"Very nice," said Flynn.
"Rome is lovely this time of year."
"It was raining when I left," said Flynn. "Cool."
He had wondered why N. N. had telegraphed him the Rome weather report. Anything to keep Flynn's cover straight.
As he had not been telegraphed what organization he was supposedly representing, he was reasonably sure the question would not arise.
His credibility had been established efficiently by his knowing what the weather had been that morning in Rome.
"Sit down, Mister Flynn. We'll answer any questions to the best of our ability."
The Kassel-Winton Bank had not been easy to find.
Down an alley in the old Huguenot section of Boston, Bay Village, the bank was far from the city's financial center. Looking at the alley from across the street, one could only see a coffee shop.
To enter the alley, Flynn had to mount three of the stone-apron stairs leading to the coffee shop, and walk down their other side.
Number 11 (there were only six addresses in the alley) was the middle building, on the left. The far end of the alley was blocked by stout posts and a chain.
He had to ring a doorbell and wait until a small man opened a small door to him. Flynn identified himself by name only. The small man seemed mostly interested in seeing that Flynn was alone; that no one else lurked in the alley.
After hanging Flynn's overcoat carefully in a hall closet, the man led Flynn up a carpeted flight of stairs.
On the lower floor, to his left, Flynn had seen a white-jacketed man clearing silver from a dining table. Two side doors in the dining room were open, to rooms beyond.
The upper storey, too, was extended well beyond the original size of the house, carpeted corridors going past several closed doors.
The Kassel-Winton Bank obviously was all three houses this side of the alley, with a single entrance.
The office to which he had been shown, Henry Win-ton's, enjoyed the central position in the three houses.
The four men sat in the comfortable room.
"Rashin al Khatid," Flynn said, removing his pipe from his breast pocket. "The Ifadi Minister of the Exchequer. I need to know everything."
"Yes," Clarke Frings said.
Robert Mattock said, "Mister Flynn, you understand, of course, that we never discuss our clients, or our clients' business. Mister Winton thinks there's reason in this instance for an exception to be made."
"There is." Flynn sucked on his cold pipe.
"I see," said Mattock.
"Mister Flynn," asked Frings, "is it conceivably true that Flight 80 to London the other morning was shot down by a rocket?"
"It is." Flynn continued to suck on his cold pipe.
"I think," said Winton, "we have every reason to answer Mister Flynn's questions."
"Yes," said Frings.
"First, Mister Flynn," proceeded Robert Mattock, "do you know that the Minister, his secretary, and bodyguard were in this country using United States passports especially prepared for them by the United States State Department?"
"I do." Flynn reached for his tobacco pouch in his jacket pocket.
"Names of Carson, Bartlett, and Abbott," said Frings.
"What were they doing here?" asked Flynn.
"A banking matter." Frings looked cautiously at Winton.
"Having to do with International Credits," said Winton.
"All very complicated," said Mattock.
"I daresay." Flynn tapped tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. "Perhaps you could explain."
Mattock and Frings looked at Winton.
"Well," said Winton.
"You see," he said. He sat back in his chair in a studiously relaxed pose. "Our understanding is the new Republic of Ifad needs to replenish its arsenal."
"Ifad is buying weapons," said Flynn.
"Purely defensive weapons," said Mattock.
"From the United States," added Frings. "Which explains the United States passports, of course."
"How much?" asked Flynn.
"Well." Winton jerked forward in his chair. "That all depends on the value of money, of course, at any given time."
"How much," Flynn asked, "was the total arranged for in International Credits for the Republic of Ifad?"
Everyone, including Flynn, looked at Winton.
He said, "A quarter of a billion dollars."
Frings cleared his throat. "That really isn't much, Mister Flynn, when you consider what the level of international arms flow is at the moment."
Flynn said, "I know."
"This matter isn't as complicated as Mister Mattock indicated," said Winton. "You see, Ifad has a quarter of a billion dollars' worth of gold, built up over the last few years from their oil resources—"
"Where is the gold?" asked Flynn.
