The Man Who Heard Too Much

by Forrest, Richard;

“Yes. I would have to.”

  “What can we do to convince you?”

  Crowell shook his head. “If we only had time. If we had a week, I could have members of my staff investigate. I could use my subcommittee’s subpoena powers. There would be several avenues I could explore, but there just isn’t time. And, unfortunate as it may be, I cannot accept your unilateral word.”

  Sara stood again. “Then there is nothing more to discuss.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  She walked down the hall toward the front door. Martin took a last beseeching look at Harris Crowell, but the old man shook his head. He walked with Martin down the hall and opened the front door for them.

  A plumbing van was parked directly in front of the house and two men stood on the stoop.

  Man Mountain pulled a .45 automatic from his jacket pocket. “Back up,” he said softly. “Back in the house.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Martin smiled broadly and shuffled forward with an outstretched hand. “Hey, you guys got guns. Can I see one?”

  Man Mountain’s fist drove into Martin’s solar plexus and crumpled him into a corner of the living room where he lay choking for breath.

  Sara knelt next to him. “Are you all right?”

  “What’s wrong with that guy, he crazy?” Man Mountain asked.

  Martin stared up at Sara. His eyes were blank and uncomprehending as his breath gradually returned.

  Sara turned to look up at the large gunman looming above them. “Not crazy. Retarded.”

  “Well, keep him in line or he gets hurt. That goes for you too, old man.”

  “Who sent you?” Crowell asked.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, grandpa. We came for the pictures. We take the pictures, we leave and nobody gets hurt. Understand?”

  “What pictures?”

  “Don’t wiseass me—the pictures of the birds. We know you got them.”

  “The Audubon drawings?”

  “The bird pictures. Like that one.” The large gunman pointed to one of the Audubons on the living room wall. “We load them in the van and we leave. Easy enough?”

  “I thought the old man was supposed to be the only one home?” Two Spot asked.

  “So, he has company,” Man Mountain replied. “Makes no difference. Get that crap off the walls while I keep them covered.”

  Crowell sat back in one of the living room’s high-backed chairs. “You’re going to have difficulty pawning them. I would suggest the silver service in the dining room.”

  “We’ll get that too. In fact, we’ll take a hell of a lot before we’re through. We got a buyer for the birds already, so don’t worry your old head about it.”

  Two Spot began to methodically remove the drawings from the walls.

  “Do you know who I am?” Senator Crowell asked.

  “You could be Muhammad Ali for all I care. So keep it down.”

  Senator Crowell stared at Martin in astonishment as Sara helped the whimpering man across the room and onto the sofa. Martin pressed his back against the cushions and held his hands loosely in his lap as he rocked his head slowly back and forth. His jaw was slack, and a sliver of saliva drooled from the corner of his mouth.

  Sara patted his hand. “You’ll be all right now.” She glanced at Crowell and saw his eyes register comprehension.

  “The man hurt me,” Martin whined.

  “He won’t do it again. Sit quietly and be good.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” Man Mountain demanded.

  Sara whirled angrily. “I told you. He’s retarded. He has the mental age of a five-year-old.” It seemed true, she thought to herself. She had seen grown men in Martin’s condition at the training school. His representation was perfect. But then, he had had a long time to learn.

  “I had a brother like that,” Man Mountain said as near wistfully as he could muster. “The old lady shipped him off to some school and that was the last we saw of him.” The moment’s compassion immediately disappeared as he turned angrily to Two Spot, who was still removing drawings from the walls.

  “You check the house yet?”

  “You told me to get the pictures.”

  “Well, goddamn it, check the upstairs and back rooms. There could be a platoon of cops in there for all we know.”

  “There ain’t no one.…”

  “Shut up! Get moving!”

  Two Spot was back in five minutes. “The place is empty,” he announced.

  “All right. Now, bring the van around back to the alley and we’ll load from the rear door.”

  “Right.” Two Spot disappeared out the front door.

