The Doomsday Bag

by Michael Avallone

  If there was a next time. The way things were going I couldn't be sure of anything anymore. Not that sure, anyway.

  Three Air Force jets broke the monotony of misery by suddenly announcing their gleaming presence with a sonic boom. I looked up. The swept-back gull wings, the silver noses, the darting missile-like shapes, rocketed overhead in standard V formation. They were far too high to be coming in. They had to be going out. Leaving Washington, D.C. In many ways, I envied them.

  Like Gauguin, I wanted to give up everything and go to Tahiti to paint.

  A private detective's lot is not a happy one.

  To hell with all missing bagmen everywhere.

  But I was still working.

  There was one place where I might learn something more about my newspaper lady. And something more about Congressman Charles Cornell. Even when your heart is breaking, your feet make you act like a special investigator should act.

  I headed for the Diplomat.

  Outsider on Mission Impossible

  With a few hours to go before the high-level Pentagon meeting, I found the Diplomat on New York Avenue. It wasn't more than a short taxi ride from the Big Wastebasket and I needed its friendly, well-upholstered environs for a quiet drink or two. Or three. I wasn't drowning my sorrows but I guess I was trying to forget certain things. Namely, that I liked Felicia Carr. So I parked myself at the semicircular bar and ordered a Beefeater martini. The Diplomat is a restaurant and cocktail lounge just behind Embassy Row where the foreign ambassadors and diplomatic corps of the world go to bend their elbows, in between protocol stews and political rows. You wouldn't think it but there are hundreds of ambassadors to the United States from foreign nations. Everywhere from Laos to Morocco. Ambassadors from the Sudan and Lithuania. Belgium, Israel, Peru, Iceland, Ceylon, and the Netherlands. As well as France, Italy, the United Kingdom, and Germany and Russia.

  It was a fine place to drink. A good joint to tie one on but I couldn't, of course. I had to be sober for the Pentagon and the Man. But I know my firewater. All the liquor in the universe can't make you drunk when you're drinking to forget, anyway. As Barry Fitzgerald said in an old Paramount movie, it's the worst reason.

  Feeling guilty after the first Beefeater, I ordered another. Then I really tried to even things up by thinking about the curious number Rowles and I had found on Manuel de Rojas, the pump-gunner. 1417335. I had made no more progress on the Chief's assignment than Khrushchev had made with his missile bases in Cuba back in '62. That had been a bluff and Kennedy had called it. I wondered if Rowles would call this Cuban Intelligence bluff. Or was it the real thing? Somehow I didn't think so.

  1417335. The old numbers again. Could mean anything. The mere fact that an unsavory character had written it down on a scrap of paper and carried it around in his billfold had to mean something, though. If it wasn't his own handwriting, then it was twice as important. Especially when seen in the light of Leonard Kanin's empty black bag being on the premises of the barn.

  I kicked the number around in my head while I nursed the second Beefeater. It wasn't enough digits for a Social Security number or an Army serial number. Then again it was too many for a license plate or a lock combination. Or a hotel room or a street address or a phone number—that one stopped me. No, it was enough for a telephone listing. Seven numbers were about average all over the country. Which meant that the exchange would be the first two numbers, in lieu of letters. One four. I mentally pictured a telephone dial and forgot my beautiful thought. One was one on the dial, nothing else, while four was the letter-grouping GHI. Still, I wondered if the same idea had occurred to Rowles.

  It would take a cryptographer and a code-finding expert to crack a series of numerical digits. There must be a hundred thousand variations on the uses of number formations to designate something else. Trying them all could take days, weeks. Months, maybe. Everybody uses numbers from your Chinese laundryman down to your pari-mutuel racetrack operation. It was hopeless, really. Only the pump-gunner could have led us on the right track, and he was dead.

  Three Beefeaters later, I gave up. I slid off the bar stool, paid my tab, and took another cab back to the Carlton. It was time to clean up and put on a sincere blue tie for my trip to the Pentagon. Manuel de Rojas' cryptic number was still running around in my head, though. It wouldn't let go. The Diplomat had been fairly deserted, especially the bar, and I felt like the lonesomest guy in town. It figured. Good-bye, my lady love, was written all over my mood and my actions.

