by Emma Lathen
Little by little, an atmosphere of geriatric frailty was engulfing the MR hearings. It was not the ideal background for a thrilling demonstration of groundbreaking technology. In a brief spurt of nostalgia, Kruger remembered Pamela Webb and Ali jogging into the Tokyo Hilton. Tomorrow’s critical gathering could certainly use an injection of youthful vitality.
Youthful high spirits had no place on Pamela Webb’s agenda as she painstakingly reviewed detail after detail.
“And you’re sure everything is set?” she asked in one final omnibus caution.
“Absolutely,” said Ali with growing confidence. “Everything at MR has been taken care of.”
She frowned. “Remember, we won’t get a second chance this time.”
“And we won’t need one. As a matter of fact, it’s an advantage to be doing it in Birmingham. I wish you’d stop worrying.”
“What a hope!” The frown was replaced by a rueful grimace. “I won’t stop worrying until we’ve pulled it off.”
Ten miles away, there was another worrier.
“This could make a big difference,” Rick Iwamoto said unnecessarily.
His chief mechanic was making no promises. “Race results cannot be guaranteed. From what I have seen, we have a very good chance.”
“A big victory could have an impact in Tokyo,” Iwamoto said, talking more to himself than to his companion. “Shima needs some favorable publicity. If we have a first-place finish, I will accept the trophy personally.”
The mechanic thought that would be appropriate even in the absence of larger issues, but he contented himself with saying:
“Certainly, Mr. Iwamoto. In the meantime, we’ve finished tuning up the SR-10, and I thought you might wish to look at it.”
Iwamoto, striding toward the sheds, paused. “Not right now. But later on, after I’ve talked with Kanakura, I might take it out for a spin.”
Carl Kruger was not the only one with dinner plans that did not include his subordinates.
“I’ll be dining out,” Thatcher announced.
“Fine,” said Gene Fleming absently, his eyes glued to the traffic light on Hagley Road.
A leisurely stroll after their train trip had seemed like a good idea, but they had not bargained for the obstacles to pedestrian movement. Nearby was a complex highway interchange, but that failed to explain the clotted traffic streaming before them.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a density of motorcycles,” Thatcher observed as a group of at least thirty helmeted riders gunned past. “Is Birmingham the home of British cycling?”
“For the next three days it is. The All Midland Rally starts tomorrow. It’s got everything—even an event to showcase the new racing models,” explained Fleming, waxing rhapsodic. “There are motorcycle clubs coming to attend from all over the country. You don’t know what you’re missing.”
“And I intend to go on missing it,” Thatcher said firmly. “But at least I don’t have to feel that I’m abandoning you for the evening.”
“Far from it.” Fleming grinned. “I’ll go out to the track and see how things are shaping.”
When they returned to their hotel, both men changed clothes. Thatcher, after a long summer day, decided on a shower and a clean shirt. He emerged to find that Gene Fleming had discarded his banker’s suit in favor of a windbreaker and fatigues. Apparently notables of the motorcycle world were just plain folk when not carrying out official duties.
As for himself, Thatcher knew he was on duty, even if the schedule called for an informal dinner in a small Pakistani restaurant.
“This place is owned by Mr. Khan’s father,” Inspector Hayakawa said, rising from a corner booth to greet his guest.
Thatcher examined his surroundings with new interest. The tables in the center of the room were occupied by large parties. The high-backed booths along the walls contained couples and foursomes. The crowd included a broad range of local residents.
“It seems to be popular.”
“They say the food is good and inexpensive. But the Khans own a fancier restaurant out in the suburbs.”
This display of omniscience was clearly deliberate.
“Have you been getting background on everybody?”
“Insofar as possible. For instance, did you know that your Mr. Fleming acquired a house in Hawaii last year that is valued at”—Hayakawa consulted a small notebook, then continued ominously—”at close to one million dollars?”
Thatcher might play the admiring layman in a discussion of the Khans, but not in one about Sloan personnel.
“The date is misleading, Inspector,” he said calmly. “True, Fleming built the house last year, but he acquired the land— Maui oceanfront—almost twenty years ago. Naturally it has been an outstanding investment.”
Unmoved by this tale of financial wizardry, Hayakawa jotted a note and murmured: “That explains it. The timing was wrong anyway.”
Thatcher yielded to curiosity.
“And what do you have on me?”
“Widower, three children with their own families, expenditures within your income,” Hayakawa recited. “From a police point of view, you are unpromising material.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Thatcher sedately. “But according to your thinking the other day, all this information is irrele vant. A cover-up of corporate misconduct would not necessarily be reflected in sudden affluence.”
Hayakawa waited until a burst of noise from a large group celebrating some team victory abated. “That is why I wished to consult you. My thinking has changed. This afternoon I was received by Mr. Arai, who is puzzled by the latest turn of events. A very lucrative position at Yonezawa has been offered to Mr. Matsuda that would permit his tactful resignation from the ministry.”
“And he has refused?”
“He has said that he requires time to consider the offer thoroughly.”
Thatcher was relieved to hear that Mr. Arai was capable of perplexity. He did not, however, expect Hayakawa to share his appreciation.
