Shadow of Death

by William Kienzle

  “Nope,” Lennon admitted. “It got by me completely. Turns out the place was crawling with constables.” She looked thoughtful. “Wouldn’t you say they were providing a little more than ordinary security tonight?”

  “Yup!” Cox emphasized. “Tonight’s protection was just about maximum security. They couldn’t have provided better protection for their queen.” He paused. “What do you make of it?”

  Lennon ran her index finger across her upper lip. “You want to know what I think? I think they know! Somehow they know who’s on this crazy Rastafarian hit list. That’s the only thing that could possibly explain all those cops in the abbey tonight.”

  “But how? How could they know? They couldn’t have gotten it from the Rastafarians . . . could they?”

  Lennon pondered. “What about that black deacon . . . what’s his name, Toussaint?”

  It was as if a bulb lit above Cox’s head. “Yeah, Toussaint. Of course! Remember when he was in Detroit? He had connections all through the black community. I never saw anyone to beat him—not even Mayor Cobb.”

  “Yes, and remember his contacts with fellow Haitians . . . and what I’ve always suspected was a voodoo network.”

  “Voodoo!” Cox sounded incredulous. “Come on, Pat; this is the twentieth century and we’re smack in the middle of Western civilization. Voodoo’s part of the past.”

  “Don’t kid yourself, Joe. You and I may not be invited to any voodoo rites; honkies seldom are. But the African slaves brought their religion, which happened to be voodoo, with them. And although it may have changed a bit and blended with some of our culture, it’s still alive and healthy. And I’ll just bet that you could find voodoo cults in any metropolitan area where there’s a large concentration of blacks.”

  “Maybe so, but I doubt it. Anyway, for the sake of discussion, let’s say Toussaint did somehow come up with this hypothetical Rastafarian hit list. So if he is the police source, wouldn’t you think he’d have been there tonight? I didn’t see him . . . did you?”

  “No . . . no, I didn’t. And that’s odd: Now that I think of it, Toussaint is the one who nailed the Rastafarian who tried to knife Boyle in Rome. Which just reinforces my feeling that he did latch onto that list.”

  “All that proves is that he’s a little faster than the amazingly quick Koznicki. But, where was he tonight?”

  “I haven’t a clue. Maybe we can look into that tomorrow.”

  “You’re so right.” Cox reached up and turned off the light. He pulled up the covers and snuggled closer to Lennon.

  “You know, you’re right about something else, too,” said Cox.

  “And that is . . .?”

  “That the News provides better accommodations than the Free Press. But isn’t it nice that the News reporters are so generous.”

  “We are generous only to the deserving poor.”

  “And am I deserving?”

  “Joe, you always deserve everything you get.”

  Cox raised himself up on one elbow and kissed her tenderly. It was not the end of the day, only the beginning of the night.

  7.

  It was almost impossible to see, the smoke was so thick in the small downstairs room of a tenement apartment in the Brixton district of London. It was a stark room, with no furniture but a small wooden desk with a straightback chair behind it.

  On one wall hung a large, framed, color portrait of a swarthy, bushy-haired man in uniform with a chestful of ribbons and decorations. Haile Selassie I, late Emperor of Ethiopia, King of Kings, Lord of Lords, Conquering Lion of the Tribe of Judah, and unwitting patron of the Rastafarians, was so honored.

  Eight men had crowded into the room; none was moving about. Some sat on the floor, others leaned against the wall. Heavy ganja smoke poured from their mouths and nostrils, filling the room.

  An air of discouragement, dejection, depression, and gloom was almost tangible.

  Occasionally, one or another would speak, though without enthusiasm or spirit.

  “Damnation! Hellfire!”

  “We and we has failed Selassie I!”

  “Shame on our house!”

  Finally, one man rose from the floor. In each hand, he bore an imposing, unsheathed knife.

  He lurched to the desk, on which rested two effigies, each swathed in cardinal red. He raised both knives over his head and with manifest concentration, drove both into the effigies simultaneously.

  “Dread Rasta no dread,” he called out with some air of ritual. “It be de end!”

  8.

  “Seems t’ me, Charlie, that you’re a fraction away from it, what with the years getting on,” said Commissioner Beauchamp, a bit impishly.

