Flynn's In

by Gregory Mcdonald

  He dropped himself into a massive leather chair near the fireplace.

  “What’s what’s-his-name doing here?” D’Esopo said quietly, tightly into the fireplace.

  The Commissioner was almost as big a man as Flynn, which was very big indeed. Whereas Flynn’s head was peculiarly small for his body, D’Esopo’s double chin and increasing baldness made his head seem almost too large. Too many administrative lunches and politic dinners had caused the Commissioner’s waist to swell below his huge chest.

  Softly, Flynn said, “Commissioner, you do remember Detective Lieutenant Walter Concannon, don’t you? Been retired for some time now.”

  The retired Detective Lieutenant stood in the middle of the room looking like a very small island far out in a very big sea.

  “Of course.” The Commissioner sighed. He turned from the fire and approached Cocky with his hand out. “How are you, Walter?”

  “Fine, thank you, Commissioner.”

  “I hear you’ve been a great friend to our unorthodox Inspector Flynn. Solve all his cases for him without moving a muscle.”

  Then the Commissioner glanced at Cocky’s left side and winced at his own tactlessness. “Forgive me. It’s early in the morning. I haven’t slept much.”

  Cocky smiled as much as he could. “Without moving half my muscles, Commissioner. You have me on half pay.”

  “He uses all his very considerable brain,” said Flynn. “For which he’s not paid at all.”

  D’Esopo looked from Cocky to Flynn.

  “Cocky’s enforced retirement,” Flynn continued quietly, “is a discouraging testament to the value the Boston Police Department places on brains.”

  After digesting this apparent digression, D’Esopo said to Cocky: “Frank was supposed to come alone, Walter. He couldn’t have heard me.”

  “Sure I heard you,” Flynn said from his chair. “Have I ever not heard anything, to my infernal regret? Now, charitably, I am giving you a chance to see. Whatever it is I’m to do here, I mean to let you see up close that I’ll do it the better with the able assistance of Detective Lieutenant Walter Concannon.” Then Flynn added: “Retired.”

  “Always the personal angle, Frank,” D’Esopo muttered. “Always reforming the world.”

  “Sure,” said Flynn. “It’s part of my charm, it is. Can’t have part of me, you know, without acceptin’ the whole man. That’s what needs say in’ here.”

  “Walter,” D’Esopo said. “I don’t blame you for coming. I’m sure you’re an innocent victim of Flynn’s relentless idealism.”

  “Well said,” said Flynn. “And true.”

  D’Esopo returned to the fireplace. “But, Frank, I’m not sure you and I are going to survive this intact. That’s what needs sayin’ here. No matter what your motives, I doubt you’ve done Walter a favor by bringing him along.”

  “That bad, is it?”

  Taylor entered with two cups of tea on a tray. D’Esopo fell silent.

  “Some sort of a private club, is this?” asked Flynn.

  “Yes,” D’Esopo said.

  “For hunting and fishing? Bringing to halt the beasts that run and swim?”

  “Hunting and fishing,” D’Esopo said.

  Cocky took his cup without the saucer.

  “And does it have a name,” asked Flynn, “other than The Rod and Gun Club?”

  “It’s called The Rod and Gun Club,” said D’Esopo.

  “Not a name designed to attract much attention.” Flynn took his own cup of tea. “Sure, you wouldn’t see the signs leading to it unless you knew they were there. Very big, is it?”

  “Two thousand acres,” said D’Esopo.

  “Two thousand acres!” marveled Flynn, settling back with his tea. “Some spots on this earth calling themselves countries aren’t as big as that!” He sipped tea. “And tell me: does the chain-link fence, four meters high, with barbed wire on top run around the whole two thousand acres?”

  “It does,” said D’Esopo.

  “And is it for keeping the beasts of prey inside, or those who would pry outside?”

  Across the room, Taylor had stopped to straighten some magazines on a table. Under the tall table lamp he was taking a long look at Flynn.

  “I guess it does both,” said D’Esopo.

  “Many members?” enquired Flynn.

