They looked at each other with skeptical grins. “An ad in the newspaper, huh? You’re just getting yourself in deeper and deeper. Nobody hires a bodyguard with an ad in the paper!”
“All you have to do is ask Heather Stephens. Or better yet, check the classifieds from two days ago.”
“All right, all right. Say Bartlett was eccentric enough to put an ad in the paper; why did you answer it?”
“I needed a job.”
“What happened to your old racket of stealing cars and using stolen credit cards?”
“I’m trying to go straight. I’ve given all that up.”
“All right, say there was an ad and you were going straight; why in this ever loving’ world would Bartlett hire you?”
“I lied on the application. I told him I had a lot of experience. You can check that out.”
Ben obviously had not been prepared for the truth, even the little I gave him. His confidence had once again been shaken and the terrible possibilities of having made a mistake were back. There were only two ways he could go. Either he could admit I was innocent, put the blame on Bob and Jerry and let me go, with an explanation to his boss that the longer they held an innocent man the more it would cost the Bureau; or he could convince himself that I was guilty and pass me on to his chief with the hope that if it was somehow proven that I really was innocent, the chief would have already passed me on to someone else.
“I’ll tell you the way we see it, Gould,” he finally said. “We think you got so far into debt there in New York that you needed to earn some big money. So you moved out of the minor league of credit card hustling and into the big time of paid hit man. Then you came out here, got yourself hired as a bodyguard to the very man you were hired to kill, murdered him the next day and were on your way to the airport to return to New York when we picked you up.”
“That’s pathetic. For one thing, you haven’t got one shred of concrete evidence that can connect me with this thing. It’s all been conjecture, pure guesswork.”
Ben grinned again as if he’d just filled his inside straight. He nodded at Bob who reached inside his belt to produce a familiar-looking pistol.
“Recognize this?”
“They all look alike to me.”
“Look a little closer,” he said, pointing out the initials E.C .B. engraved in the stock.
“All right, so I hocked the gun. I was panicky. I knew you’d probably suspect me of having something to do with it, so I hocked the gun to get enough money to leave town. Not for New York, but for San Diego.” No point in telling them where I really meant to go in case the opportunity arose again.
“So much for your concrete evidence, Gould,” Ben boasted. “I had a hunch that somebody with your background might not be able to resist the chance of picking up a little extra cash, though I had expected you to take something a little more valuable than a gun. That was strictly amateurish of you. I had Jerry and Bob here checking out the pawnshops just in case and that’s how they got a lead on where you might be heading.”
“Before you get any further along the wrong track, I think you should know that Mr. Bartlett gave me that gun to use in his protection. You can ask Farrow when he comes to.”
“We’ll do that, Gould. But even if he did give it to you, there’s plenty of other questions that haven’t been answered to our satisfaction. No, I think we’re getting together an airtight case against you.” Apparently he had decided on holding me and passing me on before any contrary evidence was discovered.
“I don’t want to poke any holes in your airtight case, but you sound like you’re trying to make this into an international conspiracy. Mr. Bartlett’s company couldn’t have been that big to warrant all this attention.”
“Come off it, Gould. We know all about Bartlett’s so-called company. We know that it was a clearing-house for investing organization funds into legitimate businesses. We know that it was Bartlett’s personal responsibility to invest over a million dollars a day.”
I almost swallowed my tongue when I heard that, but with my survival instinct already churning at full speed, I was more interested in how this new information could get me out of this jam than in what an idiot I’d been.
“Look, if Mr. Bartlett was mixed up with a full-grown organization, why would I risk their vengeance by killing him? You couldn’t pay me enough money to get on their bad side.”
“You can cut the act, Gould. You know as well as I do that Bartlett had made a deal with a Senate investigating committee to get a full pardon if he turned state’s evidence.”
“State’s evidence or not, he’d be dead in a week.”
“Maybe, and maybe not. We’ve managed to keep Joe Valachi alive and this would have been a bigger exposé than his.”
“So that’s the tampering with federal evidence you mentioned before.”
“That’s right. When Bartlett negotiated the deal, he promised to turn himself in and another top member of the Organization in exchange for immunity and protection for the both of them. They’d be given new identifications and set up someplace safe to live.”
“No wonder he wanted a bodyguard. He must have been afraid that his own people would find out, and when Bendix was killed he was certain.”
“That’s right. Bartlett and his friend were to turn themselves in today. It’s too late for Bartlett, but we still might be able to protect the other guy. Now who is he?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you wait and find out when he turns himself in today?”
“It’s already long past the time of the meeting. Either he’s too frightened, thinking he’s safe in the organization as long as he doesn’t contact us and reveal his identity, or else you’ve already killed him. Well?”
“Well what? I tell you this is the first I knew of Bartlett’s real deals. He told me that his business competitors were after him. What did his secretary and daughter tell you about his organization?”
“We’re convinced that they didn’t know anything about it. And we didn’t tell them anything either. If any of this gets out to the press, that would really kill any chance of finding the other guy and getting him to turn state’s evidence.”
“I’ve told you everything I know.”
“Let’s work him over a little,” Jerry suggested. “Bob and I will have him talking in half an hour.”
