"Never happened!"
"It happened," said Flynn. "The plane blew up."
"Listen. Leeper wanted to get home fast, while the fans were still cheering. Big airport scene. It always happens. It's good for endorsements."
"The plane blew up."
"Nothing like that happened. Listen. Are you crazy? The big guys don't play like that. Listen, how much would the payoff on a match like this be? A half a million? Maybe. A million? Not for the Middleweight. So you think the big guys would kill a hundred people because they lost a half a million bucks on a match? Don't be crazy."
"I don't know 'the big guys.' "
"A little guy? Maybe. Like this pharmacist here in town, in trouble a hundred grand, his banker, his uncle or somebody says no, credit's always been good, he's always paid, so he bets another hundred G's on Fucker. And loses."
"A pharmacist?"
"Now there's a desperate man. What d'ya say? A madman!"
"Was the pharmacist's name Fleming, by any chance?"
"I don't know. Heard about it in the bar downstairs. Chicky, Chicky something. He'd blow up an airplane. Killing a hundred people? The big guys are too cool for that, Flynn. And what d'ya think? You think only America's got a mob? Why don't you suspect the English mob paid us off to lose?"
"Did they?"
"No. Nobody paid anybody. This was a clean fight. When you get into a world championship match, Flynn, there's no funny stuff. Believe me. It gets too expensive. Too many eyes and ears. It would ruin the game. Listen." Alf picked up a newspaper off the coffee table and slapped it down again. "I admit. Fucker's beaten some fighters who are classier than he is. Okay? He got the championship fair and square. There's no way he could beat the Leeper. Everybody knew that except one stupid pharmacist in Boston. You think the big guys didn't know that? You're crazy. Maybe the whole thing was a setup. From the beginning. You get me? I admit. Somebody's been making that kid in there look better than he is. For a long time now. Leeper outclassed him. Outfought him."
The little man fell into a cheap, upholstered chair.
"With Leeper dead," asked Flynn, "who gets the World Championship now?"
"No one. It has to be contended."
"But Leeper's death puts your boy, Fucker, back at the top of the heap, doesn't it?"
"I suppose so."
"Even without the championship, he returns to his former position: he's the man to beat, right?"
Alf said, "I suppose so."
"You 'suppose so'? You know so. Otherwise you wouldn't be sitting here in this dank hotel room in Boston nursing the boyo. Would you?"
Alf Walbridge put his hands on top of his head and looked at Flynn.
"You know, Flynn. You're a brave man."
"It's possible," said Flynn, "that someone, or some people did not want the Middleweight World Championship crown to leave the United States. When you consider all the possibilities resulting from control of the championship, you find yourself thinking of millions and millions of dollars, not just a few hundred thousand."
"You're on the wrong track, Flynn. Listen to me: absolutely the wrong track,"
"Am I, indeed?"
"Absolutely on the wrong track." The man sat forward in his chair. He was sweating. "And if you're not," he said, quietly, "believe me, Fucker and I know nothing about it."
"I'm sure," said Flynn. "But I'm not sure that boyo sitting alone in that dark bedroom, doubled over with suffering, isn't giving the question full consideration, in at least one part of his damaged brain."
"I tell ya, his guilt is pure psychological."
"Call me," Flynn said, "if either one of you want to give me some names."
"Yeah, yeah," Alf Walbridge said. "We'll be in touch."
Twenty-two
"Not very well," Flynn answered into the telephone mouthpiece. "We've developed some interesting local leads, but we haven't had anything I'd call a real break yet."
At the other end of the line, John Roy Priddy— N. N. Zero—said nothing, waiting for Flynn to amplify.
Alone in his office, Flynn swiveled his desk chair, put his feet on the radiator, and looked out his window at the lights on the harbor.
"For example," he said, "the English actor, Daryl Conover, walked off an expensive production of Hamlet opening night, leaving the producer, Baird Hastings, with a bagful of cats meowing for their suppers. As Robert Cullen Hastings, our boyo was trained by the United States Army as a demolition expert. We also know he bought a quantity of dynamite to help in his gardening a short while ago."
