State Department Murders

by Edward S. Aarons

  Sally touched his arm and said, “Steps ahead.”

  Dimly through the dark mist he made out the angular shape of a ladder going down into the water from the edge of the dock. Cornell caught at the slippery, moss-grown strut ahead and hauled the boat forward. There came a bump as Hannigan lifted his head too eagerly. His curse echoed under the planks. Cornell’s flashlight played on the broad ladder used at low tide. There was a wide ledge on the underside of the pier, formed by a massive, foot-thick beam that supported the edge of the planking. He could see nothing on it. Just barnacles and moss.

  Then something winked in the beam of his flashlight, a twinkle of metal. Cornell pulled the boat forward once more, then reached up into the recess over the beam where it met the edge of the ladder. The reflection had caught on the shining metal lock of a brief case. He hauled the leather case down with a quick exclamation.

  “Got it!”

  The book had richly tooled, red leather covers with a strong spring clip in the back that held the sheets of closely typed pages firmly together. Just a book, Cornell thought. But it contained the lives and hopes and follies of a hundred prominent men. The fabulous, fearful black list of Jason Stone. A motive for murder, a reason for life and death. It should never have been owned by any man.

  They were gathered in the upper room of the boat-house where Jason Stone had died. The signs of violence had been removed. On the floor was a sand-colored shag rug, smooth and neat on the dark, waxed planking. The monk’s-cloth drapes were drawn over the wide windows open over the creek and dock below. The old-fashioned brass and milk-glass lamp shed a warm, dry light on the wall paneling, where the grim face of Jason Stone watched them out of dead eyes painted on canvas. Cornell wondered who had gone to the trouble to restore order up here. He had heard nothing about servants being returned to Overlook. Probably it was the work of Sam Hand and the crew of the boat. It didn’t matter.

  “It’s all here,” he said. “These are Jason Stone’s private dossiers on men who are important in political and industrial life today. The statements specialize in everything from murder to peccadillos with blondes. Each page gave Stone a string with which to manipulate his puppets as he pleased.”

  “Nice guy,” Hannigan said.

  Gootsie’s face was pale. “Anything in there on Tim Smith—Sally’s father?”

  “No.”

  “Or me?”

  “No.”

  “On who, then?”

  Cornell didn’t reply. He looked at Hannigan. The fat man was growing more worried by the moment, and it was only a matter of time until he reversed himself and took matters into his own hands. Hannigan met his stare and said:

  “You told me we’d get a murderer.”

  “This book will get him for us.”

  “How?”

  “He’ll come for this book tonight, as soon as he learns the police have left Overlook. It’s only a matter of time.”

  Hannigan pulled out a big silver pocket watch and squinted at it. “It’s ten-thirty now.”

  Half an hour later, Cornell moved quietly through the darkness along the path through the formal garden of the manor house. Hannigan trod closely at his heels, wheezing a little.

  “You got a nice girl there. Sally, I mean.”

  “Yes,” Cornell said.

  “She thinks you’re pretty swell.”

  “Thanks.”

  “A woman’s instinct is something I trust,” Hannigan said. “But no killer has showed up yet.”

  “Give him time.”

  “You got an idea who it is?”

  “Let’s wait and see.”

  “I’m puttin’ my neck in a noose for you, young feller.”

  “Not for me. For five thousand dollars reward.”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s a lot of money,” Cornell said.

  “I’m thinkin’ of the newspapers. Al Hannigan, in big black type.”

  “That’s right,” Cornell said.

  “You sure he’s coming?”

  “He’ll be here,” Cornell said.

  At 11:10 the car came up the driveway like a ghost, gliding without headlights, its powerful motor all but inaudible. Hannigan crouched down in the shrubbery beside Cornell, wheezing with excitement. He nudged Cornell with a round elbow, and handed back the .38 Cornell had given him. The big car stopped with a soft squeal of wet brakes and stood quietly in front of the columned portico of the plantation house. The door closed softly and a figure moved through the mist toward the house.

