A Movement Toward Eden

by Clark Howard

  “Mr. Keyes, how much money does your client Hal O’Brien currently earn?”

  “Why, I can’t divulge that,” Keyes said, somewhat taken back. “That is privileged information.”

  The Examiner’s head snapped sideways. “Mr. Investigator, will you tell us, please?”

  “Hal O’Brien,” the Investigator said, flipping open a file folder in front of him, “earned, from all sources, one and one-quarter million dollars last year.”

  “One and one-quarter million dollars,” the Examiner said softly, returning his gaze to Keyes. “And out of that great sum of money, the amount paid to support Mr. O’Brien’s illegitimate son totaled exactly twenty-six hundred dollars.”

  “But it’s not fair to look at it that way,” Keyes said, a slight whine rising in his voice. “Hal hasn’t always made that much, you know. Before his television series, he was a nothing, a nobody; he was just an extra, why he used to play Indian roles in Westerns, things like that. It was only after the series clicked that he made the real money—”

  “Mr. Keyes,” the Examiner said, “the year after his son was born, Mr. O’Brien’s series had clicked, as you call it. Before the boy reached his first birthday, your client was earning half a million dollars per television season. The following year, when the boy was two, your client’s income had increased to twice that amount.” The Examiner’s fingers drummed impatiently on the tabletop. “Does it not impress you at all, Mr. Keyes, that while your client wears custom tailored suits of imported cloth, that his illegitimate son sometimes has newspaper put in his shoes to cover the holes in their soles? Does it not seem inequitable to you that while your client dines on the finest cuisine in the best restaurants from coast to coast, that his illegitimate son is often fed day-old bread and canned beans for supper? That while your Mr. O’Brien enjoys the adulation of his public, the poor child he sired must run in terror from other children in the slum neighborhood to which you, Mr. Keyes, condemmed him?”

  “Me? I didn’t—”

  “Yes, you did, Mr. Keyes!” the Examiner said sharply. “You threw that boy to the mercy of an unmerciful world before he was even born. You marked him a bastard when you helped take away his father. You burdened him with a demented mother when you coerced Anita Atkins into signing that statment that she had sexual intercourse with five other men and did not know by which one she was pregnant. You made the boy neurotic by putting him where he is today; and you will be responsible when he develops into a sociopath—or worse. And it is that very responsibility which makes you guilty of the criminal specification under consideration at this moment—the offense of undermining civilization.”

  The Examiner leaned back in his chair, shoulders slumping noticeably, eyes and expression strained and troubled.

  “You have done an admirable job, Mr. Keyes,” he said quietly, “of protecting both your client and your financial interests in this matter; but you have done so at great expense to yourself.”

  “What—what do you mean?” Keyes said thickly.

  “By doing what you have done to that totally innocent boy,” the Examiner explained, “you have ignored a very important obligation of life. The obligation to conduct yourself as a human being.”

  The Examiner sighed a soft, almost undetectable sigh, and rose from his chair to move as if quite weary around the table and past Keyes. For the first time since the Truth Court began, he was the first, instead of the last, to leave the Blue Room.

  Nine

  Devlin’s apartment was small but adequate: a living room, which he had converted into a study of sorts, in which he could relax; a small bedroom in which to sleep; and a tiny alcove, screened from the study, which served as a Pullman kitchen.

  The kitchen was just large enough to stand in, and Devlin was accustomed to taking his food into the study and eating off a low marble table in front of his fireplace. It was the fireplace, formed of crudely handshaped magnesite brick and seamed with lime mortar, that had caused him to rent the otherwise unextraordinary little apartment. He had known that whatever his rooms lacked in appearance and convenience, would be more than made up for in the comfort and pleasure of the fireplace. In the evenings, after a day of relentless prying into the despicable world of the corrupt, there was nothing better for the soul of a man than to digest good food with strong brandy in front of the warm bricks of a properly made fireplace.

  Sitting before his table now, with the dishes of his dinner cleared away, freshly showered and wearing a nondescript old flannel robe that had belonged to his father, and with his tumbler of brandy and pack of cigarettes near at hand, Devlin engaged in a unique mental process game which he himself had created. It was a game which, he had found through experience, quite often aided him in determining the solution to some particularly troublesome problem.