  But something else was bugging me, too. I know myself, my own habits, and somewhere in my mind a light was begging to be turned on, something was shouting to make itself known. I tried to let it come out easy, but it wouldn't. I'm a loner, an individual, someone not harnessed or handicapped with the organization-type mind. I'm not FBI or Secret Service or someone from the Central Intelligence Agency stuck with being responsible to other people for my actions. I'm not a team man or a character in a gray flannel suit. Sure, I work for the Man. But strictly as a lone wolf, a private agent. And the utterly lonely aspects of my chosen profession were trying to tell me something. I knew that as surely as I knew the color of my own eyes.

  In my hotel room, once more barred in and secure, I went back to my homework. I reread the dossier on Leonard Kanin. Even before I got halfway through, I think I had the answer. It had been staring me in the face since yesterday. What was worse, it had been just as obvious to everyone else connected with the operation. And they, who knew the man, should have seen it first.

  It was all there in the typed text. The bald facts. The details. Kanin the orphan. Kanin the loner. Ex-stunt man, runaway, graduate of the School of Hard Knocks. Kanin the war hero, decorated more than most. Kanin, the man who helped a cop he didn't know make an arrest. Kanin, the man who went back to Korea when he didn't have to. Kanin of merit and worth and keen intelligence. A man you could rely on in a pinch. And, lastly and most importantly, Kanin the Bagman. Satchel. The loner again. Still tall like a hero, still big though reduced to glasses and taking on a pot, and being treated like he had leprosy by all the smart young men with executive suits and special weapons who surrounded a man who was called Mr. President. Kanin of middle-age acceptance. A peg well-rounded being pushed into a square hole. And what do the Kanins of this world do when that happens? They fight back. They do that—or they die. Dishonorably or honorably, it makes no difference. Kanin had led a loveless life from infancy until the unholy present. I think he did what he had to do.

  I understand the Kanins. I'm one of them myself.

  Sitting there on the bed with his dossier spread out before me, the light that been bursting to flood the dark corners of my mind flamed on with gorgeous brilliance. I didn't have the answer or the solution, but I did know now what had happened in Convention Hall yesterday.

  I had put myself in Kanin's position, a man carrying a black bag that was thermonuclear dynamite, listening to a president speak on the necessity of war, and knowing all that Charles Cornell had said about the continual gnawing of Vice-President Raymond Oatley at the planks of the Chief's platform, and suddenly I saw myself responding as Kanin had. Had to have had. There was no other sensible explanation for such a well-guarded man disappearing in full sight of perhaps forty Secret Service men and an auditorium bulging with members of the Students' League.

  It had been there all the time and nobody had seen it. Another reverse on our old friend, The Purloined Letter.

  Poe's famous letter had been found where it was supposed to be found. In a mail rack in plain view, while everybody looked everywhere else.

  Kanin and his bag had disappeared because everybody involved expected kidnapping, enemy action, subversive methods, and a threat, a plot, and a master scheme to destroy the world.

  Nobody had imagined for a moment that nothing of the kind had happened. Nobody had even considered that the Bagman hadn't been taken at all.

  I called the Justice Building on the hotel phone. I asked for Rowles, introduced myse
lf, and waited, while I was connected. He was in and his familiar voice crackled in my ear hardly ten seconds later.

  "Hello, Noon."

  "Can you scramble this call? It's important."

  "Hold on." I heard a click not too audible and his voice came back. "Go ahead."

  "Will you string along with me for a few questions? After you answer them, I'll give you my theory on how the Bagman got out of Convention Hall yesterday."

  He didn't laugh or snort or growl. He was a man grabbing at straws of all sizes, shapes, and colors.

  "Shoot."

  "Question one. What did you learn about the pump-gunner out at the barn. Manuel de Rojas?"

  "We've been in contact with certain embassy officials. Of course, we're not on speaking terms with Castro. But the denials are coming through, all the same. Rojas is not with Cuban Intelligence, according to my official sources. And we have to let it go at that. But we're still working on it, of course."

  "And that kid with the sore throat?"

