by Thomas Ross
There was no desk in the room, just an oak library table against one dark-paneled wall. The drapes were of plum velvet and the carpet was a deep mauve color. In front of the street windows were a couple of comfortable-looking wing-backed leather chairs with a small table in between them. The chairs would be nice to sit in after a good lunch and watch it rain on the pedestrians. There was also a couch or two in the room, one of which looked like it would be just right for an afternoon nap. Flanking the fireplace was a cane-backed settee and a deep leather armchair that a man was sitting in, an open grey file on his lap. He looked up at me, put the file down on a table that held a 1908-type telephone, and got up. He didn’t offer to shake hands; instead he nodded at me, and gestured that I should sit on the settee.
He was about forty-five or fifty, I decided, although it was hard to tell because of the brown beard that was formed by a moustache that ran back down his cheeks to join his long sideburns, leaving his chin bare. I couldn’t remember what that particular style of beard was called, but I remembered from old photographs that it had been popular during the latter part of Victoria’s reign.
“Do sit down, Mr. Longmire,” he said. His accent wasn’t British, but it was still nicely clipped.
I sat down on the settee and looked at Douglas Chanson. He wore a dark, almost black suit with a dove-grey vest and a plain, wide, deep-purple tie. His glistening white shirt and collar looked stiff and starched. Above the stiff collar was an equally stiff face that didn’t look as if it laughed much. The bare chin that poked out from the beard was bony and narrow and above it was a small pursed mouth. Above the mouth was a thin nose and a pair of shiny brown eyes and in between the eyes were the lines of what seemed to be a perpetual vertical frown that creased the center of his pale forehead. He combed his brown and grey hair carefully down over his forehead to make it look as though it wasn’t as thin as it was. Douglas Chanson, I decided, had a generous amount of vanity.
He stared at me carefully for several moments and then said, “I don’t usually do this and I wouldn’t have in this instance unless you’d said that you were associated with Roger Vullo.”
“You checked, I take it.”
“Naturally.”
“I’d like to ask some questions about one of your clients.”
“I’m not at all sure that I’ll answer them. I think you should understand that from the outset.”
“I’d like to ask them anyway.”
“All right.”
“The client is the Public Employees Union.”
“Yes.”
“You recently recruited two hundred new employees for them, right?”
“Two hundred and three, actually.”
“I’m curious about what qualifications they had to have. I recently ran into six of them out in St. Louis.”
“St. Louis? Let’s see, that would be Russ Mary and his team, I believe. Yes, Mary.”
“A rather tall blond guy with cute little waves in his hair?”
“Mr. Mary is rather tall and blond but I don’t find his hair cute.”
“What’s his background?”
“That’s one of the questions that I choose not to answer.”
“Let me put it another way,” I said.
“If you wish.”
“Mary doesn’t have a labor organization background, does he? What I mean is, has he ever worked for another union other than the PEU?”
“No.”
“Has he ever worked for the federal government?”
“I’d have to say yes to that, but with certain qualifications which I’m afraid I can’t mention. Do you smoke?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Perhaps you’d like one of my cigarettes.” He picked up a small, highly polished wooden box that may have been made out of rosewood, opened it, and offered it to me. It contained long brown cigarettes. I took one. So did Chanson. He produced a gold lighter from a vest pocket and leaned forward to light my cigarette. Then he lit his own and leaned back in his chair, drew some smoke down into his lungs, and exhaled it. I took a puff of my own. It wasn’t bad.
“I have them made for me in New York,” he said. “They contain no artificial preservatives. No saltpeter and what have you. I seem to like things that haven’t been tampered with.”
“I roll my own,” I said.
“Do you really. That’s interesting.” He said it as if it really were.
I took another drag on my cigarette and said, “Having met Mary and his five helpers, I was wondering if the other hundred and ninety-seven persons that you recruited for the union were similar.”
“In what way?”
“Mary struck me as a rather take-charge type of guy. Competent. Aggressive even.”
“You mean tough as a boot.”
“Yes,” I said, “maybe I do mean that.”
“The team leaders that I chose are quite similar to Mr. Mary. The helpers as you call them are—how should I put it—competent, let’s say, but in need of firm direction.”
“It must have been quite an assignment. Finding two hundred competent people to do anything can’t be an easy task.”
Chanson nodded judiciously. “But not as difficult as one might think providing you have the resources and enough lead time.”
“You didn’t have very much, did you? Lead time, I mean.”
“Actually, we had quite a bit although it may not sound like much to you.”
“How much?”
“Nearly a week.”
“That’s all?”
“Sometimes we’re only given a day or two.”
“Who approached you?”
“From the union?”
“Yes.”
