The Glendower Legacy

by Thomas Gifford

  Chandler got up, too, but the old man’s hand clamped down on his arm: “Wait, there’s something I wanted to spare Miss Bishop.” He spoke in a throaty whisper. “Your friend Brennan … well, they got to him last night in Cambridge—”

  “What do you mean, Bert, got to him?” The cold pliers glittered in his mind, chilling him.

  “They went to work on him. At his home, torture, beat him up …”

  “Shit! He went home right after he brought me the car at the museum—how is he? Is he going to be all right?”

  “Don’t know.” Prosser shook his tiny, fragile head. A vein pulsed in his temple, blue beneath the translucent white hair. “Pretty badly beaten up … they just don’t know if he’s going to make it or not. I had to leave town before there was much information. There’s one other thing, Colin … ah, Hugh killed one of them.”

  “Killed …” Chandler exclaimed under his breath. “And I thought I did some damage—which one did he kill?”

  “A great big man, presumably the one you poured coffee all over. Brennan brained him with a shillelagh …” He laughed quietly into a cupped fist. “Whoever these men are, I’ll wager they wish they’d never come to Boston.”

  “What about the other one?”

  “The one you say wore a porkpie hat?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Gone. Frankly, Colin … he’s like a rogue, he may be out for blood. Revenge.” He pressed his fingertips to his temples.

  “Are you all right, Bert?”

  “No, I’m not, Colin.” He smiled dourly. “I’m too old for this kind of horseplay, it’s like being back with Wild Bill Donovan, but I’m not the fellow I was then … at my age, you’re dying. You’re just plain dying … but, cheer up, I’m not dying today. Later. Today I’m worried about you and Miss Bishop and George Washington. Ach, it’s all his fault, you know! Now get ready to make your escape.”

  Chandler went about his preparations, cramming the groceries into the duffel bag, tightening up the lid on the large thermos. Polly nibbled on a Twinkie. “He’s worried, isn’t he?” she said. “Really worried.”

  “I guess he is.”

  “But what has got him worried? Sure, sure, I know the obvious part, but there’s something else going on, I swear it. I’ve interviewed so many men with more on their minds than anyone knew at the time—Colin, I got so I can recognize it. Something’s eating at Prosser and it scares hell out of me … he gives me the impression of a hard man to scare who’s scared half to death.”

  He put his arm around her shoulders and took the coffee cup with his other hand. He took a mighty swallow. “No flies on you, as we say at Harvard. But … I repeat but, don’t underestimate the old coot.”

  “What, may I ask, is all this rusticity? Bertram Prosser a coot?”

  “Shows you how calm I am, always able to make light of the deadly situation … remind you of David Niven? No? Not even a little? Well, it’s not important. Just remember that Prosser, coot or not, is a cool cucumber … and the stuff we know all about is scary enough.” He pressed his mouth to her soft downy cheek. “There doesn’t have to be something else.”

  “And you are no newshound, my friend.”

  When they got back to the library the old man was turning a pill bottle in his hand. He was watching his hand as it shook. He didn’t look up. “I’ve rewrapped the parcel,” he said. “Oilskin pouch, very tight. Waterproof.”

  “In case the plane crashes,” Polly said, making a face.

  Prosser laughed, tore his eyes away from his own trembling hands. “Something like that, my dear. Are you all ready to go?” He looked at his wristwatch. “Time, ladies and gentlemen, time.”

  Chandler didn’t recognize the sound of the explosion for what it was. It wasn’t a bang: more of a muffled, roaring swirl of sound, unlike anything he’d ever heard. Polly flinched at the noise. It was Bert Prosser who leaped up, spinning the chair to the floor, snapping off the light switch and pitching the library into darkness. Chandler found himself frozen in place, confused. He couldn’t quite believe he’d seen the frail old man move with such decisiveness. He next saw Prosser silhouetted against the window, moving across the rectangle of … light. Where the hell was the light, a brilliant, pale yellow glow, coming from?

  At the window he saw it.