  Man Mountain straddled a straight chair near the archway to the living room with his back to the wall. He held the large automatic in two hands, one on the butt with a finger curved through the trigger guard, the other grasping the barrel.

  Two Spot returned with a sheepish grin on his face. “The fucker won’t start.”

  Man Mountain glared at him. “What do you mean, it won’t start? Of course it’ll start.”

  “You try the son of a bitch, then.” He slipped his .45 from a pocket and took Man Mountain’s place on the straight chair.

  “Idiot!” Mountain said as he went to the front door. They heard him mumble as he left. “Have to do every goddamn thing myself.” He was back in three minutes with a deep scowl on his face. “Course the fucker won’t start. Some bastard stole the damn battery.”

  “Can’t trust no one,” Two Spot said.

  Without a further word, Man Mountain strode to the phone extension in the hallway and angrily dialed a number. “Weasel, Man Mountain here. Some fucker stole our battery. Get another one over here toot sweet.… Whadda you mean you got no wheels? I don’t give a shit. Steal a set then.… Whadda you mean, busy? Get your miserable ass over here … I can’t wait around here all night.… What’s that?… Oh, fuck it, all right.” He hung up and returned to the living room where he addressed Two Spot. “He can’t get over here until late tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Then let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “And leave the stuff and the van parked right in front for the cops to trace to us? No way. We’ll just keep our friends company until the battery arrives.”

  Senator Crowell leaned forward. “Do you mean to tell me that you two intend to hold us hostage until tomorrow?”

  “Something like that. But you ain’t hostage.… Let’s say we’re your guests for the night.”

  “I find it odd,” Crowell continued, “that on this particular evening you decided to burglarize my home.”

  “It’s been ripe for the pickings for a long time, old man.”

  “Why tonight?”

  “Why not?”

  Senator Crowell’s posture stiffened as his voice deepened. Sara felt that his whole manner had changed, so that he now appeared to be chairing a congressional committee rather than being held captive in his own home.

  “I find it strange that you didn’t have this house under surveillance,” Crowell continued.

  “Maybe we did, old man.”

  “Then you must have surely noticed that it’s empty during the day. While I am away you certainly could have taken all you wished without difficulty.”

  “You run the Senate, old man, and I’ll do the burglarizing.”

  “Is the risk worth it?” Crowell asked.

  “You don’t worry us, the girl don’t, and retard over there’s a basket case.”

  “Burglary is one thing, armed robbery is another, and holding us until tomorrow is kidnapping.”

  “Why don’t you shut up!” Two Spot interjected. “All this talk makes me nervous and I don’t like being nervous.”

  Man Mountain shrugged. “Check out the kitchen. See if he’s got anything we can eat.”

  Two Spot holstered his pistol and started to leave the room. As he went through the archway he gestured to Man Mountain. The second gunman waved his automatic at his prisoners ominously and stepped a
round the corner to whisper with Two Spot.

  Senator Crowell immediately went to the archway and listened.

  “Why don’t we just waste them and get the hell out of here?” Two Spot whispered.

  “Because, stupid, Baxter says he wants it done this way. Now get into the kitchen.” Man Mountain lumbered back into the room as Crowell scurried to his chair.

  “Who do you work for?” Sara asked the large gunman.

  Man Mountain smiled. “The ways things been going—my bookie.”

  “Rutledge Baxter sent them,” Crowell said.

  “You talk too much, gramps.”

  “It had to come through Captain Newmark,” Crowell said to Sara. “When I called him about Operation Barbados, I guess he called Baxter, who in turn sent our friends over to visit.”

  “Why don’t they just kill us and leave?” Sara asked.

  Crowell shook his head. “He doesn’t have to. As long as I don’t reach the floor of the Senate before Barbados begins, our information is useless. I think I owe you an apology.”

  Martin’s inarticulate sounds filled the room as his back and forth jouncing movement increased in intensity. “Huh, huh, huh,” he kept repeating over and over.

