Investigators

by W. E. B Griffin

  Ketcham then went back on his hands and knees and began looking for the clothing he had been forced to remove and had dropped onto the floor.

  It was not where he remembered having dropped it, and Ketcham decided that he had become disoriented when he had felt faint and dizzy, and decided he would have to search for it methodically.

  Ketcham crawled on his hands and knees until he encountered a wall. Then he moved along the wall hoping the find a door, or something else. He didn’t, but eventually he found a corner. He moved from the corner to the next, and estimated that the room was about fifteen feet in that dimension. Then he followed that wall until the next corner, and the next. Along that wall, to one end of it, he encountered a door.

  He stood up then and ran his hands over the door. He found a hole, which presumably had at one time held a doorknob. Ketcham put his index finger in the hole and felt around, but encountered nothing. Next Ketcham ran his hands over the concrete on both sides of the door. His fingers encountered a square box, a shielded cable running to it, and then, on the box itself, two toggle switches.

  Ketcham closed his eyes so that he would not be blinded by any sudden light. He threw both switches several times, but there was no light.

  Walking erect now, Ketcham proceeded along the wall until he came to the corner from which he had started. Then he made another circumnavigation of the room, walking erect and rubbing his hands in slow wide arcs over the cold rough concrete. Midway down one wall, he encountered another shielded cable, and followed it to a plug box near the floor. There was a similar arrangement on the next wall.

  Ketcham realized that while he was, literally speaking, still totally in the dark, he was no longer in complete ignorance of his surroundings. He was in a room he estimated to be probably fifteen feet by twelve. There was one door, no handle, and electrical circuits that were dead—or alive. Someone could have removed the bulbs from the light fixture—fixtures; there were two switches—they controlled.

  There were no windows, which meant that he was more than likely in some kind of basement.

  But they didn’t lead me down any stairs, and the truck or station wagon, or whatever that was, didn’t descend an incline; I would have sensed that if it had.

  So where the hell am I?

  Where are the people who brought me here?

  Why did they bring me here?

  What happens next?

  Ketcham began to shiver again.

  Where the hell are my clothes?

  Ketcham dropped to his knees and began a methodical search of the room, rubbing his hand over the concrete in wide arcs. His confidence that it would be just a matter of time until he found his clothing took a long time dying, but eventually, after twenty passes, he gave up.

  Ketcham rested his back against the wall.

  His fingertips, and the palms of his hands, and his knees were raw from the concrete.

  And I have to take a leak!

  Jesus, what do I do about that?

  Ketcham got to his feet and moved along the wall until he came to a corner.

  I will piss here. This corner will be the toilet.

  What the hell am I going to have to do when I have to take a crap?

  Ketcham held the too-small overcoat out of the way and voided his bladder. Moments after he had begun to do so, he felt warm urine on his bare feet. He spread his legs as far apart as he could until he finished.

  Fuck it, I’d rather get beaten up than put up with any more of this shit!

  Ketcham made his way to the door and shouted “Help” and “Hello” and beat on the door with his fists, which caused the door to resound like a bell.

  No one responded.

  Ketcham made his way to the corner opposite from the toilet, and rested his back against the wall, and started to weep in the darkness.

  The parking lot of the country club was nearly full, and Matt lost sight of Susan’s Porsche while finding a place to park the Plymouth. After three minutes of wandering around the parking lot, he found the car, but not Susan.

  “Thank you ever so much for waiting for me,” he muttered, and headed for the brightly lit entrance to the club-house.

  He found Susan in the center of the large entrance foyer, talking to a man whose dress and manner made Matt guess—correctly, it turned out—that he was the steward, or manager.

  “Good evening,” Matt said, smiling.

  “Matt, this is Mr. Witherington, the manager.”

  “Claude Witherington,” the man said as he put out his hand to Matt. Then he was unable to resist making the correction: “Executive Manager, actually. Welcome to River View, Mr. Payne. We hope you’ll enjoy our facilities.”

  “Thank you very much,” Matt said.

  “After Mr. Reynolds called,” Witherington said, “I had your guest card made out.” He handed it to Matt.

  “Thank you,” Matt said.

  “This is a no-cash club,” Witherington said. “I thought I should mention that.”

  “How am I going to pay?”

  “Have you a home club?”

  “I belong to Merion, in Philadelphia, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Splendid. Merion, of course, is on our reciprocal list. Actually, had I known that, I wouldn’t have had to issue a guest card at all. In any event, all you will have to do is sign the chit, and if you think of it, add ‘Merion, Philadelphia. ’ ”

  “Actually, I think it’s in Merion,” Matt said. “What should I do, write ‘Merion, Merion’?”

  Susan Reynolds shook her head, but there was the flicker of a smile on her lips. Mr. Witherington looked distressed, but after a moment smiled happily.

  “You just sign your name, Mr. Payne, and I’ll handle it from there. You’ll be billed through your club.”

  “You’re very kind, thank you very much.”

  “Not at all,” Witherington said. “Enjoy, enjoy!”

  He walked off.

