Molly’s face grew progressively sadder and more tense, but she didn’t interrupt. John’s breathing grew short and sharp. I finished quickly, then paused, searching for my next words.
“I know I have no right to ask you this,” I said to both of them, “but I need John’s help. Fordamp’s trump card is the explosive charges he’s planted in the castles and churches. If we take those away from him, he’s relatively powerless. Also, it means that he won’t be able to blow up your Regent and a friend of mine.”
“Why John?” Molly’s voice was barely a whisper.
“John said that he used to be a construction worker, specializing in stonemasonry. My guess is that he knows something about explosives.”
“I do,” John said evenly.
Molly gripped her husband’s arm. “The charges could blow up in your face.”
“Yes,” I said quietly.
John abruptly stood up. “Let’s go, Mr. Frederickson. We’re wasting time.”
I waited, watching Molly. Her answer surprised me. “You go, John. Mr. Frederickson is right; we must fight.”
Marinello and I headed for the door. Molly’s voice came after us, her words incongruous yet somehow reassuring. “I’ll keep your dinner warm, John.”
According to John Marinello, finding the explosives wasn’t going to be as difficult as I’d first expected. Assuming that the explosive charges had been placed by an expert, they would be found near the architectural centers of the buildings, where they would do the most damage. It came down to a matter of second-guessing the person who had originally planted the charges.
For practice, we started with the most secluded spot we could find: St. Francesco’s Church, built in the fourteenth century. John outlined the search procedure he wanted to follow. He cautioned me for the tenth time not to touch anything I might find, then we split up.
Forty-five minutes later John found one of the charges. I rounded the corner of the church and saw him kneeling tensely beside a niche in the foundation wall, near the ground. He glimpsed me out of the corner of his eye and raised his hand, signaling me to stop. Then he reached inside the niche and slowly withdrew a bundle consisting of five sticks of dynamite lashed together. On top of the bundle was a small metal cannister that resembled a miniature soup can with the label torn off.
John set the dynamite gently down on the ground, then motioned me closer. He was shaking his head.
“There’s the first charge,” John said. “My guess is that there’s another one in the same spot on the other side of the building. We’ll have to keep looking.”
I glanced at my watch. “It’s taking too much time. With some luck, Jandor should be back with the Italian authorities in another hour or so. When that happens, I don’t want Fordamp to have the option of blowing the place up.”
“There’s no way to go any faster,” John said. “I’m sorry.” He didn’t have to add that St. Francesco’s Church was only one of dozens of potential targets, not including the three castles.
I pointed to the cannister. “That’s the ignition device?”
John nodded. “Radio controlled. Fordamp must have the transmitter with him.”
“He does. Is there any way we can jam the frequency?”
“We don’t have the equipment.”
“Can he set them off one at a time?”
John studied the cannister. “I doubt it. I’d say they’re set to go off all at once.”
It seemed to fit Fordamp’s disposition. If he couldn’t get what he wanted, he’d leave everything of value in San Marino in ruins.
“How do you disarm it?”
John reached down and unsnapped the cannister from a magnetic clamping device. It seemed simple enough.
“Is there enough there to blow up a castle?”
“Fordamp will have more there.”
“Okay. I’ve got to go to the castles. I’ve got a friend in one of them.”
“I’ll go with you,” John said, rising to his feet. “A man’s life is the most important thing.”
I heard a noise behind me and wheeled. Marshmallow Mouth and another one of Fordamp’s men were standing a few feet away, their guns trained on us.
I decided I’d rather die running than propped up against a tree. I made a gesture of resignation, then made as if to toss the dynamite at them.
They reacted as I’d hoped, instinctively stepping backward and throwing their hands up to their faces. I grabbed the detonator away from John, then leaped to one side and sprinted toward the corner of the building. A gun barked three times and bullets ricocheted off the stone, peppering my face with sharp chunks of rock. But there was no cry of pain from behind me, which meant that at least John had had the good sense to stay put. I made it around the corner of the church and sprinted down an alley.
