Shadow of a Broken Man m-1

by George C. Chesbro

  James's face broke into a broad grin. "Sure. I'm threatened all the time-mostly by clergymen and physicists."

  I thought of Abu and couldn't even work up a smile. "I'm talking about power. Could a man do something with E.S.P. that could cause others to want to kill him?"

  "That's a heavy question. Are you putting me on?"

  "No, Dr. James. I'm serious."

  "I can see that," he said soberly. "No, I can't think of anything like that. In fact, I almost wish the people in this country would take it that seriously. The Russians are far ahead of us in the field."

  I leaned forward. "They are?"

  "Yes. Of course, their government puts tremendous amounts of money into research. They're reported to have a woman with telekinetic ability."

  The second subject that Arthur Morton had apparently been interested in. "What can you tell me about that?"

  "Telekinesis is the ability to move objects through the power of thought." I must have looked skeptical. James cleared his throat and rapped his knuckles on the desk. "I've seen films of a Russian woman who seems able to move objects by willing it. Of course, films can be faked, but I don't think these were. First, the Russians don't really have a motive. Second, if they were going to fake something like that, they might as well have her move a suitcase or something big, not pins and matchsticks. She moves the objects by concentrating and passing her hands over them."

  "To what purpose?"

  He shrugged. "No purpose; except that if it's true, I think it's pretty fantastic. Don't you? Mind over matter. Imagine man's potential if it can be shown that he can move objects simply by focusing mental energy."

  "I think we have more pressing problems."

  "No argument there. Would you like to see our facilities?"

  "Yes, I'd like that very much."

  James came around from behind his desk and held the door open for me; he was a proud father about to show off his baby. I followed him around the complex and tried to look interested and nod at the right times. But my mind wandered as I tried to connect what I'd seen and heard to my knowledge of Victor Rafferty and the dead men around him.

  I was going to need a break; there weren't many more places to visit or people to talk to.

  It was a few minutes after five when I landed at LaGuardia, just in time for the evening rush-hour traffic. I sat in the back seat of a cab and stewed. I was tired; ready for a stiff drink or three, dinner, and bed.

  It was six fifteen by the time I arrived in Manhattan. My mood had abruptly changed: I was suddenly cold and panicky, pent in by the traffic, the noise, and the realization that there was a maniac in the city who would kill me if he found out I was alive. The apartment now seemed too much like a prison or a trap, and I no longer wanted to go home.

  I instructed the cab driver to take me downtown to the medical building where Arthur Morton had had offices. I didn't have hopes of finding anyone still there, but checking the building directory for Mary Llewellyn's name would give me something to do. Hers was the last name I had: the last link in a chain that seemed to be made out of air.

  The medical building looked deserted, except for a single guard at the doors who was absorbed in the Final Edition of the New York Post. He looked up as I entered, then stuck his nose back into his paper. I walked to the directory at the opposite end of the lobby.

  Dr. Mary Llewellyn, Clinical Psychologist, was listed. Fifth floor. I decided to see if she was working late. I took the self-service elevator to the fifth floor, made my way around a cleaning lady, and found Mary Llewellyn's office at the end of the corridor. The light was on inside the office. I knocked, then pushed on the translucent glass door.

  A woman in her late thirties looked up from a paper- strewn desk. Mary Llewellyn was attractive in a prissy way. Her blond hair was drawn back in a severe bun. Her eyes were a cold sea-green and seemed to form a barrier between herself and the rest of the world. She looked like a career woman who had lost herself in her work and had no desire to find her way back again.

  "Dr. Llewellyn?"

  "Yes?" Her tone was frosty.

  "Bob Frederickson."

  She ignored the hand I offered. "I believe I've heard of you. What can I do for you, Mr. Frederickson?"

  "I'm a private investigator. I've been hired by a private party to investigate the murder of one of your colleagues."

  A tapered, well-manicured hand shot to her mouth. "Someone I know has been murdered?"

  "This murder took place five years ago."

  The hand slowly dropped into her lap. "You're talking about Arthur," she whispered.