  “Can you see who it is?” Hannigan whispered.

  “Let’s find out.”

  The approach over the lawn was soundless. Keys jingled as the man on the veranda paused at the door. His back was toward them as Cornell and Hannigan ran up the broad flat steps.

  “Hold it!” Hannigan roared, “Don’t move.”

  The man turned, his face twisted with surprise. It was Sam Hand. His smile was strained. His bald head shone in the glare of Hannigan’s flashlight, and he squinted, trying to identify them.

  “Stop waving that gun under my nose, Hannigan,” he said quietly.

  Hannigan said excitedly, “You’re the killer, that’s what! We been layin’ for you. We knew you’d come back, soon as the guard was removed.”

  Hand’s face was blank. He looked at Cornell.

  “What is this all about?”

  “Hannigan is charging you with the murder of Jason Stone.”

  “Is he? And what are you doing?”

  “Wondering.”

  Hannigan was dismayed. He said, “But you—”

  Cornell ignored him and addressed Hand. “Sam, we’ve got Jay’s book.”

  This time Hand’s stoic mask failed to hide his surprise. His glance jumped from Cornell to Hannigan. Mist swirled over the porch and made a halo around the lamp over the door.

  “You said you didn’t have it.”

  “I’ve found it,” Cornell said.

  “Where?”

  “Where do you think?” Cornell asked.

  Hand looked puzzled. “If I knew where it was in the first place, I wouldn’t have bothered you. I wouldn’t have gone to all that trouble with Sally Smith.”

  “I know,” Cornell said. “That’s what bothers me.”

  Hannigan sounded confused. “What are you two talking about? Look here, you said the murderer would come back here as soon as the guard was lifted—”

  “That’s right,” Cornell said, “and I thought Sam Hand was a good prospect, with a prearranged alibi that meant he came here secretly last night, and with the best motive in the world—to step into Jason Stone’s shoes and pocket his millions and his power. That’s what Sam wants. But that’s not what Sam will get.”

  Hannigan said flatly, “I don’t understand.”

  “Sam does,” Cornell said. “The murderer killed Stone for the book and then hid it where we found it. Sam went to a lot of trouble to find out if we had the book. And since he didn’t know where it was, he can’t be the killer.”

  “Thanks,” Hand said dryly.

  “You don’t owe me anything,” Cornell said. “I told you I have Jay’s book. Three pages in it are devoted to you, Sam. Three dirty, muddy pages. Jay Stone kept a neat record of every dirty job you did for him, Sam. Remember the warehouse fire in Philadelphia that put Tom Galloway out of business? That was a clear case of arson. Stone has photographs and affidavits about your part of the job.”

  Hand looked shaken. “Nonsense. They’re lies.”

  “That’s not all. There are records of bribery, political corruption, and embezzlement, all chalked up to you. Conservatively, they ought to net you thirty years to life. I don’t have to prove any of it. Jay Stone proved it all for me. No wonder you were anxious to get that book before taking over Stone’s enterprise! You’re not taking anything over now, you know. You’ve got nothing but trouble from here on out, Sam.”

  Violence shone in the man’s eyes. Hannigan lifted his big gun, and the man’s face
crumpled suddenly in defeat and despair. His shoulders sagged. Hannigan said hopefully, “He still looks like the killer to me.”

  “He isn’t,” Cornell said.

  “Then what do we do with him?”

  “Turn him over to Gootsie in the boathouse. He’ll keep.”

  “Then what?”

  “We wait some more.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  AT 11:30, Congressman Ira Keach sat down slowly, his long length folding like a jackknife in the leather chair Cornell indicated. The man looked calm. His thin, ascetic face under his long, straight white hair was composed, as if he had come to some decision that had erased the driving fury of his personality. He perched his damp hat on one bony knee and waited, and then, when Cornell eyed him in silence, he spoke in a sonorous voice touched with irony.

  “I have a feeling,” he said, “that this is to be an inquisition. Of recent days, it is I who have done the questioning. On this occasion, it seems that the question is to be put to me.”

