Abel Baker Charley

by John R. Maxim

  Tortora nodded. “I'll expect you to do something about him, by the way.”

  Levy returned the nod. “Or that Fed, what's his name ... Harrigan. Maybe Harrigan put Baker on to—”

  “Impossible.”

  “Which leaves us right back where we started.”

  “No,” Tortora corrected, “it leads us to choose a direction. There can be no action without an assumption. And the assumption I choose is that Baker knew my son was in the park, that Baker hurt him in order to provoke me.”

  “So,” shrugged Stanley Levy, not bothering to point out the obvious flaws in the theory, “what action do you have in mind?”

  Tortora was deep in thought for several moments. ”I want Baker's daughter. Please take Vinnie Cuneo to the house in Greenwich where she now lives with a woman named Jane Carey. Do not harm Mrs. Carey, but take custody of the daughter. Can you manage that without undue violence, Stanley?”

  Uh-oh, he thought. “But what if one of Harrigan's people is watching the place?”

  “Incapacitate him if you must,” Tortora sighed, “but I want the girl. Is there a place where you might hold her in comfort, Stanley?”

  “My mother's place, over by Yorkville.”

  Tortora studied Stanley, looking deep into his eyes. There was a brooding hesitation that Stanley noticed.

  “My mother can read to her,” Stanley offered. Although he sensed Tortora’s reluctance, he did not understand it. “She can do the kid some good. If you're worried the kid will finger my mother, I can keep her eyes covered.”

  Tortora nodded slowly. “It will only be until this evening, Stanley. Please have the girl on this spot promptly at nine o'clock tonight.”

  “You got it.” Stanley Levy relaxed. ‘Then what happens?”

  Tortora wiped some haze from the window and pointed toward the American Wing of the museum. “We'll wait in there, Stanley. Mr. Baker will doubtless want to pay us a visit.”

  “So will about six museum guards and their dogs.”

  “I'll attend to that, Stanley. And to my personal security as well.” Tortora met Stanley's curious stare. In truth, the arrangements would not be difficult, but he would not take time now to explain. “Speaking of intrusions, however, this man Harrigan is likely to be a nuisance. Can something be done about him?”

  “I'll handle it.”

  “Who, by the way, was the woman you killed earlier this morning?”

  Levy made a face. How the hell did he know about that already? “I'm not sure. Could have been Harrigan's. Could also have been a vice cop out to set up a solicitation bust. It could even have been a straight conventioneer rip because she was about to shpritz me with this tear gas shooter here.” He produced a metal cylinder resembling a pocket flashlight. “Anyway, I left a message for whoever it was.”

  “Could you not have otherwise neutralized her, Stanley?”

  Levy shrugged and turned his index fingers toward his chest, inviting Tortora to consider his physique. He knew how Tortora felt about killing. Tortora didn't even like to use the word. “I'm just not built for any John Wayne stuff,” he said respectfully. ”I mean, I can probably handle Baker's daughter as long as she only has one leg working good, but anyone else, I can't fool around.”

  “Connor Harrigan will be more difficult, Stanley. Try not to do anything irreversible, but you must on no account endanger yourself. Connor Harrigan is to his trade what you are to yours. Be respectful, Stanley, or it is you who will be handled.”

  “I'll be respectful, Mr. Tortora.” Stanley placed his hand upon the door latch and awaited Tortora's dismissal. When the nod came, he hesitated. “Where can I reach you if something happens?”

  “I'll be considering Dr. Sonnenberg's role in tonight's events. And his point of view,” he added.

  Confusion clouded Stanley's face, but he remembered something far away and nodded. Still he hesitated. “This direction you picked. Do you mind me asking why you went for the long odds?”

  “Remember your Sherlock Holmes, Stanley,” Tortora replied, his hand moving to the ignition key. “If you've read of the man and not just the man's stories, you'll know that he made an observation that I've often found useful. He said, ‘It is an old maxim of mine that whenever you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’ ”

  From the curb, Stanley Levy watched Tortora's taillights melt into the blackness of the park.

  ‘That's wrong,” he whispered distantly. “That was in a story also. The Sign of Four is what it was in.”

  Stanley had no idea how he knew that. It was enough that he knew it.