  "That's right, ma'am. I'd like to ask you a few questions."

  "I'm glad someone's finally getting around to looking into it," she said in a voice that seemed burdened with a weight from the past. "It's disgraceful the way nothing was ever done."

  "It's hard to catch a murderer when you can't find the motive," I said, watching her hands as they reached out and seized the edge of the desk. "Maybe he surprised a couple of burglars."

  "These were no ordinary burglars," she said with feeling.

  "Why do you say that?"

  I watched a veil drop over her eyes as she suddenly became very wary. "Whom did you say you were working for?"

  "I didn't say, Dr. Llewellyn. My client prefers to remain anonymous. What do you suppose the burglars wanted in Dr. Morton's office?"

  "I don't think I can be of any help to you, Mr. Frederickson," she said in a formal tone. She jammed her papers into a slim briefcase and shut it, then rose and glared at me. "I can't remember any of the details. How in the world should I know what the burglars were after?"

  "They were after the records of a very famous patient. Now, you and Dr. Morton collaborated on at least one occasion concerning Victor Rafferty. I thought you might know what Dr. Morton was doing in his office at that hour of the morning."

  "I said I can't remember any of the details," she said curtly. "And whoever told you that we collaborated on the case of Victor Rafferty is either mistaken or a liar."

  She came around from behind her desk and held out her free arm as if to sweep me out of the office with her.

  "You forgot to turn off the lights," I said.

  She quickly turned off the desk lamp. "I really must be going," she said icily.

  "You did collaborate on Victor Rafferty's case, didn't you?" Even in the dim light from the hallway I could see her jaws clench.

  "What do you really want, Mr. Frederickson?"

  "To learn all I can about Victor Rafferty."

  "I don't know anything about Victor Rafferty," she said in a voice barely above a whisper.

  "I think you're one of the very few people who do, Dr. Llewellyn. It's a secret that could cost you your life. There are some very nasty people asking questions now about Victor Rafferty. You're lucky they didn't get to you before me. They're not very polite. If you'll tell me what I want to know, it could save lives."

  "I can't talk to you," she said in a strangled whisper. "Please!"

  "Why not?"

  "I just can't talk about it!"

  "Was Rafferty a telepath?"

  That stopped her. Her green eyes caught the light from the hallway and glinted like those of a hunted animal. "Whom have you been talking to? Who told you that?" "Was he a telepath?"

  "Victor Rafferty is dead! Let him stay dead!"

  "Were you and Arthur Morton conducting experiments in parapsychology?" My own voice rose, trembled as if in sympathy with her emotion, her fear.

  "Victor Rafferty was a monster! A monster and a traitor!"

  The vehemence of her statement was totally unexpected, and it brought me down. "Why was he a monster, Dr. Llewellyn? What did he do?"

  She looked at me a long time in silence. When she spoke again, her voice had regained its icy reserve. "Get out of here or I'll call the police," she said evenly.

  Something was happening inside my head. The phone had begun to ring. Mary Llewellyn cursed softly and pu
shed past me. It took her a moment to find the light button; then she picked up the phone.

  There was a fire raging inside my brain and it felt as though every muscle in my body were cramping. Once again I was hanging on the bar, electricity coursing through my body, my brain melting under the onslaught of pain. I heard Mary Llewellyn calling me from what seemed a long distance.

  "Mr. Frederickson…? Mr. Frederickson, are you all right?"

  Reeling, my hands pressed to my ears, I tried to say something, but the words wouldn't leave my throat. I wheeled and stumbled out of her office.

  There was no longer any doubt in my mind. I was finished.

  17

  The guard in the lobby looked over his shoulder at me, then stuck his nose back into his paper when I went to the pay phone in the lobby. It was going to take more than a sweating, shaking dwarf running around his lobby after hours to budge him out of his chair.

  I took a deep breath and held it, then dropped a dime into the slot and dialed Tal's number. A woman answered. I gave my name and asked for Tal. There were a few whirs and clicks as the call was channeled through what I assumed were a number of different exchanges.