  Susan put out her hand.

  “Good night, Matt.”

  “Good night?”

  “Good night.”

  “That wasn’t our deal, fair maiden. Our deal was that I help you deceive your parents—and that was difficult for me; they’re nice people—and in return you keep me from being overwhelmed by loneliness here in the provinces. I kept up my end of the deal, and I expect the same from you.”

  “Matt, if you go into the bar, and hold your left hand up so that people can see you don’t have a wedding ring, a half dozen—what did you say, ‘fair maidens’?—will fall over themselves to get at you.”

  “I know, that happens to me all the time. But I’m not that sort of boy. I don’t let myself get picked up by strange young ladies. And I don’t kiss on the first date. Besides, if you went home now, so soon, your daddy and mommy might get the idea our romance is on the rocks.”

  “We don’t have a romance.”

  “You wouldn’t want to break your mommy’s heart, would you? From the way she was looking at me, she’s already making up the guest list for our marriage.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “ ‘The truth is a shattered mirror strewn in myriad bits, and each believes his little bit the whole to own,’ ” Matt quoted, and when Susan gave him an incredulous look, added, “That’s from the Kasidah of Haji Abu el Yezdi—in my judgment, one of the wiser Persian philosophers.”

  “You’re unbelievable!”

  “So my mother tells me,” Matt said.

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Let’s go in the bar and have a couple of quick stiff ones,” Matt said. “ ‘Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker.’ I believe Mr. Ogden Nash said that.”

  Susan shook her head again. “One drink,” she said.

  “Three. We can then compromise on two.”

  Without replying, she walked toward what turned out to be the bar. It was a large, dark, and comfortable room, with a bar along one paneled wall, and tables with red leather-cushioned captain’s chairs scattered around t
he room.

  Matt did not miss the eight or ten attractive young women in the room, sitting in groups of two or three at tables and at the bar.

  Maybe I should have let her get away. I think the odds to make out in here look pretty good. My chances with Susie range from lousy to zip.

  Not that I would, anyway. Could, anyway. Peter was right about that.

  I will not, Boy Scout’s honor, make that mistake.

  A waiter appeared as soon as they sat down.

  “Good evening, Miss Reynolds,” he said.

  “What do you drink, Matt?” Susan asked. “Let your imagination run loose. Da—my father will expect me to make this my treat.”

  “Daddy’s going to pay?” Matt asked.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Would you bring us the wine list, please?” Matt said.

  “The wine list?” Susan asked incredulously.

  “It’s a list of the available fermented grape juices,” Matt said seriously, “generally stapled into some kind of artificial leather folder.”

  “Miss Reynolds?” the waiter asked in confusion.

  “Go get the wine list,” Matt ordered. “If the lady’s going to welsh on her offer to spring for the booze, I’ll pay for it myself.”

  “Get the wine list, please,” Susan said.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Susan looked at him.

  “I don’t think your insanity comes naturally,” she said. “I suspect you actually think you’re amusing, and really work on your crazy-man routine.”

  “I’m disappointed that you can see through me so easily,” Matt said. “But now that you know my darkest secrets, are you going to tell me yours, to even the playing field?”

  “Would it crush you even more if I told you I wouldn’t give you my phone number, much less tell you my darkest secrets?”

  “I already have your phone number,” Matt said.

  “Unfortunately,” she said.

  “When did you first realize you were falling in love with me? At Daffy’s?”

  “Oh, how I wish I had never seen you at Daffy’s!”

  “Then it must have been when some primeval force, stronger than both of us, brought you to my hotel-room door.”

  “Do you ever stop?”

  “Not when I’m on a roll.”

  The waiter laid a wine list in front of Matt.

  Matt looked at Susan.

  “You never saw one of these before?” he asked innocently. “They’re quite common in Philadelphia.”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “What’s your pleasure, Susan?” Matt asked.

  “Whatever you like,” she replied.

  Matt looked at the waiter.

  “Have they got any Camembert in the kitchen? Or Roquefort?”

  “I’m sure there’s Roquefort, sir. I’m not sure about the other.”

  “Okay. Well, ask, and bring us one or the other, preferably both. And some crackers, and of course a cheese knife, and a bottle of this Turgeson Napa Valley cabernet sauvignon. And a couple of glasses, of course.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We just had dinner,” Susan said when the waiter had gone.

  “But—you were so anxious to be alone with me—no dessert.”

  “I was anxious to get you out of the house as soon as possible.”

  “Isn’t that what I just said?”

  “Before you said something you shouldn’t have.”

  “Not fair, fair maiden. I held up my side of the bargain.”

  After a moment, she said, “You’re right. You did. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Matt said. “That brings me to the other ‘thank-you’ you owe me.”

  “For what?”

  “For talking that Harrisburg uniform out of giving you a ticket for going sixty-five in a forty-mile-per-hour zone, thereby offending the peace and dignity of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania.”

  “Is that what you call them, ‘uniforms’?”

  Matt cupped his hand behind his ear, signaling he was waiting to hear ‘thank you.’ ”

  She smiled.