  The Plaza's night manager was a prissy little man with the suitably prissy name of Wilton Pinchot. Sixty years earlier, he would have been dressed in black tie, a pencil mustache across a rigid upper lip, and hair gleaming with pomade. Now he wore a Dacron blazer and regimental tie, but still surviving were the brisk, flitting hand movements, the smile that employed only the mouth, and the hint of cologne dabbed at the hairline of his neck.

  Mr. Pinchot had already been discomfited once that night by the appearance of a uniformed policeman in the Plaza lobby. The general manager, Mr. Bouvier, would certainly remind the police commissioner that the Plaza was neither a school crossing nor Madison Square Garden. An appalling gaucherie. Still worse, potential embarrassment to the Plaza now took another quantum leap with the appearance of this unshaven dreadful who looked for all the world as if he'd been sleeping in the park. What he was asking was impossible. Quite in violation of the sanctity of the Plaza guest rooms.

  “Have you looked carefully at my credentials, Mr. Pinchot?” asked Harrigan patiently. He pulled an ID from its plastic sleeve and placed it face up on the desk. “Now.” He took a weary breath. “Way down there at the bottom you see a phone number. It's there to be used by people like yourself who reject the evidence of their senses. And the act of calling that number, don't you see, occasionally keeps officious little men from being cited for impeding a federal investigation.”

  Pinchot read the name on Harrigan's card. “Mr. Fenton.” He drew himself up. “When a guest books accommodations with us, he or she has every right to expect confidentiality..” The desk man stopped when Connor Harrigan held up his hand.

  “Ah, but I have no interest in Miss Burke, don't you see!” Harrigan leaned closer to Wilton Pinchot, who tried not to back away or grimace but failed on both counts. “My sole interest is in the safety of the fellow I believe to be with her. The lad has a certain task to perform. The task is in the interest of your government, Mr. Pinchot, and he is not to be compromised. Not by you, sir, and not by me. And definitely not by an inquisitive street cop who had no business strolling through such a grand establishment as this.”

  The last part seemed to hit a nerve, and the night man softened by several degrees. He tilted forward, hands behind him. “However, Mr. Fenton, the policeman never asked about a man. You did. Nor did the policeman even ask for Miss Burke's room number, which naturally I would never—”

  “Naturally,” Harrigan whispered. “What was it the fellow asked, Mr. Pinchot?”

  ”I can assure you that the policeman was no threat to anyone who might or might not have been with Miss—”

  “Mr. Pinchot, what was it he asked?”

  “For an autograph.” The night man straightened and offered his best don't-you-feel-silly-now look to Connor Harrigan.

  “An autograph, you say?”

  “Actually, he was quite shy about it. He said he'd been trying to muster his courage for hours even though it was really for his niece. He simply left a sheet of his notepaper and requested that I ask Miss Burke to write ‘To Sandra’ and sign it.”

  Harrigan's eyes drifted past Pinchot toward a digital message console set into the marble wall behind him. Several room numbers blinked in red. “And upon accepting his notepaper, Mr. Pinchot, you then pushed one of those little red lights, didn't you!”

  Pinchot answered with a toler
ant smile. “I'm hardly an amateur, Mr. Fenton. Naturally, I waited until the policeman was gone.”

  “Naturally.” Harrigan nodded. “And where did he go, by the way?”

  ”I haven't the foggiest. He walked past the Palm Court toward Fifth Avenue. Toward his beat, I rather assume.”

  Harrigan picked up his identification card and returned it to its case. He rested both elbows on the night manager's desk.

  “Now, Mr. Pinchot darlin'. I want you to listen carefully. Miss Burke's room number which you don't want to share with me is very probably 1502. It's a suite facing the park. And your bashful policeman didn't leave right away, either. He would have come back one more time, perhaps to thank you again, or to ask for a match, or to tell you when he'd return for his autograph, and how pleased little Sandra was going to be. How do you suppose I know all these things, Mr. Pinchot?”

  “I'm sure I have no idea . . .” A flush was rising from Wilton's collar and his lips clamped into a thin line.

