was in trouble a couple of times; had to leave one Central American country after an incident with a woman.” He looked up. “That’s it,” he said. He went to the fireplace and fed the two sheets of paper into the flames.
Stone stood up. “Dr. Bernard, I can’t thank you enough. I know that what I asked you to do was irregular, and I’m very grateful to you.”
“Not at all,” Bernard said. “I hope it will help you find this man. He sounds as though he shouldn’t be on the streets.” He held up a finger. “Oh, one more thing; the sort of training he had would have included establishing false identities.”
“That doesn’t surprise me, sir. Thank you again.” The two men shook hands, and Stone found his way downstairs and out of the house. Back on the street, he looked at the slip of paper in his hand. Rahway, New Jersey. He’d have to rent a car.