  “I don’t know how many members, Frank. Do you?” he asked the butler.

  “No, sir.”

  “I’m not a member,” D’Esopo said. “I was invited here for the weekend.”

  Cocky had replaced his empty cup on the tray Taylor had left on a reading table. Dragging his left foot behind him, he was floating around the room with apparent aimlessness.

  “Cocky,” Flynn said. “You’re a guest of a guest of a guest. Delicate standing indeed. We’d better plan to make our own beds.”

  Picking up the tray, Taylor laughed out loud.

  “Cocky identified Governor Caxton Wheeler leavin’ as we were arrivin’,” said Flynn.

  “Did he?” asked D’Esopo indifferently.

  “Cocky tells me the man is being mentioned as a possible presidential candidate.”

  D’Esopo shrugged. “Anything’s possible—as you love to say.”

  Taylor left the room.

  Flynn finished his tea.

  “Eddy,” he asked. “Why am I here?”

  “There’s been an accident, Frank.”

  “Ach!” said Flynn. “Almost thirty years on the police force, and the man uses a euphemism like that! Why don’t you just tell me, man, who did what to whom?”

  D’Esopo hesitated. “It’s possible someone shot himself while cleaning his shotgun.”

  Flynn put on a surprised face. “A shotgun! What a mistake! Even someone who’s never seen a shotgun before knows instantly whether it’s loaded.”

  D’Esopo said nothing.

  “For that matter, Eddy,” Flynn asked gently, “after almost thirty years on the police yourself, if an investigation is needed, why aren’t you investigating it yourself?”

  “I wouldn’t.” D’Esopo took a moment to organize his thoughts. “Twenty-seven years on the police force. Right, Frank. But I started as a rookie on the beat. Came up through the ranks. I have a Ph.D. I got it at Northeastern University night school. Frankly, I, uh…. My wife has a large family. Spread throughout the city. With some political enthusiasm. They’ve been able to do the right things, over the years, without my, uh—”

  “—having to commit or compromise yourself,” Flynn finished for him.

  “I know cops, Frank. I know crooks. I know a certain level of politicians. I’ve been invited to The Harvard Club and the Algonquin Club a few times…”

  “Nothing like this place, you’re saying.”

  “I don’t know these people, Frank.”

  “They intimidate you.”

  “I’ve never been given your full dossier, Frank. Sergeant Whelan has passed around scuttlebutt about your mysterious meetings at Hanscom Airbase, and other places.”

  “Ah, Grover,” mourned Flynn. “If that man had a brain instead of a mouth, the world would be better served.”

  “How many times is it now I’ve given permission to have you pulled off everything while you disappeared God-knows-where to do God-knows-what for God-knows-who? It always goes in the record that you’re off with an attack of appendicitis or colitis, and I always sign it. How many times have you had your appendix removed, Frank?”

  “Let me count the scars.”

  “My suspicion is you’re not off hosing down the ordinary, garden-variety crook.”

  “Eddy,” said Flynn. “Your speech is becoming colorful.”

  “Exactly,” said the Commissioner. “Mostly what I do these days is sign personnel excuses and give after-dinner speeches about our fully dedicated men in blue.”

  There was a rattle and stomping from the front hall. A man’s voice said, “Never saw such perfect light. Full creels an hour before breakfast. I wonder if it�
��s some sort of record?”

  “I doubt it,” said another voice.

  D’Esopo stopped talking.

  Two men in fishing gear and stockinged feet entered the room. They looked surprised in seeing men in the room they did not know.

  Cocky glanced at Flynn in surprise.

  One of the men Flynn faintly recognized. He had seen pictures of him in the newspaper, on the television.

  “Good morning,” the man said.

  “Good morning,” answered D’Esopo.

  “Ring for Taylor, will you?” one man said to the other. He came across the room to the bar table and poured himself three fingers of Wild Turkey bourbon.

  He downed it in a swallow. “They were really biting,” he said to the room at large.

  After pressing a wall button, the other man went to the bar table. They each made themselves taller drinks, with bourbon, ice and water.

