Sub-Zero

by Robert W. Walker

  26

  “Air time!” shouted the producer.

  Mark Wertman stood before a map of the United States. He knew there were at least eight or nine minutes left before actual air time. The producer had been told by Herb Kennelly to shoot five minutes, to fake the opening of the show. George Walsh stood at one of the cameras, and young Gary Hornell at the other. They panned too fast and showed little aptitude for zooming in. Kennelly had instructed the real cameramen to give them a crash course. Kennelly stood beside the producer, holding a copy of the script from Morning’s Beginning, a soap opera just going off the air on the next set. He didn’t resemble any script girl Wertman had ever seen.

  The ploy was all right, Wertman thought, but he didn’t care for being the bait. If someone were watching the late 6 o’clock news, they would see he was quite well and living. Kennelly hoped that whoever wanted Wertman killed by asphyxiation, seeing that it didn’t work, would try something again, while he was on camera.

  “Where’s Nevis with those printouts?” the producer, a graying, thin-haired man said. “He’s never been late before.”

  Kennelly was asking who Ben Nevis was when a white-haired, bearded man in a white smock showed up at the stage door. The man held an armful of maps, printouts, and aerial photos. He was spotted by the producer, who went directly to him and said, “Get over here with those, Dr. Nevis. You’re late.”

  Nevis only stared at Wertman. Kennelly couldn’t miss the hatred and scorn in the old man’s eyes, his clenched teeth, and red knuckles, as he held tightly to the material in his hands.

  The producer began pulling the material from the old man, saying, “Let me have the forecast, Nevis. Let go.” Then, suddenly, the man’s tone changed. “What are these? Are you crazy, Ben? You want to lose your job? These aerials don’t belong up here. What in hell is this?”

  “I have something special for Mr. Wertman, John,” said Nevis finally, with the calm of a man who didn’t care about anything the producer had to say. “He must receive them personally from me. I’ll have to go on camera, if he can’t come to me.”

  “Well, he can’t,” said the producer.

  “Get out of my way!” shouted Nevis, pushing the producer down. He was, or seemed, strong as a bull. Kennelly realized for the first time that beneath his little white frock and frame, Mr. Ben Nevis, had large, athletic arms and a muscular build. Nevis charged at Wertman, his charts, maps, and printouts flying in an directions. Kennelly went for Nevis, his revolver pulled, but two steps in front of Wertman, he slipped on the shining surface of the stage and a printout sheet. Kennelly’s gun fell from his hand and skidded across the room.

  “Killer!” shouted old Nevis, his hands around Mark Wertman’s throat now. “Murderer of innocent children! Murderer of the world! Emil did you no harm, but you killed him. He was only a child! You too k everything from him! You are the one!”

  Wertman was caught wholly by surprise by the old man’s sudden rage and strength. He was amazed that he couldn’t pull free from the man.

  Gary Hornell went for Kennelly’s gun, abandoning his camera. George Walsh ran into Gary’s spinning camera before he could get to Ben Nevis. He had a hypodermic needle in his right hand, but the camera knocked it loose and it shattered beside Kennelly. Walsh looked down at Kennelly. The policeman seemed to be hurt from his fall. Walsh and Hornell stared at one another for a moment; Gary raised the gun with his hands to indicate he didn’t know how to use it, or that he couldn’t.

  Nevis was screaming with rage. Wertman raised a knee and it hit the old man hard in the middle section, but his hands seemed frozen around the larger man’s neck. He was continuing to squeeze Wertman’s throat when George Walsh grabbed the gun from Hornell and went at Ben Nevis with the butt end.

  His first attempt only grazed the old man, catching him on the shoulder. To Walsh’s surprise, Nevis let go of Wertman, turned, and with a large fist, hit Walsh right below the left eye, sending him over the top of Kennelly.

  At that moment, Mark Wertman had the advantage, and he grabbed Nevis from behind in an arm lock. He twisted Nevis’ arm so hard the older man went to his knees. subdued.

  Wertman looked down at Kennelly who was pushing Walsh from his back. Walsh rolled over like a sack of potatoes, out cold.

  “I guess we’ve got our killer,” said Wertman. “I’d’ve never thought it of old Ben.”

  27

  “Uhmmmmmmmmm,” Joanna Sommers moaned again, laying in the pullout bed in the center of her one room, Pullman apartment. She listened to the shower spray and Tim’s terrible rendition of Love’s Winding Promise, a popular show tune.

  The night had been both peaceful and fulfilling for her.

  She’d not thought of Mark that night. She’d put the whole question of his guilt or innocence, and all mysterious happenings, out of her mind. She and Tim Crocker had made fine wine, soft music, and the touch of skin come alive with a freshness she hadn’t felt in a long time. Tim had such an assured, calm, and measured grace in his love making, and his touch was as gentle as that of a priest. It was morning and she still didn’t want to think or feel anything but Tim Crocker beside her.

  The water was turned off in the other room, and Tim returned. “Hi, baby,” he said, seeing she was awake. “Tim,” she said simply, holding out her arms to him.