  The game was quite simple, really; nothing more, actually, than a variation of elementary memory training by visual commitment.

  He began with a deck of lined index cards, three by five inches in size. On the first, in this instance, he had carefully printed across the top line the name J. WALTER KEYES. Then, numbering the succeeding lines as he went along, he had logged the following: 1. Disappearance; 2. Wife (Jennifer Jordan) not as upset as probable (?); 3. Unexplained series of checks written to Abigail Daniels; 4. Secretary (Evelyn Lund) adverse to furnishing information re Abigail Daniels.

  On the next card he lettered the name JENNIFER JORDAN, and on the first line copied one of the statements from the Keyes card: Wife. Not as probable (?).

  The third card he assigned ABIGAIL DANIELS, and recorded the following: 1. Received series of unexplained checks (in addition to salary) while employed as receptionist by Keyes; 2. Committed to state hospital after mental breakdown; 3. Doctor (Damon Fox) cooperative re her general mental condition, but uncooperative re personal interview with her.

  Next card: DR. DAMON FOX. Entries: 1. Psychiatrist treating Abigail Daniels at state hospital; 2. Cooperative re her mental condition, uncooperative re personal interview with her. (To the point where he as much as said that he would personally, and professionally, oppose even a court order to do so.); 3. Made hurried call to a Reverend Abe O’Hara immediately following own interview (may or may not be relevant).

  On the next two cards, Devlin lettered the names EVELYN LUND and REV. ABE O’HARA. On the Lund card he wrote: 1. Keyes’ private secretary; 2. Adverse to furnishing info re Abigail Daniels. On the O’Hara card, he wrote: 1. Hurried contact by Dr. Fox following latter’s determined refusal to permit an interview with Abigail Daniels. (May or may not be relevant).

  The seventh and, for the present, final card he would use, Devlin headed EVERETT SIMMONS, and noted: 1. Keyes’ attorney; 2. Strongly opposed to any publicity re Keyes’ disappearance. 3. Strongly opinionated re Keyes’ supposedly spotless personal reputation.

  Laying aside his pen, Devlin spread the cards out on the table in the form of a disconnected diagram, with the Keyes card as the nucleus. If imaginary lines had connected the cards, those lines would have led downward to the Jordan and Lund cards, upward to the Simmons card, and outward to the card of Abigail Daniels. From her card then, more imaginary lines would have extended down to the Fox card, and from there out to the O’Hara card.

  When Devlin had all the cards in place to suit himself, he reached for his glass of brandy and sat inhaling its smooth, pungent aroma as he contemplated the arrangement of his problem. The first thing, he thought, was to eliminate, for the time being at least, the attorney Everett Simmons. Of all the people with whom he had come into contact so far, Simmons was the only one whose conduct had not in some way triggered Devlin’s suspicion. The ferret-like little man, in contrast to all the others, had appeared genuinely disconcerted over Keyes’ disappearance. He had projected what Devlin believed to be a legitimate concern over the potentially dangerous publicity that might possibly arise from the situation. His apparent sincerity, Devlin felt, precluded the obtaining of information of any enlightening val
ue, at least at this stage of the investigation. Later, perhaps, when there was some basis for specific questions, Simmons might prove a valuable source of information; but for the present—

  Devlin turned the Simmons card face down. His eyes swept the others, lingering briefly on Jennifer Jordan’s; his thoughts as he took his first sweet sip of the brandy going back to the woman and her touch, the blood sheen of her hair and the scent he imagined she would have about her. The brandy, held and savored in his mouth for a moment, crept over and coated Devlin’s tongue, then ran with a warm caress down his throat and was gone, leaving in its wake the matchless aftermath of taste that only the devoted brandy connoisseur could ever approach appreciating.