“Inspector, Mr. Matsuda must recognize the danger of violence now.”
Hayakawa recanted some of his earlier beliefs.
“Of course he does. But he still assumes that he intruded on a secret meeting and his presence constituted a danger. I do not agree.”
Thatcher realized that he and the inspector, although starting from different points, were slowly converging on the same conclusion.
“You did say that the door to the swimming pool was closed?” he prodded.
“Exactly. When Mr. Matsuda opened that door, he was silhouetted by the night light in the corridor, and he was shot within one pace. There was no time for the murderer to notice distinctions in outline or movement. He shot the moment he had a target.”
Thatcher was more than ready to complete the thought. “Which means that Bennet Alderman was the intended victim.”
“And this is what I find bewildering. Why should anyone wish to kill Alderman? Yonezawa could brush aside anything he said. And while he has enemies at Lackawanna, his days there are numbered. He is too insignificant to be a threat to the interests involved.”
“Just like Mr. Ushiba,” Thatcher murmured.
Hayakawa was startled.
“Yes,” he agreed warily. “Just like Mr. Ushiba. You are not suggesting that he was murdered by mistake? He was attacked in his own well-lighted office.”
“No, I am suggesting we have misconstrued the forces involved.”
The inspector was not lightly relinquishing his only sheet anchor.
“But the basic situation—MR’s sale to Yonezawa—is what defines those forces.”
“Not entirely. I suspect we have overlooked what might have been obvious in the United States.”
Hayakawa was so incredulous that Thatcher waited for the remains of their curry to be removed before expounding his theory. When he finished, the expression on the inspector’s face was not encouraging.
“Extraordinary,” Hayakawa said severely, mo
re as an indictment of the behavior outlined than of the reasoning followed. “And, I must point out, nothing but sheer speculation.”
Thatcher was beginning to think that the inspector would rather have an unsolved murder than a world containing unruly human beings.
“True, but proof is available. And very quick proof, if I am right about one point that the Sloan’s London branch is checking. Thank God we’re in England.”
Still ruffled, Hayakawa retreated into chauvinism.
“It would be equally simple in Japan.”
As a concession to international harmony, Thatcher not only yielded the point; he did it generously.
“Only in my own disorderly country would we face an insurmountable problem,” he admitted.
* * *
After days with hostile authorities, followed by a journey with outright adversaries, Bennet Alderman was delighted to spend a few hours in an atmosphere of normalcy, doing the work he did best. Even the inevitable pinpricks were a source of satisfaction, proving as they did the necessity for his expert touch.
This need became apparent as soon as he pulled into the Midland Research yard. The small strip of executive parking immediately outside the offices had been entirely preempted by the television crew. As he strolled back from the employees’ lot at the opposite end of the compound, Alderman reminded himself to see that this error was not repeated in the morning, when that space must be reserved for more distinguished guests.
Inside, he found more to criticize. The TV personnel were wandering at will, issuing their commands in a lordly manner while MR clerks scurried to obey. Mentally rolling up his sleeves, Alderman took charge.
“You realize that we can’t have the proceedings tomorrow disrupted. You’ll be able to take footage of the robotics demonstration but not of the meeting. As for your background clips, they should be filmed tonight.”
The producer, condemned to a life of local features, rarely got his hands on an international celebrity, and he wanted as much mileage as possible.
“We’re hoping to start with an introductory statement by Mr. Kruger himself, explaining the applications of MR’s technology. I’ve prepared some remarks—”
“Let me see,” said Alderman, stretching out one hand for the script and reaching for his editorial pen with the other.
It was a busy and productive evening. The crew was harried into doing all its outside work and as many interior shots as possible. Beautiful phrases were formed to issue from the mouths of Carl Kruger and Ali Khan. Guidelines were prepared to ensure that the visitors would not be disturbed.
“You can film them as they arrive and when they shake hands at the end of the meeting. Other than that, you can only catch them incidentally during the demo,” Alderman said crisply.
“I was planning for a few words from Yonezawa and MITI,” the producer protested.
“Mr. Arai and Mr. Matsuda speak only Japanese.”
This aspect of the international scene had never occurred to the producer.
By the time Bennet Alderman was ready to call it a day, it was almost eight-thirty and the summer sun was sinking toward the horizon. But the film crew was packing up, and a press release was in final draft.
“You’ll have to stay on and get this typed,” he told the only remaining secretary. “It should be ready for distribution first thing in the morning.”
She looked at the much emended script for which the producer was waiting and said resignedly: “Yes, Mr. Aiderman.”
“You toddle along,” the producer said. “I’ll be going myself as soon as she has my copy ready.”
“Fine,” agreed Alderman, who had no intention of wasting his time on empty ceremony. “See you tomorrow morning.”
Once outside, he took a deep breath of the balmy evening air, hooked his suit jacket over his shoulder, and began trudging back to his car. When he entered the long alley formed by the concrete loading docks on one side and the blank facade of the high-temperature testing laboratory on the other, he was walking due westward. Behind him, his shadow cast an elongated streak across the yard, ahead of him, the sun shone directly into his eyes.
