The Glendower Legacy

by Thomas Gifford

  It had been a drastically bad day. First, the call had come in from the old man, rousting them out of bed, tired and middle-aged and bedraggled. Then the mess at Brennan’s house: the corpse of the large, bandaged Russian agent was not particularly refreshing, even as corpses usually go—dead and smelling awful from every orifice, blood filling his eyes, clotting his nostrils … And Brennan: they’d thought he was dead for a moment, but he’d turned out to be comatose but alive. They’d called Mass General and the police. Then they went away. They called the old man but he was gone, no answer on the number they’d been given. Exasperation.

  They had then piled into the car and driven the agonizing distance through heavy traffic to Kennebunkport. But the Seafoam Inn had been locked up tight. In the driveway smashed flat in mud and gravel, they found the depressingly familiar porkpie hat.

  “Well,” Liam sighed, “well, well.” He drummed his fingertips on the tabletop. Unfortunately he stuck two fingers into a puddle of maple syrup. “Shit, Andrew, shit, shit …” He never raised his voice: Liam was never quite interested enough to raise his voice. He stuck his fingers into his water glass and rubbed them against one another, withdrew them, and wiped them on his napkin. “What do you think we should do?”

  “Kill ourselves.”

  “The easy way out. Coward.”

  “We can’t find the old man. We can’t find anybody at the Seafoam Inn. The little bastard in the funny hat has come and gone, we know not where.” Andrew blew smoke at his own reflection, turned his eyes back to see Liam’s sorrowful face. “Look at our eyes, Liam. Between us, we’ve got enough bags to pack the Red Sox for a road trip …”

  “Let’s get a motel room, get some sleep—”

  “But we’ve got to have a plan,” Andrew insisted lamely. Like all fieldmen, they hated the feeling of being alone out there, uninstructed, unprovided for, unsure of what to do.

  “Let’s figure we’ll get hold of Langley in the morning. Maybe they’ll scrub the whole stupid business.”

  “What do you think it is that we’re after?”

  “Look, it’s just a stupid job, more stupid than usual, that we should never have been asked to do. I don’t give a goddamn what it is. I just want to get back to civilization, see my desk again, cook some steaks in the backyard, hear my wife yelling at me …”

  The fog clung to the ground, hung in the trees, beaded on their faces like rain. They had walked for an hour, making slow headway, with nothing by which to reckon their course. The idea had been to move parallel to the tree line itself until they were well away from Prosser’s summer home. For a while they had been able to make out the glow of the burning automobile but the fire faded and they seemed to be moving deeper into the woods. They were breathing hard and sweating when Chandler suggested they stop. It was then that they thought they heard something like a gunshot, but it could have been something else, it might have been nothing at all.

  They rested in the darkness. The fog came and went but fortunately there was a hint of a moon somewhere above, among the clouds, throwing off enough light to give them a slight, functional visibility. They kept going after a brief rest, Chandler hauling the bag, following Polly who moved carefully, purposefully among the trees and damp grasses, slipping occasionally on bits of ice and snow. They seemed to be moving uphill but it was hard to tell, until Polly called back: “Do you smell it? I can smell the ocean—get up here.” He was afraid to put the suitcase down in case he couldn’t find it again so he struggled up the increasingly abrupt incline.

  “Are you in danger of having any kind of attack?” She clutched at him as he drew level with her, grunting and swearing.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “I’m fit as I ever was—”

  “Big deal. Smell it, smell the ocean … seaweed or kelp and sand and all that—”

  “Yeah “ he said sniffing. “I guess so.”

  “Well, we know where we are then.”

  “I don’t know where I am.”

  “We will in the morning when we can see the map. We’re near that water and not very far from Prosser’s house.” She took a deep breath. “Tomorrow we’ll get to the highway—”

  “And get picked up by the homicidal maniacs we’re trying to avoid.”

  “Do you want to walk to Bar Harbor, then?”

  “I want to be very careful.”

  They moved along the crest of the ridge. Chandler felt sand underfoot. The wind was picking up, snapping at them. He heard something move down in the scrub, felt the back of his neck prickle.