  Taylor came through the small door by the other side of the fireplace.

  “Taylor,” one of the men said. “Our creels and boots are in the front hall. You’ll find them full.”

  “Both the creels and the boots!” laughed the other man.

  “Full creels. But ol’ Hewitt sure isn’t the man he used to be.”

  Taylor acknowledged their wishes, then said to Commissioner D’Esopo, “Mister Rutledge has heard Mister Flynn is here. He’d like you both to go up, now.”

  “All right.” D’Esopo moved a little too fast halfway across the room. He looked back to see why Flynn wasn’t following.

  Slowly Flynn rose from the comfortable chair by the fire. He crossed the room to Cocky and took him by the left elbow.

  He walked Cocky into the front hall.

  From a few steps up the wide, wooden staircase carpeted in forest green, D’Esopo said, “Frank. This doesn’t include Walter. Just you and me, please.”

  “Just having a quiet word with the retired one, Eddy. I’ll be right along.”

  Flynn turned his back to the stairs and asked Cocky quietly, “Who are those two men?”

  “One is Senator Dunn Roberts.” Cocky did not seem surprised at Flynn’s not recognizing a United States Senator. He gave Flynn the Senator’s party affiliation and state.

  “And the other one?” asked Flynn.

  “I’m pretty sure it’s Walter March. You don’t see too many photographs of him.”

  “And who’s he when he’s at home?”

  “He owns a lot of newspapers.”

  “A powerful man, would you say?”

  “Very.”

  “Oh,” said Flynn. “I see. I think I’m beginning to see.” Flynn asked Cocky one more question: “What’s a Rutledge?”

  “There is a Charles Rutledge,” Cocky answered. “Any utilities he doesn’t own, he’s on the boards of. He’s an art collector. Also, I believe, through his wife he invests in theater.”

  “Cocky.” Flynn started up the stairs. “You’re worth your weight in lobster tails.”

  4

  “Charles Rutledge the Second.” The man in the dressing gown announced his name as if stating a universal certainty, such as, The East is where we say the sun rises. In shaking hands with Flynn he did not smile. His eyes, cold for brown, beamed into Flynn’s only long enough to tell him that Flynn never, ever would surprise him. “My assistant, Paul Wahler.”

  The other man in the room was dressed in a full, three-piece dark suit, necktie, black city shoes. His smile, when he shook hands with Flynn, looked as if it came from a box. In his left hand was a manila folder.

  Outside was full daylight, however gray and overcast. The dark morning and the small windows required the lights to be lit in the small living room of Suite 23. The chairs and divan in the room were patterned in large, bright flower blossoms. Through a partially opened door, Flynn saw an unmade bed.

  “I’ve telephoned some of the others,” Rutledge said to Commissioner D’Esopo. “They concur in our decision, and advise us to go forward as planned.” To everyone, he said, “Do sit down.”

  The four men sat on the blossoms. Rutledge took the chair with his back to the window light.

  “At The Rod and Gun Club, tradition is that we dispense with titles and ranks, Flynn.”

  “Very democratic, I’m sure,” said Flynn.

  “How much has D’Esopo told you?”

  “He’s been as quiet as a Chihuahua in a snowstorm.”

  “I’d like to meet with you twice this morning, if you don’t mind,” Rutledge said. “I want to meet with you now to stress the delicacy of this matter. After your—shall we say?—discreet preliminary investigations, I’d like to meet with you again. Say about ten o’clock. That should give you time to view the body and have a good breakfast.”

  “And whose body am I viewing,” asked Flynn, “before the toast and marmalade?”

  “Oh, we can provide you with a better breakfast than that,” smiled Rutledge. “The body is of Dwight Huttenbach.” Rutledge waited futilely for Flynn’s reaction. “You don’t know who he was?”

  “Already having an impression of your membership,” answered Flynn, “I would suppose he was a barber keen on huntin’ and fishin’.”

