The big white helicopter touched down on Deerhorn at five forty-five in the afternoon. Lucky Lorrigan, with the muzzle of Carmody’s pistol screwing into his ear, had flown the seven-minute hop in impeccable style. The two meteorological station operators had been freed and, when told why, had willingly sworn themselves to secrecy for the next twenty-four hours.
Brady was first off the plane, followed by Dermott and the wounded men. A curious reception committee from the Sikorsky, headed by Lieutenant Brown, was there to greet them.
Brown said: “That was fast work. Congratulations! No problems?”
“Routine exercise.” Brady was a master of the throwaway phrase. “Some for Dr Kenmore, though. Three silly people got in the way of flying bullets.”
Kenmore said: “I’ll fix them up, Mr Brady.”
“Thanks. But you look mighty young to me to be an orthopaedic surgeon.”
“So it’s like that?”
“Patch them up as best you can. Nobody’s going to take your licence away from you if they peg out during the night.”
“I understand.” The young doctor’s eyes widened as the women descended the steps. “Well, well.”
“Brady Enterprises,” Brady said with a smirk in his voice, “associate only with the best and the most beautiful. Well, Mr Lowry, we’ll have to see about getting back those splendid machines of yours. And now, Lieutenant, if you will excuse me—a matter of some urgency.”
He had taken some few steps towards his aircraft, when the lieutenant overtook him. “It got pretty cold in your plane, Mr Brady, so I took the liberty of transferring some essential supplies to our nice warm Sikorsky.”
Brady turned ninety degrees without breaking stride and headed purposefully towards the Sky-Crane. He patted Lieutenant Brown on the arm. “A very promising future lies ahead of you.”
Dermott said to Bernie, the Sikorsky radio operator: “Any luck?”
“Got through to all three, sir. Your New York number and one of your Anchorage numbers—a Mr Morrison—said they had no information for you yet and probably wouldn’t have for the next twenty-four hours. Your other Anchorage number—a Dr Parker—asked if you would be kind enough to call him back now.”
“Would you get him, please?”
“No bother.” Bernie smiled. “And then you’d like some privacy?”
Brady had been reduced to the discomfort of sitting on a packing box—admittedly a large one—in the fore part of the Sikorsky’s cavernous hold. He appeared not to be suffering too much. He was speaking to a fully conscious Ferguson.
“You’ve made it, son. You’re damned lucky but not nearly as lucky as we are, thanks entirely to you. We’ll discuss this—ah—later, in private. Sorry your eyes are still troubling you.”
“Just a damned nuisance, Mr Brady. Otherwise, I could fly the plane with no trouble.”
“You’re not flying anything, anywhere,” Kenmore said. “It may be two or three days before we can be sure that your eyesight is stabilised. I know a specialist in Edmonton.”
“Thank you. How are our wounded heroes, by the way?”
“They’ll live.”
“Ah, well. We can’t have everything.”
Two and a half hours later Brady was again presiding over a cheerful company, but this time rather more comfortably ensconced in the best armchair in the Peter Pond Hotel. Doubtless inspired by the thought of the enormous fees he would extort, he was positively Maecenas-like in his hospitality. Reynolds had been joined by his wife. The atmosphere was festive; but Dermott and Mackenzie didn’t seem very jovial. Dermott approached the beaming Brady—he wasn’t beaming at anything in particular but was just sitting there, wife’s hand in his left, daiquiri in his right—and said: “Donald and I would like to slip away for a bit, sir. Do you mind?”
“Of course not. Do you need me?”
“Minor matters, only.”
“Go right ahead, George.” The beam, which had faded slightly, lit up again. Brady would now have the field to himself, and it was possible that his retailing of recent events might vary slightly from the one he would have given if his two lieutenants had been present. He glanced at his watch. “Eight-thirty. Half an hour or so?”
“About that.”
On their way out they stopped by Willoughby’s chair. Dermott smiled at a rather misty-eyed Mrs Reynolds, then said to Willoughby: “Brinckman and Jorgensen?”
