by Dane Hartman
“You come highly recommended by Mr. Turner,” Jay Silk was saying, glancing down at a sheaf of papers he held in his hand. Perhaps, Gallant thought, it was his fraudulent resume, but he wasn’t sure just what else Turner had provided the man.
“I owe Mr. Turner a great deal.” Gallant was adept at sounding respectful and self-deprecating if need be. Jail had provided him with considerable practice at it, after all.
“You know, while I am not an ardent supporter of Mr. Turner’s organization, I do send him a small donation from time to time. I am in accord with many of his opinions. It’s just that I am not always convinced The Saving Remnant is the best means of effecting the necessary changes in this society. It seems to me we must get out there and fight rather than hunker down in a fallout shelter. Are you with me?”
Fight for what? Gallant wondered. But, of course, he nodded to signal his assent to what Jay Silk was saying.
“Now, to the matter at hand,” Silk went on. “I want you to realize the job of chauffeur is one that requires more than just driving members of my household to and fro. Although I am retired, I am still identified with the so-called establishment, and as such, face risks of all kinds.”
“You’re saying I am also to be a bodyguard?”
“Yes, that’s correct.” He lowered his eyes to the papers again. “Apparently, you have had the training that would make you ideal for such a role.”
“You can rely on it, sir.”
“Good. Then it’s agreed. You can start tomorrow. Come here at eight. The pay, by the way, is two hundred and fifty dollars a week, but take into account that you will be provided with food and lodging.”
Silk expected Gallant to balk at the wage, but Gallant surprised him by saying that the salary was fine with him.
“Excellent. I am so happy to have you on board, Mr. . . .” Here he again had to consult Turner’s documentation. “Mr. David Holstrom.”
The two men shook hands. Just before Silk bid him farewell, he had a cautionary note to impart. “Mr. Holstrom, while I make it a point not to pry into the personal lives of my employees, there are certain things I must insist upon. Your predecessor, Mr. Roy Streeter, had, shall we say, certain proclivities. He tended to fall in with unwholesome elements in establishments that are notorious for lewd exhibitions.”
“I see,” Gallant said. “And what happened to Mr. Streeter, if I may ask?”
“He came to a bad end, I’m afraid. He was murdered.”
“Murdered?”
“Yes, a very gruesome business, and you’ll forgive me if I don’t go into detail. What I want from you is your word as a gentleman that you will not engage in acts that might possibly bring dishonor on my name or on my household. It is for your personal integrity as well that I must insist on this.”
“Of course, sir. You have my word,” said Gallant with as much conviction as he could muster, “as a gentleman.”
As Gallant was leaving, escorted by a manservant who seemed nearly as old as the Manguin cabinet, he caught a glimpse of Sheila walking with her daughter along one of the garden paths. She stopped and stared at him. He stared right back.
Their eyes met briefly, then Sheila resumed her walk, Louise racing ahead of her.
“That is Mrs. Richmond, Mr. Silk’s daughter,” declared the manservant.
“Oh, and is there a Mr. Richmond?”
“No, sir, he died several years ago under very tragic circumstances.”
“Well, I am truly sorry to hear about that,” Gallant remarked. “It is surprising she hasn’t remarried. She is a very striking woman.”
“She is at that, sir.”
The rest of the walk, to the gate, where Gallant had left his black TransAm, was made in silence.
Now that Gallant had secured his employment, and was exactly where he wanted to be, one further piece of old business remained to be completed. He got into his car, assuring the manservant that he’d show up promptly at eight the following morning, and sped away.
Sometime after noon, he arrived at the headquarters of The Saving Remnant.
As he was well-known to the men who patrolled the compound, he was admitted without hesitation. At the main house, he was told that Turner was in the shelter, examining some recent acquisitions to his burgeoning collection of antiques and paintings.
No one else was quite as obsessed with antiques as Turner was, and while he had an assistant with him, cataloguing the pieces, Gallant could see that the assistant was bored and anxious to get back to the shooting range. The coming war against the Communists was what concerned him, not the current war against inflation that Turner was conducting by robbing millionaires of their valuable assets up and down the coast.
The latest haul clearly had Turner excited. “Look at this one, Jimmy! You know what it is?”
“French, I’d say.”
“Right on the mark. An Empire cheval-glass.” Turner was addressing not Gallant, but Gallant’s reflection in the glass.
“Interesting,” mumbled Gallant who didn’t find it interesting at all.
“And this over here is a Delaherche vase which I think is absolutely superb. And see this, Jimmy . . . this is simply magnificent.”
He grabbed hold of a painting and lifted it up for Gallant’s inspection. “What do you think?”
“I’m impressed. It’s a Matisse, isn’t it?”
The colors were bold in the decorative element peculiar to the French master.
“The value of this is incalculable, simply incalculable.”
“Of course, you’d never be able to sell it,” Gallant noted. “I’m sure the owner has notified the police and every gallery and museum in the country has a description of it.”
“That’s hardly the point.” Turner didn’t like to have his enthusiasm dampened. “When the economy is in ruins, do you think that such legalities will make any difference to investors? You’re forgetting your lessons.”
