"You still up?" he said. "You should be getting some rest."
"So should you," she said. "I've been waiting up for you. Where have you been so late?"
"Having dinner with Harry Dietz. We had some business to talk over."
"Before that?"
"In the office, of course."
"You left the office at five o'clock," Hannah said.
Armstead ground his teeth. She was going to be difficult, the old harridan. Somehow, she knew where he'd been in between. Best to admit it, thwart her by admitting it, put it in the right light, and then she would have no grievance at all. But before he could speak, she spoke again.
"After you left the office, Edward, you went to Kim Nesbit's apartment."
Armstead snapped his fingers. "That's right. Almost forgot. Just looked in on her to see if she was feeling better."
"You looked in on her for over an hour."
"For chrissakes, Hannah, what is this? Kim's practically a relative. She took my father's death pretty hard. Since then, I've looked in on her two or three times to give her my condolences."
"Two or three dozen times," said Hannah bitterly. "Some condolences."
"You goddam witch!" shouted Armstead. "You've been spying on me, having me followed—"
Hannah compressed her lips, hands tightening on the arms of the wheelchair until her knuckles were white. "I just know," she said, voice cracking. "I have my sources. I won't let you humiliate me."
"I'll do what I want to do," Armstead shot back. "There's nothing you can do about it."
"There's plenty I can do, if I want to. You're forgetting my father helped finance your father when he was in trouble. My father left his stock to me. I have ownership in at least half your public holdings. I could sell off, cause you a lot of trouble." She was wheezing now, trying to catch her breath. "Edward, I don't want to do anything like that. I only want you to be kind, behave decently."
"I'll be what I want to be," Armstead said angrily. "Don't you get in my way. And if you ever have anyone follow me again and I find out, you'll be sorry for it, goddam sorry. Just remember, Hannah, I warned you."
With that, he grabbed the knob of the bedroom door and slammed it shut between them.
Blind with fury, he continued up the corridor to the thick oaken door of his private study. Reaching into his pocket for the heavy key—the only key to this room in existence—he tried to calm down. Everything was going smoothly, perfectly, except for the women. All his troubles were coming from women. First that young snoop, the Weston girl in Paris. Then Kim, the whore, selling him out, collaborating with his own analyst. And now the death's-head in the bedroom. Having him followed, actually threatening him.
Inserting the silver key in the dead-bolt lock that secured his study door, he paused to examine the full implications of what Hannah had been saying. She knew about his visits to Kim, every visit, because she had hired a detective agency to follow him, shadow him, to observe his every move. He didn't give a damn how many times they had seen him call upon Kim. But they might have seen him consorting with someone else. Like Pagano, for instance, although there could be innocent explanations for that. Still, Hannah's jealous pursuit of him could unwittingly lead to dangerous fallouts. Especially in the next few days. Something must be done quickly.
He turned the key, shouldered the heavy door open, and entered his private study. Before turning on the lights he stood in the darkness, thinking.
The thought came to him that it might be wise to show Hannah some contrition.
Like personally serving her breakfast in the morning. Yes, he would do that. He would take over from the housekeeper, prepare and serve Hannah her breakfast in the morning.
Ollie McAllister, who had rarely been summoned from his managing editor's desk to meet with the publisher in executive territory, came tentatively into Armstead's office carrying a single folder.
Swinging restlessly from side to side in his leather-upholstered swivel chair, puffing steadily on the first cigar of the day, Arm-stead observed his approach. Recently he had not dealt regularly with any editors on his staff, preferring to confine all meetings to Harry Dietz, but Armstead had come in early this morning, before Dietz had arrived at work. Armstead had toiled hard and long last night on the first draft of his masterpiece—the big story —and after that had slept lightly, subconsciously aware that he had to be up early enough to make Hannah's breakfast and serve it to her. Hannah had been grateful almost to tears for his consideration.