  “We can’t walk all night,” he said. “We’ve got to get some sleep.” He took her arm, pulled her down on the inland side of the ridge. “Come on, come on, mustn’t hang back.”

  He found, a sheltered area in the protection of several fragrant, low trees or shrubs, he neither knew nor cared what the hell they were, only that they cut the wind. He took off his Burberry, leaving his heavy oiled sweater over his shirt, and spread it on the ground. “Take off the sheepskin,” he said. “Now scrunch down on my raincoat. Good.” Listening to her as she settled in, he opened the bag and felt around: sport coat, another sweater, nothing really helpful. Polly was wearing a heavy sweater. He gave her the sport coat and told her to use it as a first blanket. He knelt and put the bag down as a pillow: he felt like a character from a Geoffrey Household novel; they always seemed to be out in the woods living by their wits and eating roots and berries. He flared the sheepskin coat out across them.

  “Now we come down to the question of body warmth,” he said. “For maximum effectiveness we lie on our sides, you see, your back to my front. Right. In this manner, we become as narrow an area as possible and your coat just about does the job. I put my left arm around you, you rest your little woolly head upon your mammy’s breast … See, not so helpless after all. I can survive anywhere … Comfy?”

  She groaned: “Asleep. I can sleep anywhere.”

  “Well, goodnight, then.”

  “Oh, God, don’t get huffy at a time like this.”

  “I am not huffy. But you could show a bit of appreciation—”

  She began to giggle: “Colin, I am appreciative. Now, go to sleep.”

  “Well, don’t snore. I’m a very light sleeper.”

  There was no response and he settled down, his head on his right arm. He felt surprisingly snug, even rather comfortable in a way you wouldn’t necessarily want to feel comfortable every day. But it was reminiscent of sleeping in the backyard as a child. As such, it was rather soothing. But he couldn’t quite get to sleep … he couldn’t even get near sleep. He heard Polly’s breathing grow deeper, regular, as she went completely under.

  He was worried about Prosser, alone in the house with the bad guy wandering around outside. What could the old man do in such an uneven contest? But, then, he hadn’t seemed particularly worried at the prospect. But he had been unlike his usual self, bereft of the acerbic tongue, the elegance and the antagonism and the malice which were central to his personality. Worried, under unaccustomed pressure: surely, that was the reason for the change. The old boy was in just a little over his head, regardless of his colorful, terribly important past, and he was showing the strain.

  But Brennan, that was something else. How to find out what condition he was in … He’d killed a man, the big man with the gold tooth, what a hell of a job that must have been—but what had they done to Hugh, what had happened to him?

  He finally sat up and dug his pipe and tobacco out of his raincoat pocket and got a smoke going. He was beginning to feel like a character in a novel, but it all fell apart when he was supposed to actually do something. He was simply too innocent to regard his position critically and draw clever, predictive conclusions.

  Particularly he didn’t know what he had done to land himself in the middle of the Maine nowhere with a beautiful woman he’d just made love with … A beautiful woman who had in fact dragged him into the whole ghastly business in the beginning.

  By God, i
t was true. He’d forgotten that it was all somehow her fault.

  And then he went to sleep, the bowl of his briar warming his hand …

  Monday

  POLLY WOKE FIRST, STIRRED HER hips against his belly and thighs, and said: “What I’m worried about is Ezzard … God, how could I have forgotten?” She scrunched around on her back. “Wake up, boy scout.”

  “I am awake. I have a sore throat.” He kept his eyes closed, tried burrowing his nose against her sweater. He snuffled in his throat, coughed, feeling vividly unattractive.

  “It’s just the wet, cold air. It’ll go away.” She braced an arm on his shoulder and sat up. “Good God, I’m stiff. Getting old, I guess.”

  “It’s just the wet, cold air,” he said. “You’re just entering your prime, my dear.”

  “I suppose after one go-round on the floor before the fire, you’re some kind of big expert on Polly Bishop.” She poked his chest. “Beware of overconfidence. One swallow does not a summer make, for instance. I’ve got a million little sayings I’ve been saving for you … Either I start on a million examples of pith or you get up.”

