Flynn
Page 4
"What more is known about the Human Surplus League?"
"Not much. Nothing."
"Can't their posters be traced? Through a printer or something?"
"Everything's homemade. They use cardboard from boxes, paint from spray guns you can get anywhere,
Their circulars are usually typed on a Selectric and duplicated on a number of different machines. I have one of their circulars here."
"What does it say?"
" 'Do The World A Favor—Drop Dead.' "
"Advice they might consider taking themselves, under the circumstances."
"Well, we haven't cracked them. As I say, they're new to the area. Only been here about six weeks. We're checking with other police departments to see if anyone has any experience with these people. All we can say is they appear to be one of these mass-murder cults. It would explain the senseless killing of over a hundred people, Frank."
"Yes. It was dramatic enough."
"I'll call you when I get a copy of their statement, Frank. Read it to you."
"That's all right," said Flynn. "I can buy the Star."
Cocky entered, dragging his left leg behind him, carrying a cup of tea in his right hand.
"Ah, Cocky," said Flynn. "An answer to a prayer."
Cocky spilled a little of the tea on the folded towel Flynn had on the edge of the desk for just that purpose—for Cocky to spill on it.
"That's lovely," said Flynn.
Detective Lieutenant Walter Concannon, while arresting counterfeiter Simon Lipton (actually while reading him his rights in the living room of his home), had been shot in the spine by the counterfeiter's nine-year-old son, Petey.
Lipton was sent to prison, Petey to a home, and Detective Lieutenant Walter Concannon was retired, his left side partially paralyzed.
Flynn had never met the man, but he stopped by the
retirement celebration for Cocky one night on his way home, and had a few quiet words with him about chess.
The next morning at nine, Cocky limped into Flynn's office on the third floor of the Old Records Building on Craigie Lane, a hand-tooled, wooden chessboard and chess set under his right arm.
While Flynn said nothing, but watched, Cocky set the game up on an unused table at the side of the office.
A half-hour later he returned with two cups of fennel tea on a small tray in his right hand.
He set a cup on each side of the chessboard.
Then he moved Pawn to King Four.
Cocky had been in the office ever since, answering the phone, taking messages, making tea, typing the occasional letter with the fingers of his right hand, always impeccably dressed in one of his old patrolman's suits, white shirt, and tie. He was a wizard at research.
Flynn suspected Cocky had set up a room for himself somewhere in the building, a cot, a chest of drawers, a hot plate, but he never asked. Times he had invited Cocky to his home, for a Sunday musicale and dinner, Cocky had always refused.
And the chess games had continued. Sometimes Flynn won.
Flynn took his tea.
"I see you finally moved your Bishop," he said.
The right side of Cocky's face smiled.
Without picking it up from the desk, he was scanning the passenger list of Zephyr Flight 80.
"Murder isn't enough," said Flynn. "Now it has to be mass murder. Simple murder doesn't make the headlines anymore."
"Percy Leeper." Cocky pointed to a name on the list.
"Now who might that be?"
Cocky opened the morning newspaper he had left on Flynn's desk to the sports section.
Flynn had never known whether Cocky was taciturn as a result of being shot, or if he had always been short of words. He was a great one for showing rather than telling.
The main headlines were: limey cops world middleweight crown — Leeper TKO's Henry in Ninth.
Center page was a large photograph of a boxing scene. Knees and arms straight, one man was falling back, heading for the canvas.
The other man, in stance to hit again, had a perfect boxer's body, with light hair splayed over his ears and a marvelously mashed nose.
"So that's Percy Leeper," said Flynn. "World Champion at midnight, a charred corpse falling through the sky three and a quarter hours later. A theme worthy of Chaucer, Cocky, but somehow I don't find it comic."
Flynn looked up the telephone number of the Cartwright School.
"A federal judge, a Shakespearean actor, a world champion athlete. 'Surplus humans'—I don't believe!"
A woman, doubtlessly an office secretary, answered the phone.