"In Ifad," said Frings, "buried in the courtyard of the presidential palace."
Flynn hesitated before lighting his pipe. "Are you serious?"
"I saw it two weeks ago."
"Literally," Flynn asked, "you mean it is buried in the President's backyard?"
"There are steps going down." Frings tried to show with his hands. "An iron door. Guards."
Winton laughed. "Exactly, Mister Flynn. You see, we, as bankers, have the responsibility of getting that money out of there, recycling it, as it were, putting it to work again, providing jobs—"
"—and guns for Ifad," added Flynn.
"Well, we'd provide anything," said Winton, "as long as the money comes into our factories. What they want are guns."
"Guns are what they all want," said Mattock.
"What they should want," said Frings, "are air conditioners. Have you ever been to that part of the world, Mister Flynn?"
Flynn didn't answer.
"We talk to them about air conditioners," Winton said, "building food-freezing plants, irrigation systems—"
"What they want—" said Mattock.
"Are guns," said Frings.
"Right," said Flynn. "So you did arrange a quarter of a billion dollars in International Credits for the new Republic of Ifad?"
"Yes," Winton said.
"With which credits, Ifad is to buy a quarter of a billion dollars of American weapons?"
"Yes," said Winton.
"How does this work?" asked Flynn. "I'm particularly interested in the timing of it."
"Well—" Frings looked at Winton.
"I'm not sure I understand the question," said Mattock.
Flynn said, "The man got on the airplane at three o'clock in the morning and ten minutes later the plane blew up. I want to know what happened before that."
"I see," said Mattock.
"The Minister," Winton began, "Rashin al Khatid, arrived last week. Wednesday, was it?"
"Wednesday," confirmed Mattock.
"Of course, we knew about the proposition before he arrived. Clarke Frings had already been to Ifad for preliminary discussions—"
"To make sure they had the gold," said Frings.
Winton laughed. "That's right. Arrangements for such a matter as this are rather easy. Of course, we had the weekend in the way. By Monday night, late Monday night, we had already communicated with London, Zurich, Rome, and had had our final communication from Tokyo. We gave a little dinner downstairs for the Minister, signed the necessary remaining papers. What else happened? The Minister communicated with his capital. Mister Frings went in the car with them to the airport."
"He communicated with his capital, you said?" asked Flynn.
"Didn't he?" Winton asked Mattock.
"Actually, his secretary did. He sent the actual message."
"And what happened to the papers which were signed?"
"We're not prepared to expose those in detail, Mister Flynn," Winton said quickly. "I'm afraid you'd have to bring the full force of the law—I mean, United States law—to see them. Nothing under the rug, of course, but international credit communications, you know—I mean, we have our own international credit to conside
r."
"I didn't ask to see them," said Flynn. "I asked, what happened to them?"
"We have our copies," Winton said simply. "The Minister had his."
"He took them with him?"
"Yes," said Winton. "As far as we know. That would be normal procedure."
"We went forward with our communications of confirmation the next morning precisely as arranged," Mattock said. "Needless to say."
Flynn blinked at him. "Needless to say."
"Banking does go on," Winton said. 'The death of a single man ... I mean, these arrangements are so delicate."
"Tell me," Flynn said, as he resettled the contents of his pipe bowl. "About the Minister. What sort of a man was he?"
"Very cautious," said Mattock.
The three men laughed.
"I believe Mister Flings knew the Minister best," said Winton.
"We're laughing, Mister Flynn, because the Minister-was, well, overly cautious."
"Even by our standards," said Mattock.
"A great deal of what we did between Wednesday and Monday," said Winton, "was, frankly, hand holding. This man, the Minister, had never been through this sort of a deal before. Well, what could you expect? He's only been in office a short time; it's a new government in Ifad—"
"Not a classy fellow?" asked Flynn.
