"Four minutes!" Keegan called out to Hardy, ignoring the old lady on the couch.
"You've got to give me more time than that, Matt," Hardy said. "I'll have to get to a phone and talk to Carmody. It's his final decision to make. I'll have to check with Chambrun, to make sure the elevator will take you uninterruptedly to the garage, and that a car is ready for you."
"All that should have been set up long ago," Keegan said. "It's not so damned complicated."
"Oh, the elevator and the car aren't complicated, Matt," Hardy said. "The problem is our options."
"You haven't got any options," Keegan said.
"Hardly any," Hardy admitted. "You kill Mrs. Summers here and now, or somewhere else and later.
It's not much of an option, but one we have to consider."
It seemed clear enough to me. "While there's life there's hope." As long as Keegan didn't pull the trigger on his gun there was a chance for Val. I told myself there must be a sharpshooter out there on the roof. How long could Keegan last without shifting that gun to his other hand? Just that much change in the situation might give a skilled marksman a chance. They couldn't just tell Keegan to go ahead and get it over with. Surely they must be thinking that between the rooms and the basement garage, getting into a car and driving up the ramp to the street, there would come a moment when Keegan would be vulnerable and they'd have a chance. Captain Carmody was a blank to me, how he would react in this crisis wasn't something I could predict. Chambrun, who must be in on the decision making, I knew better than my own father. He knew his hotel like I know my own face in a shaving mirror. He would know exactly how long it would take that private elevator to go from the roof to the basement. I had traveled it hundreds of times, but I couldn't guess how long it took to travel forty-two floors. Chambrun would know to the second. He would know if in the basement there was a step down, a step up, how close to the elevator they could park a car. He would know where police could conceal themselves, behind a supporting upright, in a tool shop, overhead on a supporting steel beam.
I was convinced they had to let Keegan and his hostage get that far, get to the waiting car, get started up the ramp. Once they were at the top of the ramp and at the street it would be, I told myself, a different decision to make. Once they let Keegan get away with Val she was dead. He was that mad. I knew that from just watching him, listening to him. I had a vision of the car reaching the street level, confronted suddenly by a half-dozen cops with machine pistols, blasting away. There was one chance in a thousand, with the guns all aimed at the man behind the wheel of the car, that Valerie would survive the hail of bullets, the shattering glass, the impact of the driverless car crashing into something on the street. I could imagine Chambrun, that hanging judge look on his face, telling Captain Carmody that one chance in a thousand was better than no chance at all. I was sure that was the way he would see it.
I came out of my dream world to hear Keegan shouting to Hardy on the roof. There was no answer. From where I stood I could see a little trickle of sweat running down Keegan's cheek. Hardy was stringing it out just a little too far, I thought. This lunatic was just about ready to pop his cork.
"'Lieutenant Hardy told you he had to consult with his superiors,'' Mrs. Haven said, knitting away. "He'll be back. Your father used to say, Valerie, that when more than one man has to make a decision Rome could burn before they make up their minds. You haven't made it easy for them, Mr. Keegan. They're damned if they do and they're damned if they don't."
"Just—please—get it over with!" Valerie pleaded.
He gave a savage yank at her and I thought for sure he'd broken her neck. Her head lolled to one side and her body sagged against the wall. But he never took his gun away from the side of her head for an instant. If someone was watching him through a telescope sight
Keegan hadn't given them even a fraction of a second. I saw Mrs. Haven's mouth tighten, but she went on with her sock, as relaxed as if she was waiting for the tea water to boil.
"I'd be fascinated to know just how you would handle this situation, Mr. Keegan, if you were out there in Hardy's place, or in Captain Carmody's shoes with the big decision to make. You were a fine cop before you slipped over the edge. You'd have known exactly what you were going to do, wouldn't you, without waiting to consult or shuffle your feet. How would you handle it if you were out there, Keegan?"
A kind of growling sound came from Keegan, but he didn't answer. The old lady looked up over her sock at me. "How about you, Haskell? How would you handle it if you had Captain Carmody's job?" She was playing games; playing games for time.