“So I am, sorry.”
Turner continued to describe the latest additions, but Gallant was no longer listening. He was keeping his eye on the assistant, a young man scarcely out of his teens who’d joined The Saving Remnant in hope of adventure. This was not quite what he’d had in mind. Finally, Turner sensed his impatience and told him he could go.
His relief was no greater than Gallants. It was bad enough having to deal with one man, let alone two.
Turner was still rambling on. His words echoed unintelligibly in Gallant’s brain. It seemed he was asking Gallant a question.
“Well, Jimmy, how did it go? Tell me, how did your interview go?”
At last, Gallant understood him. “Fine, fine.”
“You look a bit peaked, are you sure everything’s all right?”
“Absolutely no problem at all.”
Turner didn’t look convinced, but he returned to his improvised lecture with all the enthusiasm of a museum curator.
Gallant was walking a few paces behind him. Slowly, he inserted his hand into his jacket pocket and wrapped his fingers about the handle of the ice pick there. Slowly he removed it, then slipped it in back of him, out of Turner’s view.
Gallant had become so preoccupied by the problem of extracting the ice pick, he neglected to see they were directly in front of the Empire cheval-glass that Turner had first pointed out to him.
Turner’s eye caught on the reflection he and Gallant cast on it. It took him a few moments before he realized what the object was Gallant was holding in back of him.
“What the hell?” He whipped about to face Gallant.
Gallant understood his error. He struck out with the ice pick, fast enough to give his benefactor a glancing cut on his stomach. Blood instantly stained the lower half of his lemon-colored shirt.
“You’re crazy! You’re a fucking madman!” Turner said, lurching backwards. He bumped into a precariously balanced Empire clock and sent it toppling to the floor where it shattered beyond repair. The disturbance did not bring anyone running as Gallant had s
uspected it would.
Turner struggled to loosen his sidearm from his belt. It was stuck for some reason and though Turner managed to free it, he had exhausted precious moments in doing so.
Gallant advanced on him in a series of long strides. He drove the ice pick into Turner’s right arm, once, twice, then a third time, causing him to surrender his grip on the gun. Turner screamed, but still no one appeared to discover what the matter was. Maybe they were all out on the practice range.
Turner’s arm was sopping wet with blood that poured out of the three successive wounds. He started to run, hoping that he could outdistance his attacker, but his foot caught on the Matisse, and he tripped. In tripping, his foot went through the canvas. He flopped to the floor with a wrenching groan, attempted to get himself back up again.
“I hate to do this,” Gallant said, seizing him by the hair so that his face would present a better target, “but don’t you worry none because I don’t aim to kill you. You’re a friend, you are.”
Taking no assurance from his words, Turner raised his one good arm to fend him off, but to no avail.
Gallant then dug the ice pick into Turner’s brain, targeting the very same spot, between the bridge of the nose and the corner of the eye, he had with Roy Streeter. But this time he was careful not to drive it in all the way to the hilt.
Turner flailed like a fish drawn up on land, but in the end ceased moving. He wasn’t dead, though his breathing was shallow and his pulse alarmingly low. His eyes betrayed a certain consciousness as Gallant removed the ice pick and carefully cleaned it with a handkerchief.
The injury Turner had sustained was not necessarily going to be fatal. If Gallant had managed to aim the ice pick correctly and pierce the brain to the exact depth he’d hoped to, then the worst that Turner had received was a lobotomy performed without Dr. Jonas Pine’s anesthesia. On the other hand, if his estimation had been off, there was no telling what kind of damage his brain might have suffered. It was possible Turner would be left a vegetable for the remainder of his life.
No matter. Gallant had kept his promise and not killed him. It was just as he’d told Jay Silk. He always kept his word—as a gentleman.
C H A P T E R
T w e l v e
Harry never could quite accustom himself to fleabag hotels and out-of-the-way boarding houses run by women who resembled his sixth grade teacher: all gray hair, weathered skin, and glasses. But so long as he cared to remain in the Bay area, he felt he had little choice. A more respectable hotel or even a friend’s apartment was to risk being spotted by someone he knew. As it was, that risk was never entirely eliminated.
It was ironic, he thought, that Gallant had forced him to live the same sort of life he was, a life of a fugitive, a life spent underground.
More than once, especially late at night, while he sat in lonely rooms, staring out windows which overlooked bars and all-night fast food joints, he was tempted to pick up the phone and call Sheila. It had been seven weeks, three days, since he’d left her at her father’s. He’d rigorously adhered to his promise and made no attempt to contact her. Still he’d held out hope she would change her mind and call him. It never happened. The phone had remained obstinately silent. And now he was on the run, and even if she did want to get hold of him, she’d have no way of ascertaining his whereabouts.
His sole hope, it seemed to him, was to find Gallant and this time make sure that he did not escape. Only then would it be possible for him to return to the force and resume his normal life. That done, he could start thinking about a reconciliation with Sheila. The enormity of the challenge weighed upon him. For days, he scarcely moved from these dreary rooms he’d rented at seventy-five dollars a week, relying on beers and stale sandwiches for sustenance.
