by Howard Fast
Back in my car and driving toward New York, Phyllis asked me whether I knew the story about the little boy who hit his head against the wall and, when asked why, replied that it felt so good when he stopped.
“I know what you mean,” I said.
“When I came in there,” Phyllis said, “it was like a nightmare, and then it went on and on, it never stopped. Tom, have you ever been caught in something that felt like a nightmare and refused to stop?”
I nodded, but pointed out that Gomez had been more than attentive.
“He’s a horrible man,” Phyllis said.
“Really? You don’t mean that. He seemed to be a very charming man and very devoted to you.”
“I don’t like him,” Phyllis said. “There’s something wrong with him. In every part of him and in everything he does, there’s something wrong with him. Why was he that way with me, Tom? You know who he is.”
“I know who he is.”
“Then why did he treat me as if I were charming and beautiful?”
“Because it’s very possible that you are charming and beautiful and maybe he’s not quite what the newspapers say he is.”
“I don’t like him. I’ll never go there again. I’m sorry I took you there. I’m sorry I got you into this whole thing.”
“I thought it was an interesting evening. I’m not sorry you took me there. What did Gomez talk to you about?”
“Everything. My work, my home, interests, and he asked questions—ridiculous, stupid questions.”
“What kind of questions, Phyllis?”
“He has something about the bomb. I don’t like to talk about it, but he kept coming back to it.”
“Did he ask you whether you could make an atom bomb?” I said casually.
“How do you know?”
“I must have overheard,” I said.
part six JOHN VANPELT
THE NEXT DAY I had no class until midafternoon and I slept late. At 11:30 I brushed my teeth and, after that, began to shave. In the middle of my shaving the phone rang. It was Police Commissioner Comaday and he said that I could expect him in half an hour. When I wondered about the advisability of his coming to my apartment, he said something in no uncertain terms about the advisability of my going down to Centre Street. Then I didn’t argue with him, but only mentioned that I would be delighted to see him in half an hour.
I finished shaving, dressed, put coffee on the stove—and thried to accompany all of these actions with some sort of constructive thought. The thought processes, however, were limited. I moved in circles, reached no destinations and returned always to the starting point—that the essence of the matter was to find Horton and not to be led astray by the problems and fancies posed by others who were perhaps equally interested in Alex Horton.
I was smoking a cigarette and drinking my first cup of coffee when the doorbell rang. It was Comaday. I took his coat but, when I offered him a cup of coffee, he snorted and shook his head with annoyance. Instead he took out a cigar, bit off the end of it, lit it, and settled himself in an armchair facing me. He took several deep puffs of the cigar, meanwhile examining the room, moving his hard professional gaze over my books and my furniture. Years of training and practice had turned every movement Comaday made into a police action. He could not just look at a man; he had to look at him accusingly. He could not simply glance at something; he had to examine it, consider it and put it into its appropriate file. He had spent his life in a world of crime and hostility and this world had exacted from him an appropriate payment. As I watched him, I thought to myself that any man with a little strength, a little character, a little determination, and more than average brains could become like Comaday. It was no ambition of mine. I had reached a point where it was no longer easy for me to remember and determine precisely why I had ever become a cop, but I think I had also reached the point of deciding that I no longer wanted to be a cop.
I continued to smoke and drink my coffee. Comaday smoked and finished his examination of my worldly goods, and said to me, “So, this is where you live, Clancy.”
“I call it home,” I nodded.
“You read a lot?” Comady wanted to know, glancing at the books.
“More than a cop should,” I replied.
“Don’t get down on cops, Clancy. I can’t stand a cop who makes a philosophy out of hating other cops and what he does for a living.”
“You didn’t come here to talk about philosophy,” I said.
Comaday stood up, took a few paces, and then whirled on me, pointing at me with his cigar. “No, I damn well didn’t! I came here because I’m sick and tired of having you run down to Centre Street. I’m also sick and tired of the way you’re going off at loose ends. You had one simple assignment, Clancy—to find out where Horton is, providing that someone up at Knickerbocker University knows where Horton is; that’s all—just that—not to play cops and robbers and not to decide that you’re some kingpin who can brush aside any law or right that the citizens of this country have.”