  “Okay, thank you. Now answer the question.”

  “Yes.”

  “Isn’t that a little condescending?”

  “Not at all. It’s simply an identifying term.”

  “I have trouble picturing you in a policeman’s uniform.”

  “I’m dashing. Within a two-mile circle, girlish hearts flutter,” Matt said, and then added, “Actually, I’ve hardly worn my uniform.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I went, right out of the Academy, to a plainclothes job.”

  “How did you arrange that?”

  “It was arranged for me. My father has friends in high places, one of whom believed—with my father—at the time that I would quickly come to my senses, resign from the cops, and go to law school. My father’s friend, he’s a chief inspector, arranged for me to be assigned as the administrative assistant—sort of a secretary in pants—to Inspector Peter Wohl. The idea was that in this manner, until I came to my senses, I would not get myself hurt.”

  “But you didn’t resign. Why not? Why are you a cop in the first place?”

  “Why are you a social worker? That doesn’t look like much fun to me, and I would be surprised if the pay’s any better.”

  “I’m doing something important.”

  “The police are important. Try to imagine life without us.”

  “I don’t have to shoot people,” Susan said.

  Shooting people is a no-no, right? But blowing them up—or at least aiding and abetting those who do—is OK, right?

  “I only shoot people who are trying to shoot me,” Matt said. “Or run me over with a truck.”

  “Is that what happened?”

  “That’s what happened.”

  “Did it bother you to have taken someone’s life?”

  Be careful what you say here, Matthew. Think before you open your mouth. I think the answer here is going to be important.

  “Well, did it?” Susan asked, somewhat impatiently.

  “I got psychiatric advice,” Matt said.

  “You went to a shrink?”

  “My big sister is a shrink. She came to me.”

  “And?”

  The waiter appeared with the wine and a plate holding crackers and a triangular lump of Roquefort cheese. While the waiter opened the bottle, Matt put cheese on half a dozen crackers.

  He sipped the wine, nodded his approval, waited for the waiter to pour into first Susan’s glass and then his own, then popped one of the crackers into his mouth and immediately took a sip of wine.

  “What are you doing?” she asked in clear disapproval.

  She had to wait until he had finished chewing for his reply.

  “Don’t tell me you never saw anyone do that before?”

  “I never saw anyone do that before,” she said. “It’s gross!”

  “But it tastes so good,” he said. “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Oh, go on, take a chance. Live dangerously. Escape your mundane social worker’s life.”

  She looked very dubious and did not reply. Matt popped another Roquefort-on-cracker into his mouth, added some of the wine, chewed, and smiled with pleasure.

  Curiosity got the better of her. She shrugged and reached for one of the crackers and then the wine. She took a tentative chew, then smiled. When she had finished, she confessed, “That’s good.”

  “And you didn’t want to have a couple of snorts with me. You would never have learned that—something you can use for the rest of your days—from good ol’ Whatsisname.”

  Her eyes showed she didn’t like that.

  “You were telling me what your sister the shrink told you,” she said.

  “You really want to know?”

  “Yeah,” Susan said thoughtfully. “I suppose I do.”

  “She said that I should remember that
what I did was an act of self-preservation, rather than an act of willful violence. And that self-preservation is one of the basic subconscious urges, right up there with sexual desire, over which man has very little control.”

  I just made that up. I must be getting to be a pretty good liar. Or, more kindly, actor. When Amy came to me in her Sigmund Freud role after I shot the late Mr. Warren K. Fletcher in the back of his head, I told her to butt out.

  And Susie seems to be swallowing it whole.

  “And, of course, in that case, the act of homicide had an undeniably desirable social by-product.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “When he tried to run me over he had a naked housewife tied up with lamp cord under a tarpaulin in the back of his truck.”

  “Come on!” Susan said, almost scornfully.

  Matt held up his right hand, pinky and thumb touching, the others extended. “Boy Scout’s honor,” he said. “And there was no moral question in that woman’s mind whether or not I should have shot him. He had been telling her all the interesting things he was going to do to her just as soon as they got out of town.”

  “In other words, so far as you’re concerned, it’s morally permissible to take human life under certain circumstances—for a greater good?”

  Matt bit off the answer that started to form on his lips, and instead said, “Have another cracker, Susan.”

  “We’re changing the subject, are we? What happened, did you run out of sardonic witticisms?”

  Yeah, for some reason I sensed that it was time to change the subject. I have no idea how, but I knew that line of conversation was dangerous.

  “I guess so. You can go home to Mommy and Daddy, Susan. I don’t like the conversation anymore.”

  Her face colored, and for a moment Matt thought she was about to push herself out of her chair and march out of the room.

  But she didn’t.

  “Sorry, I—I just never had a chance to ask . . .”

  “ ‘How does it feel to kill somebody?’ ” Matt furnished, not very pleasantly.

  She nodded.

  “I’m sorry, Matt.”

  Why don’t you ask your pal Chenowith? Wouldn’t you say that blowing up eleven innocent people would make him more of an expert?