  “You're beginning to get it, aren't you, Mr. Pinchot? In all that great bloody rank of numbers behind you, only six are lit up at this hour of the morning. Only one of those is among your suites facing front, and I'm guessing that it belongs to Miss Tanner Burke and the lad she's sheltering this night. But the policeman didn't have to guess, did he, Mr. Pinchot? And that's because there were only five little lights burning when he walked away but there were six when he came back to say good night.”

  Harrigan waited while it penetrated. The night man's eyes darted about the lobby, bouncing several times off his telephone before coming to rest on it. Harrigan followed his line of sight.

  “And now you're going to make it worse, aren't you, lad!”

  ”I don't... What shall I.. .'* Perspiration showed across Pinchot's waxen forehead.

  “It's possible, mind you, that the policeman was indeed innocent enough. If he was, there the matter will rest and there's no need for your employer to know of your lapse. What I'm going to do, Mr. Pinchot, is take a ride up to the fifteenth floor and find a quiet place to puff awhile upon my pipe. I'm going to do that until I hear wake-up calls jingling in the rooms around me and until I hear showers running. By the time I hear those sounds, the occasion for any possible mischief will have passed. I too will then pass from your life, Mr. Pinchot, may it be long and happy. Do you approve of that course, Mr. Pinchot?”

  “Yes .. . certainly. As long as you don't.. ”

  Harrigan pursed his lips.

  “Thank you, Mr. Fenton. That will be fine.”

  In Dayton, Ohio, Howard Twilley's phone call came two hours after closing. He listened, smiled broadly, and replaced the receiver without speaking. A short time later, showered, shaved, and dressed in a dark business suit, the owner of the Riverview Grill locked its front door for the last time.

  In the trunk of his car, he stacked a large duffel, a briefcase, and a leather two-suiter. This last had been packed for a year. The car and the duffel, which contained his fishing and camping gear, would be abandoned in the long-term parking lot of the Greater Cincinnati Airport. It would be a week before his absence seemed unusual, weeks more before the car would be found.

  The airport would be his first stop, and there Howard Twilley would cease to exist. His next stop would be Denver. There, he would acquire a suitable weapon before going on. He would be Ben Coffey again.

  Marcus Sonnenberg eased the telephone onto its cradle, a look of tired satisfaction on his face. Pushing himself erect, he limped to his bookcase, where he plucked a new Monte Cristo from his Oxford Book of English Verse. He lit it ceremonially, watching the fine smoke as it sought out his draperies. The faint morning light made it shine like a silver mist.

  On any other day he would have smoked by an open window, lest the lingering scent betray him to Mrs. Kreskie. But she would not be back for many hours. Perhaps not at all. In any case, he thought, perhaps she would understand his indulgence on this occasion. Yes, she would certainly understand.

  His thoughts turned to Jared Baker.

  “Understanding,” he said aloud but softly. ‘There indeed is the rub. How much do you understand, Jared, and how well do I understand you?”

  He thought of the several weeks that had passed during which Baker had failed to acknowledge his messages, saying only that he needed time to think.

  “What has your period of insubordinate meditation taught you, Jared? To be shortsighted? To be selfish? Is it possible you've chosen to reject a gift for which half of humankind would trade all that they possess?

  “You're about to tell me, aren't you, Jared. Oh, I know that you're in the city. A little bird told me. The little bird also told me that you were out hunting tonight and that you're now ensconced with some tramp and that soon you will come to see me.

  “Those two in the park, Baker. How did you find them? Our friend Mr. Tortora will want to know that too. He also has a little bird. And the words whispered by his little bird have left him ill at ease. You have now twice struck down a firstborn within the reaches of his brotherhood.

  “The first of these he more or less regarded as your due. In compensation for your dead wife, that is. Oh, you were to be assaulted if possible. You were to be punished in the name of fraternal duty. Not the strongest stimulus for a pragmatist like Tortora but an obligation nonetheless. One in his position must keep up appearances. And from my point of view, of course, such attacks upon your person constituted excellent field training.”

  Sonnerberg sat back and rubbed his eyes, taking a few moments to organize his thoughts.

  “Be that as it may, my brooding friend,” he continued, “we now have what is called a situation. I leap to the conclusion that you have come East to resign your office* to scoop up your daughter who will doubtless cast off her crutches at the sight of you, and then fade with her into the setting sun to live happily ever after.

