Final Justice

by W. E. B Griffin

  “I see,” Alvin W. Martin said, although he really didn’t.

  The only thing he knew for sure was that he had never seen the Honorable Eileen McNamara Solomon so angry before, and from which he drew the conclusion that one could anger Mrs. Solomon only at great peril.

  “I have no intention of standing there, smiling in gratitude, when the FBI or the marshals take him off the plane,” Eileen McNamara Solomon declared.

  “I understand how you feel, Eileen,” he said.

  “I want a Philadelphia cop’s handcuffs on him,” she said. “I want a Philadelphia cop to bring him back.”

  “I can understand that,” the mayor said.

  “Those bastards try this sort of thing all the time. They even showed up in Alabama, trying to steal Jason Washington’s pinch of Homer C. Daniels.”

  “I didn’t know that,” the mayor said, truthfully. “Is that what it’s called, ‘stealing a pinch’? That sounds like something that would happen at a high school junior prom.”

  It was evident on District Attorney Solomon’s face that she did not share Mayor Martin’s sense of humor.

  “Well, what can we do about this, you and I, Eileen, to make things right?”

  “What you can do, Alvin, is call Ralph Mariani and tell him to get a cop—preferably one from Homicide—over to France before the FBI gets away with this.”

  “Is there going to be time to do that?”

  “There will have to be,” Eileen McNamara Solomon declared.

  [FIVE]

  “Homicide, Lieutenant Washington.”

  “Mariani, Washington. Is Quaire there?”

  “No, sir. He is not.”

  “Come up here, please, Jason. Right now.”

  After he had explained the situation to Lieutenant Washington, Commissioner Mariani was surprised, and a little annoyed, at the amused look on Washington’s face.

  “This is not funny, Lieutenant. We better be able to do something, and do it right now.”

  “As it happens, Commissioner, there does happen to be a man from Homicide in France right now.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “Sergeant Payne—two days ago, anyway—was in Paris, sir.”

  “I ordered him to take thirty days’ vacation time!”

  “Yes, sir. That’s what he’s doing. He and Mr. O’Hara. Sergeant Payne told his mother, and she told me, that Mr. O’Hara is quite taken with the artistic treasures of the Louvre.”

  The commissioner waited for him to go on.

  “There is a rumor circulating, sir, that Mr. O’Hara and Mr. Kennedy, the city editor of the Bulletin—”

  “I know who he is,” Mariani interjected impatiently.

  "—exchanged blows in the city room of the newspaper . . .”

  “No kidding?”

  “. . . and that Mr. O’Hara is on a thirty-day sabbatical from his duties. According to my information—again via Sergeant Payne’s mother—Mr. O’Hara is thinking of writing a book about Festung. Anyway, sir, the two of them are in France.”

  “How do we get in touch with them?”

  “They are—or were—in the George the Fifth Hotel in Paris, sir,” Washington said. “And Mr. O’Hara, I understand, has one of the new worldwide satellite telephones. It shouldn’t be any problem.”

  Commissioner Mariani picked up his telephone.

  “Put in a person-to-person call to either Sergeant Matthew Payne or Mr. Michael O’Hara in the George the Fifth Hotel in Paris, France,” he ordered.

  Ten minutes later, Commissioner Mariani was informed that both Mr. O’Hara and Mr. Payne had checked out of the hotel that morning and left no forwarding address.

  “I knew that was too good to be true,” Mariani said. “What about this around-the-world telephone of O’Hara’s? Can you get the number?”

  “I’m sure that won’t be a problem, sir.”

  “Well, get it. Get them on it. Tell them to call me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you better see who else has a passport. . . . Do you?”

  “It’s being renewed, sir.”

  “Get somebody else started, in case we can’t get through to Payne. Hell, they may be on their way home.”

  A half hour later, Lieutenant Washington telephoned Commissioner Mariani to report that he was having trouble getting O’Hara’s number but he was working on it, and hoped to have it shortly.

  He also reported that they had made reservations for someone to fly to Paris. It had yet to be determined who would go, but there would be plenty of time to make the decision. The next available seat to Paris was on a flight leaving New York tomorrow afternoon. When he added that only first-class seats were available, he anticipated the commissioner’s next question:

  “It would appear we’re in the tourist season, sir,” Washington concluded.

  “In that case, I would suggest that you make every effort to get O’Hara’s phone number,” Commissioner Mariani said. “Keep me advised, Lieutenant. I’m about to tell the mayor we are making every effort to comply with his wishes.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Two hours after that, Lieutenant Washington called the commissioner again.

  “Sir, I have the number. I had to get it from Mr. Casimir Bolinski. But when I call it, the recording says that it’s been turned off. Probably overnight, sir. I’ll try again in the morning.”

  “No,” Commissioner Mariani said, “you, or some one you delegate, will try that number every thirty minutes until someone answers.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  [SIX]

  Mr. Michael J. O’Hara rose at first light and, without disturbing Sergeant Payne, went down the narrow corridor to the communal bath, took one look at it, and decided he would just have to remain unwashed until they found a decent hotel.

  Then—with less trouble than he expected to have—he got directions in the form of a hand-drawn map to the Piaf Mill, and got in the Jaguar and drove there.

  He had a little trouble getting the shots he wanted. There were half a dozen French gendarmes guarding the place, and when they spotted him, they tried to run him off. But he finally got what he wanted, and even a shot of Isaac “Fort” Festung, standing in the doorway of the ancient mill house.

  Then he drove back to Le Relais with a sense of mission accomplished. He had all he needed. He’d wake Matty up, they’d get some breakfast, and then “Sayonara, Cognac-Boeuf! Or whatever the hell this place is called.”