  “All right, all right, I’ll get up.” When he cranked an eye open she was standing over him, stretching, reaching as high as she could. Fetching, quite fetching. He opened the other eye. “Saucey Worcester,” he said.

  “What?”

  He shook his head: “Nothing.” He blinked at the beauty of a quiet spring morning. The sun was glowing gold behind the light fog bank and it was warmer than he’d prepared himself for: he had a flash of that carefree feeling that had come and gone erratically since he’d met Polly Bishop. “Well, what do you think?”

  “I don’t know about you,” she said, “but I’m on my way to use a bush for a bathroom. I’m only human, you know.” She set off and he lay quietly on his back, her coat over him, the sheepskin up tight to his chin. It smelled like spring and the scent of the damp earth and grass and trees sent his mind going, racing off across the past. He remembered his boyhood in the little town of Oregon, Illinois, the melting of the snow and the wafers of ice coating the puddles like sugar frosting, and the cocker spaniel who’d romped madly at the season’s changing as they’d climbed Liberty Hill … It was so long ago and he couldn’t really remember the boy with the dog but there was the spiral of memory that got into the brain and waited. You could never really summon it up: it just came when the button was pushed or the right string pulled.

  “The highway can’t be very far,” she said as they pushed out of the stand of pines and firs, into soggy grasses that sucked swamplike at their feet. She veered off toward a hump of path, sandy and wet. Highway One was an unprepossessing, narrow gray ribbon of concrete but it would take them as far as Ellsworth, according to the map, and that was all that was required. They both knew that someone was looking for them—and they were afraid of what might have happened to Prosser. But there was no going back: they had their orders. They pushed on in silence, the new day increasing in seriousness with each step. An hour after breaking camp, they found the highway stretching emptily away on either side, the golden glow of the rising sun giving it just a swipe of the alchemist’s wand.

  “Pray for no red Pintos,” he said, plopping the bag down at the roadside. “We’re really sitting ducks out here …”

  “How far are we from Ellsworth?” She’d combed her hair back with her fingers and her cheeks were flushed. He’d kissed her once, and he wanted to kiss her again.

  “Let’s say, too far to walk.”

  “Are we just going to wait?”

  “Might as well start walking …” He picked up the bag. “Listen to the birds. In the spring, a young man’s fancy … you know.”

  She put her arm through his and they started off along the shoulder trying to avoid the mud.

  After two cars and a panel truck had passed, she said: “Wouldn’t this be a good time to tell me the history of the macguffin? I mean, if they find us, I wouldn’t want to die without knowing …”

  “Come on—”

  “And what about the brown car? It’s not exactly fit to return …”

  “Good God, I hadn’t thought of that—”

  “So tell me about the macguffin.”

  “No, you’ll get spoiled.”

  “Ha!” She kicked a stone across the quiet road. The golden glow was fading as the overcast thickened. “I am really hungry.”

  By midmorning they reached Rockland where they stopped at a gas station and diner where a couple of trucks were gassing up. Fog was gusting across the highway. “Food,” she said, “food.”

  While Chandler picked at a plate of scrambled eggs, Polly ate the ranch breakfast, the thought of which turned his stomach. It was the fear. It was back, a dark unreasoning thing he couldn’t ignore. They sat in the booth furthest from the door: he watched the highway for a first glimpse of the red Pinto, wondered what exactly he would do if he saw it. A police car pulled in and parked. Two cops got out and stretched, clumped into the diner where they were well known. Banter, laughter, a thermos being filled with hot coffee. It would have been such a pleasant, remote place, such a fine place to be with Polly … it would have been. “Oh Christ,” he whispered. A red car … Polly shook her head: “A Toyota,” she said. “Relax.” He leaned back: “Be still, my heart.” He wasn’t kidding and knew his smile was a poor, sickly thing.