For whatever it was worth, it was my house, my own small miserable castle, and not Comaday’s office. He was in my house and I pointed that out to him. I also said that I was sick and tired of this whole lunatic business and that I would be delighted to resign—to resign from this and to resign from being a cop. Comaday circled back to the chair, dropped into it and puffed his cigar. Then he shook his head.
“You can’t resign, Clancy. Let’s stop that kind of talk. All I’m saying is that we’re getting nowhere.”
“You’re also saying that I should get the hell out of here and find Horton. You got maybe twenty thousand men in the Department; you’ve got squads that specialize in everything under the sun; and you’ve got the Department of Justice and the Army and the Navy, too, and you can’t find Horton; but I’m supposed to find him. You give me a lousy two weeks and tell me that the fate of this city depends on my paying court to an old-maid schoolteacher and raising up some subliminal clue to where Horton is. That doesn’t make any sense; it doesn’t make any more sense that this whole damn thing or the lives we live or what this lousy world has come to. You want to know how I feel about it?”
“I might as well,” Comaday said. “I asked for it.”
“This is how I feel about it. I feel that maybe the Neanderthal mentalities that are running this earth should sit up and pay attention to Horton and throw away that goddamned bomb!”
“Nerves,” said Comaday, taking the cigar out of his mouth and spreading his hamlike hands in a pacifying gesture. “My nerves, Clancy, your nerves, we all got a set of nerves and they don’t get any better. I’m sorry, but you know that it wouldn’t make a damned bit of difference whether they outlawed the bomb or not and we’d still have to find Horton and over in Moscow they’d still have to find Simonovsky. I’ll tell you something else, Clancy—we can’t go the limit; in ten days we’ll have to make this public. You don’t evacuate a city like this overnight. It takes some time.”
I studied him thoughtfully for awhile and then I got up, found another cup and saucer, and poured coffee for him. “I apologize, Commissioner,” I said evenly. “I’d like you to join me in a cup of coffee. I make good coffee.”
He put his cigar in an ash tray and joined me at the table and became almost human. He asked this and that about living alone.
“I get along,” I said. “I suppose there are worse ways to live.”
“I have six kids,” Comaday smiled. “That makes living alone a little strange to me.” He tasted the coffee and agreed that it was good.
“What about Kempter?” I asked him.
He nodded and took another mouthful of the coffee. “What about Kempter?” he repeated. “You got to understand, Clancy, that I’ve been a policeman for a long time. It’s not easy to break the rules. We pulled Kempter in because you asked us to and we worked him over for twelve hours. Now we got him locked away out of sight. That’s just as well. He’s not pretty to look at now. But how long do we keep him out of si
ght? What do we do with him? What happens when, sooner or later, as has got to happen, he gets to a lawyer?”
“The hell with that,” I said tiredly. “I don’t care what happens to Kempter. Neither do you. I once read in some snotty newspaper editorial that it actually makes no difference whether one man dies or whether a million men die; but I’m at a point where I know it makes a difference. The difference is 999,999 lives. So I haven’t any tears for Kempter.”
“I envy you,” Comaday muttered.
“Did Kempter talk?”
“He talked—not much—apparently he didn’t have much to talk about. But he talked. The Russian got him to talk. He told us who he was working for.”
That stopped me. I guess I just sat there at the table and stared at Comaday, and then after a moment or two I was able to ask him who Kempter had been working for.
“For a man called Maximilian Gomez,” Comaday said flatly. Then he got his cigar, lit it, and waited—all the while watching me out of his shrewd, accusing cop’s eyes.
I thought about it before I said anything. Then I observed that it was something, possibly something important.
Comaday shrugged and puffed on his cigar. “The hell it is. It’s not important. Not one goddamned bit important, Clancy. I tried to get you last night and to talk to you about it last night. Where were you last night?”
“I was with Maximilian Gomez,” I replied.