"Cartwright School. Good morning."
"Good morning. This is Mister Flynn. I need to speak to either of my sons, Randy or Todd."
"I'm sorry, Mister Flynn. They can't be disturbed. They're in the play yard."
"What did you say?"
"I said, they can't be disturbed. They're in the play yard. This is their soccer period."
"I heard what you said. My asking you to repeat was solely a device to see if you'd have the bald-faced courage to do so. Now that I see you have, allow me to repeat myself. I said I need to speak to one of my sons. I did not phrase it as a matter of whimsy. I did not say, if one of my sons happens to be standing next to you with an ear cocked I might put a word in that ear. I did not say, if one of my sons happens not to be engaged at the moment I would like to speak to him, as I presume the school to which I send my sons keeps them engaged in one pursuit or another more or less continuously. I did not say, if it is convenient for you I would like to speak to one of my sons, as what is convenient for you at the moment is of little relevance. Lastly, of most importance, I did not ask your permission to speak to one of my sons, as I do not now and never will need the permission of you or anyone else to speak to one of my sons. Now, if I have made myself sufficiently clear, get one of my sons to the telephone in the quickest manner of which you are capable."
There was a digestive pause.
"One moment, Mister Flynn."
Cocky was grinning.
Hand over the mouthpiece, Flynn said, "I'm a bully, right? I get bloody sick of every mother's child answering the simplest request with an insubstantial 'No.' It's an automatic response. Go up to anyone on the street and say, 'Say "yes" or "no",' ninety-nine out of a hundred of them will say 'No.' "
"If you actually did that," Cocky said, "you'd be arrested."
"Would I, indeed?"
"It's called Open Solicitation."
"I hadn't thought of that. Well, there's entirely too much law, too."
"Da?"
Todd was panting.
"Are you both on the soccer field?"
"Yes."
"Good. All sweaty and smelly?"
"Yes."
"Grand. I don't want you to shower. Either of you."
"Why?"
"I thought you might ask that. Because I want you to do a job for me."
"Great."
"I want you to go home directly after school, maintaining your present odor of soccer, get dirty jeans and whatnot out of the laundry hamper, put them on, put the rest of them in knapsacks, and get onto the subway."
"Okay."
"At precisely five o'clock this afternoon, I want you to come up out of the subway in Harvard Square. Grover will be there, inadvertently, of course, radiating the fact that he is a flatfoot of the meanest disposition. He will yell at you, pursue you, and proceed to arrest you. I want you to make as much of a scene as possible. Run in opposite directions, yell, let him catch one of you. Rough him up. You won't mind doing that, will you?" , "No."
"Now's your chance. I don't know why I always give the best jobs to other people."
"Is he to arrest us?"
"No. You're both to escape. Separately. Then stay separate."
"What are we doing?"
"I'm sending you underground. I want you to find a charming group of people supposedly doing business in Cambridge calling themselves the HSL—the Human Surplus League."
"There wa
s something about them in the newspaper the other day."
"There's something about them in the newspaper today, too. They're claiming credit for blowing up that airplane last night. Charming group."
"If either of us finds the group, are we to penetrate it?"
"Yes. You're on the lam from the fuzz, you see."
"I've got it."
"If one of these kindly underground citizens' groups doesn't pick you up within the hour, begin inquiring of the street people where you can crash for the night. Is that the right word—'crash'?"
"Right on."
"Thank you. If you make enough of a scene with Grover, you should be picked up fairly quickly. If not, I expect the story of your escaping the fuzz will have enough currency, quickly enough, to gain you entree in even the most undesirable home."
"Then we follow our noses to the HSL?"
"Yes. The headlines in today's paper, particularly the Boston Star, will give you a reason for bringing the topic up. Express admiration for them."
" 'Cool,' " Todd said. "I dig that scene. I gotta get with them, Man.'"
"Words to some such effect. Do your best. Be careful. Call your mother every day at four o'clock."
"Yes, sir."