Dietz's not being in yet had been a minor disappointment for Armstead. There had been some unfinished business to be taken care of later last night and earlier this morning, and Armstead had been eager to know the outcome. He had waited over an hour for Dietz, and when Dietz had still not checked in, Arm-stead's impatience wore thin. At that point, before ten o'clock, he remembered another way he might learn the outcome of the unfinished business. He buzzed Ollie McAllister and requested the early summaries of local news from the metropolitan news desk.
Now the inquisitive McAllister was before him with the folder.
"Sit down, sit down, Ollie," the publisher directed.
McAllister folded himself uncomfortably into a rattan chair across from his publisher's desk. "You wanted only the early news summaries from the metropolitan desk," McAllister said, just to be certain.
"I've been neglecting cityside news," said Armstead, "but the last few days I've been having a look. Nothing to cheer about. Pretty dreary staff."
McAllister was immediately apologetic. "There hasn't been much locally. All the best stuff has been coming from abroad. Our Bradshaw exclusives have been dominating the space."
"Of course," said the publisher. "Anyway, I thought I'd have a look, to see if we can beef it up. Let me see today's summaries."
McAllister half rose, to pass the folder over the desk to Armstead. "Thirty possible stories at this hour. I've allocated nine columns out of the 190 columns available for the news hole—nine columns for local news. We're basing it on a sixty-page first edition,"
"Let's seewhat we have," said Armstead, opening the folder on his desk and rolling his chair up to it.
Armstead flipped through the summaries from the metropolitan desk, pretending to read several. He pulled one pageloose. "What's this about the new bozo who's announcing himself as a mayoral candidate? Doesn't seem very substantial to me.
"True, he's a novelist, but we thought it might develop into something colorful."
"Christ, Ollie, he's got a new book coming out. This is a publicity ploy. Don't give him more than a few inches." He shoved the summary back into the stack and continued to leaf through the others. He separated out another page. "Man bites dog? You've got to be kidding."
"He actually did," said McAllister, hoping for a smile. "They put him away, of course."
"And we're putting the story away," said Armstead, crumpling the page and dropping it into his wastebasket. "We don't have room for loonies in this newspaper." He resumed turning the pages, stopped once more. "Siamese twins in Bellevue. Caucasian. They're okay?"
"Thriving."
"Follow up. Freaks are another matter. Readers like freaks."
"Yes, sir."
Armstead continued leafing through the early summaries, scanning them, seeking the outcome of his unfinished business, Abruptly he stopped, lifted out a page.
"What's this? Psychiatrist seriously injured by a hit-and-run driver. In critical condition. Where did this come from?"
"Simms covering the police beat. Phoned it in this morning. The shrink was crossing the street from a parking lot to his office —a car came off the curb fast—maybe the driver didn't see him—smacked the pedestrian on the left leg and side, real impact, threw him thirty feet and pancaked him against a parked vehicle —then took off."
"Any lead on the hit-and-run?"
"No near eyewitnesses. Happened too fast. That part is hopeless."
Hiding his satisfaction, Armstead concentrated on the new
s summary. "Mmm. Dr. Carl Scharf. Never heard of him. Have you?"
"No. But we intend to check him out. Can be a story if he has anybody well known as a patient."
Armstead snorted. "No chance. You see where the psychiatrist's office was? On Thirty-sixth Street off Broadway. What kind of psychiatrist would have an office in that neighborhood? He must be nobody, and his patients are nobodies."
"As I said, we can check it out."
"Don't waste the time," said Armstead, wadding up the sheet of paper. "About as interesting as the mugging of a housekeeper." He threw the ball of paper away.
"I guess you're right, Mr. Armstead."
Armstead hastily leafed through what remained in the folder, snapped the folder closed, and stood up with it. "I think you're right about the local stuff's being on the slow side." He handed the folder back. "Well, do your best, Ollie. Thanks."
He watched his managing editor leave.
He found his onyx desk lighter, flicked on the flame, applied it to his cold cigar.
A brief image of his cherubic analyst came to him. The bastard had betrayed him. Served the sonofabitch right. He hoped Scharf wouldn't die. But if he did, he deserved it.
