Flynn

by Mcdonald, Gregory, 1937-2008

  "Maybe."

  "You will please describe the boy to me. Was he redheaded?"

  The pawnbroker blinked.

  "Of course he wasn't redheaded," said Flynn. "That would make it much too easy for me. Redheads learn early enough in life never to commit crimes in front of witnesses. What did the boy look like?"

  "Just a boy."

  "Was he dark or light?"

  "White boy. Dark hair."

  "How old was he?"

  "Eighteen."

  "Was he fifteen?"

  "Maybe."

  "Was he a big kid or a little kid?"

  "Big kid. Not tall. Heavyset."

  "Any distinguishing features?" rolled Flynn.

  "He was just a kid, Inspector. A clean-looking kid. His hair was brushed."

  "Wonder of wonders," said Flynn. "Color of eyes?"

  "I don't know."

  "Scars or marks on his face?"

  "No. Chipped tooth. Here in front." The pawnbroker pointed to the front of his own dentures.

  "Right in front there, eh?" Flynn studied the pawnbroker's dentures. "One tooth or two teeth?"

  "Two. I think."

  "Now, that's curious," said Flynn. "Would you tell me how you happen to remember such a thing as that?"

  "He was a clean-looking kid, Inspector. He looked like he had been well taken care of. But he had these chipped teeth, right in front."

  "I see," said Flynn. "Now surely that's a thought process you'd more likely have toward a boy of fifteen than a boy of eighteen?"

  The pawnbroker looked at the coins on his counter. "Maybe."

  Flynn lifted the violin case off the counter.

  He said, "Thank you for your cooperation."

  The pawnbroker shrugged.

  Grover had not moved the car from the near center of the street.

  Flynn put the violin on the back seat.

  Getting into the front seat, Flynn said, "Now, if you'd drop me home?"

  Grover stamped so heavily on the accelerator the car slipped on the wet pavement.

  "Shit!" he said. "Another violin!"

  Twenty-six

  After washing, Flynn settled himself at the head of the dining table.

  "Did the boys call in?"

  Elsbeth was ladling out the soup.

  "Todd at five minutes to four. Randy at quarter past."

  Flynn put his napkin in his lap.

  "Anything to report?"

  "Just that they're all right."

  "Good."

  Flynn tasted Elsbeth's good back-of-the-stove soup. Different every night.

  "I found Randy's violin," Flynn said. "In a pawnshop. But I forgot and left it in the car."

  He spread cream cheese on a cracker.

  "Would you believe," Flynn said, "that Ifadi Minister of the Exchequer, Rashin al Khatid, described as an unsophisticated man, flew to London on Zephyr Airways Flight 80, in the first-class compartment, Row 17, Seat A, B, or C?"

  Elsbeth said, "That's ridiculous."

  At the other end of the table, Elsbeth tasted the soup herself.

  "Isn't it just?" said Flynn.

  "Needs salt," Elsbeth said. "Jenny, pass the salt to your father."

  Twenty-seven

  Flynn said, slowly, very distinctly, "Mihson Taha?"

  The man who had opened the door to the hotel suite stared at Flynn.

  His white shirt was buttoned at the throat, but he was without a necktie.

  He was a strong-looking, heavy-shouldered man with a thickly muscled neck.

  He would not be the secretary.

  "No," said Flynn. "You're Nazim Salem Zoyad."

  The man began to swing the door to slam it in Flynn's face.

  Flynn kicked the middle of the door with the flat of his foot, hard.

  The door jerked out of Nazim Salem Zoyad's hand and hit him in the face, sending him staggering back into the living room.

  Flynn stepped into the living room of the suite.

  "Excuse me," he said. "I need to see the Minister. The name's Flynn."

  He had spent the entire morning visiting the security offices of various upper-class Boston hotels, showing his passport photos of Mihson Taha, Nazim Salem Zoyad and Rashin al Khatid, asking the simple question, "Did three men, traveling together, check into your hotel, under any names whatsoever, anytime Tuesday, including before dawn?"

  Registries had to be checked, desk clerks and bellhops interviewed.