  “Oh, I don’t know, guv’nor,” Superintendent Somerset shot back in a combative tone, “I believe I was on our man quick as anyone. Surely, as any man in this room.”

  “Maybe, but then neither of us got to him with the speed of lightning like our Inspector friend here.”

  “Now, now,” retorted Inspector Koznicki, waving a large paw reprovingly, “free me from the middle of this, if you will. We did our job. We protected our charges.”

  Beefeater gin to the contrary notwithstanding, they were sipping Dewar’s White Label Blended Scotch.

  Beauchamp, Somerset, Koznicki, and Father Koesler had gathered in Koznicki’s room at the Carburton to celebrate their victory earlier that evening over the Rasta forces. The two assailants had been taken into custody and were presently being interrogated by Scotland Yard specialists.

  “Blimey,” Somerset commented, “but I’ve never seen anyone move any faster’n you did tonight. Inspector. Maybe as fast, but no faster. And none of us is of the spring chicken variety, I’d say!”

  Koznicki shrugged. “The circumstances were just different. My man raised his knife above his head, and, of course, he was the one who shouted. It was enough of an invitation to act as any I have ever experienced. Your man, on the other hand, brought his knife up from his side directly. You both acted as quickly as could be expected. As it is, it was fortunate that Cardinal Whealan received only a hand wound. It could easily have been much worse.”

  “Well, in any case,” said Beauchamp, “we’ve wrapped it up, I’d say, really. And your party will be movin’ on tomorrow then?” It was a statement, but expressed as a question.

  “Yes,” said Koznicki, “our next stop is Dublin. But do you really think it is ‘wrapped up,’ as you say? According to our list, Cardinal Whealan is one of the targets of this conspiracy. Will that not remain so?”

  “For the time being, it will be very true, indeed,” Somerset replied. “But we’ve got two of ’em, and like as not we’ll find the rest. Should push come to shove, I’ll wager one or another of ’em will tell us anything we’ll want to know just for a puff on their precious ganja weed.”

  “Oh, yes,” Beauchamp agreed, “we’ll round ’em up. And in the meantime, we’ll take special care of His Eminence, indeed.”

  The two British detectives moved to the table for a dash more of Scotch.

  As they did so, Koznicki turned to Koesler. “Speaking of that list, Father, have you heard yet from the Reverend Toussaint?”

  “Not a word—and I told the hotel operator I’d be in your room in case there were any calls.” Koesler had been silent partly because he was hesitant to join in a conversation between police professionals and partly because there was something about this entire case that he found puzzling.

  “Is that what is troubling you?” Koznicki was sensitive to his friend’s moods and to him it was evident that something was bothering Koesler.

  “Partly. It’s been too long since I’ve heard from Ramon. I just feel that even if he’d been occupied with something that came up suddenly, he would have phoned. After all, he was supposed to be at that service this evening.”

  Koznicki turned up his palms in a gesture of helplessness. “All I can say to reassure you is what I said before: Your friend can take care of himself.” After a pause, he ask
ed, “Is there something else?”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, yes . . . but I find it difficult to express. It’s as if something else is missing, but I can’t quite get a handle on it or identify it.” He looked from Koznicki to the two officers as if hopeful they might identify his problem.

  “Well, sir,” Beauchamp fielded the lead, “I think your trouble might just be that you think everything is too simple to be true.”

  “Yes, that’s it all right,” said Somerset with even more assurance than Beauchamp. “’ere we know ’oo we’re lookin’ for, so to speak. And we even know where the bally blighters are gonna be standin’ so we can ’ave a go at ’em. It’s just too cut and dried to be real. Isn’t that it, sir?” He didn’t pause for a reply. “You assume, from all your readin’ and the films and the telly, that police procedure, even a murder case, God save us all, is a complex puzzle requirin’ the fine detective work of a Mr. ’olmes! Well, in all truth, many of ’em are. But every once in a while, you come across a case that is, as the crime writers would ’ave it, open and shut. Such a case, I do believe, we ’ave on our ’ands this very minute.”