  “Will you shut him up before I do!” Man Mountain waved the barrel of the .45 in Martin’s direction.

  Sara put her arm around Martin. “It’s going to be all right. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  “Huh, huh.” Martin’s head movement gradually slowed until it stopped. He stared directly at Man Mountain without recognition.

  “There’s steaks in the freezer,” Two Spot said when he returned to the room.

  Man Mountain waved the automatic toward them. “In the kitchen everyone. Little lady here can cook.”

  Martin sat in a corner on the kitchen floor between the cellar door and a large hutch. He pulled his knees up under his chin and stared directly ahead.

  Sara cooked two frozen steaks on the stove grill, while nearby. Senator Crowell desultorily mixed a green salad.

  “You got any beer, old man?” Man Mountain asked.

  “I don’t keep any in the house,” Crowell answered without turning.

  “You got anything to drink?”

  “Only wine.”

  “How about a bottle of Guinea red?”

  Crowell turned to face the two gunmen. “There is probably a bottle of red wine in the cellar. Did you have any particular year in mind?”

  “Wiseass. As long as it don’t make us go blind, we’ll drink it.”

  The strident ring of the phone shattered the room. Senator Crowell took a step toward the receiver on the wall, but Two Spot waved him back.

  The phone kept ringing.

  “Who do you think it is, old man?”

  “It could be anyone,” Crowell answered. “Probably an aide from my office with some business for tomorrow’s session. I had better answer it or they’ll get suspicious.”

  “No way. Let it ring.”

  “I’m almost always home these days. They’ll wonder.”

  “Let them think you went to an X-rated movie.”

  The phone continued ringing and then stopped. The silence was almost jarring.

  “Get the wine, Two Spot.” Man Mountain turned to Sara. “Can the dummy carry a bottle without breaking it?”

  “Of course.”

  “On your feet,” Two Spot said to Martin with a wave of the gun barrel.

  Martin clumsily got to his feet as the gunman opened the cellar door and switched on the light. Martin shambled down ahead of the man with the .45.

  The cellar was an unused and musty place. Hanging naked light bulbs cast yellow streaks across the dusty floor. Boxes were piled in haphazard fashion, and in a far corner was a series of wooden wine racks filled with dozens of assorted bottles.

  Without taking his eyes and weapon off Martin, Two Spot pulled a dusty bottle from the middle of the rack and flipped it over to Martin.

  “Is that red?”

  Martin deftly caught the bottle by its neck, held it for a brief moment, and let it slip from his fingers to shatter on the floor.

  “Goddamn butterfingers!” He hesitated a moment, torn between a desire to search for the wine himself, and caution. Caution prevailed. “Find a red one. You can do that, can’t you?”

  “Uh huh. I know my colors.”

  “Then red, damn it! And hurry. I’m thirsty.”

  Martin squatted and began to laboriously pull out bottle after bottle. He held each one up toward the light, examined it closely, and then clumsily replaced it in the rack.

  “Can’t you find one, dummy?”

  Martin looked up at the man standing over him. “I’m looking,” he said petulantly. He estimated the distance from his crouched position to the man with the automatic pistol at less than five feet. If Two Spot should look away, for the briefest of moments, he could bring a filled bottle up under the other man’s chin and …

  His adversary seemed to subliminally suspect something, and took two rapid backward steps. “What’re you doing down there, dummy?”

  “Nothing. I found a red one.” The moment had passed and Martin stood with the bottle held before him.

  “All right. Take it upstairs. Ahead of me.”

  Martin held to the thin banister with one hand, clenched the wine bottle by its neck with the other, and methodically walked upstairs. He had discovered one important bit of information. When the wine bottle had dropped and shattered on the floor, there had been no outcry from the other gunman. Thick walls and flooring would provide a protective barrier if he were to entice Two Spot into the cellar a second time. A minuscule piece of information, but it could be crucial.