Willoughby smiled happily. “Are guests of the Canadian government. Heard fifteen minutes ago. Look, gentlemen, I don’t know how to—”
“Wait.” Mackenzie smiled. “We aren’t through with you yet.”
“Some more matters to be attended to?”
“Not in Alberta. But we have to cast a net again. Can we see you in the morning?”
“When?”
“Late. May we call you?”
Dermott and Mackenzie spent not half an hour but an hour and a half in Dermott’s room, talking, planning, and, mostly, telephoning. When they returned to the lounge Brady greeted them effusively. He was totally unaware of how much time had elapsed. The number of the company had increased. Dermott and Mackenzie were introduced to a couple who turned out to be the mayor and his wife. Jay Shore had returned from the plant and they were introduced to his wife, too. They were introduced to a charming lady who turned out to be Mrs Willoughby. After that they were introduced to two other couples whose names they failed to catch. Jim Brady was spreading his wings that night.
Willoughby came up and spoke to them quietly. “Another item, although it’s just another unnecessary nail in the coffin. We retrieved the prints from Shore’s house and compared them to the ones in the kidnap truck. Two matching sets were found: Napier’s and Lucky Lorrigan’s.”
At eleven o’clock, Dermott and Mackenzie approached Brady again. He was still in sparkling form: his tolerance for rum passed mortal understanding. Dermott said: “Mr Brady. We’re bushed. We’re off.”
“Off? Bed? I’ll be damned.” He glanced at his watch. “The night’s young.” He made a grandiloquent gesture with his arm. “Look at them. Are they thinking of bed?” Jean gave Dermott a rueful smile which indicated that she was thinking of just that herself. “They’re happy. They’re enjoying themselves. Just look!”
Wearily they looked. No question, Brady had the right of it. They were enjoying themselves, not least young Carmody, who had discreetly withdrawn from the main body of the group to sit in a corner with Stella.
“We wish you luck. You want us to collapse dramatically in front of all your guests?”
“That’s the trouble with you young people of today. No get-up-and-go.” When the occasion arose Brady could conveniently forget that his associates and himself were of the same generation. “No stamina. Not fit.” He seemed totally unaware of how preposterous he sounded, but they knew he wasn’t.
“We’d like to talk to you in the morning.”
“You would?” He eyed them both suspiciously. “When?”
“When you’re fit, unlimited stamina, the lark singing.”
“Damn it all, when?”
“Noon.”
Brady relaxed. “In that case, why don’t you stay?”
Dermott went and kissed Jean goodnight, Mackenzie did the same; they made the rounds with punctilious goodnights and left.
They got to bed just after one in the morning. The previous two hours had been spent on the telephone.
Dermott awoke at seven-thirty. By eight, he was showered, shaved, eating off his breakfast tray and busy on the telephone. At nine he was joined by Mackenzie. At ten they were both closeted with Willoughby. At noon, they joined Brady at his breakfast table and explained what they had in mind. Brady chewed through the last of his ham omelette, which had originally been the size of a soup-plate, then shook his head in a decisive fashion.
“It’s out of the question. It’s all over. O.K., there are a few stray threads in Alaska, but who am I to devote my time to that sort of small potatoes?”
“So it is in order if Donald and I resign?”
Fortunately for Brady he was neither eating nor drinking at the moment, so he had nothing to choke over. “Resign? What the hell do you mean?”
“It’s Donald’s fault, really. Half Scots, you know. He hates to see good money being thrown away.”
“Money being thrown away?” Momentarily, Brady looked almost appalled, but his recovery was swift. “What’s this nonsense?”
“How much are you charging Sanmobil for our services?”
“Well, I’m not one to prey on the misfortunes of others. A half million I guess. Plus expenses, of course.”
“In that case, I reckon Donald and I would rate a quarter of a million for picking up stray threads and small potatoes.” Brady was silent, his eyes fixed on something beyond infinity. “With your name,” Dermott persisted, “one can see no reason why the Prudhoe Bay oil companies shouldn’t also come up with a half million. Plus, of course, expenses.”