The sound of an approaching motorcycle had accompanied his progress, but like everyone else in Birmingham, Bennet Alderman had learned to discount a noise that was engulfing the entire area. Even the roar of acceleration did not attract his attention until the charging cyclist loomed into sight at the end of the alley. Already halfway along its length, his eyes dazzled by the golden aureole outlining the intruder, Aiderman reacted instinctively. Leaping sideways, he stumbled against a loading dock and fell to the ground.
The end came quickly. For only an instant he was conscious of the foreshortened monstrosity bearing down on him. Then its menacing blackness swelled to gigantic proportions, blotting out the sun, the sky, and life itself.
Chapter 30
The second motorcyclist arrived at the brow of the hill just in time to witness Bennet Alderman’s death. Although he did not know it, Gene Fleming was occupying the spot from which the murderer had conned the MR compound, impatiently waiting for his victim to emerge. Now it was Fleming who had a bird’s-eye view. He saw the killer race through a rear gate and swerve onto a lower road, he saw figures rushing from a building toward the crumpled body. Appalled by what he had observed, unconsciously impelled by the motor throbbing between his knees, Fleming plunged down the hillside to give chase.
As soon as he rounded the first curve, his quarry was alerted to the pursuit. The distant helmet turned once, the hunched figure crouched even lower, the banshee wail of the engine strained into a higher note.
Twenty years in the world of motorcycles had made Gene Fleming an expert. He knew that he was trying to overtake a machine that was heavier and more powerful than his own. Balancing his handicap, however, was the fact that he was, by far, the more skillful cyclist. On a twisting secondary road, he could close the gap.
“So he’ll head for the nearest highway,” Fleming muttered to himself.
But after ten minutes he began to appreciate the strategy that was unfolding. They were dosing in on the one area of Birmingham with which he was familiar—the speedway that he had left only half an hour earlier.
It was not difficult to understand the choice. As a final burst of speed brought the whole duty area into view, Fleming could see hundreds of motorcyclists milling around. His adversary, already well camouflaged, no doubt intended to work his way through the crowd and slip out by some other road.
Fleming, however, knew every inch of this terrain. Instead of wasting time on a futile search, he swept around the perimeter. The fleeing rider might be just another indistinguishable speck in a sea of uniformity, but that motorcycle was as individual to Gene Fleming as any face could have been. And the very same aficionados who were providing cover for a killer formed a knowledgeable body of witnesses.
“Have you seen my mate?” he called out. “He’s on a vintage Harley with crash bars and a fiber fairlee.”
At his first stops, the inquiry evoked only blank stares. At the third, there was instant heated response.
“That sod practically crashed into my bike,” a grimy youth complained. “Why the bloody hell doesn’t he learn to ride!”
Fleming sped off, satisfied that he had gained precious seconds by his tactics. He realized that he was going to need that edge when he caught sight of the familiar black machine on a level, unimpeded road.
Twilight was deepening with every passing moment as they raced east. Calling on his rudimentary knowledge of the environs, Fleming had a sinking feeling that he knew their objective. The Harley was now perceptibly lengthening its lead. If it could break contact long enough to arrive at Birmingham’s major interchange, the chase would be over.
In broad outline this fear was justified; in detail it was erroneous. Unknown to Gene, there was a minor version of the larger junction a good deal closer.
“Christ!” he snarled as he skidded to a halt at a five-way rotary
.
In the spirit of staking all on one throw, he swerved onto the broadest road. Within seconds he knew this was a mistake. Night had now fallen. To make matters worse, the clear skies of the afternoon had given way to thickening clouds, with no single gleam of moonlight. Ahead he could see the twinkling of many headlights. It no longer made any difference whether or not this was the right road. Without the familiar silhouette of the Harley to guide him, Fleming was defeated by the traffic. He sped back to the rotary and, this time, shot down the narrowest road.
In less than a mile it degenerated into a twisting, hilly lane. The lone headlight that became visible from atop the first rise could have been anything.
“All I need now is some teenager out for a joyride.”
But in his bones Fleming knew that solitary adolescents gun their machines on good roads. It requires the spark of competition to take suicidal risks at night. And Fleming, his experienced eye glued on that wavering beam, could read its message clearly. The rider was pressing his motorcycle beyond his ability to control it, and every turn was now being taken by guess and by God.
As the chase continued, however, Gene’s conviction lessened. If he had been the one in flight, he would have ducked into one of the many side tracks and doused his headlamp. With a lurching stomach he began to wonder if he himself had unwittingly become the spark igniting some mindless seventeen-year-old.
But when he climbed to the next crest of the lane, his doubts evaporated. That will-o’-the-wisp beam of light had vanished. Ahead there was nothing but stygian blackness.
Moderating his speed, Fleming for the first time realized that he was not in a deserted wilderness. He had been so intent on the chase that he had failed to register the background roar of heavy traffic. Somewhere, not too far distant, there were all the sound effects of urban movement—the acceleration of diesel trucks, the squealing of brakes, the hooting of emergency vehicles.
Maybe this was the explanation for their lunatic pace. The helmeted rider had been determined to reach a particular cut off. He would remain immobile until Fleming was gone, then scoot off to merge into that unseen stream.