by Deaver Brown
“We have thousands of members, almost all of whom are parents of young children. Do you think this is what they want their kids to see? Television footage of their mothers heaving rocks and being hauled off in the paddy wagon? Absolutely not.”
“Then they shouldn’t have gotten involved,” Vandermeer said shortly.
Soldiering on in the face of Vandermeer’s repulses, Cushing redoubled his efforts at persuasion, describing the new look which NOBBY was about to assume until a young woman came hurrying by.
“Iona?” he exclaimed, breaking into his own sermon. “What are you doing here?”
Her face was very grim.
“Looking for dear Madeleine. She’s got a lot of explaining to do.”
As she sped off, Cushing promptly tried to exploit her obvious anger. “Now, there’s a good example,” he argued. “That’s one of our most industrious volunteers, and you can see how she feels about Mrs. Underwood.”
Thatcher, who had recognized Iona as the unfortunate arriving at Rugby’s just in time to be arrested, thought that Cushing was wise not to elaborate on the grounds for her dissatisfaction.
“She is representative of the vast majority of our members and they’ll make no bones about demanding that Madeleine resign. I can tell you that I myself will be advising the board to . . .”
As the hard sell was being directed exclusively at Roger Vandermeer, Thatcher seized the opportunity to drift off in search of his own party. He finally found Dean Kichsel in a secluded recess of the corridor with Chairman Rossi and the committee counsel. With Kichsel already assured about his major concern, they were all busily engaged in disparaging Madeleine Underwood.
“You’ve heard about that public scene she just created with Alec and Claudia?” Kichsel demanded of Thatcher.
“I saw it. Or at least some of it.”
“The woman is completely bananas,” Rossi declared. “The only thing to do is ignore her.”
“That’s easier said than done,” the counsel said indignantly. “The switchboard put her through to me yesterday afternoon and you know what she had the gall to demand? Just because she didn’t like the testimony of the country’s biggest expert on alcoholism, she claimed we had to give equal time to her tame psychiatrist.”
Rossi was smug. “She didn’t get through to me but my aide says she had a list of questions I was supposed to give the committee members.”
“Yesterday afternoon? Perfect!” Kichsel said with majestic irony. “Then she was trying to tell you how to run your committee at the same time her demonstrators were getting themselves arrested.”
“Of course, Harry Hull is the one really taking it in the neck,” the counsel continued. “He was decent enough to give her a drink after she made a fool of herself here on Monday. Then, when Roger Vandermeer showed up to see him, the woman tried to muscle in on their meeting.”
“That’ll teach Harry,” Rossi grunted.
“Well, you know what Vandermeer’s like. He got rid of her pronto, but instead of giving up, she pulled the oldest trick in the book. As soon as Roger left she turned up again, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. She’d left something behind to have an excuse for pumping him about what Vandermeer said. Poor Harry had to go out himself to shake her.”
Kichsel immediately riposted with some gossip about Madeleine’s open pride in her demonstrators’ handiwork at Rugby’s, and the list of Underwood atrocities might have continued indefinitely if Theo Benda had not appeared, squiring Claudia Fentiman.
“Claudia’s looking for Alec,” he announced. “Anybody seen him?”
“He’s probably keeping out of my way after that disgraceful scene.” Kichsel turned reproachful eyes on Claudia. “Surely that could have been avoided.”
She was unrepentant. “I don’t see how. The woman tracked us down and was hell-bent on making trouble.”
“Be fair, Dean,” Theo Benda urged. “What can you do if a demented woman is determined to tangle with you in a public place?”
“You cut her off short and walk away.”
“Alec tried that and she simply followed him. She was ready to stalk him through the whole building. Although once his dander was up,” Claudia admitted, “he didn’t seem able to stop himself.”
“So we all saw,” Kichsel snapped.
“Anyway, I’d better find him and make sure he’s not getting into another brawl with her. Alec’s been in a funny mood all morning.”