I had the dynamite and the detonator, but they made an unlikely weapon, one that I couldn’t even control. Still, it was all I had. I tucked the dynamite under my arm, put the cannister in my pocket, then headed at a trot toward the castle where Phil and the regent were imprisoned. I had to make one last-ditch effort at getting them out.
A moment later I heard my name in English. It was amplified over a loudspeaker.”
“Frederickson! It’s all over now! Come here! We have your friends!”
The sound was coming from the direction of the circus grounds. A few San Marinese stopped and stared around, then moved on. Those who did understand English probably assumed that the words had something to do with circus business.
The message came at me again. More insistent.
I made my way across the town to the high ridge overlooking the field and crouched down in the tall grass. The scene below wasn’t encouraging.
Fordamp, flanked by his bodyguards, was standing in the middle of the field. John Marinello had a gun pointed at his gut. Jandor was there, too, his hands tied behind his back. There wasn’t going to be any last-minute cavalry charge; I was on my own, and things weren’t looking up.
A few San Marinese, attracted by the loudspeaker, appeared on the ridge across from me. They were quickly shooed away by guilty-looking members of the San Marinese police force. Occasionally the men paused and cast glances at a well-dressed San Marinese whom I took to be Alberto Vaicona. Vaicona stood with his head bowed. The police kept dispersing the onlookers.
However, there were a few spectators who weren’t so easily scattered. The circus people were coming out of their trailers and gathering in a knot at the western edge of the field. Big Nell was in their midst, moving around and whispering urgently. At a signal from Fordamp, the guards moved toward the circus people, guns drawn. Nell signaled and the circus people moved—but not away, and not in the direction Fordamp had intended; they began to quickly fan out. In a few moments Fordamp and the others were encircled.
Once again the police seemed uncertain of how to react; it was obvious where their sympathies lay, but it was even more obvious where the power lay. Fordamp, keeping an anxious eye on the circle, reached inside his vest and withdrew the transmitter. The device was about the size of a carton of cigarettes, with a red button in the center. Vaicona paled. The Regent walked quickly up to the policemen and spoke to them. Their guns rose.
I glanced over my shoulder at one of the three castles rising into the sky; all that stood between two men and eternity was one man’s shaking hand. One push of that red button and the castle would come crumbling to the ground.
The valley below suddenly smelled of death; the tension was building to a peak. Sooner or later someone was going to make a move, and bullets would fly. The button would be pressed. Fordamp was betting everything he had on the one last card he held in his hand, and I couldn’t afford to call.
I pulled a few strands of long grass out of the ground and twisted them into a rope of sorts. I replaced the detonator on the dynamite, then lashed the whole package to my belt, at my back, just beneath my shirt. Then, trying not to think of what would happen if Fordamp pushed the button, I
stood up and immediately raised my hands in the air.
Even from that distance I could see Fordamp’s satisfied grin. He put the transmitter back into his vest, then motioned for me to come down.
Dozens of eyes watched me as I worked my way down the slope. I moved through the circle and heard my name whispered. Big Nell was watching me with wet eyes; I smiled at her and pressed on through.
I moved toward Fordamp, who raised his hand in a signal for me to stop. I stopped. He whispered something to a seemingly indestructable Petrocelli who grinned through his smashed jaw and reached inside the sling on his arm to produce a gun. I had the distinct impression that my death warrant had been issued.
Petrocelli stepped forward, his eyes swimming with hate, and waved his gun toward a grove of trees behind him. It was time to make a move, any move.
I walked forward until I was abreast of Fordamp, then lunged sideways into the man. I locked my fingers around his belt with one hand and struggled to untie the dynamite from my belt with the other.
Fordamp gave me a startled look, then lifted me off the ground and shook me like a rag doll, trying to break my grip.