“That’s another question I choose to skirt, Mr. Longmire. I can only say that the initial approach was made by a confidential emissary from the union. Let me explain my secretiveness so you won’t think that I’m being overly arcane and mysterious. You see, in my business we often have corporate, organizational, and even governmental clients who decide to make sweeping changes from top to bottom. Replacing these personnel quickly is a difficult and sometimes delicate matter. My task, in exchange for what I like to think of as a fair retainer, is to recruit in absolute secrecy qualified personnel who can immediately step into the positions left vacant by these often abrupt changes in top-, middle-, and even lower-level management. Therefore, I wasn’t at all surprised by the confidential nature of the union’s approach. As I think I said, it happens quite frequently in my business.”
“These people you recruited, were they for permanent or temporary jobs?”
Chanson thought about it for a moment. “I see no reason why I can’t tell you that. They were all temporary jobs to last no more than six months.”
“And when were you approached by the union?”
“A little over a month ago.”
“How about being a little more specific?”
“In what way?”
“Was it after or before Arch Mix disappeared?”
“After.”
“How long after?”
“As I recall it was two days after he disappeared. Possibly three, but no more than that.”
“Did you connect the two?”
“The two what?”
“Mix’s disappearance and the union’s sudden demand for your services.”
Chanson stared at me for several moments. “What I thought, Mr. Longmire, must, I’m afraid, remain confidential. However, I think it only fair to tell you that whatever my thoughts were, the FBI and the D.C. police were made aware of them the same day.” He looked at his watch, a big, fat gold one that he kept in his vest pocket on a heavy chain. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I have another appointment.”
“Just one more question,” I said.
“Yes?”
“How did you turn up Ward Murfin for Roger Vullo?”
He picked up the grey file that he had placed on the table and leafed through it. When he found what he seemed to be sea
rching for he looked back up at me.
“Murfin is an interesting type. I keep extensive files on such types because they are the kind of people who often are quite suddenly needed by the kind of clients that I sometimes serve. In fact, I think you’d be surprised at the files that I do keep. For instance, this one here.” He tapped the folder on his lap. “It says in here that you really do keep bees, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I said. “I do.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
ROGER VULLO’S OFFICE was only a short, hot walk from Jefferson Place, but I didn’t notice the heat because I was too engrossed in putting the finishing touches on my theory about what had happened to Arch Mix and why. It was a sound theory, buttressed by solid facts with only a touch of wild surmise. I intended to lay it on Roger Vullo personally, collect the other half of my ten-thousand-dollar fee, and stop by a travel agent on my way home to make reservations for Dubrovnik. Two seconds after I entered Vullo’s office I knew that I wouldn’t be making the reservations just yet.
Vullo was savaging his right thumbnail as I walked in. He looked up and said, “You’re late.” Before he went back to his nail he used the hand he was working on to gesture at the two other men in his office. “I think you know everybody,” he said.
I thought so, too. One of the men was Warner B. Gallops. The other was my Uncle Slick.
Gallops grunted at me and Slick said, “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you, dear boy.”
“I know,” I said and sat down in a chair.
“There’ve been some extremely interesting new developments,” Slick said. He reached over to Roger Vullo’s desk and handed me the morning edition of the Washington Post. I looked at it, but saw nothing that was relevant.
“What page?” I said.
“The front page,” Slick said. He nodded at Vullo and said, “I think you should play it for him first.”
“Yes, it would probably save time,” Vullo said. There was a small cassette tape recorder on Vullo’s desk. He punched a button.
The tape whirred for a few moments and then a voice came on. The voice said, “This is Arch Mix.”
There was a silence on the tape for a second or two that was interrupted only by a slight crackling sound as if some paper were being unfolded.
The voice that was Arch Mix’s went on: “To prove that this recording was made today I’m going to read you the top three headlines from this morning’s edition of the Post.”
I looked at the Post as the taped voice read the headlines. There was another pause, another crackle of paper, and then Mix’s voice continued.
“I’m in good health and I’ve been reasonably well treated. My release depends upon your doing exactly what I tell you to do. It also depends on your making absolutely sure that you do not under any circumstances contact either the police or the FBI. I can’t emphasize this too strongly. Do not contact the police or the FBI. If you do, I’ll be killed. It’s as simple as that.”
There was another brief silence and then Mix’s voice came on again. “The people who’re holding me are serious. They mean business. They want two million dollars for my release. I repeat. Two million dollars. You’re going to have to deliver it exactly when and where I tell you to. The money must be unmarked. It must be old or at least well used. Don’t try anything tricky. If you do, you’ll just get me killed.”
Mix’s voice, with its familiar deep rasp, was firm and authoritative until the last sentence when it cracked slightly. I didn’t blame him. My voice would have cracked before then. There was another pause, another noise like the rustle of paper, and when Mix’s voice resumed it sounded as if he were reading.
“What you’ve got to do is simple. After you get the money, put it in two suitcases. Rent a black Ford LTD sedan. Put the two suitcases with the money in its trunk. Make sure the trunk is locked. At four o’clock this afternoon park the car in the parking lot of the Safeway store near Chevy Chase Circle. Do not lock the car. Leave the keys on the floor under the accelerator and put a plain piece of white paper under the windshield wiper. Typing paper will do. Don’t waste time trying to see who drives off in the Ford. He won’t know anything. Follow these instructions exactly and they’ll let me go. If you don’t, they’ll kill me. They mean business.”