"Remember: don't take a shower."
Cocky was still studying the passenger list. "Find anything else interesting?" Flynn asked. The phone rang.
Flynn said, "Hello?"
"Thirteen?"
"Yes."
"N. N. here. One moment." It was less than a second's wait. "Frank?" It was N. N. Zero. "Yes, sir."
"Can you meet me at Hanscom Airfield?" "Yes, sir."
"I should be there in an hour." It was twelve-thirty-five. "I'll be there." Flynn hung up.
Hand still on the receiver, Flynn said, "Huh!" Cocky said, "Anything wrong?" "Yes," said Flynn. "My teacup is empty." Cocky glanced quickly at Flynn, and left the room, with the teacup.
"Elsbeth?"
"I got the window glass. I didn't even have to stand on line. Such a wonderful country. Plenty of everything for everybody."
"N. N."
"Oh?"
"Zero."
Without pausing, she said, "Shall I pack a bag for you?"
"I don't think so. I'm meeting him in an hour. Wanted you to know."
"In case you disappear."
"Also, I've asked Randy and Todd to do a job for me."
"Oh?"
"Something called the Human Surplus League is taking credit for the air explosion last night. I asked the boys to go find out who and where they are. It might take a few days."
"Oh, Frannie. Is it necessary to use them?"
"Elsbeth, these people may have murdered one hundred and eighteen people."
"I suppose so. Will they be safe?"
"Sure," Flynn said. "These people are only interested in mass murder."
Seven
Grover entered the office carrying a brown paper bag,
"Where's Hanscom Airfield?" Flynn asked.
"Out Route 2." .
"How long will it take us to get there?"
"Half hour. Less. I brought sandwiches for us."
"And did you bring one for Detective Lieutenant Walter Concannon, Retired, Sergeant?"
"I forgot. I got chicken salad for you."
He was taking sandwiches wrapped in paper out of the bag.
"But that isn't the big news," Grover said. "Guess who boarded that airplane last night after trying to take out half a million dollars' worth of flight insurance?"
"The pilot?"
"No."
Grover bit into his roast beef sandwich.
"That means I have only one hundred and seventeen more guesses, right?"
Cocky entered with the cup of tea.
"The Honorable Charles Fleming. Judge Fleming."
"You don't say! The Justice might not be so honorable?"
Cocky put the teacup on the towel.
"Grover brought you a sandwich, Cocky," Flynn said.
Cocky glanced at the sandwich on Flynn's desk and the half sandwich in Grover's mouth, and snorted.
Flynn said, "Then I'll eat it myself. What was the Honorable's address?"
Grover checked his notebook.
"The Meadows, Wood Lane, Kendall Green."
"Has a nice ring to it. Sylvan."
"Expensive."
"Where's Kendall Green?"
"Out Route 2."
"Near the airfield?"
"No."
"Did you say this is a chicken sandwich?"
"Chicken salad."
"Well, the chicken escaped with his life in the making of this sandwich. Very little indeed was taken off his hide. What are these green lumps in it?"
"Celery."
"That's the salad part, is it? All held together by a white paste it looks somebody has already masticated."
"That's mayonnaise, Inspector."
"The great thing about American prepared food is how completely it's prepared. It's even pre-chewed."
Grover said, "You don't like your sandwich?"
"Well, there are three of us famous detectives standing over it, and any one of us would be hard-pressed to discover the chicken in it."
"It cost a dollar and a half," said Grover.
"Your father should have taught you not to waste your money. Now, were there any other passengers aboard that plane this morning who had either the foreboding or the prescience to insure their last few breaths?"
"One." Grover checked his note pad again. "A guy named Raymond Geiger, lived in Newton, insured himself for five thousand dollars."
"Well," said Flynn, "five hundred thousand dollars to one man might equal five thousand dollars to another. Still, half a million dollars is a lot of money. You buy this sort of flight insurance through machines, don't you? Feed it quarters or something?"
"Dollar bills," Grover answered.