Ben stroked his chin considering the possibility. “No, wait. It’s just possible that he didn’t have anything to do with Bartlett’s organization. It’s just possible that he didn’t know anything about Bartlett’s deal.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” I said with some relief.
“Bob’s first hunch that he was one of De Young’s men may be right after all,” he continued.
“I told you,” Bob told us. “I think he’s working for De Young and it was just coincidence that he knocked Bartlett off the day before he was to turn himself in.”
“Now wait a minute,” I jumped in. “Who’s this De Young?”
“You’re clever all right, Gould,” Bob said with the confidence of long-overdue recognition. “Letting us think you were hired by Bartlett’s Organization, thereby diverting suspicion from De Young’s organization.”
“Look, just humor me and tell me who this De Young is.”
“He’s the competitor Bartlett said he was afraid of. Henry De Young runs a similar operation to Bartlett’s, only for a different organization. When you’re trying to get rid of a million dollars a day, you can run into quite a few problems. It’s not easy finding secure investments, but once you do, it’s annoying and costly if the competition gets in there ahead of you and buys everything up. You can see how that might cause strained relationships. And Bartlett was a whiz at doing just that to De Young, which more than once brought De Young a reprimand from his bosses. So he was out to eliminate the problem by eliminating Bartlett.”
“What would the Chamber of Commerce think about that?”
“Not too much,” Ben repl
ied, “‘considering that De Young is the president of the Chamber of Commerce.”
“There’s only one problem with your whole case against me,” I announced smugly. “You haven’t been able to identify Bartlett’s body, so there’s no corpus delicti, no federal evidence and no case.”
Now it was their turn to be smug. “For one thing, the fire in Bartlett’s bedroom destroyed all his files he was to turn over when he turned himself in, so you’ve still destroyed federal evidence. For another thing, even if we couldn’t get you on a federal rap, you’ve still got three more bodies to account for to the state authorities. And last, but not least, we’ve been able to identify certain items that were known to be on his person at the time of the explosion to the satisfaction of the courts, thereby legally declaring the heretofore unidentified corpse as that of one Eugene C. Bartlett, a fortiori.”
“What things?”
“The ashes of his wallet, his watch and his diamond cuff links and tie clasp. All identified as having been worn by Bartlett about a minute before the explosion.”
It was getting to the point where even I was doubting my innocence. Bartlett’s body had been legally identified and I was in custody for his murder.
“All right, Gould,” Ben announced. “We’re taking you in. Bob and Jerry here will take you downtown to one of our offices and from there on you’re somebody else’s responsibility.”
“Come on, Gould,” Jerry snapped, jerking me painfully to my feet with a tight grip on my arm. Bob had taken up his place at my other arm, but this time instead of carrying me, they merely pushed me firmly ahead, up the stairs, through the house and into the car. Bob got behind the wheel and Jerry got in the back with me. The last I saw of Ben he was bending over Miss Lancaster’s shoulder suggesting certain changes in the official transcript of our meeting.
As we pulled out of the driveway, an old man who had been raking leaves in the neighboring yard waved a friendly farewell but returned to his leaves when no one waved back.
After we had merged with the Sunset Boulevard traffic, Jerry slid closer and grinned maliciously like a small boy about to pull the wings off a fly. “That wasn’t a very nice thing that you did to me back there.”
Although my mind reeled with snappy replies, I knew he was just waiting for any kind of an excuse to start working me over, so I kept quiet.
“Well?” he continued. “Wouldn’t you say that was an unfriendly thing to do?”
“Why don’t you leave him alone,” Bob said over his shoulder.
“Shut up and drive,” Jerry shot back. “I’m just asking him a question. Why don’t you answer, me Gould. First, you hit me and now you won’t even answer a simple non-incriminating question. Why, you’re getting to be a one-man rude machine.” He rocked back with husky laughter while Bob and I remained intelligently silent. “What’s the matter,” he demanded angrily, “wasn’t that funny enough for you?”
I guess it’s okay to punch a man or to ignore him, but if you refuse to laugh at his jokes then you’re really asking for trouble.
“You know something, Gould? I think I’m going to have to teach you a lesson on how to be more respectful to government officials.” And with that he swung his elbow into my kidneys with disturbing force. I let out a short grunt.
“Damnit, Jerry, leave him alone!” Bob shouted. “We’ve already arrested him on the Bartlett case and that’s all we’re concerned with.”
“That may be all you’re concerned with, but personally I don’t give a damn about Bartlett or any Senate investigating committee. Right, buddy?”
This last question was addressed to me and punctuated with a fist slamming against my thigh, following by another jab to the kidney, causing me to double over. Jerry leaned over me and grabbed me by the back of my sweater to pull me straight again. I resisted, which caused him to lean even further over me and pull harder. Suddenly I flung my head straight back into his face. He let out a long groan, his hands covering his face.
“What happened! What happened!” Bob kept shouting, trying to watch the road and see what was going on at the same time.
“I think man dose is bwoke!” Jerry winced.
“Jesus Christ!” Bob cursed, his head jerking anxiously back and forth between the road and us in rapid succession.