"Sounds good," N. N. Zero said.
"Doesn't it, though? We know he didn't buy the dynamite to blow up the airplane—nothing that premeditated—but we know he could have had dynamite Monday night when Conover walked off on him, absolutely ruining him. And, after watching him a bit, I'd say he's a man of moods."
"Worth further investigation," N. N. Zero said.
"Yes. We would need to pin down precisely where Hastings was from eleven-thirty to three Monday night, Tuesday morning. Simple matter."
"You haven't done so?"
"Then," said Flynn, "there's the Human Surplus League joyfully claiming credit for the human fireworks display. Nobody seems to be getting anywhere at the job of finding them. As I told you, I sent my own lads, Todd and Randy, out to track them down. Haven't heard anything from them yet."
"Yes."
"There's another small possibility," Flynn said. "As I told you, aboard that plane was the English boxer, Percy Leeper. He had just won the World Middleweight Championship."
"What could he possibly have to do with it?"
"I'll tell yGu," Flynn said. "There's a rumor around that his opponent, Fucker Henry, the ex-champion, enjoyed pretty strong backing from the mob. Either they might have been double-crossed by Leeper, who couldn't help himself winning, despite after possibly being paid off. Or they simply didn't want to lose control of the Middleweight crown this side of the Atlantic. In either case, I understand, from only one source, mind you, that Leeper's timely demise makes Fucker Henry the top contender again—the man to beat. I would guess there could be millions involved in having control of the next championship matches, to say nothing of the illicit profits to be reaped from the resultant wagering."
" Tucker'? Is that what that nickname really is?"
"It is," said Flynn.
"The newspapers print it Torker.'"
"I know."
"Some smart guy I am. I never caught on."
"Newspapers still don't print the absolute truth of everything," said Flynn. "There's still some decency left."
"I always wondered what 'Forker' meant." "It means Tucker,' " Flynn said gently.
"What else, Frank? Quit forking around."
"A man named Nathan Baumberg," Flynn said. "Vice-president of Zephyr Airways. In charge of aircraft maintenance. Either is or was involved with the Jewish Defense League."
"Phew."
"Precisely. However, I can't quite put this together. He had the motive, the opportunity, and, of course, the wherewithal. However, we have not developed evidence yet that Baumberg knew, or could have known, that Rashin al Khatid, the Ifadi Minister of the Exchequer, was aboard that plane, traveling under another name, on a U.S. passport, buying a quarter of a billion dollars' worth of arms for the Republic of Ifad."
"JDL Intelligence isn't that good, Frank."
"I wouldn't think so."
"Furthermore, the JDL would never do a thing like that. Kill over a hundred innocent people—"
"I wouldn't think so," said Flynn. "I'm sure not. But any fringe section of its members, or ex-members might. Trouble with a group like that, they can't always control their members. Especially their ex-members. People who left the JDL with one discontent or another."
"What would their purpose be in blowing up the plane—punitive?"
"Is there any way," Flynn asked, "they could stop the sale of arms by murdering Rashin al Khatid on his way home with a quarter of a billion in his
pocket?"
"Funny you should say that, Frank. One of the two things I have to tell you is that the sale of arms to the Republic of Ifad was canceled today."
"It was?"
"It was."
"All of it?"
"The whole quarter of a billion."
"Who canceled it? The United States?"
"No. The Republic of Ifad. No reason given. The United States was expecting to go through with the deal."
"There's no way anyone could have expected otherwise," Flynn said.
"I wouldn't think so."
"So maybe they were scared off."
"Maybe they were."
"Tell me, sir, has there been any announcement from Ifad concerning the death of their Minister of the Exchequer?"
"Not yet."
"Odd."
"Not so odd. The guy was traveling on a phony passport. Don't worry. He'll die next week in an auto accident in the Zol Desert."