"Different ways of handling things," she rambled on, "is what makes a horse race. One small mistake by Carmody and he has lost; one small mistake by Keegan, and he's lost. It's most interesting when you stop to think about it." She looked up at me. "We really don't have anything else to do but think about it, do we, Haskell?"
I glanced at Keegan. A little muscle had knotted along his jaw and it was ebbing and swelling. It was such a close thing now, so very close.
"Two men with the same mentality—in their sane moments," Mrs. Haven said. The steel needle clicked and clicked. "Each trained in the same school, each tutored in the same techniques for crisis situations. Captain Carmody, poor fellow, is at a disadvantage. Keegan knows every step he is trained to take, and he knows Keegan knows. Keegan, he is well aware, has been taught every countermove a criminal might make in such a situation. Worst of all for Carmody, he knows that Keegan has now turned psychotic so there are no predictable actions he may take."
Needle, needle, needle! If she could jab at Keegan's tender spot enough times he might turn on her to keep her still. In that moment—// there was a marksman out there—Val could be saved. We could all be saved. Brinksmanship! What a gutsy old doll!
"How does it go in the book, Keegan?" Mrs. Haven asked. 'The hostage, or hostages, come first, do they not? Carmody has to wait, hold off till the very last moment, in the hope you may be willing to bargain for Valerie's life. What you have to guess is how long he will wait, how long he will hold off. You hope it will be long enough for you to get that girl somewhere and brutalize her. But can Carmody go that far? They might give you a medal, Keegan, for killing a couple of animals like Carl Rogers and Willie Bloomfield. But you've also murdered a brother cop. They'll never let you get away with that. That seems to me to have been such a stupid thing to do. I don't suppose there's any point in asking you how it happened?"
Keegan, crouching beside Valerie, left arm around her neck, gun in his right hand held to her head; opened his mouth and shouted at the top of his lungs: "Hardy!"
"He probably had to go down to the floor below to find a phone. Is that where Carmody would set up his headquarters—one flight down? As close as he can get to this area without frightening you into acting impetuously?"
"His time is up," Keegan muttered. "So help me God..." The knot of muscle moved up and down his cheek as if he was grinding his teeth.
"But he will come back, Keegan," Mrs. Haven said. "He knows he can't give you too much time to decide on something he isn't prepared to face. He knows you have the advantage here, because you don't have to consult with anyone. Not your God, because, certainly, you don't have one." A moment of silence, and then: "Can we pass the time, Keegan, by talking about Derek Newton? Imagine what it must be like for him, sitting down in Chambrun's office, knowing that only a trip on an elevator separates him from you. What would you do, Keegan, if you could get a man who had done to you what you did to Derek?"
"What I'm about to do to you if you don't stop babbling," Keegan said.
For one almost unbearable moment I thought he was going to turn on her, and if he did we'd know if there was a marksman out there. It could all end just that quickly—if there was a marksman. But Keegan never once relaxed his attention to Valerie. He could be shot dead, I thought, and his final violent spasm would squeeze the trigger that would end her life, too.
"Truly, a storybook romance
," Mrs. Haven was saying. "Poor Derek didn't find the love of his life until she was already committed to the Prince of Darkness. That's a fanciful name for you, Keegan. And how committed! What was it, Keegan, six years, seven years? In all that time never a word to suggest who her lover might be. Not even when she was running for her life, with her son, helped by Valerie's money, did she betray the identity of her Prince of
Darkness. Not even when Derek, a kind, concerned friend, was trying to find a way to rescue her and was crippled for his pains did she disclose her secret. Was that because she now knew that you were violently psychotic? Did you threaten the child's life, Keegan? Is that what sealed her lips forever? She knew you were capable of the kind of insane violence you're caught up in now. I daresay that might have silenced me. It's hard to imagine how a woman must feel watching a man she has loved passionately, tenderly, whose child she had borne, turn slowly into a monster. Maybe she could think of him as sick, mad-dog sick. But by saying nothing she exposed the rest of the world to him." Knit one, purl one; knit one, purl one. "Maybe, if she'd reached the sanctuary Valerie planned for her, she'd have seen the light after a while and rung the bell on you, Keegan."