"Oh, yes, of course. The only thing you can get for a quarter these days is two dimes and a nickel."
"I expect other people were insured for that flight, Inspector."
"Oh, yes?"
"Remember that a percentage of the passengers, probably most of them, were through-passengers from San Francisco, Chicago, Atlanta."
"Yes. They would have taken out insurance for the whole flight wherever they started it. I'm afraid we'll have to leave much of that to the Fibbies. The things we can do on this case are strictly limited."
Grover said, "It really is a case for the FBI?"
Flynn said, "Yes."
"I mean, it is entirely in their hands?"
"Yes."
"Only they have the resources, Inspector, to solve it?"
"Yes."
"I mean, all we're supposed to do is help them out however we can—not go off on our own?"
Flynn said, "Yes."
Cocky was standing over the game of chess, studying it.
Flynn said, "You heard that the Middleweight Champion of the World, the English boxer, what's-his-name, Percy Leeper, was aboard that plane?"
"The FBI guys were talking about it after you left, Inspector. That was some fight last night."
"Did you see it?"
"I was with you last night, Inspector."
"Oh, yes. So you were. And the HSL, the Human Surplus League, has notified a newspaper that they were responsible for blowing up the plane this morning. The little darlings."
"Bunch a little cock-suckin', mother-fuckin' sons of bitches."
"Oh," said Flynn, "do you know them?"
"I know their type."
"They believe there are entirely too many of us on earth, and sometimes I'm not entirely sure they're wrong."
Grover said nothing.
"Entirely," said Flynn. "Which reminds me. This afternoon at five o'clock, I want you to meet Randy and Todd, who will be emerging from the subway in Harvard Square at precisely that moment, carrying knapsacks, and make a noisy attempt to apprehend them."
"Arrest them? You want me to arrest your sons?"
"No. I want you to try very hard to arrest them, creating as big a scene as you can, and fail."
"Inspector—"
"I'm sending the lads underground, Grover. In pursuit of the HSL."
"They're your kids, Inspector."
"They are that. Fine lads, too."
"Inspector, it is wrong of you to use your own kids on an investigation."
"You've mentioned that before."
"Wrong, wrong, wrong. Against Department regulations. There's no way to protect them."
"I'm sure you're right, Grover. But, you see, I've got a peculiar contention. I was striking a few blows for righteousness when I was a lad, and I don't see why they can't have a few early whacks themselves. Life isn't all Brahms, you know, and any Da who raises his kids thinking so is doing them no favor."
"It's wrong, Inspector."
"Think of it as a family tradition," Flynn said. "And do what you're told, as a means of beginning a few family traditions of your own.
"In the meantime," Flynn continued, "I remind you that I want a map of Boston with a red dot indicating every pawnshop, especially in the north and east sides of the city. I want a blue circle around the red dot for every pawnshop particularly close to a public transportation system. Have you got that?"
"I don't see what it has to do with the explosion of the airplane."
"Ah," said Flynn. "The Lord and Police Inspectors work in mysterious ways. Now, after this magnificent repast you so thoughtfully provided of celery, goo, and air-blown bread, do you think we can find Hanscom Airfield?"
As he stood up, Flynn crumpled the goo-smeared sandwich papers into a ball and dropped it into the wastebasket.
Flynn said, "Do you see what my next move is, Cocky?"
Over the chess set, Cocky grinned at him.
"You're not telling me, is that it?" Flynn looked at the board. "I'll figure out something."
"Inspector," Grover asked, digging car keys out of his pocket, "why are we going to Hanscom Airfield?"
"To see an old friend of mine," Flynn answered, "who's dropping by, just for the moment."
Eight
RAMP TO RUNWAYS OFF LIMITS EXCEPT TO AIRPORT PERSONNEL.
"Go down there," Flynn said,
"It's off limits."
"We won't get run over."
"We haven't identified ourselves to airport personnel."
"I daresay they'll ask."
It was one-thirty-three.