by Rick Boyer
We watched the man walk into the house. The chauffeur came out the back door and went into the garage again. Then nothing happened for about ten minutes; the old man on the terrace continued to speak into the cordless telephone. Occasionally he got up from the wrought-iron chair and paced the terrace, then sat again. The middle garage door swung up and an enclosed jeep crept out. It went slowly along the gravel drive and took a fork that led around behind the house, where it disappeared momentarily, then came back in sight, going a bit faster now, and returned to the main drive and left the estate. We watched it till it disappeared, then turned our attention back to the mansion below. After twenty minutes I was getting bored, and said so.
"Yeah, but we've got to wait and watch. Pretty soon now something's gonna happen and-"
Schlick-schlick.
The sound startled us, coming from directly behind. And neither one of us liked the sound. Not a bit. We turned and found ourselves looking down the business end of a shotgun. The guy who was holding it was old Mr. Critchfield's assistant. How he got out of the house and up on the rock behind us I had no idea. Not at first, anyway. And now, twenty feet away from him instead of three hundred, I knew why he had looked so familiar even at a distance. I could now see the thick glasses. And he'd put on the trenchcoat, too.
It was my old friend from the mill who'd smacked Mary down. The guy who'd clobbered me up in Lowell. It was the guy with the heavily starched lapels.
"Move back… all the way back," he said, jerking the muzzle at us. We did, until we were right at the cliffs edge and in full view of the house. Without lifting his eyes from us he waved his arm in a high, slow arc. I looked down and saw old Critchfield give a responsive wave, then bring something up to his face. He was watching through binoculars.
"Well Doctor, I didn't know you had a friend with you. All we could see was you from inside… and we were careful never to gaze up in your direction when you could see us. Who is he?"
I explained that Mr. Roantis was an old dentist friend of mine. Lapels gave him the once-over and decided he was harmless. Certainly, at five-eight and slightly gray and pudgy, Roantis didn't look like an expert in practically every exotic form of fighting and defense ever devised. That he could kill people with his earlobes usually went unnoticed.
"Please don't point the gun, sir," said Roantis with a pant. "I can't stand it. I'll faint and fall off… please!"
"Then don't move," said Lapels, approaching me. He held the shotgun cradled in his right hand while he fished in the pocket of his trenchcoat. That coat was a regular bag of tricks. He took out a thin leather sap. It was a spring-loaded sapper with a leather-covered steel ball at either end. He waggled it in his left hand and it flicked back and forth fast on its springy steel shaft. It made a whirring, whistling sound like the wings of a mourning dove. I didn't like it.
"I owe you pain," he whispered, and swung it.
There was a little high whistle and a stab of pain on the point of my elbow. It shot up my arm, up the side of my face to the top of my head. I heard the whistle again and felt the snapper strike my right collarbone. The pain was deep, and traveled through my bones to my chest, my right shoulder, and my lower jaw. The whistle again, and Lapels had reached low and struck my left knee. He hit it hard, and the left leg gave way in a wave of agony. It felt as though my bones were breaking. I sucked air through clenched teeth.
"Please don't! That's enough!" pleaded Roantis, a look of horror on his face.
"Quiet, short stuff, or you'll get it too."
The little truncheon continued to whistle and snap at me like a trained serpent. And Lapels had studied his perverted craft. He knew exactly where to strike so the steel would hit bone and- nerve bundles and send the pain into the center of my neural pathways until I was aglow with hurt. He finally tapped me almost delicately on the tip of my jaw, and the world grew fuzzy. Noises were distant, and there was the sound of rolling surf in my poor hurt head.
"That should slow you down, Adams. If I had anything to say about it, I'd kill you here and now. Now let's go, both of you. Mr. Critchfield's waiting."