  The attack in the psychologist's office had been the worst, and it wasn't over yet. I was still having flashes, falling to pieces. I was going to take Garth's advice and run to a place where there was a lot of sun and no death. After that I was going to check myself into the best psychiatric clinic I could find. I was scared.

  Tal came on the line. "Hello, Mongo. I called the hospital and was told you were gone. When are you going to North Carolina?" His voice sounded odd, uncharacteristically weak.

  "I've been."

  "Did you find out anything?"

  "It's finished, Tal. I can't function. I'm taking myself out of this. I'll reimburse you for the plane trip."

  "You want to talk about it, Mongo?"

  I bit my lip to keep from sobbing. Sweat was running into my eyes, and the telephone booth seemed to be shrinking. "I don't feel like talking about it!" I shouted into the mouthpiece. "I'm just finished! Okay?" I pressed a fist hard against my forehead and forced myself to speak in what I hoped resembled a normal tone. "Sorry, Tal. It's nothing personal. I've got… problems. I can't do anything until I get them worked out."

  "Where are you? I'll pick you up."

  "That won't do any good. I know what I have to do." And I knew I'd end as a catatonic if I didn't do it.

  "Of course," Tal said easily. "I understand. But I would like to know what you did in North Carolina, if you feel up to telling me about that. May I pick you up?"

  "All right," I said after a pause. "I'm at the Harlick Building."

  "I know where it is. Hang in. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

  Tal arrived twelve minutes later in a year-old Pontiac. He pulled over to the curb and I slid in next to him. He looked pale, tired. As he pulled away, I became conscious of my own odor: I smelled of sweat and fear.

  "Sorry I turned out chicken," I mumbled. "I have to get away from things for a while."

  "You left the hospital too soon," he said evenly.

  "It wouldn't have made any difference if I'd stayed there a year; it's not the kind of hospital I need. My body's fine; it's my head that's screwed up."

  "You're impatient. It's going to take time for everything to heal properly."

  "You want to hear what I found out in North Carolina? It isn't much; in fact, it probably isn't anything."

  "Hold on to it for a few minutes, okay? There's someone else who'd like to hear what you have to say."

  "Who?"

  "The Secretary General."

  Rolfe Thaag was sitting in a leather armchair in Tal's suite of offices. Perhaps because legends are always larger than reality, he seemed smaller in person than I'd imagined, although he was close to six feet, and hard-muscled. He had a full head of snowy white hair and a neatly trimmed beard to match. His eyes were a pale, Nordic blue; they were sharp and brooding, bright with intelligence, mellowed slightly by compassion. They matched the cardigan sweater he was wearing. The hand I shook was hard and sinewy.

  "It's nice to meet you, Dr. Frederickson," he said in a slightly accented voice that was lower than it sounded on radio and television. "I meant to come out and meet you the other day while you were with Ronald, but I was quite busy. I hope you'll forgive my bad manners."

  Not quite sure what to say, I mumbled something about knowing what a busy man he was. I was nervous, and afraid that my mind was going to pick just such an inopportune moment to launch another sneak attack.

  Thaag said, "Would you like a drink?"

  "No, thank you. If you don't mind, I'd just like to get on with it."

  "Of course," the Secretary General said.

  I moved across the room to a window and began talking in a monotone, reporting on my conversation with Fritz James, concluding by saying that I thought the mystery surrounding Victor Rafferty could well have something to do with parapsychology. When I turned back from the window, Rolfe Thaag was staring straight ahead, and Tal was absently rubbing his temples with his fingers. "If you don't mind my saying so, neither of you seems particularly interested in all this."

  "Forgive us, Dr. Frederickson," Thaag said. "We appreciate what you've done and been through. At the moment we're distracted because we have reason to believe that the Russians have delivered an ultimatum to the Americans. If the Americans don't produce Victor Rafferty, the Fosters will… disappear. Soon."

  For a moment my own anxiety was eclipsed by a growing excitement. "Then the Americans do have Rafferty?"

