by P. N. Elrod
“Are the other rooms . . . ?”
“No, just here.”
He looked relieved.
Taking off his regular gloves, he pulled out a pair made of thin rubber, the kind used by surgeons, then gave me an identical set. Neither of us wanted to leave any sign we’d been near this place. “Tell me what happened after you left.”
It was my pleasure. While listening, Escott poked, pried, sifted papers, rummaged drawers and cabinets, and generally turned the house inside out for information about Dugan. We found it impossible not to knock over or displace the origami pieces, but there were so many, chances are even anyone familiar with the place wouldn’t notice the added disorder.
“No personal journal,” he said a couple dusty hours later. “A pity. He seems the sort who would want a record of his accomplishments.”
“Not that he’s done much. He called himself a scholar, but I don’t see many books.” We did find a stack of old Police Gazettes and crime magazines, all with articles on famous kidnapping cases. “He should have gotten rid of these.”
“He’ll probably claim the gang brought them in for him to study.”
“No doubt. Still, it’s a damned fool thing to have those lying around.”
I dropped a magazine with a torn cover onto the pile. Its lead was about the Lindbergh baby. “Yeah, of course only an innocent man would keep them. ‘See what they forced me to read, Judge?’ What a crock.”
“To be expected. He’s obviously a chronic liar.”
“Only when his lips are moving. He should be on the stage, but I don’t think too many people would believe him; he just expects them to.”
“That expectation is a weakness. Let’s hope he keeps it. You’ll dissuade his friends from helping him further?”
“So long as they’re not crazy.”
“There’s nothing to prevent him writing more letters, though.”
“Won’t matter if he’s in jail. Look at this.” I held up a letter. “He’s supposed to be in court tomorrow. Ain’t that too bad?”
Escott chuckled. “How convenient. And now you’ve an address for his lawyer.”
“Yeah. By tomorrow night, Dugan won’t have anyone on his side, and the law will be after him. Life is sweet.”
“Still, it’s a bit of chance we’re taking.”
“Safer than having him run loose. He can do with a dose of poetic justice.”
“You’re certain hypnosis won’t work on him?”
I let the letter fall and picked up one of the origami animals, fiddling with it. “I did my best. It had no effect on him except give him a laugh and me a hell of a headache. We’ll do it this way, then when the time comes, let him twist in the wind.”
“As you wish.”
“Something’s missing,” I said. “You find a typewriter here? Carbon sheets? Typing paper?”
“No. Nothing like that.”
“Then he wrote the letters someplace else, or got one of his friends to do them for him.”
“Where are those letter copies?”
I patted my inside coat pocket.
“But we’ve not found the originals. Perhaps one of his friends has them.”
“His fingerprints are all over these. If it ever comes to it, they can make a good case against him for blackmail by intimidation. It shouldn’t get that far . . . oh, hell.” Something about the paper animal caught my eye, got my brain to working.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just take a look.” I unfolded what first appeared to be only scrap. Flattening it out on the table revealed writing on one side, all done in a distinctive dark green ink. Very oddball. I read some of the rulerstraight lines. Dugan had no scratch-outs, no botched lettering. The writing was so even it could have been done by machine.
Sentiment is our greatest hindrance to true progress. Think of the scientific advancements we could have by now had our ancestors been able to rid themselves of the more impractical emotions or at least better control them. We have twisted what should be simple survival and improvement of the species into a complicated tangle.
From the moment we’re born we are driven by instinct to find a mate and through her propagate offspring, a laudable goal unless the mate is of a mediocre intellect, bound by the limits of emotions, which are passed on. The greater part of humanity is mediocre because we tend to be attracted to mates similar to our own background and place in society. There is safety in the familiar. Thus do we continue to hold ourselves back. We could progress to a higher level more quickly by a judicious program of breeding. If we have bred lesser animals to our purposes to produce cattle with more milk or meat on them, why not do the same for ourselves? The mating of two brilliant people would likely result in a brilliant child, and he in turn can expect to produce . . .
“Oh, brother,” I said.
Escott puffed out a single laugh. “His journal. And I’d been looking for a notebook.”
“This is more like an editorial than a diary. When I was reporting, there was a guy on the staff who would write out whatever was bothering him that day. Sometimes they’d use it for an opinion piece.”
“Dugan has a good point, but I doubt a practical application will ever prove to be popular.” Escott collected more animals, lining them up, and we unfolded several. Each animal represented a specific subject. All were covered with the same machinelike writing, recording all kinds of observations about people and life, mostly the shortcomings. What a complainer. Giraffes were concerned with sociology, cranes were history, pelicans current events, boats were about euthanasia of inferior human specimens as a means to improve the breed. Chronic criminals, the mentally ill or retarded, those with hereditary afflictions or abnormalities were on his list. He had quite a fleet of boats.
“This is the damnedest filing system I’ve ever seen,” I said, standing away from the remains and staring at the ones yet untouched. Just thinking of the hours he’d put in writing that crap made my guts twist.
“Do you think there’s any symbolism involved in his choice of animal for each topic?”
“Ask Dr. Freud.”