"Then," said Flynn, "there's another intriguing lead. It has to do with a son who is a compulsive gambler. Always before his father's paid his debts for him. Now the lad is impossibly in debt. Daddy can't pay. He goes on that airplane, insured for half a million dollars— he thinks, or somebody thinks—and the airplane blows up."
"Name?"
"Fleming."
"Judge Fleming?"
"And son. A very sick young man. A very desperate young man."
"Sounds good."
"You said that before," said Flynn. "Two things wrong with it. So far, we haven't placed the son at the airport. As far as we know, he did not go to see his father off. And young Fleming isn't talking, voluntarily. Second, the son isn't the beneficiary of the insurance— his stepmother is.
"And then," Flynn continued, "we've got one hundred and twelve other people aboard that airplane. The above are just the immediately obvious leads."
"You've done well in a couple of days, Frank."
"We haven't even begun," Frank said. "As I said, we haven't had any real significant break yet. I haven't heard that bell ring, you know. Soon now, I'll give these leads to the FBI, all done up lovely in a package, with a ribbon, for them to follow up, and then I'll go see what else I can find."
"Don't despair, Francis."
"Wouldn't think of it. But trying to find the reason for the simultaneous deaths of one hundred and eighteen people ... it's like The Bridge of San Luis Rey, if you take my meaning. There's a single cause, there has to be, but I wonder about so much more."
"Don't turn mystical, either."
"I'll suppress it. You said you had two things to tell me. What is the other?"
"The United States Navy has reported there was a Russian submarine in Massachusetts Bay, Monday night."
"You don't say! The idea of the rocket rears up again."
"They pursued. The decision not to apprehend the sub was made at the very highest level of United States government."
"Well, now, there's nothing mystical about that!"
"But, Frank, no one can figure out why the Russians would do such a thing—blow up an American commercial jet."
"To demonstrate to the world they can?"
"I think everybody knows they can, Frank."
"Do you suppose the wee Republic of Ifad is making war-like gestures at the mighty Union of Soviet Socialist Republics?"
John Roy Priddy laughed.
"Well," said Flynn, "could it have anything to do with the arms sale going to the United States?"
"Nonsense," said N. N. Zero. "We're only talking about a quarter of a billion dollars."
"Pardon my manners," said Flynn.
"Everybody's bigger than that."
"Still and all, as an example?"
"Would you believe it?"
"No."
"Thought not. Neither would I. You and I botK have too much experience that side of the fence. Anything you need, Frank?"
"Yes. I want photos of Rashin al Khatid, Mihson Taha, and Nazim Salem Zoyad. Copies of their passport photos will do."
"I doubt it. As you realize, they were purposely made a little blurry."
"Better than nothing," said Flynn. "I want to discover what else our boyos did, other than penny-banking, while in Boston."
"They'll be on your desk in the morning."
"Thank you."
Cocky said, "Grover's waiting downstairs, in the car, to take you to the airport"
"And to the pawnshops," said Flynn. "Don't forget the pawnshops, on the way home."
Into the telephone, Cocky said, "Inspector Flynn's office."
"Ah, Cocky. A lovely, warm cup of Eyebright tea, well-steeped. Good in the gizzard."
Cocky handed Flynn the phone. "Hess. FBI."
"This is the President of the United States," Flynn said into the phone.
"Flynn," Hess said, "is it true you arrested Mrs, Charles Fleming this morning?"
"Yes," said Flynn. "It is."
"You went ahead and did a stupid thing like that, without even informing us?"
"I did," said Flynn.
"What in Christ's name made you do a thing like that?"
"I was inspired," said Flynn. "By staff."
"You mother-fucking, cock-sucking son of a bitch!"
"Now, now," said Flynn, "you're raising your voice."
"Son of a bitch!"
"Mind your manners," said Flynn, "or I'll have to put down the receiver and complain about an obscene phone call."
"I told you you're not to do anything without us!"
"I heard you."
"Then what the fuck do you mean by going out and arresting the wife of a federal judge for mass murder without a shred of evidence?"