  “Right,” Hannigan said.

  The fat man looked at Cornell. It was quiet in the boathouse. The mist had changed to rain again, and the quick tap of water on the windows should have been soothing. Cornell felt anything but relaxed. Nothing was working out the way he had hoped.

  Sally was seated in a chair across the room from Keach. Gootsie stood behind her, a squat and sullen guardian. At the far end of the room, lounging quietly on the leather couch under the windows, was Sam Hand. The bald man seemed detached, as if he had disassociated himself from the others. His attention wandered now and then to the leather-bound book on the desk near Cornell, but his eyes were hard and expressionless.

  Cornell said impatiently, “Let’s get to the point. You tried to slip into Overlook five minutes ago, and when we confronted you, you tried to escape.”

  “I was startled,” Keach said. “I did not realize it was a trap and that you were waiting for me. I owe you an apology, Mr. Cornell. Nothing I can say or do can repair the damage I have done. I can only say in my defense that, in the beginning, at least, I acted sincerely in the matter of information leakage on Project Cirrus. I was convinced that you had traitorously divulged information on the project to enemies abroad.”

  “And now?” Cornell asked.

  “I know I was mistaken. You are not a traitor. You never were.”

  Sally made a small sighing sound. The Congressman touched the hat on his knee and shrugged. “You may like to know that I have already begun making amends for my mistake. An hour ago I held a press conference in my room at the Inn. I told the newspapers that evidence recently turned up indicated that I had been prosecuting—yes, and persecuting—the wrong man. I have advised the press that you are innocent of all the charges leveled against you and that the traitor, if there is one, is still unknown to me.”

  Cornell said grimly, “What made you change your mind about me, Congressman?”

  “My conscience,” Keach said. “I do have one, indeed. The morning press will not only contain a full clearance of your character, Mr. Cornell, but will also announce my resignation from the committee and from Congress. It is obvious that I am not suitable to continue in my present position.”

  “So you’ve quit,” Cornell said. “And you still don’t know who leaked the information about Project Cirrus.”

  “No, I do not.”

  “Do you think it was Jason Stone?” Cornell rapped.

  “I do not know.”

  “Did you come here last night to tell him you knew I was innocent and that you weren’t going to do his dirty work any more?”

  Keach shook his head. “My personal relations with Stone were of another nature.”

  “They’re no longer personal,” Cornell said quietly. “They’re going to be made public.”

  There was silence, except for the muted tapping of the rain. Sam Hand grunted then and sat up straighter. Hannigan twisted his round, red face sharply to watch the bald man.

  “I see,” Keach said, “that you have the book.”

  “And you’re in it,” Cornell said.

  Keach said, “Stone was a devil. A glutton and a madman, greedy for power. He used men and women ruthlessly, as tools to achieve his goals. He spent human lives the way he spent money, thinking himself a man of destiny. He has spent my life, too, of course. I came here hoping to find the book.”

  “But you didn’t know where it was?”

  “No. I heard in town that the police had been withdrawn. There was some kind of public disturbance at a place called Pheeney’s Landing. It occurred to me that I might have one last chance to salvage the ruins of my reputation.”

  “What made you think it was still here?”

  “I was not certain. But I was sure neither you nor Rulov had it.” He nodded toward Hand. “And evidently that man did not know where it was, either.”

  Hannigan said impatiently, “This is all double-talk to me. I don’t get it. You said the killer would show up here, and so far we got Mr. Hand and Mr. Keach. Which one did it?”

  “I don’t know,” Cornell said. “Let’s wait a little longer.”