  They embraced. Once again Tim felt the firmness of her breast, and the warmth of her skin against his. She repeatedly kissed him about the neck and chest, acting like a hungry animal, laughing and smiling. Her wildness beneath him excited his passion, and at once recalled Marie Stanton to his mind. He raised himself out of bed and began to dress. Joanna stared at him; a hurt look coming over her.

  “I could use donuts and coffee,” said Tim as he dressed, “how about you?”

  She grabbed him about the middle and pulled him down to the bed. She kissed him hard on the mouth. When she lifted her lips away from him, she said, “How about me?”

  He kissed her in return and said, “You’ll think me pushy, my dear, but I’m in love.”

  She smiled at this. “Tim. I hate to agree with you, but you are pushy. On the other hand, I think I love you too.”

  “God, I thought you’d never say it!” he laughed. “Now that it’s settled, make me some coffee, woman.”

  “Is that what Marie would do?”

  “Marie? How did you know about Marie?”

  “Simple deduction, and a little snooping,” she answered with a grin.

  Together, each pointing a finger at the other, they both laughed and said, “And a lot of office gossip!”

  “Right!”

  “Right!” she answered.

  “What about us?”

  “What about us?”

  “The office talk will now be about us,” said Tim. “Justas soon as we walk out of here.”

  “Maybe not. Nobody knows I have this apartment here. Except you.”

  “Not even Mark?”

  “No one. It is my one sanctuary, even from him.”

  “You need that, don’t you?”

  “Sanctuary? Yes. I’d go mad without it.”

  “Now it’s been violated,” said Tim. “Sorry it was by me?”

  “Your choice of words is sometimes disturbing, Mr. Crocker.”

  “So I’ve been told, Ms Sommers, by politicians and crooks.”

  “And by women, no doubt.”

  He agreed with a smart shake of the head. .

  “How are your hands this morning?” she asked. Tim had taken off the bandages around his hands which Walsh had so meticulously worked on.

  “A little sensitive still.”

  “Did wonders for me last night,” she smiled.

  “Have to try the treatment myself sometime!” Joanna became serious as she now dressed. “What about Marie. Do you love her?”

  “I don’t think Marie really wants me to love her. I’ve tried. But it’s just not there. She wants affection, like a child. She wants to play wild love making, but she
doesn’t want anything beyond that,” he said, thoughtfully. “But she’d be insanely jealous knowing about us. I’ll have to cut it off with her, and I will, if I can ever find her.”

  “You don’t have to, you know. Not on my account.” “On whose account then? Hey, let’s don’t start any head rolling games. That stuff that kills friends and eventually ruins marriages, okay? Let’s just love and like.”

  She smiled, her greenish eyes beaming. “I like, I like!” “Then get me some coffee, will you?”

  “Cave man type, huh?”

  “Only before eight. After that I’m your basic ‘bad-weather animal’.”

  During coffee they talked at length, and Tim told her how he’d spent so much time going about the building in search of Marie. I t now occurred to him that she too could have an apartment in the building. Such apartments were at a premium, very expensive, and the waiting list was two or three blocks long.

  “How did you get an apartment here?”

  “I know someone on the inside real well.” “Not Wertman.”

  “No. Mark doesn’t even have an apartment here. Says he doesn’t like them for one thing. I got it through Mr. Atgeld.”

  “Head of Personnel?”

  “Right,” she answered. “It’s been nothing but trouble with him. He thought I got the apartment so he could sleep with me. He said I owed him as much-well, not in so many words. But you know what I mean.”

  “That son of a bitch.”

  “Don’t ever say a word to him! He could boot me out anytime. Company people aren’t even supposed to have apartments in the building.”

  “I have heard that but I’ve never dreamed of getting one. They’re too expensive. How can you be in here then?”

  “Some company people are on a list, something to do with necessary and accessible personnel. Our friend Mr. Atgeld keeps the list. When the list dwindled below the number of apartments he saw a fine opportunity to form a stable. At least it started that way for him. He found out that not every woman in the world has been lying in wait for a well-off, debonair chap like himself to come along and whisk her off her feet.”

  “Then, if Marie has an apartment inside this complex herself, she’s either one of Atgeld’s favorites, or a necessary accessible.”

  “She runs the wire board,” said Joanna. “Hell, anyone can do that.”

  “Can you?”

  “No! I’d be petrified. Even if I knew what I was doing, I’d go stark raving mad.”

  “I sure would like to see Atgeld’s necessaries list.” “Does Marie do anything besides the telephones?” “No. That is, not to my knowledge,” said Tim. “Then she’s either playing Atgeld for a fool, or she’s being played with.”

  “You’re picking up a bad habit, Joanna.” “What’s that.”

  “Poor choice of words. I’m going to see our Mr. Atgeld.”

  “Oh no you’re not! Do you want to get me thrown out of here?”