  Rutledge’s smile assured Flynn Rutledge was not surprised. “United States Congressman Dwight Huttenbach.” He mentioned Huttenbach’s congressional district, state and party affiliation. Neither the state nor the party affiliation matched the state or the party affiliation of the United States Senator downstairs sipping a preprandial bourbon.

  “By the way,” Rutledge added, to D’Esopo. “I’ve talked with his wife. Mrs Huttenbach. First name…”

  “Carol,” said Wahler.

  “Seems to be taking it as well as can be expected. She’s on her way up. To Timberbreak, that is.”

  “I see,” said D’Esopo.

  Flynn noticed slight perspiration on D’Esopo’s face. Even in his tweed suit, Flynn was surely not warm enough to perspire.

  Rutledge said to Flynn: “The Congressman was killed by a shotgun blast.”

  “‘Was killed,’” echoed Flynn. “I see you’re not givin’ me the accidental euphemism.”

  Rutledge opened the palms of his hands to Flynn. “I’m not a policeman, Flynn. I have no expertise in such matters. You need to go see what is to be seen. I’ve asked Wahler to drive you.”

  Instantly, Wahler stood up to go.

  Looking at Rutledge’s silhouette against the window, Flynn said, “Usually people rush to show the police the corpse. Seldom are we invited in, given tea and, in a word, read our rights.”

  “You brought a man with you, Flynn.”

  “My driver.”

  “I’d like you to vouch for his discretion.”

  “You mean, his silence?”

  “This is a delicate matter, Flynn,” Rutledge said most reasonably. “Huttenbach was young, with a wife and children. Other family. He represented an important constituency. He was enormously popular, greatly respected. A young man with a great future in national politics. I believe it important not to nullify such a man in death. Don’t you? Don’t you think it important not to break people’s hearts?”

  A week before, also at dawn, Flynn had arrived at a city housing project. A man had been stabbed to death by his wife. They had eight children. People from the project were stirring around in various sleep apparel, barefooted for the most part, crying, screaming, shouting things that were not understandable. Broken hearts were all over the sidewalk and the stairs. Most of the eight children were huddled in a corner of the open kitchen, like so many wide-eyed, trembling mice in a trap. One fat daughter sat on a bed watching cartoons on color television. The man had been nullified—as had his wife.

  “Something terrible has happened,” Rutledge said. “I’m sure you agree with me it’s important, for all concerned, that the right face be put on it.”

  Flynn looked at Rutledge’s silhouette another long moment.

  Then, without saying anything, he stood up from his chair.


  Wahler had opened the door to the corridor and awaited Flynn.

  D’Esopo went through the door.

  From his chair, Rutledge said, “Paul, wait for Flynn downstairs, will you?”

  Wahler nodded and left, closing the door behind him.

  Rutledge said: “Flynn, would it surprise you to know I’ve talked with the head of No Name this morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re right. I haven’t. And I wasn’t about to say I had. You could find out I hadn’t too easily.”

  “What you’re trying to say is you believe you could, if you wanted to.”

  “Something like that. I have telephoned other people about you this morning. Since D’Esopo recommended you for this job last night.”

  “ ‘This job?’ ” asked Flynn. “I don’t remember applying for a job.”

  “I know something of who you are, Flynn.”

  Discreetly, Flynn yawned. “You’re trying to tell me you’re more important than the Commissioner of Boston Police.”

  “I guess I am.” Rutledge stood up. “I’m sure I don’t need to present images to you of carrots and sticks.” He shook hands with Flynn again, as if they had agreed on something. “Don’t commit yourself in any way, Flynn, or talk to anyone, including your friend, Concannon, until you come back and talk to me.”

  “Kippered herrings,” said Flynn.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “I wouldn’t mind kippered herrings for breakfast. With my toast and marmalade.”

  5

  “The idea is, Flynn,” Wahler said, turning the ignition key of the Rolls Royce, “you’re staying in the motel, Timberbreak Lodge, down the road. It will be an easy matter for you to introduce yourself to the local police, and offer your assistance.” He backed the car around. “They’ll be delighted to have you confirm their findings.”

  In response, Flynn committed himself to silence.