But he could not endure this state of affairs any longer. One morning he awoke, determined to take decisive action even though he had little notion as to just what action was possible or likely to do any good.
He would begin, he decided, where he’d begun before, with Grant Turner. He checked with his office and was told by the same vacant-headed secretary that Turner was still vacationing in Hawaii. Had she, or anyone else in the office, been in direct contact with him? Harry asked. No, the secretary admitted, a friend of Turner’s had telephoned at his behest.
“How can Mr. Turner keep extending his vacation? He’s been gone over two months. I didn’t know the city permitted its employees that much time off.”
The secretary sounded as though this had her a little confused too. “I am not sure I can answer you, sir. But Mr. Turner has been with this office for many years and he does enjoy certain privileges.”
“You mean he can get away with anything he likes.”
“I wouldn’t put it that way, sir.”
“No, I don’t suppose you would.”
After Harry hung up, he realized he was left with no other choice than to return to the compound off Route 12. Whether Turner had sequestered himself in his fallout shelter, while only pretending to be in Hawaii, or whether he was, in fact, still on vacation was no longer a critical factor in his decision. Turner’s apartment on Jackson Street might have supplied him with no clues to link The Saving Remnant with Gallant, but perhaps among the clutter of antiques and papers crammed into the shelter, he might find the lead that thus far had eluded him.
The car he drove was a coconut-brown Matador he’d secured from a rental agency under a false name. He could not take the chance of using his own car.
This time, Harry anticipated the presence of security patrols in the woods surrounding the headquarters of The Saving Remnant. As he did on his first visit, Harry left his car off the road, well out of sight. But rather than proceeding along the same route he’d taken previously, he elected to circle around on foot, in hope of coming out in back of the house and the adjoining shelter. He assumed no matter how many armed men there might be, there wouldn’t be nearly enough to cover such a large terrain. He further assumed the majority of them would be deployed in close proximity to the front of the compound and astride the narrow roadway leading to it.
As he expected, the area he was proceeding through now was far more tangled and treacherous than the thickets he’d had to contend with before. There was a mat of tendrils and brambles that caught against his feet ensnaring them, causing him to repeatedly stop and free himself. A great many trees had fallen and they too made Harry’s progress difficult.
While there were no sounds aside from the birds calling to each other, and the occasional squirrel scampering along the side of a bough, Harry retained hold of his .44 the entire time. Fortunately, his hands had healed sufficiently so there was no longer any pain in them, just a welter of paling scars to remind him of his experience on Jackson Street.
By the time the sun was near to setting, late this winter afternoon, Harry began to make out a sound that could not be accounted to any natural cause—gunshots.
First, he’d hear a succession of shots, followed by a sudden stillness, which in turn was followed by another fusillade. The timing of the shots convinced Harry he was approaching the practice range which he’d not gotten a look at the last time he was here.
He crept forward until he came at last to the perimeter of the woods. Peeking through the undergrowth, he could see the backs of the targets. There were a half-dozen of them, mounted on wooden platforms. At several yards further distant, he could make out five figures, each with a handgun, taking aim.
The sun was down and the light remaining in the west was hardly enough for them to see what they were shooting at. As a result, they switched on two big klieg lights that bathed the entire range in a harsh white glow. It also threw the very brush where Harry had taken cover into stark relief.
Someone shouted out a command, but he was too far away for Harry to understand what he’d said. Suddenly the tree to his right was punctured by a gunshot, and all about him shots peppered the ground. Either these five men were very bad marksmen since it appeared that none
of them had hit the targets or else, and more likely, they’d spotted Harry. Harry decided he wasn’t about to linger to see which one it was.
He plunged into the brush, heading back toward the woods from which he’d come.
So much for surprise, he thought.
He glanced back and saw the men fanning out behind him. As he was beyond the swath of ground lit up by the klieg lights, he believed he was relatively safe. This turned out not to be the case for long. Phosphorous flares began to be launched, turning the gray sky to a luminous white.
Still, even if they could see him, Harry had the advantage provided by the natural cover. Besides which he had a superb view of the men as they rushed across the open space of the practice range. The only reason he didn’t shoot was because he wasn’t ready to give away his precise location to bring down just one man.
When they’d gotten to the point where the range ended and the woods began, they seemed not to know just what they should do. In spite of the flares, they hadn’t determined exactly where Harry was.
One of the men, who’d assumed the role of leader, gave orders they should divide themselves up, with two to enter the woods at one point, and the three others at another, approximately twenty-five yards away, in the hope of either surrounding the intruder or else of forcing him from his cover onto the field where he’d be exposed.
It wasn’t difficult to figure out their strategy, even though Harry failed to overhear their deliberations. He was close enough to the edge of the woods to see very clearly what they intended on doing.
If he’d had any sense, he would have gone back the way he’d come, for there was no question he could lose himself very easily among the brush and the felled trees, but that would mean he’d lost his opportunity forever of getting inside the shelter. Little doubt existed in his mind that after this incident, reinforcements would only be added to those already on patrol, making it that much harder to penetrate the compound’s defenses.