  “Yes,” Beauchamp continued, “as the Superintendent has very rightly put it, some cases are simpler than others. It is all up to the perpetrator. Some criminals are deucedly clever, while others are incredibly stupid: Reminds me of one we had not long ago. Remember, Charlie,” he directed at Somerset, “remember Alfred Kirkus?”

  “Dummy Alfie? ’oo could forget ’im?”

  “Was a clot,” Beauchamp continued, “who was a contract killer. What is it you call such a fellow in the States?”

  “A hit man,” Koznicki supplied.

  “The very thing,” Beauchamp confirmed. “Now, Alfie was given a contract to kill one Arthur F. Knoff, an industrialist makes one of his homes in London.

  “Well, the first time ol’ Dummy Alfie tried was in Mr. Knoff’s parking garage.”

  “Right,” said Somerset, eager to get in on the storytelling, “’e ’id in the garage, and when Mr. Knoff arrived at ’is Bentley, the car ’e was goin’ to use that particular day, they start to scuffle. Alfie’s gun falls to the floor and Mr. Knoff kicks it under a vehicle several cars removed. So Alfie beats an ’asty retreat.”

  “The second time he had a go,” Beauchamp resumed possession of the verbal ball, “Alfie very carefully reconnoitered Mr. Knoff’s private club, learned the whole layout, where the gentleman took his lunch, the usual time—a very thorough job, if I may say—”

  “And then,” Somerset interrupted, “Alfie goes and shows up to shoot Mr. Knoff on the very day ’is backgammon group meets.”

  “The third time he tried to fulfill his contract was in Harrods— crowded Harrods, God save us all. Well, this time, Alfìe does get off a shot and wings Mr. Knoff pretty good.”

  “But then,” said Somerset, continuing the antiphony, “Alfie tries to make ’is escape in the tube!”

  Koesler looked puzzled.

  “The subway,” Koznicki translated.

  “Not only did ’e try to get away in the tube,” Somerset continued, “but Dummy Alfie tells everyone on board ’oo’ll listen what ’e just did. One of the passengers gets off, tells a constable, ’oo gets back on board and takes Dummy Alfie into custody.”

  Everyone laughed. As the laughter subsided, the phone rang. Koznicki answered it. “Yes, he is here.” He beckoned Koesler to the phone.

  “This a Mr. Robert Koesler?”

  “Yes.” He decided to overlook the absence of title.

  “Would you know a Mr. Ramon Toussaint?”

  “Yes, why do you ask?” Koesler felt a foreboding.

  “We found your name and your hotel on a piece of paper in his pocket. And since we did not know who to notify, we thought we should tell you—”

  “Tell me what?” Koesler’s knees were turning to jelly.

  “Mr. Toussaint is dead.”

  9.

  “If you would prefer, Father,” Koznicki said, “you can remain here in the car. I can go in and make the identification and the arrangements. I knew Ramon Toussaint well enough to do that and I am used to the procedure. It is really not very pleasant—and he was your good friend.”

  “No, thank you very much. Inspector. I think I can do it. But,” he added, looking in turn at each of his companions, “I would be grateful for your presence.”

  None of the four had said much since the phone call. The others had expressed their sympathy briefly to Koesler. Then Somerset had driven them to the hospital.

  Now, all four exited the car and entered the hospital. Locating a nurse in the casualty department, Koznicki explained why they were there. She asked them to wait, then went for the doctor. When he entered the waiting area, the doctor seemed a bit surprised. Apparently, he had not expected four people.

  “Which of you is Koesler?”

  “I am.”

  Again the doctor exhibited mild surprise. “You’re a priest?”

  Koesler nodded, as the others identified themselves.

  “Sorry, Father. I wasn’t expecting a member of the clergy. The attendant failed to mention that.”

  “The attendant?”

  “Yes. The one who phoned you. He was only doing his job, of course, but . . .” He shook his head, then looked at Koesler with an odd expression. “You see, Mr. Toussaint is not dead.”

  “Not dead!” Koesler felt a sudden exuberance, then a weakness brought on by relief.

  “No. Though I must say that for all intents and purposes, he might as well have been. He certainly appeared so when he was brought in. If our attendant hadn’t rung you so soon . . .”

  The other three offered congratulations to Koesler. Beauchamp and Somerset each took out a notepad. Obviously, they felt this could become a matter for police investigation.