***
Lapels walked behind us, the big smoothbore aimed at our kidneys. It would have made me nervous if I hadn't been so woozy already. The sap had taken the tar out of me all right. I could barely walk. Roantis, his pride no doubt injured at having been outfoxed by a common thug, stomped on ahead of me, his hands shoved deep into his Windbreaker's pockets, looking at the ground and saying nothing. We passed my parked Scout, then the jeep. It was obvious to me now how he'd gotten the drop on us. The chauffeur brought the jeep around behind the house, out of our line of sight. It had stopped there momentarily for the chauffeur to get out and Lapels, with his smoothbore, to climb in. He'd left the estate, doubled back up the dirt road, then crept up on us. One thing was becoming more and more apparent to me: Old Man Critchfield was smart and tough. And he had help that was utterly loyal and brutal.
After we passed the vehicles we walked down a steep and twisty path, and it was there that Roantis fell down. It happened so fast that I almost stumbled over him. He had tripped over a root and fallen flat on his face. He'd fallen hard because we were going downhill. I regained my balance and leaned over him. He didn't move. He had covered his head with his hands, and was moaning. I noticed one strange thing: his watchband had been turned inside out.
"Get away," said Lapels. I stood ten feet away, swaying back and forth to keep upright. I wasn't faking. Lapels held the shot-gun at Roantis and kicked him in the legs. More whimpering from Roantis, whose hands went down under his face for a pillow.
"It's broken," he wailed. "I think I broke my ankle. Please don't kick…"
Lapels listened to his whining and whimpering with a disgusted look. Then Roantis tried to get up several times, but each time he fell back on his stomach.
"Want me to help?" I asked. Lapels told me to shut up and stay where I was. I watched him kick and prod Roantis, finally grow impatient, and reach down and grab the prone man by the back of his jacket collar and heave."
Wrong move.
***
We walked single file through the gates of the Critchfield estate. Roantis was right behind me, and Lapels followed, holding the gun on both of us as before. The gatekeeper-gardener, a husky chap of Hispanic heritage, watched our little parade closely to make certain nothing was amiss. Lapels nodded at him and he closed and locked the gate behind us.
We were in there now, and couldn't get out. we climbed up the stone terrace steps to the huge oak door. The old black chauffeur opened it and let us in.
"Bring them in here, Lundt!" cried a shrill and imperious voice.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
"And so you see, Doctor Adams, when I took Lundt's advice on the hiring of DeLucca, I really had no idea of the kind of man he was. I needed someone sufficiently schooled in violence to make the point, you see… but I admit I got way more than I had bargained for. I assure you I have fully apprised Mr. Lundt of my displeasure at the choice."
The old man glared across the wide room at his assistant, whose eyes lowered under the withering gaze. He still had the shotgun across his knees, but he seemed intimidated by the old codger nonetheless.
The room was huge, with an ornate plaster ceiling, leaded windows, oak wainscoting, and a gigantic Tabriz rug which extended the entire length of the room underneath the overstuffed furniture. We could have been in a castle in Scotland instead of a big house on the outskirts of a New England mill town.
I looked steadily at old Critchfield. He was dressed in a wool suit and vest. He looked the part. He was old, no doubt of it. The white hair was almost gone; the flesh had left the beaky face. A big blood vessel stood out like a piece of twine on his high, bony forehead. His chin and neck were bags of saggy wrinkles and liver-splotched skin. And yet there was the look of vitality, of tremendous strength and will in the face and eyes, which twinkled bright blue beneath the bushy white eyebrows. He glared in my direction, a look o
f self-satisfaction, even hauteur, in his intense eyes. I glared right back at him.
"Your story doesn't impress me one bit," I said. "You say Andrea Santuccio was blackmailing you with the photographs. I frankly find that hard to believe."
"Then believe what you like," he snapped. "I can't stand impertinence. It is true. As I told you, he claimed he wanted to use the money for some rehabilitation project in that North End neighborhood. Likely story. He made some asinine statement that I owed his people some sort of reparation."
"And you don't think you do? You don't feel any guilt at all for helping railroad Sacco and Vanzetti into the electric chair?"