“He is consistent, in his own way organized, very prolific. An acute case of overthinking and too much time to do it. Could this be only window dressing intended to make one conclude he is less than rational? Or is he really like this?”
“I know he’s nuts. Doesn’t matter much. Once we’re done, he’ll have plenty more time to write his novel or treatise or whatever he thinks he’s doing.”
“Indeed. We should wind things up, then. I’ll phone and let them know we’re on the way.”
THE driveway to Dugan’s garage led from a side-street entrance around the house to the back. There it was secluded, surrounded by trees and a high fence, and completely concealed the presence of my car. No one saw as we lugged Dugan’s unresisting body down the kitchen steps and dumped him in the trunk, dropping his coat and hat on top.
“You’re sure he’s all right?” asked Escott.
I could understand his concern. Once, before I’d gotten used to my preternatural strength, I’d killed a man with a single punch to the face. Not that he didn’t deserve it, but I hated being the one to deliver his fate. Sometimes, when mired in a dark mood, I could still feel the bones giving wetly under my fist. Not a memory I wanted to double. I listened to Dugan’s heart and breathing. “He’s just out. Smelling salts should bring him around.”
Escott slammed the trunk lid shut.
Dugan’s house keys in hand, I went back for a last look, making sure we’d covered everything. Propped against his phone was a single sheet of paper, the letter notifying him of his court date tomorrow. On its back Escott had blockprinted “Good-bye,” using one of the fountain pens on the table so its green ink would match up with the other written things. We left the essays lying around open so anyone who bothered to read them could draw their own conclusions about their writer’s mental state.
Last of all, in the kitchen, I picked up a sizable s
uitcase we found in Dugan’s bedroom. Personal stuff from his bedside table was in it, along with his shaving kit and toothbrush, and we filled the rest up with clothes and a pair of galoshes. We emptied hangers in his closet and enough underwear was missing from his bureau to indicate he’d packed for a long absence. Escott had found Dugan’s bank- and checkbook and put those in, too. There was less than a hundred in the account. Added to what was in his wallet, if that was all he had in the world, he must have been desperate for cash.
He’d have other things on his mind soon, though.
I locked the house, put the suitcase in the backseat, got behind the wheel, and took the long way around to our destination. Eventually I found another side-street entrance to a long driveway, this one in better repair with a gate made of tall iron bars with spikes on top. At one in the morning it was locked. Escott jumped out with a key, pulled the gate wide so I could get though, shut it, and rode the running board on the trip up to the big, dark structure ahead. He seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself.
Only one light showed at the servants’ entry to the Gladwell mansion. As I set the brake, Vivian Gladwell herself came out to meet us. At this late hour she was fully dressed and looked wide awake. If she was nervous, it didn’t show. She went to greet Escott, giving him her hand. He took it in both of his—he’d removed the surgical gloves—and cut a little bow, looking pleased to see her.
“Hello, Mr. Fleming,” she said as I got out. “Is everything all right?”
“Copasetic,” I replied. “There’s still time to change your mind, you know.”
She shook her head, turning to Escott.
“Jack’s right,” he said. “This is a dreadful risk for you if word got out.”
Another headshake, with a warm smile. She did have a nice face. “I trust my household. We’re all in agreement.”
Escott shot me a look of confirmation, nodding. He knew the people better. I could rely on his judgment of them and the situation in general.
I opened the trunk, and Vivian stared down at Dugan, getting her first sight of him outside of newspaper photos. His bindings didn’t seem to shock her.
“To think I was at the same parties with him,” she said. “He makes my flesh crawl.”
“You and me both, ma’am.” I grabbed under his arms, folded him forward, then heaved him up over one shoulder like a sack of flour. “Lead the way.”
The physical effort impressed her. She recovered quickly and, with Escott behind carrying the suitcase, ushered us into the house.
The place was as silent as Dugan’s aging white elephant but much warmer and missing the dust. He might be grateful for the switch in accommodations. Maybe he could write an essay about it if Vivian had some green ink lying around.
She went to a broad door under some stairs, opened it, and yanked on a light cord. Bare wooden steps went steeply down to the basement. Dugan wasn’t especially heavy to me, just awkward. I was careful about balance on the descent. At the bottom was another cord, this one controlling several lights. We were in a big, dim, low-ceilinged area, chilly compared to the rest of the place. Here the laundry was washed, Christmas decorations were stored, and unfashionable furniture ripened into antiques. It was the Ritz compared to Dugan’s place. The pitch-black dusty-museum cellar there would have scared Frankenstein into next week.
Vivian walked ahead, gesturing toward a sturdy door with a serious-looking bolt lock on it. The room behind it was a dozen feet square and very, very quiet, the result of solid concrete walls. It was lighted by one unshaded standing lamp on the floor by the threshold. On the far end was an army cot, several blankets spread neatly on top, with a pillow. Under the cot was a chamber pot discreetly covered by a square of cloth, a roll of toilet paper on end next to it. She’d thought of everything.
I rolled Dugan off my shoulder onto the cot and stretched my cramped muscles. “Is he in for a surprise.” He’d wonder how the hell he’d gotten here. Most people knocked unconscious don’t remember how they got that way.