The ring of circus people was closing in, led by Nell. Petrocelli fired a shot into the air, and they stopped. All except Nell. She walked forward three more steps.
“You can’t shoot us all!” Nell shouted at Petrocelli. Then she turned around to face the circle. “If we don’t stop them, they’re going to kill Mongo!”
Petrocelli got a shot off and Nell spun, grabbing her right shoulder, falling to the ground. Blood spurted from the wound, but she rolled over and started to get up. Petrocelli advanced on her, his gun pointed at her head. He froze when the guns of the San Marinese policemen swung on him.
Fordamp seemed to have forgotten that I was still clinging to his belt. He quickly reached into his vest and withdrew the transmitter again.
“Stop!” Fordamp called in a voice that was none too steady. “Stop instantly, or I’ll push the button!”
By then I’d had enough time to untie the bundle of dynamite. I let go of Fordamp’s belt, then brought the dynamite around and stuffed it into the bulge of his stomach, something like a quarterback trying to hand a football to a reluctant halfback. Fordamp looked down at his belly and gagged.
“You push that button and you end up jelly,” I said with a smile.
Fordamp’s lips moved; finally sound came. “You’ll blow yourself up, too, you fool.”
“Getting shot, getting blown up; it’s all the same to me, buster. This gives me much more satisfaction.” I paused a few moments to let his imagination ponder the problem, then I said, “It’s all over, Fordamp. Put the transmitter down on the ground.”
Fordamp swallowed hard, then carefully placed the transmitter at his feet. Now it was Petrocelli who thought he saw his ticket out. He let out a cry and leaped toward the box. The policeman’s bullet caught him in mid-air, slicing in beneath his shoulder blade and puncturing his heart. I reached down and scooped up the transmitter before Petrocelli’s body landed on the spot where it had been.
One of the policeman had cut Jandor’s hands free. I walked over and handed the transmitter to him. “Why don’t you get this to a safe place?”
“Will do, Mongo. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to—”
“Forget it.” I turned to John. “Can you disarm this thing?”
John Marinello nodded. “I think so.”
They started off toward the haven of the forest. I turned back toward the center of the field. Vaicona was still standing in the same spot, his shoulders slumped, staring at the ground. I suddenly felt sorry for him; he had only done what he felt was necessary to preserve his country’s treasures. Others had disagreed, and now Vaicona had been made to look like a fool, if not a traitor.
I suspected his political career was over.
Big Nell was being attended to. The police had herded all of Fordamp’s gorillas into a tight knot and were guarding them; two men were dragging Petrocelli’s body away.
Fordamp was still staring at his belly, apparently dazed, which may have explained why he wasn’t being guarded. But Fordamp wasn’t through yet; his eyes rose and settled on me.
“You!” Fordamp screamed, his eyes seething. “I’ll kill you!”
He reached into his vest and came up with a .38. The barrel came around and stopped in a line with my forehead. I stood still and stared.
I was too far away to do anything about it.
Jandor wasn’t. He had turned at the sound of Fordamp’s voice and sized up the situation in an instant. His hand flew up, disappeared for a moment behind his head, then came forward in a blur of speed.
Fordamp’s eyes widened; the gun dropped from his fingers as he reached up and tried desperately to pull the knife out of his throat. A moment later he slumped to the ground, dead.
The valley was suddenly very still. An army of curious faces had begun to appear on the ridge. I stooped down and searched through Fordamp’s pockets until I found a ring of keys. Then I turned and walked toward the castle on the hilltop in the distance.
Here’s another piece about the attempts of unscrupulous people to manipulate behavior, and Mongo’s absolute insistence on carrying on the constant struggle to be the master of his own fate. Perhaps it is also a bit of a meditation on the theme of the “dwarf in all of us.” The plot line of this story was incorporated into the novel An Affair of Sorcerers.