Leon Rossi, scenting a family fight, said indulgently that everybody was on edge and that it was time for him to poll the committee. “You’re sure to sort things out,” he declared, withdrawing with his counsel.
“I wouldn’t worry too much, Claudia,” Benda rumbled soothingly. “If Underwood’s looking for trouble, maybe it’s time she found some.”
“I’d rather it was with somebody else,” she rejoined. “Right now our side’s looking good and I’d like to keep it that way. So far, any blood on the floor’s been put there by NOBBY.”
As soon as she had left, Thatcher did his best to encourage Kichsel to abandon his bone of discontent. “Mrs. Fentiman seems to be doing everything possible.”
“And,” said Benda, checking his watch, “shouldn’t we be getting inside if the committee is finally coming up with its decision? Hell, it’s practically lunchtime already.”
They were not the only ones on the move. Word of an approaching climax had spread and most of the crowd was drifting into the hearing room. Harry Hull, accompanied by two staffers, was struggling against the tide to make his way backstage. It was his misfortune to run into Madeleine Underwood.
“Oh, there you are,” she said, planting herself firmly in his path. “I don’t care how busy you are, I have to talk to you before I go back on the stand.”
Still trying to be polite, Hull said resignedly, “This isn’t a good time. Can’t it wait?”
“No, it can’t,” she said truculently. “Like it or not, you’ve got some listening to do.”
Thatcher could no longer complain that Madeleine Underwood was enjoying the discomfort she was spreading. Her voice had sunk to a hoarse rasp and there were two angry red spots on her cheeks. Somebody, somewhere, had finally managed to pierce that self-satisfied insulation. Could Alec Moore have realized Claudia’s gloomy prediction and engaged in a second round?
In the face of Madeleine’s insistent discourtesy, Hull had finally lost patience. “You’re wrong about that. I’m the one who has quite a lot to say,” he growled, stripping off the velvet glove. “Be in the clerk’s office by two. If my lunch date runs over, I may be a little late.”
Unbelievably she misread this veiled threat as a concession.
“I’ll be there,” she said grandly. “Right on the dot.”
But if she was deaf to his undertone, the rest of the audience was not. For all practical purposes her last remaining supporter had decided she was untouchable. In these circles one warning was enough. Unconsciously those seeking seats gave her a wide berth so that she was standing alone in a room that contained a milling throng on every other square foot.
Roger Vandermeer, preparing to settle himself in the row behind Thatcher, said lazily, “How dumb can you get? She must be the only person in the building who thinks they’re giving her another crack at all those microphones.”
If so, she was not permitted to continue in ignorant bliss for long. Almost immediately a Rossi staffer appeared in the doorway, nervously conning his notes.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” he began. “Congressman Rossi, with the unanimous—I repeat, unanimous—consent of the entire subcommittee has decided to adjourn these hearings indefinitely.”
In the general babble, Thatcher involuntarily glanced toward that lonely pool of isolation. White-faced with shock, she was silent for a moment. Then:
“So they’ve decided on a cover-up,” she announced militantly. “Well, we’ll see about that!”
The effect of her words on those near enough to hear was only momentary. W
ith amused glances or condescending shrugs they began streaming toward the exists, already planning the disposition of time unexpectedly freed by an adjournment.
But no staged production is over when the house empties. Behind the scenes there is frenzied activity as sets are dismantled, makeup is scrubbed off, costumes returned to the wardrobe mistress. Leon Rossi’s attempt at theater was no exception. Even before the public announcement, lowly members of the staff were hard at work. Striking their tents with all the virtuosity of carnival roustabouts, they began packing up one mountain of documents and shredding another.
“Will you look at this?” one of them demanded as he wrestled with some immense, flopping charts that had briefly graced the committee’s easel. “I blame it all on computer graphics. If it wasn’t so easy to punch these things out, the guy would simply have described the age distribution of beer drinkers.”