Escott put the suitcase on the floor and opened it. He removed the safety razor and anything else that might be made into a weapon, including the toothbrush. “He only gets this when he is actually brushing his teeth,” he said to Vivian. “The handle can be filed down to a point, you know. Wouldn’t want anyone to get punctured.”
“Goodness,” she said. “I wouldn’t have thought of that.”
I went through Dugan’s pockets, taking stuff he wouldn’t need, like his wallet and a pencil. I judged his handkerchief to be fairly harmless . . . unless he twisted it into a garrote. On second thought I took it, too. He could use the toilet roll to blow his nose. Of course, he could rip his clothing up to make the same sort of weapon, but maybe it wouldn’t occur to him. He’d be pretty damn muzzy. Vivian had an ample supply of sleeping pills to put in his food and drink.
We took his shoes and suspenders, the belt on his overcoat, and double-checked the room inch by inch, making sure it was completely bare of anything that would be used for a weapon or a means of escape. Vivian’s people had been thorough. There wasn’t so much as a used toothpick left forgotten in a corner.
“What was this before?” I asked her, wondering how an ideal prison cell happened to be in her basement.
“It used to be the wine storage. The lock prevented temptation for the servants. When we married, my late husband installed a special cooler on the ground floor for his stock, which I still use. It’s more convenient than coming all the way down here, and electric, so the temperature is controlled winter and summer.”
“I got something like that at my club. I’d like to see yours, though.”
“Certainly,” she said. “But, please, let’s get him . . . well . . .”
“No problem.”
Escott had been over earlier in the day with a special drill and hardware. He said it had only taken him a few minutes for the job, which would have done the Inquistion proud. Set deep into the concrete floor next to the cot was a heavy-duty ring bolt made of steel nearly an inch thick. Threaded through it was an equally heavy chain, the ends joined by a big padlock. I tested the strength of the chain, yanking hard, trying to pull it apart or shatter the lock. No chance that Dugan would break it if I couldn’t. I did my best and failed. It made me glad not to be in Dugan’s socks.
Escott wore something close to a smirk, his eyes twinkling with unsuppressed good humor. He was having a ball.
The weakest item was the handcuffs, but Escott had turned up a set of grim manacles that Houdini might have hesitated trying his luck against. They were padded to minimize chafing marks but would fit snug as a friendship ring. Escott looped these through the doubled chain and clamped them on Dugan’s wrists, locking them fast. Only then did I cut the ropes. When Dugan woke, he’d have about a six-foot radius for exercise and wouldn’t be able to come within four feet of the door. In planning it out, we tried to think of what we’d do in his place to escape. It only seemed prudent to be overcautious.
“He won’t be able to change his shirt with those on,” Escott pointed out.
“Too bad,” I said. “Sarah wore the same clothes for two weeks. Do him good to find out what it’s like.”
“There’s that, but I was considering the sensibilities of the people charged with looking after him.”
“He can make do with a washbasin, and we can hold our breath,” said Vivian. “He won’t have visitors except to bring him food and—er—remove the necessary.”
“How many are actually in on this?” I asked.
“The whole house. The butler, maids, cook, the chauffeur—”
“That’s a lot of mouths to keep quiet.”
“I trust them, Mr. Fleming. Not many people are able to accept my daughter or treat her like an ordinary human being. It took me years to bring together a staff that would care for her as much as I do. Charles will tell you how hard it was for everyone when she was kidnapped and how incensed we all were when this—this animal began throwing out th
ose horrid lies to the papers to talk himself free. We want him to pay for what he’s done. This is a start.”
A start and a half, I thought, deciding that Vivian did indeed have the guts to go through it. “How’s Sarah?”
Her face softened. “Improving. She has nightmares and won’t let me out of her sight, but she’s begun talking more freely again.”
“Does she talk about what happened to her?”
“She doesn’t recall much, only a little about ‘the bad men’ scaring her. I want to be able to look her in the eye and truthfully tell her that they will never scare her again.”
“You can now. Make sure she doesn’t come down here.”
“Oh, that won’t be a problem. Sarah hates the basement. Doesn’t like the closed-in feeling. She thinks basements are where monsters live.”
I looked at Dugan, gathering up the last scraps of his bindings. “She’s right.”
We went out, leaving Dugan alone in his cell.
“SHE fully understands the precautions she must take,” Escott said about Vivian as we drove away. “Her butler and chauffeur will do the looking-after, bringing food and such. No eating utensils allowed, and always with at least one other man on hand to back them up. We’ve had a somber chat about safe procedure and caution. I’ll go over every day to check on things.”
The way he’d looked at Vivian gave me the idea he would have done that with or without a prisoner to watch.
“I doubt they’ll have difficulties, but can’t say it will be pleasant for them.”
“Less so for Dugan. He’s still got better than what he gave Sarah.”
“They’re well aware of that. I think the household’s outrage will be more than sufficient to carry them through, however long it goes on.”
“Hope so. He may be tougher than we think. He could crack tomorrow or never.”
“Either way, he will be subject to a manhunt. Once the authorities realize he’s truant, they will have to assume it’s to avoid prosecution. Even the worthies of the misled press will eventually see the truth.”