  His eyes and thoughts continued past Jennifer Jordan, saving her for later, for last; and his gaze fixed on the card of Evelyn Lund. He focused her image in his mind, this tall woman with her severe hairstyle and extraordinary legs. Somewhere, he thought, behind the aloof, rather cool exterior of Miss Lund, lay a reason for her not having wanted to divulge to him the address, or what had been the address, of Abigail Daniels. What, he wondered, did she know about Abigail Daniels that she did not want him to learn? Being Keyes’ private secretary, was it possible that, if the Daniels girl had been blackmailing Keyes, Evelyn Lund would have known about it? Not likely, Devlin decided; a man being blackmailed by one of his employees would hardly put himself in double jeopardy by confiding in another person of the same position. Still, the Lund woman might have learned of it through routine handling of Keyes’ cancelled checks. Or, more interesting still, she might have been Abigail Daniels’ accomplice.

  Devlin took her card and jotted down on it the various possibilities that might explain her reluctance to cooperate with him. Next, he turned his attention to Abigail Daniels’ card. Prompted to no immediate constructive thought there, he moved down to the card of Dr. Damon Fox.

  A most peculiar man, he thought, leaning back again and lifting the brandy glass to where he could sniff its contents. Obviously very much against letting the girl have any contact with the outside world—why? Was the good doctor somehow involved in blackmailing Keyes? Not likely. Besides, he wasn’t keeping Abigail Daniels entirely to himself; he had brought in several other psychiatrists for examination and consultation—

  Todd Holt, a new thought, interrupted the old. Devlin had meant to check with the Todd Holt he knew, to inquire about the Dr. Todd Holt whose name he saw on Abigail Daniels’ record at the hospital.

  Getting up, sipping a little more of the brandy, he went over to the telephone. It was still early, not yet eight, so there was a good chance he would catch Todd at home. He looked up the number of the apartment hotel where his friend stayed when his superior, the Chief Justice, was in residence in the city between high court sessions. Dialing, he reached the switchboard and asked for Mr. Holt’s apartment. He sniffed his brandy again while waiting for Todd to answer.

  “Good evening,” he said when the receiver was lifted, “this is Oscar Snipe of the Daily News society page. There’s a nasty rumor going around town that you’re about to become engaged to the lovely daughter of the state’s Chief Justice. Would you care to comment on it?”

  “Dev,” said Todd Holt, “where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for a week.”

  “I’m a working cop, kid,” Devlin said wryly. “We all don’t have cushy jobs as Supreme Court investigators, you know.”

  “Sour grapes,” said Todd. “Or are you beginning to have regrets about turning down the job yourself and recommending me for it, now that you’ve seen what a smashing success I’ve become?”

  “If I’d known Janet came with the job,” Devlin temporized, “I might have given it a closer look—”

  “All right, wise guy. Listen, the reason I’ve been trying to get hold of you is that Janet’s aunt—do you know her, the C.J.’s sister, Beatrice?”

  “Met her once, I believe.”

  “Well, she’s giving Jan and me an engagement party at her house tomorrow night and we wanted you to come. Can you make it?”

  “I’m pretty snowed under on a special case right now,” Devlin said tentatively.

  “I’ve already promised Jan’s maid of honor that you’d be there. She’s dying to meet you.”

  “Dying to meet me? Why?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. Maybe she saw Paul Muni in SCARFACE when she was a little girl, and never got over it.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Seriously, can you make it?”

  “I’ll stop in for awhile,” Devlin promised. “There’s something I want to talk to you about anyway.”

  “Good.” Todd gave Devlin an address in the Forest Hills district. “Anytime after eight. Dress is optional.”

  “Does that mean I can come naked?”

  “Goodbye, you blackhearted Irishman.”

  “So long,” said Devlin.

  He hung up and sat for a moment staring across the room at the blazing fireplace. Todd Holt and Janet Sundean, he reflected. Who’d ever have thought it? A lanky kid from the slums of Potts who’d had to wash dishes in an all-night chili joint to pay his way through college; and the daughter of the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, who came from one of the wealthiest families in the state. Proof again, he smiled to himself, that love knew absolutely no boundaries. He hoped they would be very happy together, and have a houseful of fat, healthy babies.