  "Name's Anthony Rio. A vagrant who manages to live on odd illegal jobs now and then. He said he was approached—rather he wrote it down, he still can't talk above a whisper—that Rojas hired him to drive him around. Yesterday on the highway when they killed your driver and the rodeo today. Otherwise, nothing. We feel he is just a tool that was used locally and that's it."

  "And you still won't tell me why Rojas thought you represented the people who hired him?"

  "I can't. We have our methods and we can't advertise. Now, get to the point. What's this about Satchel?"

  "I still have Question Two. Who was the Secret Service man with us out at the barn today?"

  He paused. There was a dry chuckle from him. "I wish you'd tell me how you rate the blue pass and what you really do for a living, Noon. The Director has also asked for a complete platform and door security plan from the Secret Service. The S squad isn't too keen on giving one out. Not until the Man who we all work for put his foot down. Both he and the Director seem to be working on some angle. I suppose you have something to do with that."

  "Never mind. Who was the man at the barn?"

  "Detwhiler. He's a Chief Agent. Why?"

  "Was he in Convention Hall yesterday and just where did he stand?"

  Rowles began to get worried. I could tell by the sound of his answer.

  "You're getting high-handed, Noon, and I'm running out of patience. No more questions until you give me your theory."

  "Fair enough. Here goes—" I let him have it all, with both barrels, no apologies, and all the trimmings. I leaned very heavily on my main line of argument. How could a bagman literally swamped with co-agent protection and security, disappear from anywhere unless he had somehow walked out on his own hook? Especially if he had the help and connivance of one of the other Security men? It had to be so because nothing else was possible. And nothing else could explain the damaging case that all of my moves and Congressman Charles Cornell's had been anticipated in advance. If it wasn't an inside job, I was ready to toss in my permit and .45. Felicia Carr was not the answer to my troubles on the highway nor the attempt on Cornell's life, was she? I didn't mention Felicia to Rowles; it hurt too much just then.

  Rowles heard me out and his reply was tentative but skeptical.

  "You make a good case. I don't know—I'll have to think about it. It's pretty hard to swallow. Kanin taking off on his own, one of the S squad engineering it with him—hell, what's the motive? A defect to Moscow?"

  "Politics, Rowles. The Presidency is being squeezed. It's not the first time. I won't saddle you with an expert's theories on that." Why fill his head with Cornell's dire warnings? They could prove false. He might have the wrong man. "Now what about Detwhiler? Where was he on the platform?"

  "Can't say right now. I'll check it out. Anything else? Though you've given me enough headaches with this call."

  "Yes. The number on Rojas. Anything on that?"

  His laugh was bitter. "This ought to grab you right where you live. You ready? 1417335 is the number of Leonard Kanin's life-insurance policy. We checked out everything connected with his bio in relation to that number. How's that for a big letdown?"

  I frowned. "Who's the beneficiary?"

  "An orphanage of some kind in Ishpeming, Michigan. Ishpeming—there's a name for you."

  "So why would Rojas be carrying the number of Kanin's life-insurance policy on a crazy scrap of paper in his pocket? Have you thought of that?"

  "You think about it, Noon. It doesn't make a lick of sense to me."

  I did think about it. All it did was underscore the lonely, outsider aspects of Leonard Kanin's life. After all these years, to remember the place he had run away from as a child. Was this orphanage the Catholic protectory?

  "Are you doing anything about that waiter Emil who got killed last night, or isn't that your department, Rowles?"

  "It is. Everything you're jammed up in is, I'm afraid. We've nothing concrete yet, but I've heard all about the pen and the tall distinguished man with the moustache who arranged the thing. There is nobody named Paul Ferris in this town, naturally."

  "Naturally. He never would have given his real name. Any ideas at all?"

  "No, but we're working on it. Cornell has drawn up a list of potential names for us. People he feels who would look kindly on seeing the Man lose face. Lots of interesting types on it."

  I laughed into the phone. "Any of them have moustaches?"

  "Only Walter Ardway, curiously enough, and he's just a big moneybags who does a lot of lobbying for the Democrats—" He broke off, swearing again. "You're a clever son, Noon. I'm not supposed to give out these names."