Anyway, one leak plugged.
That left a second one to take care of after lunch.
An hour after lunch, Dietz put his head in.
"Victoria Weston is here to see you, Chief."
Armstead beckoned him. Dietz stepped inside, shutting the door behind him.
Armstead said, "I read in the local summaries about the psychiatrist who got in the way of a hit-and-run driver."
"I was going to tell you myself but I overslept. Sorry, I was up most of the night on that matter."
"Good job, Harry. The summary mentioned he was in critical condition. How critical?"
"Too early to say. I inquired at the metropolitan desk about several stories, and made this one of them. Scharf, at last word, was still unconscious. Concussion, multiple fractures, maybe a broken back. He was still in surgery."
Armstead unpeeled a fresh cigar. "Hope he makes it. Keep me up. Again, my appreciation. Now let's have a go at Miss Weston."
Armstead was busily sorting through some memorandums on his desk when Victoria Weston was shown in.
"Hello, Mr. Armstead. Been a long time."
He pointed her to a chair across from him and sat back. As he put a light to his cigar, his eyes followed her. She had set down her purse and raincoat and seated herself. She was wearing what was obviously a new French outfit, velveteen jacket, lacy white blouse, paisley skirt. She was poised, pretty, but too intent, Armstead judged. She might be difficult.
"How was the flight from Paris?" he inquired.
"Smooth. I had to settle for a late plane or I'd have been in yesterday."
"Well, anyway, you got some sleep, I hope, shook the jet lag."
"Oh, I'm fine all around," said Victoria.
"I wanted to tell you how pleased we are with you. Your features, they were excellent. And you were on the spot whenever news was breaking."
"I'm afraid it didn't do you much good," said Victoria. "You had everything before I could get it to you."
"That's what comes of having a first-rate news organization, Victoria. Anyway, we were glad you were there as a backup, in case anything misfired."
"Mr. Armstead—" she said.
Here it comes, he thought. She is going to be difficult.
"—only one thing upsets me," she was saying. "Your bringing me back at this time. As I told Mr. Dietz, I had the lead on a tremendous scoop, something I was sure you'd want—"
"Of course, we'll pursue it. However, I felt I should discuss it with you first, in person."
"But it could evaporate, even while we talk," she protested.
"Don't worry, Victoria. The moment we heard about it, we assigned a staff member in Paris to keep an eye on the place. Where was it? The Rue de Seine and the Rue Jacob. We have someone on watch. But I wanted to learn more, firsthand from you, before chasing it down further. I wouldn't want to make any mistakes, to hurt our credibility. We've built up a fine record in a short time, and every exclusive story of ours has proven to be one hundred percent true. We're the envy of the whole country, leading everyone in circulation. I wouldn't want to endanger this record by trumpeting a beat I could not substantiate. That would be our first sour note. So—"
"But Mr. Armstead," she interrupted, "I was there, I saw it happen. I saw them kidnap Carlos."
"Did you?" Armstead exhaled a cloud of smoke. "Victoria, forgive me, but I'm an old hand at this sort of thing, and you are new and relatively inexperienced. In my day, I've attended too many murder trials where five eyewitnesses give five different descriptions of the murderer. I mean, we're all only human—"
"Mr. Armstead, believe me."
"I do believe you. But my natural instinct to step into something like this warily, to be cautious before becoming involved, made me want to speak to you first. The fact is, I think this has possibilities for a front-page lead. That's why I brought you all the way here. To determine for myself whether we are onto something. So let's start from the beginning. You were on the Rue de Paradis, keeping an eye on the Rue Martel—"
"Keeping an eye on the hideout Carlos was using."
Armstead held up his cigar hand. "One moment, Victoria. The last information we had was from Nick Ramsey, after he was picked up and overheard someone in the Carlos gang saying they were moving. And, indeed, when I notified the Sûreté they staged a raid on No. 12 Rue Martel, and the apartment was already empty. Carlos had moved on."