Dark Hole on a Silent Planet
Dr. Peter Barnum’s craggy, fifty-year-old face was slightly flushed, and I thought I knew why: Barnum didn’t like moonlighting college professors or celebrities, and he felt I belonged in both categories. I didn’t know how he felt about dwarfs and I didn’t care, but I was curious as to what he was doing in my downtown office on a Saturday morning. I took the hand he extended. It felt moist.
“Dr. Frederickson,” Barnum said, “do you have a few moments?”
My services not being that much in demand, I invited him to sit down. Barnum perched on the edge of the chair, as if he were waiting for someone to call him to a speaker’s platform.
“I’d like to hire you, Dr. Frederickson,” Barnum said, rushing. “I mean, as a private detective.”
“You didn’t have to come down here. You could have seen me at the university.”
“I know,” he said, waving his hand in the air as though I’d made a preposterous suggestion. “I prefer it this way. You see, what I have to say must remain in the strictest confidence.”
For a change, the air conditioning in the building was working. Still, the few wisps of blond hair that ringed the bald dome of Barnum’s head were damp with sweat. A vein throbbed under his ear. I decided to take a little umbrage at his attitude.
“Everything my clients tell me is taken in confidence. It’s the way I work.”
“But you haven’t said whether or not you’ll help me.”
“You haven’t said what it is you want me to help you with. Until you do, I can’t commit myself.” That wasn’t exactly true, but I hoped it would force the issue.
The university president finally passed a hand over his eyes as if trying to erase a bad vision, then leaned back in the chair. “I’m sorry,” he said after a few moments. “I’ve been rude. I didn’t want to risk having us seen talking to each other at great length at the university. It might have seemed strange.”
“Strange to whom?”
Slowly, Barnum raised his eyes to mine. “I would like you to investigate one of your colleagues, Dr. Vincent Smathers.”
I let out a low, mental whistle. I was beginning to understand Barnum’s penchant for secrecy. Vincent Smathers was the university’s most recent prize catch, an experimental psychologist who was a Nobel Prize winner. University presidents don’t normally make a habit of investigating their Nobel Prize winners. The usual procedure is to create a specially endowed $100,000 chair, which was what had been done for Smathers.
“What’s the problem?”
Barnum shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “Perhaps I’m being overly suspicious.”
“Suspicious about what?”
“Dr. Smathers brought with him an assistant, Dr. Chiang Kee. Dr. Kee, in turn, brought two assistants with him, also Chinese. Quite frankly, those two men don’t look like people with university backgrounds.”
“Neither do I.”
Barnum flushed. “I suppose you’re implying—”
“I’m not implying anything,” I said. I was feeling a little abrasive. “I’m saying that you, better than anybody else, should know that you can’t judge a man by his looks. I’m sure Smathers knows what he’s doing. I just don’t want you to waste the university’s money.”
Barnum thought about that for a moment. “I suppose I am on edge,” he said distantly. “Ever since, they found that man’s body on the campus—”
“I have a brother who’s a detective in the New York Police Department, so I’m able to keep track of these things. Nobody has accused anybody at the university of killing him, if that’s what you’re worried about. He was fresh off the Bowery.”
“Yes, but there’s still the question of what a Bowery derelict was doing on the campus.”
“This is New York,” I said, as if that explained everything. “Do you think there’s some connection between Smathers and the killing?”
“Oh, no!” Barnum said quickly. “But the university has come under increasing scrutiny, simply because the body was found there. I have to make sure that everything … appears as it should.”
“Besides the Chinese, what else doesn’t appear as it should?”
Barnum took a deep breath. “There is the matter of the hundred-thousand-dollar yearly endowment Dr. Smathers receives for the academic chair he holds. While it’s true that a man of Dr. Smathers’ proven administrative abilities is not normally expected to—”
He was filibustering against his own thoughts. I cut him short. “You don’t know what’s happening to the money.”
Barnum looked relieved. “That’s right,” he said. The rest seemed to come easier. “I believe you know Mr. Haley in the English Department?”
In the House of Secret Enemies Page 12