  At one hotel, Flynn found himself confronting the president of a Canadian bank chain, his secretary and chauffeur.

  Finally, at Boston's newest expensive hotel, the Royale, the deskman had been able to confirm that three men, traveling together, had checked into a suite between three-thirty and four Tuesday morning. No one there could identify them from Flynn's photos. The men had taken all their meals in the suite.

  Their names, according to the registry card, were Desmond, Edwards, and Francini.

  "Ah, la," said Flynn. "We have them."

  It then took Flynn a few moments to dissuade the Hotel Royale security officer from accompanying him to the suite.

  Flynn did not state the reason for his interest in the men.

  It appeared to be a suite with a living room, two bedrooms, and a bath. The door to one of the bedrooms was open, showing twin, unmade beds.

  The door to the other bedroom was closed.

  A man slighter than Nazim Salem Zoyad, dressed in jacket and tie, stood up from the divan. He had been looking at a copy of Playboy magazine.

  "You're Mihson Taha," Flynn said.

  "And who might you be, sir?"

  "I might be anybody," said Flynn. "But I ain't."

  As Flynn was opening the bedroom door, Mihson Taha grabbed him by the shoulders.

  Flynn sent the heel of his right shoe smartly against the man's shin.

  The man removed his hands from Flynn's shoulders instantly.

  Rashin al Khatid, Minister of the Exchequer of the Republic of Ifad, was sitting up on a double bed, well-bolstered by pillows, reading an old, leather-bound book.

  "Good day, Your Excellency." Flynn closed the door firmly behind him. "Delighted I am to find you in the pink."

  His Excellency looked at Flynn over the top of the book, but said nothing.

  He, too, was dressed in a white business shirt, buttoned at the throat.

  Flynn had seen no luggage in the suite.

  The luggage had gone on the airplane.

  As Flynn moved to the foot of the bed, the door opened.

  Quietly, Nazim Salem Zoyad and Mihson Taha entered.

  Mihson Taha stood to one side, rubbing his shin.

  Flynn said, "It's my sad duty to investigate the explosion of Zephyr Airways Flight 80 to London, this last Tuesday."

  "A regrettable incident," said the Minister, "in the long and otherwise superior history of commercial aviation."

  "A blotch," agreed Flynn. "A veritable blotch."

  The Minister put his book down on his stomach.

  "I had the wisdom," he said, "to not partake in the flight myself."

  "I know," said Flynn.

  "We boarded the airplane in good faith," continued the Minister wearily, "secure in our belief proper and satisfactory arrangements had been made for us, but almost immediately discovered such was not the case."

  "Your seats were in Row 17," said Flynn.

  "Yes. The young ladies who were in charge of amenities said they could do nothing to help us change our seats, as we were three people, traveling together. One young lady, stewardess, said she might be able to help us change our seats after the plane had taken off, but by then I knew, of course, it would be too late. We had difficulty engaging the attention of any of the young ladies as a wild young man entered the plane just after us, with bandages on his face, striking the air with his fists, saying with boring repetition but undeniable exuberance the word 'peppermint.'"

  "So you left the plane," said Flynn.

  "I had no choice," said
the Minister, "but to make such a decision. Seventeen is recognized as the most unlucky number, in my part of the world."

  "Like our number thirteen," said Flynn.

  "Your regard for the number thirteen," sighed the Minister, "is based on a complete misperception."

  "I've always thought so," Flynn said.

  "I would be unwilling to fly on an airplane which even had a Row 17, if I knew it. For Zephyr Airways to present to me an airplane containing a Row 17 indicates not only foolhardiness on their part but a most undiplomatic insensitivity to the wisdom of my people. A complete insult to us." His Excellency smiled at his aide. "I am most grateful to my secretary for pointing out to me the number given our row. Otherwise I might not have noticed. I would not expect such an affront."

  "Well," Flynn said to the Minister, "you're every bit the boyo I expected you to be."

  "Can you call me wrong?" asked the Minister. "If I had sat in that seat I would be dead now."

  "Bless my nose, the plane crashed anyway," said Flynn.

  "But I was not on it."