It was Comaday’s turn to be thoughtful—not to be surprised; it would not have been fitting for him to exhibit surprise or amazement in front of me—but he was thoughtful. He remained thoughtful while I told him about the evening before, and then he shook his head again.
“It doesn’t mean a goddamned thing.”
“All right,” I agreed. “So it doesn’t mean a damned thing. Suppose you tell me why it doesn’t mean a damned thing.”
“Because we haven’t found Horton!” Comaday exploded. “Can’t I get that into your head, Clancy? We haven’t found Horton and we’re no closer to finding him.”
“A man tails Phyllis Goldmark,” I said, keeping hold of my temper. “Then he switches to me. He tails me. We pick him up. He informs us that he works for Maximilian Gomez; but to you it doesn’t mean a damned thing.”
Comaday got up and began to pace the floor. “Look, Clancy,” he said to me, “I’ve got nerves. I keep blowing off. That doesn’t mean anything. The only thing that has any meaning is what we’re after. Now what about Gomez and this little louse Kempter? We don’t have to lecture each other on who Gomez is or what he is. He’s connected with the filthiest image of a country in this hemisphere. I know and you know what it would mean to a gang like that to have an atom bomb solidly placed in the center of New York and another in Moscow. It’s the answer to all their dirty, benighted dreams. Maybe they hired those two creeps who gave you the money. Maybe they didn’t. Right now, I don’t know. But do you think that if they knew where Horton is they’d come near you?”
“They know who I am,” I said. “They know that I’m looking for Horton.”
“Sure they know that. What are you trying to tell me? That something leaked out of the Department? Maybe it did. Maybe someone downtown saw that letter and babbled about it, but we don’t know that. Maybe it was someone in Washington. Maybe there was a payoff somewhere. You can buy an awful goddamned lot in a country with an income tax law like ours. But that’s speculation, Clancy, and it’s philosophy, and I don’t give a damn about speculation or philosophy. I’m not interested in that. I’m interested in only one thing—the whereabouts of Alex Horton.”
“We could pick up Gomez,” I suggested, because I had nothing else to suggest.
“Doesn’t anything I say register with you, Clancy? We could pick up Gomez! The hell we could pick up Gomez! For what? With what charges? Are you losing your mind, Clancy? And suppose we did pick up Gomez—where are we then?”
I shook my head. Comaday stopped pacing and turned to me. His voice became soft and cajoling. “Help me, Clancy, that’s all I’m asking—help me. There’s only one lead—one direction to Horton and you’re on it. It’s up there at Knicker-bocker University—up there. That’s all that matters. That’s all we can put any money on.”
I said nothing. I sat there and looked at him.
“All right, Clancy,” he sighed, “all right.” I nodded. He put on his coat and his hat and then he left. The room was full of cigar smoke. I opened the windows, thinking of how a conditioned bachelor begins more and more to resemble a crotchety old maid. Then I closed the windows and washed the dishes and the coffee pot. Then the phone rang.
It was my exchange at Centre Street. The nameless, faceless voice at the other end of the wire assured itself that I was Clancy and then asked me whether I wanted to hear their rundown on Vanpelt.
“That’s why I asked,” I said. “If I didn’t want to hear it, I wouldn’t have asked.”
“You are touchy,” the voice said. “Well, here it is. He has no criminal record. He’s been at Knickerbocker as a teacher for twelve years. Before that he taught for two years in a high school at Paterson, New Jersey. Before that he did three years in the Army. He served in the infantry without distinction. Saw no battle service but did six months of occupation duty in Germany. He was married in 1938 and his wife died in 1940. She died of food poisoning. There are no suspicious circumstances unless you want to think that food poisoning is always suspicious. Vanpelt was born in Allentown, Pennsylvania in 1910. He went to grade school and secondary school in Allentown. His college training was at the University of Pennsylvania. In 1934 he made a trip to Europe. We have no information yet as to what he did in Europe or where he went, but we expect to come up with it. More or less, that’s it.”
“Is that the best you can do?” I wanted to know.