"Look over here, old woman!" Keegan said, in a loud, harsh voice. "You see how it is? One sharp jerk backward and this bitch's neck is broken. One wrong move, out there on the roof or in this room, and I blow her head off. I know what you're trying to do, lady. Talk and talk, needle and needle. It's a technique I've used a hundred times myself, talking some screwball away from his intentions, distracting him for just long enough. You're good at it, Mrs. Haven, but you've got the wrong sucker."
The needles had stopped and the old woman sat very still.
"I forget about this bitch and pay attention to you, just for a couple of seconds, and a guy out there with a high-powered rifle finishes me. You asked how I'd handle it if I was Carmody. That's how. I even know the man I'd have stationed out there, Sergeant Spi-vak, best man on the whole police force with a rifle.' * Keegan raised his voice. "That you out there, Tommy Spivak?"
Silence.
"That's the way they play it," Keegan said. "No one talks but the main talker. That's Hardy, with an unexpected assist from you, lady. So save your chatter. It doesn't touch me."
As though it was on a prepared cue Hardy called out. "You there, Matt?"
"Where else would I be, Hardy?"
"Carmody has made his decision," Hardy said. "You get the elevator and the car. But there's one condition."
"No conditions!" Keegan shouted.
"Just listen, Matt. The condition works for you. It isn't possible to alert hundreds of people milling around the hotel, lobby level, garage level—coming and going. Someone might make a false move we can't control, seeing you with a gun at the lady's head. Chambrun thinks if Mark Haskell is with you he can clear the way for you. Everybody knows him as representing management. He can talk you past any roadblock. You willing, Mark?"
I felt my heart jam against my ribs. It didn't make too much sense. The private elevator wouldn't stop at the lobby if it was set to go to the basement garage. The police could have the garage deserted if they wanted to. Chambrun had something else in mind than "roadblocks."
"If Chambrun wants it, sure," I said.
''What about it, Matt?'' Hardy called out.
"Why not?" Keegan said. "Give me an extra target if Chambrun's trying to play wise guy. But I've got conditions/'
"I can't promise," Hardy said.
"I want Tommy Spivak and any other riflemen you have out there pulled off the roof before we go to the elevator."
"That I can do," Hardy said. "Five minutes? And then you head for the vestibule and the elevator."
"Five minutes."
"You go too, Hardy."
"If you say so. One more thing, Matt."
"There's always one more thing, isn't there?" Keegan said.
"The elevator, on this occasion, Matt, is controlled by the engineer in the basement. That's to keep innocent guests of the hotel from stopping it on the way down. But it must also stop you from dreaming an impossible dream, Matt. You can press buttons until they come out of your ears and you can't get it to stop at some floor halfway down—in case you thought of trying that and making a run for it. It will be just as you demanded. Elevator to the basement, car waiting, your move. Okay?"
"Five minutes from now," Keegan said.
"See you around, Matt," Hardy said.
Silence. I glanced at my wristwatch. I thought I could hear it ticking, but of course it doesn't make any sound. That was my heart, banging against my rib cage. Keegan didn't move, but he could see his own watch. It was right in front of him with his left arm looped around Valerie's neck.
"I'm sorry, Haskell," Mrs. Haven said. She had dropped her knitting back in her bag. Her right hand had Toto by his collar. I think she thought the feisty little spaniel might make a pass at Keegan when he started to leave.
"You played a great game," I said.
"When something doesn't work you can't call it great," she said. "If you get to Pierre, tell him I tried."
"One minute," Keegan said. "You lead the way to the elevator, Haskell. We'll be right behind you." Thump, thump, thump, and then he said, "Now!"