  “1 won’t say a word about you. I’ll offer him a bribe, something, to become a ‘necessary’ in order to get an apartment, just to see what happens.”

  “What have I created?” moaned Joanna.

  “I’ll threaten to expose him unless I can see that necessaries list. I’ll make it clear that I’m after a story far beyond anything so trivial as playing corporation favorites, or making moonshine under Mr. Fieldcrest’s window, but I need to find someone on that list.”

  “Oh, Tim,don’t.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be gentle with Mr. Atgeld.”

  “It won’t do you any good, Tim. The list will be worthless to you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My name on the mailbox here is Corey, Mabel Wellington Corey, a fictitious name.”

  Tim’s head sank visibly. “Everything’s a dead end.” She shook her head and clenched her lips into a pout. “There, there.” She stroked the hair out of his eyes.

  “Still, I’ve got to talk to Atgeld,” he said.

  She shook her head. “You’re like every man I’ve ever known. You’re as stubborn as a moose determined to squeeze his big head into the knothole of a tree.”

  “I want to see what he’s got on file downstairs on a number of people.”

  “Upstairs, dear. And just who are you going to be spying on? My personnel files are up there too.”

  “Hey, I think things have gone too far around here. It’s time to take some action.”

  “Even if it’s illegal?” “Yes.”

  “And if Atgeld won’t release files to you? What then?” “I’ll explain to him in detail about a certain list I have learned about.”

  “Why do I get the feeling I’ve been used?” “Don’t take it that way, Mabel!”

  “How should I take it, Tim? When is what I say off the record? When is what I say not to be used in a court of law?”

  “You’re blowing this out of proportion. I just have to know that Marie is all right. That she’s safe. And while I’m at it, I want to know if Joraski ever worked here. I want to know more on Harold Gordon, and, if I can lay my hands on the information, I want to know all I can about Mark Wertman before I next talk to him.”

  They stared for some time into one another’s eyes. “I guess there’s love and there’s work, and the twain shall never meet-or shouldn’t,” said Joanna, finally. “Go, my cave man, and bring home meat. While you are engaged in your spearing exercises, I will be at work too. If you don’t mind, please don’t talk to the boys on the hunt about your conquest here.”

  Frowning, Tim released a long, heavy sigh, nostrils flaring as he stood at the door, glancing back at her as she sat over a final cup of coffee. “It doesn’t change how I feel about you, Joanna.”

  She looked up after a moment’s silence, but he was gone.

  28

  When Tim arrived at the offices of Mr. Theodore P. Atgeld, Personnel Director, he was surprised to find a number of people had beaten him to Atgeld. Atgeld’s secretary wouldn’t get out of Tim’s way, professing that Atgeld was not to be disturbed. The woman, a tall; slender, middle-aged lady; who stood erect and proud of her position, had been crying. Tim knew that Atgeld was already disturbed. He could hear the booming voice of Herb Kennelly coming from Atgeld’s inner office.

  “I’m with the police,” Tim lied.

  The proper, graying secretary took a step back, retreating from him as though she’d touched fire. “Oh, well, in that case.” She had no more fight in her. She went to her desk, pulled out some paper, and began typing.

  When Jim pulled open the oak-paneled door, he found that Gary Hornell was up against it, like a guard. George Walsh was seated across the room. Kennelly, cigar in hand, was pacing the floor and shooting questions at Atgeld. Tim’s arrival made the Chief of Police lose his train of thought for a moment.

  “Ah, Mr. Crocker, from the Daily,” said Kennelly.

  “Come in, join us, won’t you. I like to conduct my investigation in an open and honest forum. This way no one feels left out and no newspaper man can cry cover up, payoff, or anything else. I’m sure no introductions are necessary. I tried to find you earlier, Mr. Crocker. I wanted you present for this. But you were nowhere to be found.”

  “I found a place to sack out for the night,” said Tim. Kennelly smiled widely. “I’m sure you did.”

  Tim stared for a moment at Theodore Atgeld. The man’s eyes were sunken. He was visibly shaking. He looked as though Kennelly had gone at him with a rubber hose. A number of pill boxes and a pitcher of water sat before him on his desk. He looked close to a heart attack.

  “So, what brought you to see Mr. Atgeld, here, Crocker?” said Kennelly. “Did you put the same two and two together that I did?”

  Tim shook his head to indicate yes and said, “It appears so. But I was just hunching.”

  “Good hunching,” said Kennelly. “But Theo here says he hasn’t a reason in the world to want Mark Wertman dead. He contends that that’s one murder attempt he has nothing to do with.”

&n
bsp; “One?” asked Tim. “I don’t follow you.”

  “All the time we were looking for one murderer with one motive,” said Kennelly. “After a few years in this business, you learn you can’t assume anything. You can’t assume that Gordy’s death had anything to do with Joraski, or that Joraski’s attempt on Wertman’s life was connected with any rational plan, or that the killer stalking the building right now for Wertman has anything to do with Harold Gordon’s death.”

  “You’re tying my head up in knots, Chief,” said Tim.