by Deaver Brown
With all the advantages of a dress rehearsal behind her, Iona smoothly settled into her gentle mea culpa before proceeding to persuasion. Roger Vandermeer’s refusal to continue SDI funding had neither surprised nor discouraged her. No sensible man, she felt, could possibly advise his client to write checks for NOBBY at this particular juncture. Her visit had been designed to present the organization’s new director and to keep the door open. Once she had dispelled the grim specters of financial irregularity and huge damage claims, once Madeleine’s murder had either been solved or faded from public awareness, then she could begin negotiations on an entirely new basis.
But, although she had not realized it at the time, Vandermeer’s resistance had provided a framework for her arguments. Congressman Hull was giving her no help at all. Leaning back in his chair, playing finger games with a pencil, he remained totally unresponsive as she floundered from one point to the next. Only when she finished her set piece did he speak.
“It doesn’t make any difference to me if NOBBY goes national or if it folds,” he said flatly. “In my book it’s finished.”
Unconsciously Iona began to press harder, producing more dramatic—and less convincing—programs for the future. Like the Augean stables, the office of NOBBY’s executive director would be mightily cleansed. Madeleine’s files would be ransacked and all those overly ambitious plans for dealing with the FDA, for attacking Rugby at every corner, would be discarded. Rather, NOBBY would be a symbol of consumer power—enlisting the general public, penetrating PTAs, becoming the voice of parents everywhere.
Now, instead of looking bored, Hull was looking contemptuous.
“Look, Leon Rossi got fooled into going along with this once. He’s not dumb enough to do it again, and neither am I.”
In fact, Iona was misplaying her hand at every turn. The Rayburn Building did not boast the marbled grandeur that surrounded the luminaries of the Senate, but nonetheless it still breathed the solemnity of federal authority. Hull’s desk was guarded by flags of the United States and Texas. His walls were lined with signed photographs tracing his political career, from a teenaged handshake with a legendary Speaker of the House to a warm embrace from the President of Mexico last month. These were powerful indications that Harry Hull’s concerns might not duplicate those of Roger Vandermeer.
“You mean you’re changing your position on Quax?” she asked, unable to avoid a tinge of accusation.
“My position has always been clear,” he replied impatiently. “I’d like to see its consequences investigated, although I’ve never been sure what the results of such an investigation would be. At the same time I’ve got a lot of other problems on my agenda. And the ones that don’t involve me and my colleagues in a murder are the ones that get priority.”
At last Iona understood. Roger Vandermeer, like it or not, was committed to the battle for supermarket shelf space. He had to be interested in anything that promised him an edge in that conflict. Congressman Hull could turn his attention to education or inner-city youth gangs.
Nonetheless she was outraged. NOBBY had police auditors poring over its books. NOBBY personnel were being interrogated about alibis and quarrels with the victim. They were the ones in the front line. Knowing it was useless, she protested that Madeleine’s murder had taken place after the hearings were adjourned, after the committee had packed up and gone. Hull and the other members of the panel were merely innocent bystanders.
This piece of special pleading was not a success. Hull ended their exchange by giving her some advice.
“You’ve got a New York point of view,” he said disapprovingly. “Try reading the Washington Post for a change.”
Iona Perez was all too willing to broaden her outlook, but not by reading. People—what they said, how they behaved and what they believed—were her texts for self-improvement. Accordingly the next day, lunching with NOBBY’s branch chairwoman for Greater Washington, she honed in on political problems.
“You can forget about that bunch on the Hill,” said the chairwoman robustly. “They’re too scared of scandal to come anywhere near us.”
“But they were ready to form a committee and hold hearings. Some of them must be genuinely interested.”
The reply was nearly libelous, ending with, “The only thing they’re really interested in is their careers. Particularly the ones in the House. They have to get reelected every two years, and they start working on the next round as soon as the votes are counted. Any leftover energy is spent trying to get on the committees that will give them power and exposure. We just don’t qualify.”
It was a discouraging forecast but Iona was there to learn. “All right, so I forget about Congressman Hull. What about the membership?”
“Now that’s what you should be concentrating on. Our people are perfectly normal. They don’t give a damn about touchy feelings inside the Beltway. But they do care about riots and murders. Right now they need reassurance.”
This at least was familiar ground. The same cry was coming from branches around New York.
“Any suggestions?”
The chairwoman beamed. “Actually, yes. I hope you’ll agree to take a later shuttle tonight. The Falls Church members are having an emergency session at seven-thirty and the best thing would be for you to address them.”
Suddenly Iona’s mouth went dry. She had always assumed that her first essay in public speaking would be accompanied by support factors. There would be a kindly, knowledgeable introduction by Peggy Roche, a script that had been edited and reedited, a large showing of the volunteers she had worked with. With a refusal half-formulated, she abruptly checked herself. Conscious of the rich folds of silk swaddling her neck and the slight swaying movement at her ears, she realized that she was all dressed up and she did indeed have someplace to go. In a moment of devil-may-care abandon she reached a decision.
“Of course,” she said graciously. “I’ll be happy to say a few words.”