  "Forget it. You're among friends."

  "Thanks," he said drily. "That'll be a big help when I lose my shield."

  "Your slip is safe with me."

  I was still thinking about Manuel de Rojas, a mere gunman as far as I could tell, walking around with the number of Leonard Kanin's life-insurance policy. It was ridiculous, all in all. It just didn't and wouldn't make sense. Something was screwy somewhere.

  Kanin leaving all his dough to the orphanage was fine, but where did Rojas come into it? If at all?

  "Noon?" Rowles' voice was almost sarcastic now.

  "Still here."

  "If your Bagman theory is true, that he took off like that, then why did we find the bag with a jimmied lock? Kanin knew the combination. He had to. Part of the job."

  "Did it ever occur to you he might have changed his mind? That he is now dead because he wouldn't give the people he had turned to the combination?"

  "You're a great help," he answered acidly. "I wouldn't even want to consider those lines."

  "Okay, Rowles. That's all I wanted to tell you. I'll be in the Pentagon from seven o'clock on. Which you probably already know. See you in church."

  "Not if I see you first," he amended, a bit more warmly. "Good luck, Noon."

  I closed Leonard Kanin's dossier and shoved it under the bed again. No maid or maids had seen fit to disturb it. I changed my suit to a dark blue, more-formal job, ran an electric razor over the dark shadows of my jaws, and generally spruced up. I had visions of being blinded by all that brass in the War Room. War Room—I wondered idly if they had a Love Room in the Pentagon. Or a Peace Room. The labels and titles we all give things are a little frightening sometimes. But calling a spade a spade instead of something else had its points, too. I also treated myself to another short neat Scotch. The Beefeaters hadn't taken a hold at all. Felicia Carr's face wouldn't go away, no matter how I tried to exorcize her. Damn all females with soft lips, dark eyes, and mellifluous voices anyway. To hell with all spies everywhere. Male and female. Single and double, too.

  There was a knock on the door.

  Her knock.

  Felicia Carr's.

  Don't ask me how I knew, I just knew.

  I walked slowly to the door and moved to one side of the barrier, in the approved, standard-behavior pattern of all detectives the world over. I
t's one way to stay alive.

  "Yes?" I said in reply to the knock.

  "Edward, it's me. Felicia. Let me in. We have to talk."

  I undid the chain latch, stepped back, and kept the .45 up. Sure, I might be in love with her but she was one of them, wasn't she? The door angled inward and she came into the room. For one fleeting second I was looking straight into her Mata Hari eyes and she was looking back. She was still wearing the leopard-skin coat and the tam and she never looked lovelier. Sadness and female misery of some kind had made her beauty a study in another kind of Mona Lisa.

  Before I could shut the door, she had come too close, and I could not blast at her at such close range with a .45. I guess she counted on that. I have to admit I never expected her to make an overt play. Not right in a hotel room of the Carlton. But you never do know with spies.

  "I'm sorry, Edward," she said softly, and her hands came up and something glittered in her fingers. I only saw it for a second. One second later something wet and warm and irritating had squirted from her fingers right into my face. I couldn't duck in time. I got the full load, whatever it was, and in an instant I was a blind bat, stumbling for the center of the room, pawing at my eyes, trying to hang on to the .45.

  Heavy footfalls ran into the room. She had brought reinforcements, too, and I tried to get out of the way of the sound. My eyeballs stung with agony. I couldn't see a thing. It was an aerosol spray of some kind and my nostrils began to twitch and contract. I was about as helpless at that particular moment as a baby dropped into a swimming pool. I threshed, kicking out violently, trying to get away from what I knew had to be coming.

  It came.

  From out of the darkness and the roiling agony of being unable to see, I heard her say: "Too bad, Edward. Win a few, lose a few. Don't worry, you're not blind—"

  Then the top of my head connected with something soft, leathery, and harder than a concrete block. Rockets went off in my skull, my brain rioted, and all the colors of the rainbow coruscated and pinwheeled into that never-never land called unconsciousness. I had been sapped by an expert. Her or them? It didn't really matter.