  “You arrive in New York and your presence is immediately known. You become aware that it's known by a brace or two of thugs who are, you must have assumed, in the employ of Domenic Tortora. It ought to have struck you that, assuming they are indeed Tortora's people, his attention to you now shows a vigor that was not evident before. You would then assume that he intends you immediate harm.

  “In the meanwhile, you are also being observed by an agent or agents from the federal bureaucracy. Agents whose activities seem to transcend the usual constraints of a government discipline. Your Mr. Harrigan is a man of considerable reputation in the investigative arts. His attention, in turn, suggests that he has become aware of at least some of your capabilities and now seeks to learn how you intend to apply them. And why. Meaning, ergo, that his ultimate interest is in me. But on whose behalf is he interested? Does a man like Connor Harrigan really forge blindly ahead on the word of an inveterate manipulator like Duncan Peck? I think not.

  “And what of old Duncan? How long has it been since we eavesdropped on Duncan's recruitment jog with Mr. Harrigan? More than a year? At that time, Duncan, Connor Harrigan gave every clue that he would not be fully controllable, didn't he. I'll wager that he's been less than meticulous in reporting to you. No doubt, therefore, you'd be able to sympathize with my own frustrations concerning Jared Baker. And now you're about to purge yourself of these frustrations, aren't you? The same little bird told me that too. You’re about to do something untidy.

  “But we were wondering about Mr. Harrigan, speaking of untidiness. I've been forced to conclude, Duncan, that Mr. Harrigan's interest is not all on your behalf. On whose, then? His own? The notion cannot be dismissed.”

  Sonnenberg paused to relight his cigar, which had gone out. But he'd lost his taste for it. He considered saving what remained or casting it out among the rhododendrons. No need, he thought. They are amply fertilized by the likes of Roger Hershey the First, and the game is too far afoot to worry about Mrs. Kreskie's displeasure. He left the butt on the edge of his table lamp.

  “So let us summarize. Back to you, Jared Baker. If your intent
is to make off with your daughter under the delusion that your union will make you whole and happy again, I have every confidence that your immediate pursuers will be hard-pressed to stop you. I rather expect that your plan is to stop them, isn't it, Jared. Thrice now you've been recognized in other cities by hoodlums who made the mistake of taking you at face value. Hoodlums who'd obviously been equipped with a Wanted poster of some sort in the event you passed through their fiefdoms. Hoodlums intent on bashing you about rather than ending your life. You may correctly assume that this bashing was prescribed by Mr. Tortora partly as an appeasement to the friends of the late rent-a-judge. It had another purpose, but I'm not going to tell you that yet. In any case, the ease with which you chastised those Tortora chain-wielders in Dayton and elsewhere has apparently caused you to move up in class. Voilà, Stanley Levy. And you, being a person who dislikes such nagging annoyances, you likely intended to remove these annoyances at their source. Meaning Tortora. Oh, Jared, won't that be something to see! And oh, what a surprise I have for you!

  “Be that as it may . . . You, Jared, are also an intelligent and perceptive man. I say this to remind myself that I should not underestimate you no matter how naive your plan seems at this moment. I rest assured that you have prepared an escape route and a safe harbor someplace where you'll not be easily found. After all, I blush to point out, look who taught you.

  “Unlike any other fugitive in the world, you needn't even live with paranoia. You needn't worry about constantly looking over your shoulder. You have Charley. If anyone should become curious, Charley will know it, and you will take whatever action you think necessary.

  “But alas, Baker, where there is Charley there is also Abel. You can try and keep Abel locked away, but he'll always be there waiting. Someone, sometime, will push you too far. Another bully in some redneck bar. Another mugger. A short-tempered truck driver. A robber with a weapon. A pack of teenage toughs abusing someone you care for. Will you really keep Abel in check, Baker? I think not. But if you insist that you will, what makes you think that Abel won't find a way out on his own. Abel, after all, is not some evil spirit, some demon that can be exorcised. He's not the insane and homicidal twin whom the frightened family keeps chained in a basement room. He's you, Baker. He's the primate within you. The hunter. The predator. He's the rage you controlled all your life.