"But I found out he had only moved next door."
"How did you discover that?"
"Why, from—" She looked at Armstead blankly. "I thought I'd told you. Maybe I forgot to. Anyway, after Nick got to Washington he recalled something he had overlooked telling you—it had slipped his mind—and we were talking and he told me about it. The member of the Carlos gang who had mentioned moving also mentioned that they were moving to No. 10. I remembered that there was a No. 10next to the old hideout at No. 12."
"Enterprising of you, Victoria, but a long shot. There must be countless house numbers in Paris designated as No. 10. The terrorist could have meant any one of them in any one of dozens of other streets."
"Yes, he could have," conceded Victoria, "but he didn't. He meant No. 10 Rue Martel, next door. Which was what Nick and I had reasoned. Why should the Carlos gang members expose themselves to public view by moving around the city? Wouldn't it be safer to move right next door? As it turned out, that's what they did."
"How can you be sure?"
"Because I saw Carlos himself, their leader, leave the building.
Armstead sucked at his cigar. "Victoria, how do you know it was Carlos? Have you ever met or seen him in person?"
"Of course not," replied Victoria, exasperated. "But earlier, when we were on the terrorist series, Nick described him to me and showed me photos of him in clippings. I was almost sure it was Carlos. Finally, after a few days, I decided to make absolutely sure. I went to our Paris bureau, took out all the photographs on file, and there was a recent picture of the man I had seen step into the Rue Martel and get kidnapped."
"What made you think he was being kidnapped?"
"Because—" Victoria faltered. "He—he got into a taxi, in the back seat like a passenger, and sat in the middle. Then the taxi started off, suddenly swerved into a second driveway and disappeared. In seconds it backed out, and I could see that on either side of the back seat there were two other men, and Carlos, who had been in the middle, couldn't be seen. They'd obviously pushed him down to the floorboard, were holding him by force."
"You didn't see that happen?"
"No—no I didn't, but it was obvious."
Armstead remained skeptical. "Maybe it was Carlos still sitting up in the back seat, only he had moved over to one side when the taxi went into the driveway to pick up another passenger. Isn't that possible?"
"I
t's possible," Victoria had to admit, "but I don't think that's what happened."
"You don't think that's what happened," repeated Armstead. "And after that?"
"I ran for my car and was able to follow the taxi to the Left Bank, the Rue de Seine, and the Rue Jacob. The hideout of the other gang—the one that had abducted Carlos."
"You saw this so-called other gang carry Carlos into their hideout?"
"No—no I didn't. I was parking."
"Did you ever see any members of the so-called other gang?"
"Once. But not really. I saw two men leave in the taxi. I wanted to follow them, but a policeman was giving me a parking ticket. They got away."
"If we showed you some photographs of terrorists in various gangs, do you think you could identify those two men?"
"I—I'm afraid not. I didn't really get a clear look at either one. They moved out so fast."
"But you still think members of another terrorist gang are holding Carlos? I wonder why they'd risk it?"
"I can't imagine."
"Neither can I," said Armstead with an air of finality. "It is possible there may have been some extramural feuding between gangs. But I doubt it. I strongly doubt it. I can't see anyone monkeying around with Carlos. Still, someone might. For that reason, I'll follow through."
Victoria was not ready to be dismissed. "I was hoping you'd send me back, let me follow through."
Armstead put the stub of cigar in an ashtray. "I appreciate your persistence, Victoria. But in this case I don't think it's justified. We'll look into the matter in Paris on our own, use someone who's on the scene. We have plenty to keep you busy right here."
"I'm sure you have." She rose, gathering up her raincoat and purse. "I'm sorry this didn't work out."
"If it does, you'll be the first to be informed and to be given a share of credit. Take the rest of the day off, and come back to work in the morning."
"Thank you, Mr. Armstead. I want to spend a little time at my desk, see what's piled up. Then go back to my apartment and unpack and get some sleep."
The Almighty Page 33