"Well—" continued Winton, settling his dark green tie inside his dark brown suit, "they're a government newly in office; they find a quarter of a billion dollars in their basement, in gold; supposedly they're representing The People, doing their first deal with us big guys—"
"He was nervous?" asked Flynn.
"Scrupulous," said Frings.
"Overly cautious," repeated Mattock.
"He went over and over and over everything," said Frings. "He balked at the most common, standard phrases. Everything had to be translated seven ways to Sunday, and then reinterpreted and explained again and again."
"He didn't know what he was doing?" said Flynn.
"He didn't know what he was doing," agreed Winton. "Actually, Mister Flynn, there was no reason for his being here at all. We were glad to entertain him, of course, however difficult that was—"
The three men laughed again.
"—but really what we were doing was educating him on how to press buttons, you see. . . ."
"Why was entertaining him difficult?" asked Flynn.
"Oof! He was scrupulous that way, too," said Frings. "Food and drink. Impossible! Thursday morning we had to go out and hire an expert. A consultant. On how to entertain this fellow. No liquor, of course. Dietary laws I still don't understand. To the point of superstition."
"Usually, Mister Flynn," Winton explained, "Arabian businessmen these days are a little more flexible, in their personal habits. At least those sent abroad are."
"Even the Minister's secretary, Mihson, was somewhat flexible. Not Rashin. Even Mihson expressed a degree of exasperation."
"The Minister," said Winton, "was a very precise, deliberate, inflexible man."
"You were glad to see the back of him," said Flynn.
Winton smiled. "We would never say such a thing."
"And Mister Frings," asked Flynn, "you took him to the airport?"
"Yes," said Frings. "In the bank's Lincoln. Which then dropped me at my apartment."
"You didn't enter the airport with the Minister?"
"No," said Frings. "Didn't want to cause too much attention, you know. Bad enough as it was, the man traveling with a secretary and a bodyguard. Anyhow—"
"You were glad to see the back of him."
"I'd never say such a thing," said Frings.
"How did he act on the way to the airport? Normal?"
"For him. He sat in the corner of the back seat clutching his attache case. Thanking us. For a nice time."
"Well," Flynn banged his pipe ashes into a gold ashtray on the desk. "So do I. Thank you. For a nice time."
Winton laughed. "You were no trouble, Mister Flynn."
Flynn said, "Are you sure of that, now?"
"Going back to Rome right away?" asked Mattock.
"Possibly."
Sincerely, Frings said, "I could take you to the airport, Mister Flynn."
"You could not," said Flynn. "You never know. I might be superstitious myself."
Twenty
If Sassie was right, that Charles Fleming's, Junior's, room on Forster Street was a complete mess, Flynn was never to know it.
Through the thin door, he heard two sports programs blaring simultaneously from radios.
Flynn had to pound his fist.
"Who is it?"
The radios did not diminish in volume.
"Inspector Flynn! Boston Police!"
"Go away!"
" 'Go away,' he says," muttered Flynn. "What kind of an imposter do I have to be to do my job now?" He shouted, "Open up! I need to talk with you!"
"You want to talk to me about my father!" Chicky's voice was near hysteria.
"I do! You're right, lad!"
Chicky's voice, quieter, much closer to the door, said, "Do you have a warrant?"
Flynn hesitated. The young man was the son of a judge. He probably knew what he was talking about. Cautiously, Flynn said, "What kind of a warrant?"
"A search warrant," Chicky said. "An arrest warrant."
Flynn said, "I've got a beguiling smile."
"Get out of here!" the voice shrieked.
"Listen, lad, I only need to talk with you. Not search you or arrest you!"
The volumes of both radios increased to crashing noise levels.
"Get the fuck out of here!" the voice shrieked, now fully hysterical. "Go away! Go away! Go away!"
"Ach, well." Flynn buttoned his overcoat. "There's a lad in more trouble than he knows ... standing on his rights."
Twenty-one
"Good-bye, Fucker."
Marion "Forker" (as the newspapers were obliged to write his name) Henry, ex-World Middleweight Champion boxer, had said nothing.