A file clerk glanced at the display of primary colors. “It’s no good anyway. All the kids lie,” she said authoritatively. Then, examining the future from her youthful vantage point, she added, “For all I know, everyone else does too.”
The men breaking down the enormous committee table into its sections grumbled as usual about its weight, its inconvenience, and all those pesky wires running to individual microphones.
Two floors higher up, experts on Modern Personnel Techniques received the glad news that they would be able to move from their present cramped quarters the next morning. By then Babcock Auditorium would have returned to normalcy, with a podium boasting a row of chairs and a single lectern. With this joyful prospect before them, they thundered back from lunch shortly before two and almost obscured the brilliant dab of color that was Mrs. Underwood arriving early for her appointment.
By three o’clock, a cleaning crew was trundling its apparatus backstage to attack the clerical offices. Working systematically, they fanned through the narrow hallways, dispatching one cubicle after another.
At three-thirty the efficient process came to an abrupt halt. One of the overalled men, entering the committee clerk’s office, briefly inspected its general condition. Then he opened a closet door, only to freeze into immobility, transfixed by horror.
Madeleine Underwood’s body lay jammed in the narrow confines, limbs contorted and clothing twisted. As a further macabre touch, her bloodied head lolled against a red-suited shoulder with sightless eyes staring directly upward.
So, long after the stage curtains had swished closed, the Quax hearings reached their dramatic climax as the cleaning man broke free from his paralysis to run screaming into the corridor.
Chapter 12.
Checkpoint
Oh, for Chrissake!” growled the first detective to crouch over the closet floor. “Just take a look at this.”
His partner, leaning forward cautiously in the constricted space, read the name on the driver’s license.
“We’d better alert headquarters.” He sighed. “This has all the makings of a circus.”
Yesterday’s coverage of the Rugby riot had ensured that, for this brief moment in time, Madeleine Underwood was a genuine celebrity and the New York City Police Department knew too much about the carnival atmosphere surrounding a murdered celebrity.
Within half an hour the department had mounted a full court press that would have astounded anyone dialing 911 from a housing project. Medics, detectives, photographers, and assorted specialists arrived in waves, with Inspector Timothy Reardon directing the whirlwind.
“Just our luck,” he announced, creaking upright from his first inspection of the closet. “Her wallet is stuffed with cash and credit cards, her briefcase has an expensive calculator and she’s wearing a diamond ring. So we can forget mugging. I’d better talk to the guy who found the body.”
This unfortunate was huddled on a bench in the corridor, clutching a glass and determined to apologize for his bolt to the bathroom after raising the alarm.
“It was just so sudden, I wasn’t expecting anything like that,” he explained unnecessarily. “One minute everything was the same as usual, then the next minute—that!”
“But you did the right thing. You told people to stay out of the office,” Reardon said soothingly. “Just take it slow and easy. I have to know if you did any cleaning before you opened the closet.”
There was a shake of the head.
“No, the first thing we do after a tenant closes shop is go through the place for the Lost and Found. They’re always leaving behind gloves and umbrellas and stuff like that. I took a quick look around the office, then went to the closet behind the desk.”
Reardon had already noted with satisfaction that the cart containing vacuum cleaner, dusters, and other paraphernalia was still in the hall.
“Good. And everything seemed normal at first?”
“That’s right. There was just the usual mountain of trash.”
After taking the cleaning man over his movements, Reardon returned to the scene of the crime and said philosophically, “Well, things could be worse. At least he didn’t go through the place polishing everything in sight.”
“It’s plain enough what happened,” his assistant reported. “There’s blood at the foot of the desk and on one of its legs. That’s where she got clobbered, but her purse and briefcase protected the top of the desk. The killer wanted to make his getaway before anything was discovered, so he dragged the body back to the closet. Look, you can still see the marks on the rug. After that he tossed in the purse and the briefcase. Then he dumped this.”