  It was almost midnight. From where Cornell stood on the dock near the Buccaneer, there was no evidence of anyone in the boathouse. The tightly drawn curtains effectively kept the light inside. Anyone approaching from the creek or the garden would not suspect the others up there. Cornell squinted at his watch again. The rain was just a warm drizzle, pattering all around him. He wondered why he felt so little elation. He was in the clear, at least on the Project Cirrus investigation. Even if nothing happened tonight to solve Jason Stone’s murder, he stood a better chance now, with Sam Hand and Keach being watched by Hannigan. At least now there would be reasonable doubt in the minds of a jury. Hannigan was busy taking statements from the two men. But there was a gap in the whole thing, a sense of defeat that made him frown into the soft, slanting rain.

  He had been wrong. No one else was coming. His time would run out in a few minutes. He thought of Milly and the FBI agent and Yvan Rulov, with his throat slashed open. Milly would talk, sooner or later. And then the police would tear back here and the whole thing would blow up in his face.

  Nor could he rely much longer on Hannigan, even if Milly held out. The fat man had been reluctant to let him step outside alone. There was still a hard nugget of suspicion in Al Hannigan’s mind, bent toward him. It was up to Gootsie to keep Hand and Keach from glibly swaying the deputy against him.

  His glance covered the wet dock uneasily. The underbrush and swamp rose in a dark wall beyond, full of shadows that moved and swayed in the wind and rain. Turning, he walked back toward the boathouse, hesitated, then continued up the wooden stairs to the formal garden. Rain hissed among the boxwood hedges. Somewhere he thought he heard a motor throbbing.

  He paused to listen. He heard the beat of the rain, the sough of wind in the oaks, the quick thump and rattle of a shutter on the main house that loomed white and amorphous through the dark.

  The sound of a motor came again.

  The car was parked in the driveway behind the one Keach had arrived in. Cornell squeezed through the boxwood to emerge on the lawn in front of the house. The porch light Sam Hand had put on still shone behind the gracious columns of the veranda. No one stood there. He waited another moment. There didn’t seem to be anyone in the car. Rain dripped from the oaks overhead, and he was about to retrace his steps to the boathouse when he caught the glow of a cigarette off to the right, in the shelter of a small cedar summerhouse. He turned that way, walking silently across the wet grass.

  It was Kari Stone. She was wearing a transparent rain cape pushed back over the dark red hair. In the dimness, her face was pale and surprised, searching for him.

  “Is it you, Barney?”

  He ducked under the sheltering roof to join her.

  “Kari.”

  Her voice lifted. “Barney, you mustn’t be found here!”

  “Are the police coming?”

  “They fo
und that man—that artist—in your cabin. Barney, I don’t know what to think.”

  “I didn’t do it, Kari,” he said.

  “No, but—they’re coming for you. That FBI agent was attacked and knocked unconscious. At first they said some of the rioters at the Landing did it. But Acorn says he was attacked while Rulov was still alive in your cabin. He thinks you did it.”

  “How do you know so much about it?”

  “Paul told me. He’s dreadfully worried about you.”

  “Where is Paul now?” Cornell asked.

  “He—he just left me.”

  “Did he bring you here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “He said he—he had something to do here. I don’t know what it was. Barney, what’s wrong?”

  “Come along,” he said.

  He took her hand, drawing her from the shelter of the summerhouse. Her fingers felt wet and cold. He took the cigarette from her other hand and ground it out.

  “Barney, you frighten me. What’s happening here?”

  “Where did Paul go when he left you?”

  “Into the house. Why?”

  “Never mind. You’d better stay here, after all.”

  “Barney, I don’t understand.”

  “I’m sorry, Kari. Stay here.”

  He started off, cutting back to the garden again. Kari followed with a quick little run, catching up to him. “I’m coming with you. I want to know what’s happening.”

  He said nothing more to her. There was no one in the garden. The house itself was as dark as before. He knew without wasting further time that Evarts wasn’t in there.

  The stairs down to the boathouse and the dock beyond were forlorn and empty in the dark rain. Kari paused beside him.

  “Barney, please tell me. What is it?”

  “There’s a murderer here.”

  “And you’re after him? Is that it?”

  “Of course I’m after him.”

  “But who?”

  He said, “Kari, you know who.”

  “No,” she said.

  “You know.”