The tape whirred on for a few moments until Vullo reached over and pressed another button. There was a silence for several seconds that I finally broke with, “Well, he’s alive isn’t he?”
“As of this morning,” Slick said.
“Or eleven-thirty last night when the Post came off the presses,” I said. “Who’d they send the tape to?”
“Me,” Gallops said. “It was inside my paper when I went out to get it this morning.”
“You talk to Mix’s wife?” I said.
“She was the first one I talked to,” Gallops said. “She agrees with me. We do exactly what Arch wants. No cops. No FBI. But that left me with a problem so that’s why I got in touch with him.”
“Who?” I said.
“With me, dear boy,” Slick said. “The problem was, of course, the money. It would be impossible for the union to put its hands on that much cash without attracting the attention of the FBI and probably the police. So I suggested a possible solution. Mr. Vullo has agreed to supply the money.”
I looked at Vullo. “You’re going to put it up?”
“The Foundation is going to lend it to the union,” he said.
I looked at my watch. It was two forty-five. “You haven’t got much time to get to the bank.”
“Fortunately, we started quite a bit earlier this morning,” Slick said. “By ten o’clock Mr. Vullo was on the phone making arrangements for the money to be flown in from New York and Philadelphia.”
“You used several banks, huh?” I said.
Vullo nodded and then gave his thumbnail another bite. “Seven. Three in New York. Three in Philadelphia. And one here. The last of the money arrived approximately an hour ago. It’s being counted and put into the suitcases now.”
I thought about what I’d just heard and been told for a few moments and then I said, “It looks as though you’re all set.”
“Not quite,” Vullo said.
“What do you mean not quite?” I said.
“We need someone to deliver the money,” Vullo said. “I’d prefer it to be one of my associates.”
“Me?”
“I would’ve preferred both you and Murfin,” he said. “Unfortunately, Murfin’s still out of town.”
“I don’t think I want to be responsible for two million dollars,” I said.
“You won’t be solely responsible, Harvey,” Slick said. “I plan to accompany you.”
“He’s gonna look after my interests,” Gallops said. “The moment that money leaves the building it’s gonna be the union’s money. I’d like to make sure that there’s somebody besides you, Longmire, looking after it.”
“Well,” I said, “I’m flattered, but I still think I’ll have to decline.”
“Mr. Longmire,” Vullo said.
“Yes.”
“I believe that you have so far received only one half of the fee that we agreed on.”
“That’s right. Half.”
Vullo opened his desk drawer, took out a check, and used the eraser end of a yellow pencil to push it across the desk to me. “The other half,” he said.
“Providing I deliver the money, right?”
“Yes.”
I looked at the check, but didn’t touch it. Then I looked at Vullo. “You don’t want to miss the ending, do you?”
“If this is the ending,” he said. “If it isn’t, then I think the Foundation’s first report will be of remarkable interest.”
“What the hell’s he talking about?” Gallops said.
“Conspiracy,” I said.
“Fuck yes, there’s been a conspiracy. Arch got kidnapped and whoever did it wants two million bucks to let him go. That’s a hell of a big conspiracy.”
“You’re right,” I said, “but I think that Mr. Vullo was counting on something a bit juicier.”
Gallops looked at Slick. “Now what’s he talking about?”
“I’m not quite sure myself,” Slick said, “except that I think both Harvey and Mr. Vullo were anticipating other developments and ramifications.”
I looked at Gallops. “There’ll be a lot of both when they let Mix go and he finds out what you’ve been up to.”
Gallops stared at me for several seconds. Finally he said, “I got a call last night. Late last night. From St. Louis. They tell me you and Murfin were out there sticking your nose into things.”
I nodded. “It was interesting. Sort of.”
“Lemme tell you something else interesting, Longmire. When Arch disappeared, I took over and ran things the way I thought they oughta be run. Now if Arch comes back and he don’t like what I’ve done, well, that’s gonna be between Arch and me, isn’t it? Not between anybody else. Just Arch and me.” He looked at Slick. “I don’t think this is such a hot idea. I don’t need their fuckin’ money. We can raise it someplace else.”
Slick made a placating gesture. “You should remember the time factor.”
Gallops thought about that a moment and said, “Well, I still don’t like it. I don’t like people sticking their nose in where it don’t belong.”
“Mr. Gallops,” Vullo said, “I have already agreed that the Foundation would supply the ransom money. I did this because I felt that if there were a larger conspiracy involving Mr. Mix’s disappearance, his return and his own account of what had happened to him would clarify everything. However, if you feel that we’re invading your privacy, I’ll withdraw my offer to supply the ransom.”
“What you’re really saying is that you wanta talk to Arch when they let him go. Is that right?”
“That’s right,” Vullo said.
Gallops shrugged. “If that’s all you want, I don’t give a fuck if you talk to him for a month. It’ll be up to Arch. If he wants to talk to you, fine. If he don’t—what the hell, that’s your problem.”