  Getting up, he walked back to the table where his case cards were spread out. Looming tall over the low little table, his dark eyes picking up vibrant reflections of the dancing flames, he sipped the last of his brandy as he stared broodingly at the puzzle before him. The solution to the what, where and why of the thing, he was reasonably certain, lay in Abigail Daniels. But he could not get to Abigail Daniels—because of Dr. Damon Fox. Dr. Fox, for the present, was the enigma of the whole affair; exactly to what extent, if any, he was involved in the Keyes matter remained the unknown equation. The possibility did exist, of course, that he was not involved any farther than his professional relationship with the Daniels girl carried him. But Devlin suspected there was more to it than that; how much more and due to what motive, he was not certain.

  I need, he thought to himself now, to isolate this man’s position into either the category of Jennifer Jordan and Evelyn Lund—people whom I am relatively certain have important undivulged information; or into the category of Everett Simmons, whose involvement is coincidental and who, probably, is concealing nothing because he knows nothing.

  If I can eliminate Fox, he carried the thought farther, I can also eliminate the Reverend Mr. O’Hara, whoever he is; because the Reverend would be involved only through Fox. How, though, was one to eliminate Fox, when by his own actions he kept himself as involved, and as suspect, as anyone.

  Perhaps, Devlin decided, one didn’t eliminate Dr. Fox. Perhaps one concentrated on connecting him more intimately with the affair. Perhaps that was the way.

  The phone call Fox made just after Devlin had left his office; so quick, done almost at once, without thought. Almost urgent, it had been—

  Devlin put down his glass and turned back to the telephone directory he had used a few minutes earlier. He found the O’Hara listings and ran his finger down a column until he came to:

  O’Hara, Rev. Abraham

  Pastor, First Community Church

  3800 Glenn Blvd.......................................................................870-1203

  Not too far away, Devlin thought. About a twenty-minute drive. He glanced up at the clock above his fireplace. He could be there by nine, easily. And even if the Reverend retired early, Devlin smiled to himself, surely an O’Hara wouldn’t mind being disturbed by a Devlin.

  He threw off his tattered old robe and strode into the bedroom to dress. Ten minutes later he was downstairs, backing his unmarked radio car off the parking lot into the street.

  He found, when he arrived, that the First Community Church was a clean-lined, mo
dern structure which bore none of the usual religious ornamentation other than a simple, wholly unpretentious cross etched into its facade above the double-doored entrance. Two small floodlights dimly illuminated a small, neatly trimmed lawn on either side of the front walk, and two more lighted the way along another, narrower, walk which led along the side of the building.

  Leaving his car across the street, Devlin followed the walk to the rear of the church where lay a small churchyard separating the main building from the rectory. A porch light burned above the rectory door, and a light shone from inside. Devlin pressed the bell and heard a faint toll of chimes announce his presence.

  The door was opened by a tall, stately woman, middleaged but quite attractive, whose dark complexion indicated a Latin strain in her bloodline.

  “Good evening. May I help you?”

  “Good evening,” said Devlin. “I wonder if it’s too late to see Reverend O’Hara for a moment?”

  “No, of course not,” she replied. “As a matter of fact, the Reverend just returned five minutes ago himself, from evening parish calls. He’s in the study now, waiting for his tea. Won’t you come in, please.”

  Devlin entered and followed her across a smartly furnished reception room to a massive wooden door which stood partly open in the far wall.

  “Abraham,” the woman spoke quietly from the door, “there’s a gentleman to see you.”

  “Thank you, dear,” Devlin heard the Reverend respond. “Show him in, please.”

  Devlin stepped into the room and heard the woman pull the door shut behind him. He faced Abraham O’Hara and saw, behind the desk, a square shouldered, obviously tall man, with a cleanly sharp-lined face topped by very light, kinky blonde hair. His expression was casually outgoing and cordial, but behind it, around it, in some of the man’s features, there was a firmness, a definite strength, that hinted of impatience with imagined wrongs and intolerance toward actual ones. Devlin, studying him momentarily, while still carrying fresh in his mind the image of the Latin woman who had admitted him, wondered briefly if they were man and wife; because if they were, and had children, he would have liked to see those children, for he suspected that they would be very interesting combinations of the two people.