  The cops finished the snappy comedy routine and left. The locals subsided into their regular laconic conversation. Chandler got up and went to the counter where a well-thumbed copy of the morning’s Boston paper lay unattended. He brought it back and slid into the booth. Polly was still eating. “I’m worried about Ezzard,” she said.

  “You said that.”

  “I know but I’m going to have to do something about it. I’m going to call my next-door neighbor and get him to do something.”

  “How will he get in?” He was unfolding the paper in search of the front page.

  “He has a key.”

  Chandler’s eyes snapped up: “He does, does he?”

  “He’s a very sweet boy. Very …” She smiled. “He’s gay, if that makes you feel any better.”

  “I’m sorry …” He folded the paper on the table and felt his stomach do something unpleasant. It was in the lower right-hand corner of the first page.

  TV NEWSWOMAN MISSING:

  WAS INVOLVED IN MURDER QUERY

  Polly’s picture was particularly attractive: mouth open, teeth flashing, her head caught turning toward the camera, eyes bright.

  “How the hell—”

  “Listen,” he said. “Presumably you missed a show Sunday night … no, they called you, or you were supposed to call in …” He shook his head, ran his finger through the article. Polly watched, nibbling a fingertip. “Oh, here it is—” He was out of breath. “Ralph Stratton—the station manager—spent Sunday trying to get hold of you—”

  “Damned busybody!”

  “And when he couldn’t find you he went to your apartment and found the door unlocked and evidence of a search through the apartment by persons other than Ms. Bishop—some of our little friends, no doubt …”

  “Does it say anything about Ezzard?”

  “Polly, somebody has gone through your apartment! It doesn’t say anything about the cat, no, but look at it this way, if they’d killed the cat it would have been in the headline. But who did the going through?”

  “McGonigle and Fennerty? Porkpie and Company? I guess it doesn’t really make much difference. What do you think they wanted? Oh, hell, that doesn’t make any difference either, does it?”

  “No, I guess it doesn’t. Says here you’ve played the key media role in the Harvard murders—” He gave her a sour look.

  “Colin, you missed something at the top of the page.”

  HARVARD PROFESSOR TORTURED, KILLS ATTACKER, NEAR DEATH HIMSELF

  The story was little different from what Prosser had told him but it was all new to Polly who read it with growing amazem
ent. She finally looked up, wide-eyed. “Prosser told you about this?”

  “He didn’t want to worry you.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Brennan was conscious, told the police the story. The police got an anonymous tip … I don’t see where Prosser fits in. It’s pretty weird.”

  “He has lots of connections,” Chandler said. “Who knows …”

  “Well, it doesn’t all hang together, not in my book.” She turned to page three. “Here you are, my dear …

  WHERE IS PROF. CHANDLER?

  Says here that Department Chairman Bertram Prosser was unavailable for comment. Next they’ll be wondering if Harvard can stand the brain drain—Chandler, Prosser, and Brennan.” She finished her coffee and looked brightly around. “A few days ago this would have been amazing—”

  “It’s still amazing. People are still trying to kill me, Prosser may be dead … Hugh could die at any moment, according to the stupid newspaper—and we’re wandering around the coast of Maine absolutely defenseless trying to get to Bar Harbor … believe me, it’s amazing. And the most amazing thing about it is the fact that I haven’t had a nervous breakdown.” He jabbed the paper with his forefinger: “Both of our pictures are in the papers—why, hell’s bells, we could be recognized at any moment!”

  “Colin,” she said calmly, “so what? We’re not wanted for anything. It’s not Cary Grant in North by Northwest. We’re just running away. Somebody spots us, they say, hey, I know you two … and what are they supposed to do? That’s the really scary part—the only people who want us, want the document, and would probably rather kill us than not. Walk into a police station and they wouldn’t even know what to do with us …” She smiled.

  “Okay. Let’s get going.”

  “First, I’ve got to call about Ezzard. Go powder your nose and I’ll be done.” She went to the pay telephone hanging on the wall and took a credit card from a billfold in her coat pocket.

  He went outside and asked a man with a station wagon bearing the words Down East TV Repair if he knew how they might get to Ellsworth.