• • •
At the Sloan Guaranty Trust they did read the Washington Post, although not perhaps in a spirit that Harry Hull would have approved.
“Just your usual hometown coverage,” announced a disgruntled Charlie Trinkam. “Like when Aunt Agatha takes her vacation someplace where there’s a disaster.”
Thatcher, who had already read about demands for increased security at committee hearings, reminded Charlie that this particular hometown packed a powerful punch.
“If they’ve got so much clout, why don’t they find out some details.”
Charlie’s complaint was not really directed toward the parochialism of the nation’s capital. He had been scouring the press for information about the Underwood murder investigation and found nothing of any moment.
“And, unless the police audit is productive, I wouldn’t expect to hear anything for some time,” Thatcher mused.
“You mean because NOBBY’s such a lightweight outfit?”
“Exactly. Madeleine Underwood was not a sufficient threat to anybody’s business to provoke a murder. Even Dean Kichsel, who takes this sort of thing seriously, regarded her as an irritant.”
Nodding, Charlie said, “I’ll go along with that. Which leaves a personal motive.”
“And that could take a long time to unearth.”
“Except that you’d think anything the Underwood woman could find out, the police would be on to damn fast.”
“I’m not so sure about that. If you postulate that somebody murdered Madeleine to avoid exposure, then you also have to assume that with her dead, the secret is reasonably safe.”
As Charlie could not argue with this, he said, “Which brings us back to Paul Jackson’s theory. While she was flailing around she hit a nerve she didn’t even know about.”
“Or she stumbled on something by sheer accident.”
Charlie was not afraid to name names. “There’s one thing you can’t get away from. Alec Moore is the one she was really after and he’s the one who’s got something to cover.”
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“True, but he’s also passably intelligent. It’s hard to credit that, if he were the killer, he would be focusing police attention on himself this way. I’m more inclined to believe that it’s something else he’s hiding—and with some possibility of success.”
“Well, I’ll grant you the possibility of success,” Charlie conceded. “From what Paul says, Moore is standing pat with absolute self-confidence.”
But looks can be misleading. While Iona Perez was taking her fears and frustrations onto a public platform, Alec Moore was taking his to a bar, or rather a succession of bars. For days he had prided himself on maintaining his composure. The defiant facade, however, now masked a crumbling interior. At the beginning he had been master of his own thoughts.
“What they don’t know can’t really hurt me,” he had told himself and gained from that simple statement a comforting sense of security.
“Everything will be all right as long as I keep quiet.”
Insensibly, more insidious thoughts had intruded. First there had been the inevitable spurt of exasperation.
“That damned woman. How the hell did she find out?”
To be followed, inevitably, by reassurance.
“She’s dead now, so that’s all right. She didn’t have time to tell anyone.”
But twenty-four hours ago some undisciplined corner of his mind had produced a contrary inner voice determined to paint horrifying images of the future. Tonight he had fled from his solitary hotel room to escape. By ten-thirty, however, sitting in the dimmest corner of a small establishment in the Fifties, he was learning that there is no escape from one’s thoughts.
“How bad can it really be?” he asked himself, hoping to stifle any response.
“It could be the end of everything for you,” the inner voice said relentlessly.
“This can’t be happening to me,” he insisted.
“Like hell it can’t! It is.”
And round and round his thoughts would swirl, in an ever-descending spiral, until he was reduced to the ultimate childlike wail.
“It’s not fair.”
Immersed in private torment, he had no idea that he was the object of continuing scrutiny. The owner of the bar believed that trouble foreseen is trouble averted. And he had long since learned to categorize his clientele. At this hour, as in all midtown Manhattan bars, there were large boisterous groups of visitors determined to have a rip-roaring time in the Big Apple. With them, anything was possible. Then, thanks to the proximity of television stations and newsmagazines, there were late-shift regulars. For the most part they were social drinkers, having one or two rounds with colleagues before catching a train home.
Of course, scattered throughout the crowd were the boozers—the ones who had long since decided to maintain a blanket of insulation between themselves and full consciousness. Thankfully they were all hardened veterans, taking their nips throughout the waking day, judging to a millimeter the exact degree of desirable protection—solid enough to keep their demons at bay, permeable enough to allow continued function.
But in that distant corner with his back to the room was a member of the most troublesome tribe. These were the non-drinkers seeking refuge because of a single, shattering blow. Either their wives had left them, their bosses had fired them or their doctors had detected cancer. They were the most unpredictable because they lacked any established indicators of a flashpoint just around the corner. They were more surprised than anyone else when the inhibitions and controls of a lifetime suddenly vanished.
This one was too near his point of no return, but what form would the collapse take? An outbreak of unprovoked hostility was the worst manifestation, but after a moment’s examination the barkeep rejected this possibility. The bowed head, the slumped shoulders, the immense concentration on forming perfect circles with a wet glass—all suggested that here was one of the lachrymose sort. Instead of flying fists there would be convulsive sobbing.
Inwardly the barkeep cursed. Everything else was going so nicely. The crowd perched on stools was concentrating on the Rangers’ chances for the Stanley Cup. Like all such sports conversations, the discussion was heavily arithmetic.
