by Jon Cleary
“Why did he leave home?” he asked.
The two people opposite him looked at him again, recognizing for the first time that he had a strange accent, that he was a foreigner. Birmingham’s face at once closed up. “Who are you? You’re not with the police, are you? Are you a reporter?”
Malone let Jefferson tell them who he was. They looked back at him with sympathetic curiosity, but only for a moment; then they looked puzzled and finally incredulous. “You don’t mean Mark had anything to do with the kidnapping?”
“No!” Mrs Birmingham shook her head fiercely; there were already tears in her eyes. “I don’t even believe he had anything to do with the bombing! He’s a gentle boy - “
Jefferson sighed, looked at Birmingham and waited for him to comfort and quieten his wife. “Your son will get a fair trial and I’m not anticipating what the jury will say -all I can say is that he and his friends are gonna have a tough time disproving the evidence.”
“It could be a frame-up!” Mrs Birmingham pushed herself away from her husband’s arms. Middle-class conservative though she is, Malone thought, she knows all the right accusations against cops when her own son is in trouble. “The police only want a conviction!”
“Not only, Mrs Birmingham,” said Jefferson patiently; he even managed to sound sympathetic. “We want a conviction, but we want one for the right men. It’s not gonna help us if we’ve just taken in the first anarchists we could lay our hands on and we’ve left the ones who did the bombing free to plant more bombs. Especially if they kill more cops.”
Birmingham soothed his wife again, then nodded at Jefferson. “That’s logical, Captain. But how could Mark have had anything to do with the kidnapping if he’s been in prison for two months?”
“We don’t think he had anything directly to do with it, but we think there could be a connection.”
“I’m trying to save the lives of my wife and Mrs Forte,” said Malone. He looked at his watch, but it had stopped. It was a cheap one, another manifestation of his reluctance to spend money on small things, and it had to be wound regularly; time had never really been valuable to him, not even as a cop, but now every hour had to be stretched for everything it could afford. He looked around the room for a clock but there was none. He dropped his wrist and went on, “You didn’t answer my question. Why did your son leave home?”
Mrs Birmingham glanced at her husband, but he was looking down at his slippered feet. He had taken his arm from round his wife and his hands rested loosely on his thighs; he looked like a man whose strength had suddenly run out, who had finally faced the truth of a fact he had been denying for a long, exhausting time. When he spoke his voice was now just a monotone.
“It’s a cliche, but it was the so-called generation gap. Generations ? It was more as if we were foreigners to each
other - we didn’t even speak the same language. We, my wife and I, could have been wrong - “
“No,” said his wife. “We weren’t wrong!”
He looked up at her, showing the same patience Jefferson had. “Maybe. But we weren’t right, either. God knows where the answer is - ” He looked at the two policemen, but they, with more experience of the problem, had no answer for him. “I had disagreements with my own father when I was young -who doesn’t? But we both basically agreed on what way of life was best. He saluted the flag and so did I, without question. But Mark- ” He looked at Malone and Jefferson. “Do you have any children?”
“No,” said Jefferson.
“My wife and I have only been married eight weeks,” said Malone.
“Oh!” Elizabeth Birmingham looked at him, her face all at once clouding with pain. He suddenly realized she was not selfish, that she was capable of feeling sympathy for himself, a stranger. Behind the wall she had built about her, not all the pity she felt was for herself. “I’m sorry, Mr Malone. I hope - “
“So do I,” said Malone, softening towards her. “But time is running out. We need your help to get through to your son. He won’t talk to us - “
“There’s no guarantee he’ll talk to us,” said Birmingham.
“That’s why we’ve hesitated about going to see him.” Elizabeth Birmingham seemed to have aged ten years since Malone and Jefferson had come into this room with her and her husband; the night cream glistened on her face, but it would never eradicate the scars that had been inflicted on her in the past ten minutes. “You wonder where you failed, We’d given them everything - “
“Them?” said Malone.
He had been looking around the room again. There was only one photograph in it, a gilt-framed picture standing on a side table: Willard and Elizabeth Birmingham stood on the deck of a boat, arms linked and Birmingham holding
aloft some sort of trophy: they were both laughing happily, no relation at all to the two people here in the room this morning. There were no photographs of Mark, their son, or anyone else.
“Them?” Malone repeated. “Do you have any other children?”
Mrs Birmingham pulled her lips together; she had said more than she had intended to. Her husband sat up straight, clenched a fist and tapped it gently on the couch. Suddenly he stood up and went out of the room. Malone half-rose, but Jefferson shook his head. Mrs Birmingham sat quite still, staring at the two policemen; it was evident she knew her husband would be back. He returned in a few moments, carrying a large leather folding frame. In it, facing each other with quiet, knowing smiles, were Mark Birmingham and a beautiful, dark-haired girl.
“That’s Mark, taken just before he went to college. And that is Julie, our daughter, taken in her last year at college.”
“Where is she now?”
Birmingham hesitated, looked at his wife. Then: “We don’t know. We haven’t heard from her for almost four years.”
“Any reason?”