"I didn't railroad anyone. I was an adviser to the prosecution. An able one too, I might add. Many of us who were perhaps less emotionally swayed by the immigrant community's appeals for socialism saw the grave danger that these men, and all like them, posed to capital investment and free enterprise. This ignorant, superstitious, and ill-mannered peasantry! Effluvium of Europe! Flotsam and jetsam washed upon our shores! How dare they seek refuge and plenty here, then proceed to denounce the very source of their newfound security and freedom as unjust? How dare they? My God, Adams, you're a dunce!"
I was about to rise from my chair and go over and smack him one. I wondered what Mary would have done to him. I shuddered at the thought, and remained seated. I had to remember that we were prisoners in Critchfield's mansion.
"The picture you see before you, which shows Sacco standing in front of the penny ferry in the North End, proves he was innocent. An innocent man was executed. That means nothing to you?"
"It was unfortunate. Many innocent people die every day. It is the nature of the world we live in. It isn't good, but it's all we have. Now Sacco and Vanzetti: two men who dodged the draft and avoided the First World War by fleeing to Mexico, and who at the time of their arrest were armed and carrying literature denouncing the nation that had fed and clothed them far better than their native Italy ever did. Do I feel sorry for them? Not on your life, Doctor. I did not and to this day I do not," he shouted, and sat back with a smirk.
"Very well. There then remains a more recent transgression: the murders of John Robinson and Andrea Santuccio. Hear me, Critchfield: I said murders. You're the primary accessory before the fact. You're in on it. Up to your wrinkly old ass. And I'll tell you what. I'm going to see you spend your last days not here, in this fancy place, but in a cell six feet by ten, with all those other 'dregs' like Sacco and Vanzetti. How do you like that?"
Well, you should have seen the old buzzard. It was as if I'd hit him between the eyes with a splitting maul. He sat bolt upright on the couch and looked daggers at me with a purple face. He shouted to Lundt to strike me across the face. Lundt remained seated, not moving a muscle. Critchfield turned his stare at him. He looked at Lundt, then at the shotgun, then back at Lundt.
'Did you hear me?" he squealed at Lundt.
"Yeah I heard. No."
"Get out. You're terminated!"
But still Lundt sat, the shotgun across his knees, and now he glared back at the old man. Then the old man, beside himself with rage, got up off the couch, came over to me, and slapped me. It hurt more than I thought it would. For a guy over ninety, old Critchfield was in good shape.
I stood up slowly and took hold of his right wrist, which I bent back and around in what police call the "come-along" grip, and led him back to his couch,. He was a little bent over by the pain, but that didn't stop him from trying to kick me twice. I had to give him one thing: old Critchfield had grit. It was easy for me to see how he'd become so rich and powerful.
I returned to my chair and watched him stare at Lundt. Then he pushed a button on the end table, and almost immediately the black man appeared. He was wearing a white coat.
"I'll have my tea now, Geoffrey," Critchfield growled, never taking his eyes from the man with the shotgun. The chauffeur seemed momentarily to go limp, then recovered. He looked imploringly at his boss.
"Mr. Critchfield, I- "
"Now, Geoffrey!"
The man stood motionless for perhaps five seconds before he turned and left. I saw him grab his forehead.
"You want a murderer, Doctor Adams?" said the old man, pointing across the room. "There he sits. DeLucca was his friend, not mine. I provided the cash to hire. That is all. As I told you, it was not my intention to kill Santuccio… just to threaten him and get the film back. I certainly did not wish to kill the other man. He's the one you want."
He pointed at Lundt, who sat still. The only person more immobile than the assistant was Roantis, who sat like stone, hands in pockets, looking down at the rug.
"DeLucca and that psychotic associate of his," continued the old man in a tired, gravelly voice. "The one who would get the fits whenever there was a chance to hurt someone. He was the one who performed the unpleasantness on Santuccio. Although I must say he deserved it- trying to extort money from an event fifty years old. Really!"
I watched him with a little pity. No doubt Critchfield gauged everyone and everything by the yardsticks of power and wealth. Accordingly, he showed no compassion, nor did he expect any. He did not believe it existed. It seemed to me that the world of old Joseph Carlton Critchfield was bleak indeed.