  “What happened?” Koesler asked.

  “Well, Mr. Toussaint’s body was discovered in Regent’s Park. It was most fortunate he was found so soon, really. A romantic young couple strolling by the lake almost literally stumbled upon him. Otherwise, I fear he wouldn’t have been found till daylight . . . and I very much doubt he would have been alive at that point.

  “In any case, he was brought in here at,” the doctor consulted his chart, “2230 . . . no, 2235, to be precise. At first blush he was thought to be dead.” He looked up. “That’s when our attendant called you. But then, one of our people thought she heard a sigh escape from Mr. Toussaint. She checked and got a pupil reaction and then we all began to work very quickly indeed.”

  “Is he conscious?” Beauchamp inquired.

  The doctor shook his head. “He was comatose when we first examined him and that condition has remained unchanged.”

  “Then what exactly is ’is condition?” Somerset asked.

  “Critical. Extremely critical.”

  “And you can’t tell yet what happened to him?” Koznicki asked.

  “A beating, I should think. A beating the likes of which, I’m glad to say, we don’t see often.” Again, the doctor referred to his chart. “So far, we’ve found the following fractures: frontal,” he looked up from the chart, “that’s his forehead.” Then, “right and left zygomatic.” Again he looked up. “That’s both cheekbones. Right mandible . . . that’s the lower jaw; nose; clavicle . . . that’s the collarbone; right and left humerus, radius, and ulna . . . that’s both upper and lower arms; all ten fingers; ribs—seven fractures to the ribs . . .”

  As the doctor proceeded through his medical litany, Koesler first flinched, then felt his stomach turn. He feared he was going to be physically ill. His companions were taking notes very professionally.

  “. . . right femur . . . that’s the thigh; and tibia . . . that’s the lower leg; both patellae . . . that’s the kneecaps, several metatarsi in each foot. Then dislocations: one hip and one shoulder.”

  “That it?” asked Somerset.

  “That’s all we have found so far.” He stopped, suddenly aware of Koesler’s wannes
s, and looked at the priest with professional concern. “Are you all right, Father?”

  Koesler half-nodded in a peremptory manner, while his right hand made an impatient I’m-all-right-please-go-on gesture.

  The doctor looked at him doubtfully, but resumed. “The good side of it is that, as far as we can tell, incredibly—miraculously—there’s been no internal bleeding, and no collapsed lung. With all those fractured ribs, you fear a thing like that.”

  “Well, then,” said Beauchamp, “it’s a professional job, no doubt of that. But tell us: What is the prognosis?”

  “Too soon to say, actually. I’d guess his age to be in the late forties, early fifties—”

  “He’s fifty-six,” Koesler said quietly.

  “Really! He does appear younger. But even at fifty-six . . . now that’s a fairly young age when one speaks of recovery from a thing like this. And, outside of the massive multiple injuries, he seems in excellent physical condition. All in all, I would guess there to be something like a 40 percent chance of survival.”

  “That’s all?” Koesler, newfound hope ebbing, seemed stunned.

  “Father,” the doctor replied, “let me assure you: for the severity of the beating your friend received, he is very, very fortunate merely to be alive. From the extent of his injuries, I do not believe his assailant or assailants meant for him to survive. And now, we are faced with, in effect, trying to put Humpty Dumpty together again.

  “And even if he survives, we cannot be sure he will suffer no permanent physical or neurological after-effects.”

  Koesler fought waves of nausea. “Then I’ll stay here.”

  “What? Here at the hospital?” asked the doctor.

  “No, here in London.”

  “You’re on holiday then?”

  “A charter,” said Koznicki. “We were scheduled to leave tomorrow for Ireland.”

  “Then, by all means, go. Believe me. Father,” said the doctor earnestly, “your staying in London can serve no useful purpose whatever. There is nothing you can do for Mr. Toussaint. He will, believe me, not be at all conscious of your presence . . . or your absence. I do not even expect that he will regain consciousness for several days—if at all. And when and if he does, we will then have to ascertain to what extent, if any, he has sustained brain damage. Although, it is odd . . .” His brow furrowed and his voice trailed off in puzzlement.