“We’ll do better, but give us time. What the hell, Clancy, it’s not the end of the world. Give us a little time.”
“Sure,” I said, “you can have all the time in the world.”
I had a lecture class that afternoon and I had taken as my subject “The Van Allen Belts.” I expected little difficulty since my topic was fairly well formalized and involved almost no mathematics. As a matter of fact, most of what I said could have been pieced together by any intelligent newspaper reader. I was on the subject of the outer belt and elaborating the theory that it consisted of electrons ejected from the corona of the sun, when Vanpelt entered the room and took a seat in the last row. This, in itself, was not out of line and it was a not infrequent occurrence for one professor to wander into the lecture room of another—the more so in the physics department. On the other hand, I was being dogged by Vanpelt. He was becoming an inhabitant of all my waking dreams. I slipped in the middle of a sentence, reformulated my thoughts, stumbled on, and then had recourse to the notes I had prepared. My lectures were not becoming easier but increasingly difficult, and the presence of Vanpelt took all the joy out of this one.
When I finished at last, a handful of students gathered around my desk with their questions and their doubts. Vanpelt remained seated in the last row. I dealt with the students as best I could and, when the last of them left, Vanpelt rose and sauntered up to where I was putting my papers into my brief case. As always, his smile was knowledgeable and distasteful. It implied intimacy and suggested that we shared a secret.
“I enjoyed your lecture, Clancy,” he remarked to me.
“The hell you did! It was a lousy lecture.”
“Short-tempered, aren’t you?” Vanpelt smiled.
“What is it, Vanpelt?” I said to him.
“The pleasure of your company, Clancy,” he replied easily. “Come and have a drink with me. Rest your nerves.”
“My nerves don’t need resting.”
“Have a drink with me anyway.”
I met his eyes and we looked at each other appraisingly. His smile was perfectly natural; the sneer it contained was in my mind. I put my brief case together and accepted his invitation and we walked out of
the University and down Broadway to the same bar. Vanpelt ordered gin and bitters. I had some whisky on ice. We sat in a booth and drank and looked at each other, and finally Vanpelt came around to the fact that we could be friends.
“I don’t think so,” I replied politely. “I don’t think we could be friends, Professor Vanpelt. I don’t think I want to.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t particularly like you.”
“That’s a snap judgment, Clancy,” Vanpelt said. “You don’t know me well enough to like me or dislike me.”
“I know you well enough to dislike you,” I said. “For whatever reasons you have, you’ve been seeking my company. But I don’t enjoy your company—not at all.”
“Still you permit me to buy you drinks.” He allowed himself to be hurt, but only slightly.
“That’s a question of curiosity. Let’s say that I’m curious to know why I should be the object of your affection, Vanpelt. I haven’t been kind to you. I’ve tried to be rude to you. What is it that you want?”
“In the broad sense or in the narrow sense, Clancy?” Vanpelt smiled. “If you mean what do I want in general, that could be simply answered. I think I want what every American boy wants—I want money and I want the things that go with money, and I want the power necessary to have both. That’s a normal, healthy desire, isn’t it, Clancy?”
“Is it?”
“I think so. On the other hand, if you’re interested in what I want from you, that’s a horse of another color. You’re curious; let’s say that I am also curious. I’m curious about a man who steps into Alex Horton’s job but knows nothing about Mr. Horton or what he was or who he was or what happened to him. I am also curious about a college professor who carries a gun.”
“Do I carry a gun, Professor Vanpelt?” I asked carefully.
“I think you do. Of course, I could be mistaken. Am I mistaken, Mr. Clancy?”
I shrugged.
“If I were mistaken, this whole conversation would be ridiculous and you would let me know that it is ridiculous. As a matter of fact, Mr. Clancy, you are only moderately successful as a teacher. I have spent a good many years of my life around teachers and you are not only exceptional, but you have all the work habits of something else entirely. Why should I beat around the bush? I think I know what you want here, Clancy, and since you obviously know what you want here, there is no question of a secret, is there?”