“I’b ganna kill hib!” Jerry cried, thrusting his bloody hand into his jacket.
“Jerry, no!” either Bob or I shouted.
It wasn’t a big crash, just a quick nudge that surprised us more than anything else. The car in the left lane had bumped into our car and both cars were now in the process of pulling into a residential side street. Bob quickly reached into the glove compartment and removed a first-aid kit which he rummaged through, finally handing some gauze and Band-Aids to Jerry, who temporarily interrupted his vows of torturing and mutilating my body, to bandage his nose.
In the meantime, two young men in their early twenties and dressed like Ivy League college students had emerged from the other car and after determining that no one was injured by exchanging a few waves with Bob, they proceeded to circle their car to inspect the damage.
Bob was in the process of removing his identification badge when the two men jerked open both the doors on the street side of the car and shoved two guns in at us.
“Please come with us, Mr. Gould,” a sandy-haired youth leaning into the back seat said politely.
“Look fellas,” I said impatiently, “I really don’t know anything about anything.”
“I’m afraid we must insist,” he said firmly but without threat.
I’d given up trying to figure any of this out. At least they couldn’t be any worse than Jerry, so what did I have to lose? If they’d wanted me dead they could have shot me already. Besides, what choice did I have? How can a man ever be master of his own fate with all the guns that get shoved in his face, I thought bitterly as I climbed out of the back seat.
“I’b ganna geh you fer dis, Goud,” Jerry scowled. To which the sandy-haired boy leaned over and slapped Jerry soundly in the mouth with a backhand. I couldn’t suppress my smile of satisfaction as I slid into the back seat of the other car.
My two rescuers handcuffed and gagged Jerry and Bob and disconnected the horn and motor with an efficiency alarming for their age.
“Relax, Mr. Gould, we’ll be there in a few minutes,” the sandy-haired boy said as we pulled away.
“Where?” I asked as usual.
“Why, Mr. De Young’s house, of course,” he answered.
Of course, I thought.
Chapter Twelve
Henry De Young’s estate was in many ways similar to Bartlett’s. It had the same forty-foot swimming pool, the same official-sized tennis courts and the same ten-foot hedges decoratively laced with the barbed wire that assures good neighbors. And although the house appeared more self-consciously “modern” in design than Bartlett’s, it still managed to convey the same nervous conviction that once you went through the front door you could consider yourself more than lucky if you came out again under your own power.
“Richard Widmark used to live here,” the sandy-haired boy announced, breaking the silence for the first time since they told me where they were taking me. His partner, perhaps a year or two older, turned slightly to reveal the disapproving gaze of a sophisticated upperclassman, to which the former reacted with an embarrassed frown. I decided not to mention the fact that Gregory Peck had once lived in the Bartlett house.
There was no butler to take coats at the door, no marble hallway, no glittering chandeliers; instead, there was a long coatrack made from some kind of antlers embedded in the wall, a satin-glossed hardwood floor, antique hurricane lamps that had been converted to electricity. I was led into one of the rooms by the sandy-haired boy and told to wait while he and his partner disappeared down the hallway.
The room I was left in continued the rustic motif with the same studied casualness of Prince Charles proclaiming “I’m just plain folk.” There was the inevitable rough
redwood paneling, the strategically perched stuffed pheasant, the mountain-stone fireplace, the exposed ceiling beams and the overstuffed leather furniture—all in all, the look of a mountain cabin which no one who really lives in the mountains can afford.
Despite myself, I had to admit that the room had a definite relaxing effect on my body. I slumped down into the leather sofa and waited for Mr. De Young, as someone lost in the woods waits for the needle on his compass to stop jittering and tell him where in hell he is.
“Well, well. Mr. Gould, Mr. Gould. So happy to meet you at last,” a voice boomed from over my shoulder.
I snapped to my feet and turned to face the two men who were approaching me.
“I’m Hank De Young,” said the man whose hand I was suddenly shaking. “And this is my associate, Matt Walker.” We nodded.
“Please, Mr. Gould, sit down. You’re perfectly safe now.” Mr. De Young smiled, taking his own advice. He was a large sturdy man in his early sixties with smile wrinkles growing from the corners of his eyes and mouth. His hair was still dark, though thinning slightly, and his movements were slow and easy. He looked like an old timer settling down to tell a tall tale about his youth. Even his clothes matched the decor, right down to the plaid flannel shirt, suspenders and lumberjack boots. Kind of a Gatsby in reverse.
Mr. Walker, however—whether because he didn’t belong to Mr. De Young’s pastoral world, or didn’t want to belong—appeared decidedly out of place in his iridescent suit and wing tip shoes. Not to mention the single gold earring clenching his right ear lobe. His deep black skin did not reveal its wrinkles as easily as Mr. De Young’s, nor did his muscular build show any signs of middle-age sag. Nevertheless, despite his young alert eyes, he was just barely holding back fifty at arm’s length.
“So what do you think of our little place?” Mr. De Young asked with a sweep of his arm. Something in his voice indicated that the question was more important than the casual way in which it was asked.
“Quite relaxing,” I answered.
The Goulden Fleece Page 8