“Now, if the L.A. Kings lose two and the Black Hawks win three . . .”
“They’ve got a double-header with the Maple Leafs this weekend. With a zero-two record you can’t hope for better than a split. . .”
“. . .out for three weeks. And they’ve only got eight games more in the regular season. That means you can kiss good-bye to Boston.”
The most boisterous group of out-of-towners had just noisily decided to taxi down to the Village in search of excitement, while a merry group from NBC was discussing summer-vacation plans. Was this the atmosphere for a heavily sobbing customer?
At that moment a cocktail waitress drifted back to the bar with fresh orders and seized the opportunity to say in a voice of doom:
“He’s begun talking to himself.”
“Christ! That’s all I need.” Only a moment’s reflection was needed before he added, “If he wants another one, call me. We won’t serve him any more.”
Iona’s evening had been more decorous.
“Although I suppose I should have warned you about Avis Gellert,” the chairwoman continued her congratulations as she peered through the traffic for the exit to the airport.
“I was surprised,” Iona admitted.
“We’re so used to her that I forgot. But you did a fine job with her.”
“I didn’t manage to persuade her,” Iona objected.
The chairwoman chuckled. “Oh, Avis never listens to anybody, but you did get her to sit down.”
Iona did not share this lightheartedness. At the conclusion of her pep talk, several members had asked routine questions. Then Avis Gellert had risen, an apparition from the past. Even though she was in her fifties, she had summoned up ancient news clips of anti-war protests and student riots. A tall, columnar woman with two straight curtains of graying hair, she had begun to harangue Iona. Most astonishing of all had been the fixed stare and the monotonic stream of disjointed phrases.
“We’re fighting the Establishment. . . have to be just as ruthless . . . this is war and there have to be casualties . . . they’ve killed Madeleine . . . stop at nothing . . .”
This episode Iona had no intention of discussing with the chairwoman. Scrambling to board her flight, she restricted her remarks to hasty thanks and farewells. Not until the plane was in the air did she allow her attention to return to Avis Gellert. Because the final blood-chilling moment had come in the form of a casual aside.
“I warned Madeleine of the dangers when I was in New York, but she wouldn’t listen.”
Like Sean Cushing before her, Iona had assured the police that NOBBY was free of any radical militant element. She had done so in all sincerity. But now she was uneasily remembering the stream of visitors passing through Madeleine Underwood’s office. Many farflung members of NOBBY, coming to visit New York, arranged appointments with the director. What if Madeleine’s fancy had been captured by one of them—by a display of fervor for the cause or—God help us—by plans for extreme action? What if one of them lived close to a Kichsel plant? Iona could see all sorts of dire possibilities.
Hold hard, she told herself. Anybody could tell that Avis Gellert was unbalanced. Wouldn’t Madeleine have recognized the symptoms?
Here the answer was unequivocal. The visitor could have been foaming at the mouth and Madeleine would have seen only what she wanted to see. Even more damning, she would have hugged any glorious discovery to herself, just as she had with the Ludlums.
Oh, God, it was ironic. Iona had convinced herself that Madeleine’s death spelled the end of NOBBY’s problems, but she could easily have left a damning legacy behind her. Iona did not suspect that some Avis Gellert type was implicated in the murder. What she feared was that the police, in the course of their investigation, would discover a contact between Madeleine and the lunatic fringe. That’s all i
t would take, some suspect telling the world about his God-given right to shoot anybody who disagreed with him and NOBBY would sink without a trace.
Grimly Iona decided to delay her return home and drive by NOBBY’s office. At the very least there would be the file of letters arranging appointments. She was still preoccupied with her fears when she arrived at the bleak office building on Twenty-third Street.
“I’ll only be a few minutes,” she told the security guard as she signed in.
Emerging from the elevator on the eighth floor, she unseeingly strode past signs of life in the small accounting firm that was always busy when quarterly tax returns were in the offing.
Was there the slightest use to questioning Cheryl about visitors? she wondered, unlocking her own door. Or would Cheryl simply spread the news of this new concern?
Iona had opened the door and advanced one step over the threshold before stopping short in alarm. The dim light from the hallway made the dark figure hurtling toward her seem gigantic. With a scream of terror she tried to pivot, only to jam her portfolio in the doorway.
The figure was on her before she could move further. A garish ski mask loomed to monstrous proportions, someone’s breath was in her face, then an annihilating wave of pain blanketed all other sensations.
Mercifully, she pitched forward into enveloping blackness.
Chapter 19.
Morning After
She was lucky,” said the young doctor.
With Iona occupying the bed between them, Christina was too exhausted to glare at him. Her vigil had begun with a distraught cry for help from Bill Perez. Rushing to the hospital in the middle of the night, she had arrived in time for an endless wait. It was hours before her anxiety began to ebb, and with daylight came new demands. Now Bill was back in Rye, making arrangements for the children while Christina stuck by the bedside.
“The fracture in her arm is a nice clean diagonal break,” said the doctor. “If there’s no problem with the concussion, she’ll be just fine.”