If I tell you I thought my legs wouldn't work perhaps you'll understand. I took a last look at old Mrs. Haven, rigid on the couch, cuddling her dog, a last look at Val drooping in Keegan's viselike grip, and walked, almost stiff-kneed toward the vestibule. There was just a small table lamp burning there. Across the six feet of vestibule the elevator waited, door open, lights bright, looking like some sort of eighteen-foot-square oasis. Some jerk had turned on the Musak and, believe it or not, a long-ago Fred Astaire was singing softly, "White Tie, Top Hat, and Tails."
"Go right in," Keegan said from behind me.
I walked in. The car is completely enclosed, air conditioned—and a Fred Astaire concert! I turned. Val was staring at me, terrified, over the top of Keegan's stranglehold on her.
"How do you start it?" Keegan asked.
"Press the 'Close Door' button," I said.
"You press it."
I turned to the control panel and got the door closed. We started, almost noiselessly, down.
"How do you turn that music off?" Keegan demanded.
"I don't know. It's controlled from the basement."
Then it happened. The car stopped. The lights went out and we were in complete darkness except for a little red emergency light on the control panel. That goes on automatically when the power is off. Astaire was gone, too. In his place was Ethel Merman belting out something from Annie Get Your Gun. It was deafening in that small space.
"They're playing some kind of a lousy trick on us!" Keegan shouted. "So help me God, I'll..."
The lights came on again and the car started down.
"Momentary power failure," I said. I couldn't think of anything else to say.
Merman had shifted to "There's No Business Like Show Business." I don't know whether everyone else is like me, but I have a tendency, when I'm going down in an elevator, to look up to where I've just been. You can't see anything in this totally enclosed car, but I looked up. I don't know what kept me from shouting out, but there was a good-sized square hole in the roof of the car. On the other side of the hole was a face, a stranger. He put his finger to his lips in a gesture to me to keep silent. I almost had to clap my hand over my mouth. The stranger's hand appeared and he dropped something in the car behind us. A little curl of smoke came up from it and I saw it was an old-fashioned string of kid's Fourth of July firecrackers. They went off, snapping and popping.
For the first time in what seemed like hours Keegan spun away from Val, and the man on the roof of the car fired three shots. The total noise in that small space was beyond belief when you added a shrill screaming from Keegan. He did a kind of crazy pirouette, like a ballet dancer in a climactic leap. I think in that last moment he was still trying to get off a shot at Val.
&nbs
p; I like to think that I grabbed at his gun arm. At any rate I could see the police special gleaming in the corner of the car. I had Val in my arms, trying to shield her from the sight of the fountain of blood that seemed to come from Keegan's mouth.
Then the elevator door opened and I think there were a million people trying to crowd in at once. The first face I saw was Chambrun's. It felt like waking from a nightmare.
FIVE
It's hard to make any kind of order out of what happened in the next few minutes.
I remember Chambrun holding out his hand to me, and between us we got Valerie out of the elevator. We were at the garage level. There was a car waiting there—if things had gone that far.
Cops, along with a police doctor, carried the blood-soaked Keegan to an ambulance that pulled in just behind what might have been the getaway car.
I heard Hardy's familiar voice asking the police doctor what Keegan's chances were.
"Early to guess, but not too good, Pd say," the doctor said.
"Maybe it's best that way," Hardy said. He sounded bitter. "The way our courts work these days, they'd probably find him unfit to stand trial by reason of insanity. Couple of years later they pronounce him cured, turn him loose, and he's ready to start on another rampage."
You remember little things like that.
Like Val's fingers locked in mine. "I don't believe it," she whispered to me. "I never thought we'd make it, Mark."
"That makes two of us," I said.
Like Chambrun smiling at an oddly familiar man. "Would you believe, Sergeant, those firecrackers have been in my desk drawer for a couple of years? Confiscated from a kid who was setting them off in a flowerpot in the lobby. Remembered them at the last minute."
"I was praying they'd go off," the man said. "It worked perfectly."
I knew, then, where I'd seen him before; through the hole in the roof of the elevator. Later I learned he was Sergeant Spivak, the expert marksman Keegan had mentioned—was it years ago?—up in the penthouse.
Murder in Luxury Page 16