  He had already stopped the Jaguar when he remembered he had forgotten to take the telephone with him. He had planned to see how much of a charge it would take plugged into the Jaguar’s cigarette lighter hole.

  He went to their room, turned the light on, woke Matty and told him to get his ass out of bed, as soon as they had breakfast they were out of here, and took the telephone down—the battery of which was now really dead, he having apparently failed to turn it off correctly the night before—to the Jaguar.

  The clever Englishmen had designed the interior to frustrate him. It took him almost five minutes to find the cigarette lighter hole. It was in the ashtray, mounted in such a position that it couldn’t he seen by the driver unless he bent nearly flat and looked around the gearshift lever.

  Matt was just coming into the combined bar and dining room of Le Relais when Mickey finally went in.

  Mickey explained that he had had difficulty finding the cigarette lighter holder, but that he had finally succeeded, and the phone was now being charged.

  “Maybe not, Mick,” Matt said. “Sometimes the lighter hole is hot only when the ignition is on.”

  “Shit!”

  Mickey went back out to the Jaguar and immediately discovered that Matt had been in error. The cigarette lighter hole was hot, even with the ignition off. The proof was that the once dead-as-a-doornail device was chirping.

  Mickey wondered what the hell Casimir—the only person who had the number—wanted this time of night. It was eight-fifteen here, which meant that it w
as 2:15 A.M. in the States.

  “What’s up, Casimir?”

  “That you, Mickey?”

  “Yeah. Who’s this?”

  “Jason Washington.”

  “What the hell do you want?”

  “Is Matt somewhere around? And how is he?”

  “He’s fine. We’re about to have breakfast. Can I give him a message?”

  “Can’t you just give him the phone, Mick?”

  “I don’t think the battery will last that long,” Mick said. “This is important? Nothing wrong with anybody?”

  “It’s important, Mick. Nothing’s wrong with anyone.”

  “Hang on, I’ll get him.”

  “This afternoon, huh?” Mickey asked after Matt returned from the Jaguar and reported the gist of his conversations with Lieutenant Washington and a somewhat sleepy-sounding Commissioner Ralph J. Mariani. “It’s a sure thing?”

  “So says Mariani. He says Eileen Solomon told him she talked to the embassy.”

  “That bastard in the embassy never said a goddamn word to me.”

  “Possibly because you forgot to call him.”

  “Screw you, Matty. Did they say where?”

  “The Palais de Justice in Bordeaux.”

  “Well, we better drive over there after we finish breakfast,” O’Hara said.

  “Actually,” Matt said, thoughtfully. “It makes a pretty good last act. The fat lady sings. The last act of the Wyatt Earp of the Main Line. I’m quitting the job, Mickey.”

  “You’re not going to bring that crap up again, are you?”

  “Again?”

  “You had a couple of drinks—eight or ten—too many the other night, pal, after you had your little chat with the lady detective.”

  “And I told you?”

  “You were . . . somewhat loquacious . . . Matty. You would never love again, and you were quitting the job. Ad infinitum.”

  “I don’t remember that.”

  “And thus you don’t remember what I told you?”

  “No.”

  “I said you were probably lucky Detective Whatsername dumped you—I never liked her; she’s one of those dames who’s never satisfied—and as full of shit as a Christmas turkey about quitting the job. You could no more do anything else than I could become a ballet dancer. You’re a cop, Matty. A good one. It’s in your blood.”

  The conversation was interrupted by the entrance into the combined bar and dining room of Le Relais of Mr. Isaac Festung.

  He was accompanied by two gendarmes.

  He was wearing what looked like a dirty white poncho and baggy blue cotton trousers, and was barefoot in leather sandals.

  He looked around the room and spotted Mickey.

  He walked to the table.

  “You were at my home this morning,” he challenged. “Taking pictures.”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “Morbid interest? Or journalistic? Or is there a difference? ”

  "I’m a reporter, if that’s what you mean,” O’Hara said.

  “Well, I’m sorry to tell you that I’m not granting any interviews right now.”

  “That’s good, because I’m not asking for one.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  "I just rode down here with him,” O’Hara said, nodding at Matt.

  Festung turned his attention to Matt.

  “You’re a reporter?”

  “No, I’m not, Mr. Festung,” Matt said. “I’m a police officer. I’m here to take you into custody when the court of appeals denies your appeal.”

  “Well, then, I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time, too, my young friend. That’s not going to happen.”

  “We’ll know for sure about that this afternoon in Bordeaux, won’t we? And I’m not your young friend, Mr. Festung. I’m Sergeant Matthew Payne, Badge 471, Homicide Unit, Philadelphia police department.”

  Festung met Matt’s eyes for a long moment, and when Matt didn’t blink, apparently lost his appetite for breakfast, for he suddenly spun around on his heels and stalked out of Le Relais, with the two gendarmes on his heels.

  “That felt good, admit it,” Mickey said.

  “I don’t know about ‘good,’ Mick, but it felt right.”

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” Mickey said.

  And they left.

  1 Police officers killed in the line of duty are placed in their caskets in full uniform, including their weapon. The weapon, badge, and frontispiece are all removed just before the casket is closed. Weapons are returned to the police arsenal at the Police Academy and badges and frontispieces (their numbers) are reissued.

  2 Injured On Duty.

  3 Affidavit of Probable Cause for Arrest. It is filled out by the assigned detective in a case, who then submits it to the District Attorney’s office, where an assistant district attorney on duty approves or disapproves the charges against the person in custody.