  The brown car was shimmering amid licking flames, fire leaping like cracking whips from the windows, curling from beneath the chassis … while he watched, the front windshield exploded, spraying glass in a glittering shower into the darkness. There was no movement, only the burning, blistering remains of the anonymous brown car.

  “He’s here,” Prosser said at his elbow. “I waited too long, a garrulous old man. He’s out there … the survivor, the one Brennan didn’t kill.”

  “Where is he?” Chandler strained his eyes at the darkness.

  “Watching …”

  “I see him. I saw him move.” Polly had joined them at the window. “He’s standing by the big tree, right where the driveway curves.”

  “He’s come for you, Colin,” Prosser said. “He’s more than likely alone.”

  “So, what the hell—” Chandler felt the tightening in his stomach: God, he’d forgotten, he’d thought the nightmare was over. He felt Polly’s hand on his shoulder.

  “You’ve still got to get away. Minus the car.” Chandler heard the old man’s ghostly, dry clucking. “Can you handle that, Colin?”

  “I’ll take care of him,” Polly said. “Don’t worry. We’ll get to Bar Harbor.”

  Suddenly a short, compact figure stepped away from the tree, and paused: the window shattered and Chandler heard the slug smack into the books against the wall behind them.

  “Enough,” Prosser said. “He’s going to pay attention to the front of the house. That’s the problem when you work alone. You can only be in one place at a time … Off with you. Get to the tree line behind the garage, that’ll provide cover, then it’s up to you … you’ve got the map.” Prosser was pushing them toward the hallway.

  “What about you?”

  “Colin, don’t worry about me. It’s obvious I can’t hike across country. I’ll take my chances with this stupid little sod. Blowing up cars! I’ll deal with him. You get a good start … just get to Kendrick. I’ll know how to contact you. There’ll be good news, too, never fear.”

  Prosser pecked Polly’s cheek and shook hands with Chandler.

  “Remember,” he said. “What does not destroy me makes me stronger.”

  Then he was gone.

  Polly turned to Chandler in the pitch-darkness of the back hallway, by the door.

  “Are you afraid?” she asked.

  “Aside from wanting to throw up and faint, I’m fine.”

  “Do you have the bag?”

  “Indeed I do, and our raincoats, the works. The oilskin pouch … It’s going to get heavy.”

  “When I open the door,” she said, “let me go out first. I’ll give you the sign if it’s clear. All we’ve got to do is get to the tree line.”

  “Even I grasped that.”

  “Just follow orders,” she said, patting him reassuringly, “and you’ll be fine.” Then she was through the door. He waited, watching her slowly make her way across the lawn. She stopped by the shed where he’d found the key. He yawned, heard his jawbone crack, as usual. The canvas bag already felt heavy. What in God’s name was he doing here? How had Hugh come to killing someone? He shut his eyes: all a dreadful, bizarre mistake, a case of hideously mistaken identity. When he opened his eyes he saw Polly beckoning. Well, what the hell else could he do? He left the house …

  Prosser waited in the darkness, nourishing his malice, calculating the various possibilities, trusting his weary heart to see him through. Thorny had not been seen since the one fleeting shadow by the tree, but Prosser knew he was there, that he hadn’t risked moving, circling the house. Though he believed Chandler to be alone, in the huge house or at worst accompanied by a woman, Thorny was no f
ool: he knew the damage Chandler and Brennan were, unexpectedly, capable of inflicting. Prosser could almost sense the fear that was settling on Thorny: out of anger, or frustration, he had risked the luxury of a symbol, a gesture, the incinerating automobile. Very pretty. But now he was thinking: Chandler knew he was here, Chandler had been warned …

  Prosser packed his pipe in the dark, poking the tobacco down with a blunt, much-used forefinger, cupped the flaring match with both hands. There was nothing for it but to let him wait a bit, the fear growing, the sweat soaking his clothes out there in the cold night. Chandler and Polly must have made it to cover by now; there was nothing to worry about there. She had a good head, together they’d will through. At least they had a decent chance, better than most. Unless, or course, Petrov decided not to leave well enough alone …