  "And Row 17 was actually Row 7, if you take your count from number one, or Row 16, if you begin with ten and leave out thirteen, as they did; a hundred and fifteen people were blown to death in midair, it now appears, but never-the-mind, never-the-mind, Your Excellency's life has been spared by wisdom, sharp observation, and the powers-that-be."

  The Minister of the Exchequer dipped his head in solemn acknowledgment of Flynn's conclusion.

  "My curiosity is," said Flynn, "why you're keeping your being alive a secret all this while? Or am I about to be told it was curiosity that extinguished the tomcat?"

  "Are we keeping it a secret?"

  "I've seen few of your vital signs displayed on the television screen."

  "We're on a highly secret diplomatic mission, Mister um-ah—"

  "Francis Xavier Flynn."

  "Mister Francis Xavier Flynn. Your Department of State has extended to us, what shall we say, special passports, so that our visit here, to accomplish our most delicate and complex mission while enjoying the benefit of anonymity—"

  "I know about the phony passports," said Flynn. "I've even heard a word or two about your delicate mission."

  "Then you understand our inability to make joyous announcements concerning our miraculous—as you might say—preservation from disaster."

  "Oof," said Flynn. "The man does go on. Tell me, you blithering, blathering fig sprig, have you let anyone at all in on the secret that you're still drawing breath?"

  The Minister's eyes narrowed.

  "We have made the proper notification to our capital."

  "And what did they say?" asked Flynn. "Did a cheer go up from the streets?"

  "We are awaiting instructions."

  "'Awaiting instructions/ is it? And has anyone thought to notify the most generous and considerate United States Department of State that holders of phony passports in the names of Abbott, Barlett, and Carson are now taking in breath under the names of Desmond, Edwards, and Francini?"

  "Such a step, when and if taken, will be taken by our capital," said Rashin al Khatid.

  "So far, you know," Flynn winked at the Minister of the Exchequer, "your capital has said nothing."

  A crease appeared momentarily in the Minister's forehead.

  "The right decision will be attained by my government, at the right time, Mister Xavier Flynn."

  "Sure, sure," said Flynn. "In the meantime, we've got the Minister of the Exchequer of the Republic of Had miraculously risen from the dead living on the fourteenth floor of a Boston hotel—actually, the thirteenth floor, I'll have you know—under three phony passports and six phony names. By the way, where did you get that book you're reading, in Arabic?"

  The Minister glanced at his bodyguard before answering.

  "It was in my attache case."

  "Your attache case did not go down with the plane?"

  "No. I had it with me."

  "Your papers were saved?"

  Again the Minister hesitated. "Yes."

  "Miracles bloom in the spring."

  At the bedroom door, Flynn said, "I'll use your phone, if you don't mind. I'm having a police guard put on the door of your suite twenty-four hours a day. No one, including yourselves, is going to enter or leave this suite without my knowledge and permission."

  From his bed, the Minister of the Exchequer said, "Are we being placed under guard, Mister Xavier Flynn?"

  "Protected," said Flynn. "You're being heavily protected."

  Twenty-eight

  "What's that, now?"

  Flynn leaned forward, putting his eyes close to the steamy, rain-specked car windshield.

  A crowd was collected on the steps of the Old Records Building on Craigie Lane. Television trucks from three networks, cars emblazoned with the names of various newspapers clogged the streets. Some of the people held television cameras; others held still cameras; still others, microphones.

  On the steps of the Old Records Building stood Baird (Robert Cullen) Hastings, facing the crowd, looking lean and somber, hands in the pockets of a dark overcoat, collar turned up.

  "Here," Flynn said to Grover. "Let me out. I've got to see this."

  Flynn turned up his own coat collar and stood in the crowd.

  Hastings was answering a question.

  "I've not been charged with murder," Hastings said. "Mass murder. As far as I know, I'm not being charged with this most heinous deed. I have been questioned. Extensively. By the police."

  Flynn couldn't hear the next question.

  "Yes," said Baird Hastings. "I have been told that I am a prime suspect in this case."

  Nor could Flynn hear the next question.

  "Of course. I admit it," was the answer. "When I was a kid in the Army I was trained to deal with explosive materials. I was trained in demolition."