  Rolfe Thaag slowly passed a hand across his eyes. "The Russians think so," he said wearily. "Now, I must appear to remain neutral, but it has always been my policy to prevent the deaths of innocent people, whenever possible and by whatever means."

  "You'll pardon me if I sound cynical," I said, "but it seems to me that you're risking a great deal for the sake of two people."

  Thaag and Tal exchanged glances. It was Tal who spoke.

  "All right, Mongo; there are other considerations. First, I feel a measure of responsibility for the Fosters because I was the one who urged you to stay on the case. But it's also important that we find out once and for all what power or knowledge Victor Rafferty possesses, and whether or not he is alive. We certainly don't want the Russians-or the Americans-to control Rafferty, if they don't already. Rescuing the Fosters may be the only alternative."

  Thaag glanced at me sharply. "Ronald tells me he thinks the Fosters might be rescued … if you would be willing to help."

  "This is the second time I've heard that proposal," I said, startled.

  "Really?" Tal said. "Someone else wants to rescue the Fosters?"

  "Lippitt. He came to visit me in the hospital."

  "What's his plan?"

  "He didn't go into details, but it was a two-man operation: himself and me."

  "He must have been thinking of the same point of entry," Thaag said as he turned to Tal. "That would explain his need of Dr. Frederickson."

  "Then Lippitt must have schematics too," Tal said as he went to a desk and opened a locked drawer. He brought out a roll of papers that had been tightly bound with a rubber band, unrolled the sheets, and anchored them flat on the desk top.

  What I saw was detailed schematic drawings of the inside of the Russian consulate. I wondered what they'd cost.

  "It's no good," I said. "Whatever you've got in mind, I can't do it."

  "Your fear?" Tal queried softly.

  "It hits me with no warning, and when it does I'm no good for anything. I'm not going into any Russian consulate like this; I could get us all killed."

  "I'm willing to take that chance," Tal said.

  "I'm not."

  Tal stared at me. "I think you want to go."

  The pressure was building on me, from within and without. It was true that I wanted to go after the Fosters, but it was also true that Kaznakov would probably be inside the building. Try as har
d as I might to ignore that fact, my subconscious would remember-and react.

  "I have to think about it," I said weakly.

  "There isn't time," Tal said. His voice was soft but insistent. "If we're going to go, we have to do it tonight."

  I heard someone say, "I'll try," and was shocked to discover that the voice was mine.

  Tal looked at his watch. "Good," he said curtly. "Afterward, arrangements will be made for you to go into hiding, if that's what you still want to do." He rose, stretched, winced as if in pain. He immediately caught himself, thrust his hands into his pockets, and smiled. I thought he was favoring his left side. "There are some things I have to get," he continued. "Are you hungry, Mongo?"

  Not trusting my voice, I shook my head.

  "You may be later. It's eight thirty now. I'll be gone a couple of hours. I suggest that you try to get some sleep."

  "I don't want to sleep," I said. "I want to get this show on the road and over with."

  "I'll get you something to help you relax," Rolfe Thaag said, rising from his chair.

  He went into a small kitchenette off the office and I heard the sound of water running, a teakettle being filled. Tal nodded to me, then went to the elevator. A few seconds later the elevator doors sighed open; they closed after him and he was gone.

  Everything seemed surreal, moving too fast. I sat and tried to think of nothing.

  The teakettle began to whistle. The sound died, and moments later Rolfe Thaag appeared carrying a steaming cup of something that looked like tea and smelled sharp and bitter. I made an effort to control hands that had suddenly begun to tremble as I reached for the cup.

  "What's this?"

  "Tea," the Secretary General said, "with a touch of ginseng. A special preparation made by a Chinese friend of mine. Drink it; it will soothe you and help you to sleep."

  The hot tea scalded the roof of my mouth and my tongue, but I welcomed the pain with a kind of masochistic relief: it made me temporarily forget the other, sharper pain in my mind. I set down the cup on the coffee table in front of me.

  "You should drink it while it's hot," Thaag said, picking up the cup and handing it back to me. The tone of his voice was almost hypnotic.