Flynn tugged the ruby and diamond pin from his vest pocket—the pin I. M. Fletcher had sent Jenny— and looked at it, turning it this way and that in the light.
"It's all right," said Flynn. "I let the lady go, after giving her a nice French lunch."
"Jesus Christ!"
"The issue is over," said Flynn. "For the time being."
"It is like hell! For the last time, Flynn, I'm ordering you to report to the Command Center at the airport, at once!"
" 'Command Center'? Which do you call that, the broiling conference room, or the freezing hangar?"
"Get over here! Conference room! Now!"
"I wouldn't go near that airport," said Flynn, "if you were offering free ice cream to everyone under the age of forty-two!"
Twenty-three
"Airport," Flynn said. He settled on the passenger side of the front seat. "Command Center. Then on the way home, we'll stop at a pawnshop."
"Pawnshop."
Grover jerked the wheel violently to the left and made the car jump from the curb.
He turned the windshield wipers on. There was a blowing mist.
"How are you the now?" asked Flynn.
The welts on Grover's face appeared purple in the dark car.
"Well," Flynn said to the lack of response. "Perhaps you'd report to me the details of your visit to the home of the widow Geiger in Newton?"
"Nothing there."
"No house? Nothing?"
"No evidence," said Grover.
"Oh, that!"
"Her husband," intoned Grover, "one Raymond Geiger—"
"Juan Raymond Geiger?"
"One Raymond Geiger."
"Oh."
"—was in the shoe business."
"I see," said Flynn.
"He was going to London Monday night, or Tuesday morning, on Zephyr Airways Flight 80."
"Yes."
"To have business meetings in London, and then go on to Frankfurt, Germany. They're a well-to-do family. Big house, Lincoln Continental Mark IV, Mercury station wagon. Lawns. Kids."
"Then why did the boyo insure himself for five thousand dollars before boarding a plane?"
"His wife says he did that all the time. A superstition. For burial expenses."
"More superstition."
"His wife says he made a joke of it—as long as
he bought flight insurance and was prepared for the plane to crash, he was sure it wouldn't happen."
Flynn said, "I never thought of flight insurance as an object of comedy. The Flemings had a giggle over it, too. I wonder if the insurance people understand they might as well be in the dial-a-joke business? It would save them from having to pay off on their policies, ever."
"They're not going to, anyway," Grover said.
"Oh?"
"Not right away, anyway. Mrs. Geiger showed me a letter she'd received saying the insurance company was withholding all payments until after the explosion of Flight 80 had been completely investigated."
They were able to move through the tunnel slowly but steadily.
Coming out of the tunnel, Flynn said, quietly, "I wonder if you can tell me what on God's green earth possessed you to go out to Kendall Green and arrest Mrs. Charles Fleming, especially without fair notice to anyone?"
"The same thing that would have possessed you, if you'd had any police training, or experience."
Grover showed his badge to the man in the toll booth, and rolled his window back up.
"And what would that be?" Flynn asked, gently.
"Shit," Grover said. "You and your women."
"Me and my women?"
"A cop is taught, Inspector"—the Sergeant stressed Flynn's rank unkindly—"to keep his emotional cool, his detachment, at all times."
"What a relief," said Flynn.
"The other day at the Fleming broad's house, your eyes were all over her."
"They were."
"You were big-eyed—" Grover expostulated. "Blind!"
" 'Big-eyed blind.' That's as close to poetry as you've ever come, Grover."
"You had the hots for her. Right away. Deny it."
"I don't deny it," said Flynn. "Whatever it is it means."
"Jesus. Pink motorcycle. The wife of a federal judge —herself a college teacher, a consultant for the Boston Police—riding a pink motorcycle. Jesus!"
"Yes," said Flynn. "I was even taken by the pink motorcycle."
"You didn't hear a word she said. She virtually confessed, Frank! You didn't even hear her."
"No. I didn't hear her confess."
"Look, Frank. The Judge was twenty-two years older than his wife. She's thirty-one. He was fifty-three*"
"I remember your making some comment on that matter."
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