  What could possibly be going through the Russian’s mind? Prosser tried to imprint his own deviousness on Petrov’s, tried to squeeze himself into the man’s mind, but it was heavy going. Although he’d served the Russians both as allies and enemies of the United States, he’d never flattered himself about understanding the Russian mind: for him it had remained a tantalizing blend of Oriental and European, always shifting and unpredictable. So often they ignored what seemed important to press on the trivial; yet, when you counted on that, they would brutally adhere to the obvious and mistrust the mildest sophistication. So Petrov puzzled him, as all the others had. His American masters, on the other hand, had never struck him as particularly complex, devious. It was a matter of national character perhaps … or the fact that he was an American himself …

  Waiting, listening to the odd crackle from the burning car, Prosser smoked and pondered, turned his own situation before him, analyzing. How, he wondered, had it come to this? Sitting in the dark, in the middle of nowhere, counting out his life, mourning the confusion inherent in it all. What in his own character had led him to this private place of skulls? Why had he chosen to serve in both camps simultaneously? What twist was part of him, not of others who’d had the same opportunity? Was it simple greed? He smiled in the dark, wishing it were all that simple … Or was it the need to control others? Or the lure of the game, the competition? Well, he was tired of it. Maybe it was one project too many: that’s the way it always ended, so went the rule of thumb, one job too many and you never came out the other side: like drifting helplessly into a black hole, finally giving it up. So remarkable, to end this way, with such a simpleminded number–so harebrained. Why did bloody Petrov want the damned piece of paper: what the hell did he think he was going to do with it? Could it really have been just a whim, a caprice on Petrov’s part? With so much death? It made no sense, except perhaps to a Russian … What a finale! What a way to go out!

  In the end he had to go get Thorny.

  From the window he called to him: “Thorny, listen to me. This is your control—do you understand, your control. Chandler has been here and gone. I got here too late myself. Chandler is gone.” Having conveyed the substance of his message, he became peremptory: “I’m not going to show myself until you’re out in the open. You could have gone off your nut and be after me—now get your wretched self in here! We’ve got planning to do.”

  There was a slight wait, then the figure came away from the tree and started toward the house. As he came more clearly into view Prosser saw the gun dangling from his right hand: Christ, the man was walking like a zombie. He went to the front door and stepped outside, onto the stone balustrade. “Get in here,” he snapped. “What’s the matter with you?” By the time Thorny had mounted the steps and was even with the old man the problem was obvious. “You’re stinking, you frightful imbecile! Give me that gun before you hurt yourself …” He held out his trembling old hand and Thorny numbly placed it in the palm. “So help me God,” Prosser muttered, “you’re a poor excuse, you really are a poor excuse.”

  He pushed the drunken, foul-smelling Thornhill ahead into the house, herded him into the library. He clicked on the table lamp. “Sit down.” Thornhill sat down, eyes staring, nose running, tongue flicking again and again across his lips.

  “Water,” he whispered.

  “Shut up,” Prosser snapped, staring hard at the bedraggled specimen, head in hands at the table. “What’s your excuse? Ignoring my instructions, hanging up while I’m talking to you—where’s your sense of discipline, man? You disgust me … drunk.” He fumed, banged his pipe on the facing of the fireplace as he paced. “Drunk! What did you intend to accomplish here? Kill Chandler, I suppose? Ha! You’re damned lucky he didn’t get you alone, the record you’ve got this past week …” He marched back to the table and yanked Thornhill’s head up by the fringe of hair. Thornhill screeched and Prosser slapped his face, stood watching the man moan, thinking, don’t bring on a heart attack. He fought the anger that was building. “Look at me when I speak to you. Vermin, you’re vermin.” He felt his chest tightening and stalked away to the window which had been smashed by Thornhill’s single shot.

  “Do you know who you’re working for? Do you know who you’re trifling with? Do you? Answer!”