This was a heavy bronze bookend, now encased in a plastic bag, covered with stains and clumps of gummy residue that told their own tale.
“I suppose that bookend is part of the room’s furnishings?” asked Reardon, gazing at several large books sprawled atop the mate to the murder weapon.
“Yes, the management provides some basic stuff—a government organization manual, a business directory, a phone book.”
Thanks to the media hullabaloo, Inspector Reardon was already familiar with the basic features of the anti-Quax movement. Dispatching men to NOBBY, to Chairman Rossi, to Kichsel’s New York office and to Madeleine’s hotel room, he reserved for himself the building manager—and the question that had been exercising him ever since he learned that Mrs. Underwood had been murdered on the site of a congressional hearing.
“This is ordinary commercial property, isn’t it? And not a federal facility?” he asked anxiously.
“Right. This floor is reserved for short-term rentals, so we get hearings and conferences that are scheduled too suddenly to get space in a government or institutional building. The periods are anything from two to ten days.”
Reardon relaxed. That meant an invasion by the FBI was not imminent. Like himself, they would be consulting lawyers to determine if one of the more obscure federal crimes was involved.
“And the committee was already gone by this afternoon?” he pressed.
“They told us at eleven-thirty that they’d be vacating the premises immediately. I gave them enough time to clear out, then sent in the cleaning crew at three-thirty. We always have a waiting list.”
“Did you follow the hearings at all?”
“Are you crazy? I don’t even know what they were about.”
But plenty of people were willing to tell the police what the manager did not know. Reports were soon flowing back to the inspector.
Leon Rossi provided a brief résumé of the hearings, said that his clerical staff had packed up and emplaned for Washington by one o’clock, and produced the first of many character assessments.
“Underwood was a real flake, that’s why I adjourned. After her stunt at Rugby’s I wasn’t touching her with a ten-foot pole. But why in the world would anyone kill her? She was the kind of woman you just get away from.”
Rossi then turned his attention to drafting an appropriate release that deplored the tragedy and hailed Madeleine Underwood’s life of public service.
Harry Hull was more concerned with his o
wn experience.
“Yes, we had an appointment in that office. I was almost a quarter of an hour late and when the place was empty, I gave her only a couple of minutes before I left. There was no way I was hanging around for her.”
“I thought she said it was important.”
Hull produced a wry grimace. “That meant it was important for her, not for me. Anyway I was just going to kiss her off. But now I don’t feel so good about it. I suppose if I’d waited for her she’d still be alive.”
“Not likely. The elevator man took her up before two o’clock.”
A look of horror dawned. “Oh, my God, you mean she was already dead while I was there?”
Lesser members of the staff, unburdened by painful memories or literary composition, were more helpful. Gleefully they provided recollections not only about Madeleine’s activities during the hearings but about the comments they had sparked.
“She chased two of the Kichsel people right down the hall to yell at them. She said she was going to—”
“I heard Roger Vandermeer call her a bitch.”
“Mr. Kichsel was steaming. But I think he was madder at his own people than at—”
“. . . there she was, claiming that the adjournment was a cover-up, and all because she was too dumb to realize—”
“Elmer Rugby said someone should strangle her.”
At Kichsel, not surprisingly, there was not a good word to be said for Madeleine Underwood.
“The woman was a mischief-making nonentity,” Dean Kichsel had proclaimed. “Basically she was unimportant.”
“She was the one trying to start a fight. We were just trying to get away from her,” protested Claudia Fentiman, unconsciously endorsing Chairman Rossi’s opinion.
“She was a pain in the ass, all right,” Alec Moore said bluntly. “But you couldn’t take her seriously enough to want to kill her.”
Madeleine’s hotel confirmed that she had registered on Monday at five, explaining her intention to remain in town for the length of the hearings. A search of her room revealed nothing beyond personal possessions and some notes on Monday’s testimony. The material she had intended to use on Wednesday had already been identified in her briefcase.