  "Who told you you're a prime suspect?"

  "Inspector Flynn."

  As he was standing behind the reporters, most of their questions were blown out of Flynn's hearing.

  "No, I do not now have access to dynamite or any Other explosive materials," Hastings said.

  In answer to the next question, he said, "Yes, it is true. Within this period of time, recently, I bought some dynamite. I had a license to use it. I mean, to buy it and use it. I used it to get rid of some rocks in my backyard."

  "Who says you didn't have some left?"

  "Absolutely not. I used all the dynamite to blow up the rocks. You're invited to my place anytime. You can take pictures of the evidence. You can see what I've done."

  "How can we see rocks that aren't there anymore?"

  "Mister Hastings, if you used all the dynamite to blow up the rocks, you must have known enough to buy exactly what you needed. I mean, known enough about dynamite."

  "Of course. Anyhow, dynamite isn't the sort of thing you leave lying around."

  "Therefore, you must have a pretty good idea of how much dynamite you'd need to blow up a 707."

  Hastings shrugged. "Not much."

  "Not much of an idea, or not much dynamite?"

  "Not much dynamite. It wouldn't take much dynamite to blow up an airplane."

  Another question was blown away on the wind.

  Hastings pinched the top of his nose.

  "I loved that man. Daryl Conover was one of the all-time great actors—and not just in the Shakespearean field. Maybe the greatest." Hastings' hand brushed his right eyelid. His voice dropped. "He was also a very dear friend."

  "Is it true you and he had a big fight on opening night?"

  "Of course not."

  "Then why did he leave the show?"

  "He was upset," Hastings said. "Very upset that night. Something about taxes. English taxes."

  "Is that why he went home? Back to England? To pay his taxes?"

  Hastings' eyes fell on Flynn in the crowd.

  Quickly, Hastings looked away.

  He faltered before answering the question.

/>   "Conover was not leaving my production of Hamlet for good. He just had some personal problems. Something about English taxes. We were going to work something out."

  Flynn began moving around the crowd, to enter the building.

  As he was climbing the steps, collar up, hat brim down, very much in the background, he heard Hastings saying, "Yes. I am here to be further questioned. I mean, questioned further. By the police. By . . . Inspector Flynn."

  Alone in his office, wishing he had taken time to have lunch at the hotel, Flynn listened on the telephone to the voice of John Roy Priddy—N. N. Zero.

  "I have terrible news for you, Frank."

  "Oh?"

  "Yes. Always hate to be the bearer of sad tidings."

  "And you don't enjoy the dragging out of your giving of the bad news, either, do you?"

  "A friend of yours is dead, Frank."

  "And who might that be?"

  "Are you sure you can take bad news?"

  "I'll try to be brave."

  "Are you sitting down, Frank?"

  "I'm jumping with anticipation. There might have been a will."

  "I have two dispatches from Ainslee, capital of the Republic of Ifad."

  "No! You don't say."

  "I do."

  "You can't!"

  "The first one reads, and I'm reading it to you: 'The Government of the Republic of Ifad—' "

  "It can't be."

  "—reports, with sorrow, the death of the Minister of the Exchequer, Rashin al Khatid, at the age of forty-six.' "

  "Poor man. Did he suffer long?"

  " The Minister's death was sudden, of an apparent heart attack, as he worked at his desk late last night.'"

  "He died serving his country," said Flynn.

  "Do you need more? The report goes on to say the Minister had been in office only six weeks—"

  "Six weeks?"

  "Yes."

  Flynn said, "He is risen."

  "What?"

  "At the moment he's on the fourteenth floor of a Boston hotel."

  "Who is?"

  "Rashin al Khatid. Also Nazim Salem Zoyad. Also Mihson Taha."

  "Are you serious?"

  "Yes. I just left them."

  "What are they doing there?"

  "I doubt they're waiting for a fourth for bridge."

  "They never got on the airplane?"

  "They got on it, but they got off again. Which is why we all thought they were on it. They had handed in their boarding passes. The airlines had the insensitivity to try to seat His Excellency and aides in Row 17."