  “No, no,” Thornhill said, pale, a red splotch on his cheek where the old man had struck him. “Just a job …”

  “The Russians, you pathetic cretin.” Prosser peered at the man. “The KGB … you’re fouling up a KGB operation!” Thornhill showed no reaction, stared off into space. “You’ve been killing people, bringing attention to this entire operation … a simple operation. A Watergate plumber could have managed it without the least difficulty. But not you. No, no, you were up against a Harvard student, an eighty-year-old man, a couple of Harvard professors—you couldn’t just do your job … Ach, a sad commentary …” He came back to the table like a vulture, unable to resist the carrion. “It’s not too much to say that I am disgruntled. And what do you think our KGB friends are going to say? Think about that.”

  “I don’t know anything about Russians,” he said, trying to stifle hiccups.

  “Well, pray to God you don’t find out.”

  “You, will you tell?”

  “Stand up. Come outside with me. I want to show you something.”

  Thornhill struggled upright and clumped dejectedly back outside with the old man’s hand firmly in his back.

  “Do you ever think about life?” Prosser spoke softly, conversationally.

  Thornhill eyed him sideways: “What do you mean? Life … I don’t have much time to think about—”

  “Well, it would have been time well spent. You lead a violent life. It ought to have occurred to you to give some thought to what it has meant, this life of yours.” They were walking toward the big tree. The shape of the red Pinto loomed suddenly, close at hand. Beyond the tree, a storybook well had long ago been sunk, a tiny shingled roof built over the top, a large winding crank. “Do you think you can drive, old man?” Prosser’s voice had softened, as if they’d known each other for years. “Feeling punk, eh? Weak in the knees? All right, all right. You can stay here. Give me the keys to this toy car … I’ll put it in the garage.”

  “God, thanks,” Thornhill muttered, fumbled the keys into Prosser’s hand. “I think I’m going to puke …”

  “Ah, well, no better place … Here, just fire away into the well.”

  When Thornhill leaned forward, wretching into the mouth of the well, Prosser gently placed the muzzle of the large gun against the back of his skull and pulled the trigger. The more or less headless corpse collapsed over the rim of the well. Prosser eased him upward and dropped him down the wet, clammy darkness, heard a damp crunching sound at the bottom.

  Prosser took a deep breath and leaned against the tree. The night winds had blown the clouds away, leaving a sprinkling of stars. He felt much better. Tomorrow he’d kick over whatever traces might remain. For now he’d run the stupid little Pinto in beside the Rolls and get his poor old body tucked into bed.

  Christ. What a very long day …

  Liam McGonigle sat in the leatherette booth, staring
out the window at the pancake house’s parking lot, the grotesque sign shining in the darkness, beckoning the Sunday night family homeward bound and unwary. Andrew Fennerty picked at the remains of a mound of syrup-soaked blueberry pancakes, chewed absentmindedly, expressionlessly. The restaurant was noisy with bawling children and weary, snappish parents. Unasked, Liam extracted a packet from his jacket pocket and slid it across the table: Alka-Seltzer. Andrew nodded and pushed his plate away. He dropped the two white disks into a glass of water, watched them foam.

  “Not one of our better days,” Andrew allowed, lifting his glass in a bleak toast. “I can’t remember the last really acceptable day I had in the field, no, I really can’t.” The bubbles were dying down. “But Kennedy was President …” He took a deep, slow draught and waited for the requisite, soothing little belch. When it had come and gone he finished the glass and wiped the white scum from his lips.

  “Not very hard to figure out,” Liam murmured. “We’re too damned old for this sort of thing … But the old man had to have us, I can hear him now … he’s worked with us before, he needed our fine touch, all the old crappola—well, it worked, he got us.” He stroked the stubble on his chin with the short freckled fingers. A yawn burst through uncontrollably. “Anyway, we don’t belong here …”

  “You know,” Andrew said, narrowing his eyes, “I hate to say it but I think the old boy is past it. He’s held on for a long time, he’s done a lot of very sharp work, but there comes a time, there just comes a time …” He reached back to his plate and forked up another layer of pancake. “He never should have asked for us, he should have known better and used younger men, but he knew he could handle us.” He chewed solemnly, watching the parking lot. A stern wind shook the evergreens below the glass. “He’s past it, he just doesn’t have the touch anymore.” He lapsed into silence, lit a cigarette and motioned to the waitress for a coffee refill.