"You don't think you should bear any responsibility for- " I began.
"Don't be an ass, Doctor Adams! My God, I would hate to entrust my health to the likes of you! Don't tell me what I should or should not do. Look around you. This property is but one percent of my net worth. I have liquid assets totaling twenty-three million, and real property and industrial equities totaling twice that. I have houses all over the globe. I'm rich. I didn't get where I am listening to people telling me what I should do, for God's sake."
Geoffrey entered with a big silver tea tray laden with a tea service for one and a big basket of rolls wrapped in white linen.
Critchfield filled his teacup and sipped. Then he drew back the linen and looked at the rolls in the basket. He picked up the basket as if to take one, then set it down again.
"Very good, Geoffrey. That will do."
The chauffeur bowed slightly. I saw the shine of perspiration on his upper lip and forehead. He departed quickly.
"I have my own set of rules, as you shall see," the old man continued. "It may interest you to know that I still work- hard- four hours a day in this room. I swim half a mile a day, and walk four. I work out with dumbbells. I am in better health and shape than most men of fifty. As greedy as you no doubt think me, I do give to charities, and to political funds too."
"That would be the Genghis Khan Memorial Foundation, I presume?"
"I do not find that amusing, Doctor. I think you should show greater awareness of your current predicament as trespassers on my property. I was about to add that I am clever. But perhaps even you don't need that explained, seeing that I managed to capture you in your sneak-thievery and have you delivered here."
"You'd have me take the fall wouldn't you?" said Lundt, staring at the old man. "You'd have me take the whole damn rap wouldn't you?"
"Considering my family's immediate plans, it is impossible that these photographs be brought to light just now," Critchfield continued, ignoring his assistant. He picked up a remote-control device and switched on the big television that stood against the far wall. It was hooked up to a VCR video recorder, and showed a tape of a recent debate between Joseph Critchfield III, whose fund-raiser Mary and I had attended, and the incumbent governor. We watched only the last few minutes of the debate, in which it was clear that Critchfield had run rings around the Democrat, who looked increasingly flustered and helpless in the onslaught of Critchfield's well-chosen words, memorable phrases, and awesome grasp of facts and events. The younger Critchfield ended his remarks with these words: "And so, in light of these pressing problems that now seem to engulf our great Commonwealth, I feel a deep and personal conviction that it is time for new leadership in Massachusetts. Accordingly, and in line with the Critchfield family tradition
of public service and service to the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, I declare my candidacy and fitness for the gubernatorial office of this great state. Thank you."
The crowd cheered and carried on, waving signs and placards. The camera switched to a pretty blonde news correspondent, who said: "If this debate has proved anything, it is that forty-six-year-old Joseph Carlton Critchfield III is an astute and able contender. For if there were a winner in this debate, most would agree that the spoils of victory would go to Critchfield, who now faces Democratic challenger George Pappas of Saugus as well as the incumbent. Tonight we'll have a special report on the Critchfield family, an illustrious clan whose wealth and political power have so long held sway over-"
Click.
Old Critchfield sat back and sighed softly.
"God knows they need him. Haven't had a Republican in since Frank Sargent." He turned to me and raised his bushy eyebrows. "I'm not sure whether Santuccio knew of my grandson's political plans. There have been rumors for some time. In any event, he certainly picked an opportune time to try and put the squeeze on us. Well, you now see why I absolutely cannot permit the pictures and this distasteful business up in Lowell to become public. I'm sure, Doctor Adams, if you have any sense of public duty, you'll agree."
"I don't agree. I don't agree at all. That's the same weak ploy Nixon tried. It didn't work because it shouldn't have worked. It won't work now for the same reason. Those negatives will be in the hands of newspapers before the week's out. And you'll be indicted for murder one. Better pack your toothbrush, pal."
He glared at me again, started to rise, thought better of it, and shrank back onto the couch. The bright eyes glowed bluish-white, like acetylene torches.
"You said you'd make a deal," he hissed.
"Wrong," I said. "The note said I wanted to talk about it. I still do. But the story's coming out. And soon."