Brady brought his gaze back from outer space to the dining-room table. “It’s not, as you may think, that I’m not at my best in the morning. It’s just that I have so much on my mind. What time is this meeting tonight?”
16
The meeting was held that evening in the Sanmobil canteen, which was drably lit and decorated in dingy cream and peagreen. Nevertheless, the room had much to recommend it for such a gathering, not least the fact that it was large and warm and a place from which the public could easily be excluded.
The tables and chairs had been rearranged so that the men conducting the proceedings sat in a line—on stage, as it were—facing down the long room. The rest of the seats had been set out in two blocks, divided by a gangway.
In the middle of the top table sat Willoughby, acting as host in his own parish. On his right was Hamish Black, general manager of B.P./Sohio, Alaska, who had flown down from Prudhoe Bay to be present. On Willoughby’s left sat Brady, overflowing a rickety wooden chair, and beside him were his two trusty henchmen.
Down on the floor, the home team was represented by Bill Reynolds, Jay Shore and a handful of others. On the Alaskan side there were eight men, among them Dr Blake, gaunt and cadaverous as ever; Ffoulkes, the Anchorage police chief; and Parker, the police forensic surgeon. Morrison of the F.B.I. had come on the same plane, and behind him sat four of his agents. At the back of the room were nearly thirty other men from Sanmobil brought in so that they could hear the full report of what had been happening. Finally, in an unobtrusive position at one side, John Carmody and a couple of fellow-policemen occupied a flat bench, with their backs against the wall; and sandwiched between them was Corinne Delorme, looking small and wan and rather scared.
Willoughby stood up to open the proceedings.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. As the senior representative of the law here in Alberta, and as your nominal host, I would like to thank all you people who’ve been good enough to come from places as far afield as Prudhoe Bay, Anchorage and even New York.”
A murmur went round the room.
“That’s right,” Willoughby confirmed. “Two gentlemen at least have come all the way from New York. Now: the purpose of this meeting is to explain to the senior employees of Sanmobil and BP/Sohio just what’s been going on these past few days, and, if possible, to clear up the few final questions to which we don’t yet have the answers. I call on Mr Hamish Black, general manager of BP/Sohio, Alaska, to put you in the picture.”
Black rose to his feet, all disapproval and severity. Yet when he began to speak, he seemed to acquire a stature and authority that thoroughly surprised Brady and his associates.
“I hardly need tell you,” he began, “that both the Alaskan pipeline and the Sanmobil tar sands complex here at Athabasca have recently been subjected to deadly and intensive industrial sabotage. The action effectively closed down the flow of oil from both centres, and in the process of the sabotage at least four innocent people have been murdered, while several others have been gravely injured.
“We devoutly hope that the savage and brutal attacks are at an end. They certainly seem to be so in Alberta—and for this the sole credit goes to the investigation team of Brady Enterprises, headed by Mr Jim Brady himself and his two senior assistants, Mr Dermott and Mr Mackenzie.”
With the ghost of a smile softening the line of his pencil moustache, Black indicated the Brady team. To his acute discomfort, Brady found himself blushing for the first time in years. He ground his teeth and contrived to look sideways at Dermott without moving his head. The guy they’d treated like dirt was praising them!
“Unfortunately,” Black went on, “no such happy conclusion has been reached in Alaska. Up there, we have no positive guarantee that the sabotage is at an end, for the simple reason that the individuals responsible for the criminal activity have not yet been brought to justice.
“Brady Enterprises have been as deeply involved in making enquiries in Alaska as they have here, and since they are the only people with an overall view of the present position, I should like to call upon Mr Brady himself to give us a report.”
Brady heaved himself upright and cleared his throat.
“Thank you, Mr Black. Ladies and gentlemen, I promise to be as brief as possible, and to waste none of your time. First I will ask for a word from Mr John Young, who is director of City Services, a Federally-backed investigative agency in New York. One of its functions is to oversee and regulate the conduct of private detective and investigative agencies in the State of New York. Mr Young?”