Birmingham sat down beside his wife again, looked at the two photos in the leather frame, then with an effort folded it shut. “You must wonder what sort of parents we’ve been-”
Malone could feel the sympathy for them welling up inside him: whatever they had done, they had done it for what they had thought were the best of reasons. But then his own selfishness swept in: his only interest was in getting Lisa back alive and unhurt.
“Mr Birmingham - “
But Birmingham didn’t hear him. “Julie wasn’t like Mark. She was much more outgoing - she lived our sort of life - ” He opened the frame, looked at the photos it held, then shut it again. Malone wondered how many times it had been
opened in the past four years. “She was at Barnard, doing so well - “
His voice suddenly broke and he stopped. His wife put her hand on his, then looked at Malone and Jefferson. “She met this boy, this Roy Bates. He was very political - “
“Was he an anarchist?” Jefferson said.
“I wouldn’t be surprised - “
Birmingham shook his head. “Be fair, Liz. We don’t know. We only met him twice - “
“Three times - counting the wedding. They were married down at City Hall. Julie and I used to talk about what her wedding would be like - I wouldn’t have minded how she was married if I’d thought she’d be happy - “
“We had no confidence in the boy right from the start,” said Birmingham. “We couldn’t see what she saw in him. He let us know right from the start that he had no time for what we stood for.”
“Where is he now?”
Birmingham glanced at his wife. Their clasped hands tightened,” then Birmingham said, “He’s dead. He was killed in a demonstration upstate, at one of the small colleges. He was hit by a policeman and he was dead before they got him to the hospital. There was an inquest and the policeman was exonerated. But Julie - “
“I remember the case,” said Jefferson, face expressionless. “Your daughter thought the cop was to blame?”
Birmingham hesitated, then nodded. “She said the policeman went berserk and clubbed her husband to death. We tried to tell her that perhaps the policeman had been
provoked - you’re just ordinary human beings like the rest of us-”
“Thank you,” said Jefferson, but Birmingham was deaf to irony. “Inspector Malone was saying that only tonight. Where did your daughter go after her husband’s death?”
“She came home here for a week, then one day she just disappeared. There’d been no argument with us - she just walked out one night when we were out. No goodbye,
nothing. Mark had a card from her about six months later, saying she was well and not to worry about her. She had always had a great deal of affection for him, always took his part if we chastised him - “
“What was the postmark on the card - do you remember?”
“New Orleans. But that was three, three and a half years ago.”
“Did you ever try to trace her?”
“Of course,” said Mrs Birmingham sharply. “We disagreed with her, but we loved her. We wanted her back - “
“You disagreed with your son too. But you’ve made no attempt to get in touch with him.”
“What are you trying to say, Captain?” Birmingham leaned forward, put the leather frame on the coffee table in front of him. He remained leaning forward, staring across at Birmingham. “That we want to disown our children?”
“Do you?” said Jefferson quietly. “Because if you do, that’s not gonna help Inspector Malone. And he needs your help - any help we can get - ” He looked at his watch. “We don’t have much time, Mr Birmingham. Do you want to have nothing more to do with your children?”
Both the Birminghams were silent for just that moment too long: they have considered the idea, Malone thought. Then Birmingham vigorously shook his head. “That’s ridiculous. If Mark wants us to, we’ll help him every way we can. And if it helps Inspector Malone - “
“And your daughter? What about her?”
Birmingham looked puzzled. “We don’t know that she needs help. If anything serious had happened to her, an accident or something, surely we’d have heard? People just don’t disappear without trace - “
“You’d be surprised,” said Jefferson, still amazed after thirty years on the force at the small worlds most people lived in. “Mr Birmingham, two of the phone calls we have had from the kidnappers have come from a woman. It’s a long shot - ” He glanced at Malone.
“If you’re thinking what I’m thinking, it is a long shot,” said Malone. “But what other odds have we got? Mr Birmingham, there’s a chance that that woman could be your daughter.”
“How? How the hell do you arrive at an idea like that?”
“Don’t ask for logic,” Malone said. “This whole bloody business never had any logic to begin with, not for me. The men in The Tombs claim they have no idea who’s trying to engineer their release - and we believe them. But someone must have some connection with them - this isn’t the work of a crank. Your daughter could be getting her revenge on cops, all cops, through her brother - without his knowing it-”
“Julie a kidnapper?” Mrs Birmingham gasped with shock and indignation; we’re demolishing her tonight, Malone thought. “What are you trying to do to us? My God, our children aren’t monsters - “
“I didn’t say they were,” said Jefferson. “But if your son was involved in the bombing and your daughter had anything to do with this kidnapping, then they have committed a couple of monstrous crimes. And we want to stop them before they go farther - if your daughter is one of the kidnappers. They have already told us that if we do not agree to the ransom demands, Inspector Malone and the Mayor will not see their wives alive again.” Jefferson was leaning forward now, speaking brutally. “We know at least one of the phone calls tonight came from Long Island, out at Patchogue. Do you know anyone out that way who might be sheltering your daughter?”
“Patchogue?” Birmingham shook his head.
Then Malone said, “Where was that photo over there taken? The one of you on that boat?”