Flynn had questioned him gently, fairly sure the boxer was not a great repository of information, anyway.
The boxer, dejected, depressed, possibly recently catatonic, had remained sitting in the plastic chair in a bedroom of the suite in the cheap hotel near Boston Garden. The window shades were down. One bedside light shone dully. His shoulders extended far beyond the shoulder seams of his shirt; his arms far below the bottoms of his sleeves. The shirt was taut across his chest and voluminous around his waist. Clothes looked as inappropriate on Marion Henry as they would on a Greek statue, a Mack truck, or any other massive sculptural achievement.
Staring into the darkest corner of the room, Fucker had listened to Flynn's first questions without responding at all.
Finally, he put his mammoth hand to the crown of his head and wiped down his hair to his forehead a few times as if whisking off water after a shower, then rubbed his face, vigorously, in a circular motion. He sat forward, and put his hands on his chin.
He began to say something, and stopped.
The boxer was crying.
"Listen." Alf Walbridge closed the door between himself and Flynn in the living room and Fucker in the bedroom. "Inspector."
Alf Walbridge, Fucker's manager, was a skinny little man in a Stewart plaid vest.
"You got to understand."
"What do I have to understand?" asked Flynn,
"The kid's not himself."
"Who is he, then?"
"I haven't let any reporters see him at all, We should have been back in Detroit by now. The kid won't move." Alf jerked his thumb toward the bedroom door, "Percy Leeper's biggest mourner."
"I'm not sure I understand," said Flynn.
"Listen. Have you ever boxed?"
"Not by prearrangement," said Flynn.
"You look like you could've. Listen. You've got to get psyched up for it. Weeks you train. I'm gonna kill the son of a bitch. I'm gonna kill the bastard. Running five miles, working the bag, skipping rope, working with
a partner—everything's done to the rhythm, I'm gonna kill him, I'm gonna kill him. Everybody says to you, Kill the bastard, Fucker, kill him, kill him."
"I agree," said Flynn. "The metaphor is excessive."
"Listen. Think how he feels. He goes into the ring, ready to kill the bastard. It's a fair fight. He loses to the Leeper. He comes back, hurting bad, inside and out, really suffering, no press, suddenly he's a bum, and then he begins to really resent and hate. Got it? The psyching machinery we've been working on for weeks goes haywire. It always does. Then he really wants to kill the bastard. They always talk rematch, right away, quick. They want it the next night. I'll kill the bastard, Alf, I'll really kill him. Then, while he's in this mood, three, four o'clock in the morning, whatever it was, he hears the fuckin' plane blew up, Percy Leeper's on it, blown all over the fuckin' harbor. Get it?"
"I think so," said Flynn.
"Listen, that kid in there is really suffering. He's got guilt for killing a hundred people. He believes he was really wishing the Leeper dead. It's very big in his mind. Can you understand?"
"I can understand," said Flynn. "But the thought never entered my wee mind that Fucker might be the assassin. I was thinking more of the people behind him, his friends and supporters."
Alf s chin jerked up. "What d'ya mean?"
"People like you. And your friends."
"What are ya talking about?"
"I'm talking about the mob," said Flynn.
"What are ya talking about? The mob."
"The mob," said Flynn.
"Jesus! Every time anybody says anything about the fight game, they're talking about the mob right away. Sure there's been money behind Fucker, invested in him, we aren't sure exactly where it all came from. There is in the real estate business, too. In the banking business. In the cookie business. In the police business, Flynn!"
"I expect you're right."
"So what are ya saying?"
"Supposing Percy Leeper had been paid to throw the fight and he found himself winning against your Fucker and decided he liked it, or maybe couldn't help himself and won anyway—"
"Never happened!" The little man was outsized by his own indignation. "Never happened!"
"What did happen," Flynn continued in his quiet voice, "is that Percy Leeper, after fighting a whole match, got on the first plane leaving this country— four hours later—and that plane blew up!"
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