In the front row of the Sanmobil team seats a lean, bald-headed man with thick-rimmed glasses rose to his feet. He looked at the papers in his hand and smiled at Brady, and turning to face the body of the hall, he began.
“City Services was asked by Brady Enterprises—this was with governmental consent—to investigate the background of a private security agency owned and run by one Samuel Bronowski, who later became head of security on the Alaskan pipeline.
“Apart from the fact that an unusually large percentage of valuables entrusted to the firm’s safekeeping had been missing—for readily explainable reasons—we found no evidence of any outright misconduct. But I was further asked to find out the names and identities of any of Bronowski’s associates who left the firm at about the same time as he did—that is to say, within six months either side of his departure date. We came up with ten names—not a particularly high wastage rate in such an agency—but Brady Enterprises were particularly interested in four of them.” Here Young consulted the notes in his right hand. “Their names are Houston, Brinckman, Jorgensen, and Napier.”
Young sat down and Brady rose again to thank him. “Well,” he continued, “for those of you who do not already know, three of the four just mentioned are already in gaol, charged with various crimes from murder downwards. The other man, and Bronowski, you can now see for yourselves.”
He made a small sign to Willoughby, who nodded to one of his uniformed men at the door. Next moment the door opened, to admit Bronowski and Houston, manacled together. They were hustled to seats in the front row of the Alaska-side stalls. Bronowski still sported his impressive head-bandage, and beneath it, his broad, strong face was sullen.
“So.” Brady purred. “I promised we would not waste time. We have established that at least two security agents from the pipeline and three from Sanmobil were old acquaintances, that they were acting in concert, organised widespread sabotage, exchanged codes and were responsible for murder. We have also established that Bronowski was the undisputed leader. These facts have been put on record by many witnesses, who will testify in court. But let us move on, I would like to call on Dr Parker.”
“Yes, well.” Parker paused reflectively. “I act in a forensic capacity for the police at Anchorage. Mr Dermott brought down three corpses from Prudhoe Bay. I examined one of them—an engineer who had been murdered in Pump Station No. 4. He had sustained a most unusual injury to his right index finger. I understand that Dr Blake here attri
buted this to the force of the explosion which destroyed the pump station. I have to disagree. The finger was deliberately broken—there is no other way it could have happened. Mr Dermott?”
Dermott stood up. “Mr Mackenzie and I have a theory. It’s our belief that this dead engineer was carrying a pistol when he was held up by the people who had planted the explosives. We further believe that he recognised his assailants, and they, knowing this, killed him before he could use his gun in self-defence. We also believe that his dead finger locked over the trigger-grip. That would be possible, doctor?”
“Indeed—quite possible.”
“We surmise the criminals had to break the man’s forefinger to get the gun away. A dead man found with a gun in his hand would have raised serious doubts as to whether the explosion had been a genuine accident.
“Further, papers seen in his coat pocket were later missing. Neither my colleagues nor I know what those papers were. We can only assume that he had accumulated incriminating evidence against someone—which would account for the fact that he was carrying a gun.”
Dermott paused. Then he said: “I would like to ask Mr Brady to discuss the vital question of who is ultimately responsible for this spate of crime.”
Brady hoisted himself upright again. “Mr Carmody—would you be so kind as to stand by Bronowski? I am aware that he is handcuffed, but I’m also convinced he’s a man of violence. Dr Parker?”
Dr Parker rose leisurely and walked across to Bronowski. Carmody was already there. The doctor said to him: “Get behind him and hold his arms.”
Carmodv did so Bronowski yelped with pain as Parker reached forward and ripped away the bandage that covered his forehead and temple. The doctor peered closely at the temple, touched it, then straightened.
“This is a delicate area of the head,” he said. “A blow such as he is alleged to have received would have left a bruise for at least a fortnight. Probably longer. As you can see, there is no such bruise, no sign of any contusion. In other words,” he said, pausing for effect, “he was never struck.”
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