Birmingham looked across at the photo. A slight frown crossed his face, almost a darkening of the skin as if a shadow had passed across it. He looked back at the two policemen. “Sunday Harbor. We have a summer cottage out there, and a boat.”
“That’s farther out on the Island,” Jefferson told Malone. “Does your daughter know of it, Mr Birmingham?”
“Yes. We bought it years ago, when she was a child. Before Sunday Harbor became as popular as it is now. We always spent our summer vacations out there.”
“When were you last there?”
“We closed it up just after Labor Day. We rarely go out there during fall and winter.”
Jefferson stood up and Malone followed him, seeing the quickening interest in the other man’s face. “We’d like you to take us out there, Mr Birmingham. Would you and your wife get dressed as quickly as possible, please?”
The Birminghams stood up, hands still clasped. They both looked afraid, suddenly aged. This could be the end of their life, Malone thought; and suddenly hoped Julie Birmingham would not be the girl he and Jefferson were looking for. It had happened so often in the past: he had too much pity for the victims, because there was never just one victim of a crime but many. Then he remembered who the principal victims of this crime were and the memory of Lisa suddenly blotted out the Birminghams.
They continued to stand without making any effort to go and get dressed and he said harshly, “Would you mind getting a move on? We don’t have any time to spare!”
He looked at his watch again, then at Jefferson, who said, “It’s half-past three. Get moving, Mr Birmingham, please!”
“You don’t have any right - “
“If your daughter is not out at the cottage, if she is not involved in this kidnapping, you can file a complaint with the Commissioner and I’m sure you’ll get satisfaction. If she is out there, if she is one of the kidnappers, I think she, as well as us, will need your help.” Jefferson looked at the two frightened people in front of him; he pitied them, but his face showed nothing of what he felt. “Take your pick.”
The Birminghams looked at each other. For Christ’s sake, Malone yelled at them silently, get moving! But even as they angered him, he understood their reluctance to move: this
house was their cocoon, they could not take the step that might shatter it. Then Willard Birmingham, still holding his wife’s hand, led her out of the room and upstairs.
“Do you think Sunday Harbor might be the place?” Malone asked.
“It could be. These summer resorts are pretty deserted this time of year. But we can’t go it alone from here on. When I’ve got the exact address, I’ll call Headquarters. We’ll take the Birminghams with us, meet the local cops out there - “
Then out in the hall there was the click of a phone being lifted. Jefferson whirled, moving surprisingly quickly for a man of his bulk, and was out in the hall in half a dozen strides. Malone followed him, grabbed the phone on the small table against one wall as Jefferson ran up the stairs.
Chapter Nine
Carole sat in one of the bedroom chairs and watched the two women as they ate the chili con carne. She had freed both of them, had allowed them to strip and now they were wrapped in blankets as, without any attempt at good manners, they wolfed down the food she had brought in. She had made no comment when Sylvia Forte had accused her of being afraid of Abel; but the longer she sat here the more she realized the Mayor’s wife was right. She was afraid of Abel and she did not know how she was going to handle him. Especially if the storm kept up and things continued to go wrong.
“Will this storm make any difference?” Lisa asked. “I mean to your plans?”
Carole looked at her suspiciously, then decided it was not a trick question. This was supper-time conversation; she was amused that the two women now looked on her as a friend and ally. “Possibly. All the airports have been closed. But don’t be hopeful - we’re not going to release you till our friends are safe in Cuba.”
“And the deadline is still the same?” Lisa dipped some bread in the chili con carne. It was a dish she would
normally have turned away from, but tonight she was so hungry she would have eaten anything, even an Australian sausage roll. “Nine o’clock today?”
“Today is right,” said Carole, looking at her watch. She found it hard to believe that so much time had passed since she had first met these two women. True, she had found the waiting burdensome, but all the events of yesterday morning were still so sharp in her mind that they seemed to have happened only an hour or two ago. “Mrs Forte’s husband doesn’t have much time left to agree to our plans.”
“How long does it take a plane to fly from New York to Cuba?”
“Four, maybe five hours. Depends how fast they want to fly. I hope for your sakes they fly fast.”
“Did you speak to our husbands again?”
“Not to Mrs Forte’s. But I spoke to your husband.”
“How did he sound?”
Carole smiled, not unkindly. “Worried.”
“Poor darling.” Lisa looked at the food left on her plate, then put the plate down on the dressing-table. Abel had screwed the legs back on the dressing-table, securing them more firmly with long nails. “Did he have any message for me?”
“No. What message could he have?”
“I don’t know.” Lisa shrugged helplessly. She looked up at the boarded-up window, then back at Carole. “Are you angry with us for trying to escape?”
“What do you think? You were lucky-” She looked towards the closed bedroom door, then said no more. Abel had turned up the sound on the television set again. She could hear the murmur of voices, the compulsive talkers and exhibitionists who could not resist the invitation to go on a talk show even in the middle of the night.
Sylvia had stopped eating, to pull up the blanket that had slipped from her shoulders. Both women had tried to dry their hair, but it was still damp and hung down lankly: the famous golden-red of her own hair was now almost as dark as (she looked in the dressing-table mirror, then hastily looked away) dried blood. She suddenly put down her plate and put her hand over her mouth.