  Sara served the steaks and the senator piled a huge salad into bowls. Man Mountain sat in a chair with his back against the wall.

  “Are you going to eat?” Sara asked impatiently.

  “Two Spot first. We eat in shifts so one of us always got his eyes on you.” He turned toward Two Spot as he entered the kitchen. “What took you so damn long? You and the idiot pressing the grapes?”

  “He dropped one.” He handed the bottle to Senator Crowell. “Here, open it.”

  Martin resumed his place on the floor near the cellar door. He intended to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. Senator Crowell uncorked the wine, and Two Spot holstered his weapon and sat before the steak. He poured a water tumbler of wine.

  Man Mountain waited his turn to eat and continued to watch them carefully.

  Martin knew that these men were professional killers. He began to bob his head again as he watched the intruders carefully. Two Spot was devouring his steak rapidly while intermittently taking large draughts of wine. The man was probably a conditioned drinker—the red table wine would have little effect on his professional abilities.

  He again recalled the voice of Billie Bamburg at Camp Mohawk: “You can spot the professionals easy. It’s as if they wear signs. They’ll be cool and careful. They move slow—watching every step. The amateurs move with jerky motions, their eyes shift, and they handle their weapons like it was some strange animal that might bite them.”

  These men handled their weapons as if they were normal extensions of their hands.

  Two Spot finished eating, belched, and took Man Mountain’s place on the chair in the corner. He unholstered the heavy automatic, while Mountain began to eat.

  Yes, Martin remembered the lesson well. He would have to be careful with these men. He would be lucky to get one chance, and that would be the only chance.

  He had to separate them. There would not be opportunity or possibility to take them simultaneously.

  As the night progressed, people began to drowse, but Martin, sitting on the floor in a corner in the living room, noticed that the two intruders were wary and alert. Senator Crowell, after flipping nervously through a series of magazines, stretched out on the couch and fell asleep. Sara curled up on the floor near the couch, with an afghan pulled to her chin.
>
  Two Spot had located a card table, placed it in the archway to the living room a good dozen feet from his nearest prisoner, and cheated at solitaire. The ominous-looking .45 was inches away from his right hand.

  Man Mountain seemed to be restless, and he prowled the house in a lone search for valuables.

  The day’s events had taken their nervous toll. Martin felt his eyelids droop, and occasionally he would slip into a brief sleep only to jerk awake a few seconds later.

  Dawn light fell through the upper windowpanes and cast streaks across the floor near the door. Martin’s head jerked backward as his eyes snapped open. He wondered how long he had been asleep.

  Two Spot yawned, shuffled the now greasy cards, and then slammed the pack down on the table top. He picked up the automatic and stretched. “Mountain, where the hell are you?”

  The call came from the study down the hall. “Watching the tube. You want relief?”

  “Damn right, I do.” Two Spot waited impatiently as Man Mountain lumbered down the hall. He saw that Martin was awake. “Come here, kid.”

  Martin got unsteadily to his feet and rubbed his eyes. “You want me?”

  Two Spot beckoned with his finger as Man Mountain took over the chair at the card table. “Yeah, come with me.”

  Martin followed Two Spot down the hall toward the kitchen. The gunman’s back was to him, and he briefly considered the possibility of throwing himself at the other man and taking him down.

  They would fight for the automatic, and even though Martin felt he would prevail in the struggle, it would take precious seconds, and the other man would be standing over him before he could gain possession of the weapon.

  They entered the kitchen, and Two Spot gestured toward the cellar steps with his gun barrel. “Get me another bottle. Can you manage that?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then move it!” He gestured again and Martin scuttled awkwardly down the cellar steps. “Jesus,” Two Spot said tiredly as he threw the electrical switch. He came halfway down into the cellar and sat on the steps to watch Martin search the wine racks. “Don’t drop it,” he called out.

  As Martin came back to the steps holding a bottle gingerly with both hands, Two Spot stood and faced to the kitchen door.