The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series)

by Maxim, John R.

  “Three days ago one of your oldest friends got murdered. You called it yourself. You know I'm conducting the investigation but you don't call to see how it's going, do I have any leads, Have we made an arrest. How is that possible, Ray?”

  Lesko realized his mistake. “You're asking if I'm out looking for the guy myself. I give you my word, I'm not.”

  “And you have no idea who killed him.” Greenwald looked into his eyes.

  What the hell. “Nothing I can prove.”

  “Try me.”

  “Prussic acid,” Lesko said. “Sounds a little like the CIA, doesn't it.”

  “Do you have something or don't you?”

  “Last time I saw Buzz he was trying to get a line on some big intelligence guy in Washington. I think there was hard feelings between them.”

  “Give me a name.”

  “Palmer-something. Yeah. I think it was Palmer Reid.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Caroline Bass watched as Paul entered the bar-salon car, pausing just inside, his eyes sweeping over several passengers in evening dress who were crowded around the black baby grand piano and the bar itself.

  “There he is, darlin’” She touched Ray Bass's arm. “And there are those careful moves of his again.”

  Ray Bass didn't turn. He knew what she meant but he was sure that it signified nothing. Why, back home, he thought, you couldn't sit in one of them Yuppie bars for twenty minutes before noticing that everyone who walked in the door would hold up for a minute to check out the action, as they say. “Pay it no mind, sweetheart. Time comes, he won't be around to worry about.”

  Caroline raised a hand, waiting for Paul to look in her direction. “Bannerman,” she said his name softly. “That name doesn't ring even a teensy little bell with you?”

  “Can't say it does.” He shook his head. “You know what I bet? Bannerman is one of those manly-type names they always give to detective shows on the TV. I bet that's why it sounds familiar.”

  “Maybe. Maybe so.”

  Now Ray Bass turned and stood. “Hey there, Paul. Got a seat for you right here.”

  Paul heard Ray Bass's voice before he picked him out of the tuxedos. He made his way into the salon part of the car, which consisted of plush Art Nouveau chairs in conversational groupings, each grouping highlighted by the tasseled shade of a brass Orient Express lamp. All but two of the chairs were filled by passengers sipping aperitifs as they awaited the first dinner seating.

  “My,” Caroline smiled at Paul, who was in black tie as well, “I swear you look more like James Bond every time I see you. What'd you do with Susan?”

  “She's drying her nails.” He slipped into the seat nearest the window. “I thought I'd scout ahead.”

  “Matter of fact, Caroline was just remarkin' on the way you size up a room. You wouldn't be one of them TV detectives, by chance, would you?”

  Paul sighed aloud, smiling. “Would you believe Susan remarked about the same thing? I didn't believe her until now.”

  “What line are you in, Paul?” Caroline asked. “For real, I mean.” ,

  “I run a travel agency back in Connecticut.” He waited as the waiter set down two more glasses and poured champagne into his from the Bass's bottle. “As for that habit I seem to have, I guess I've met so many people over the years that I'm always just a little surprised if I don't run into one of them any place there's a crowd.”

  “Happens to me all the time.” Ray Bass agreed, throwing an I-told-you-so wink to Caroline.

  Paul sipped his champagne and nodded appreciatively. “What brings you two to Europe in January?” he asked. “You don't strike me as die-hard skiers.”

  “Heck,” Ray Bass laughed, “I don't even walk real good.” He paused to refill Caroline's glass. “Seems like I've been hearin' about this train most of my life, and last month Caroline here says, Ray, ain't either us or that train gettin' any younger. Let's call up, pull our soup-'n-fish duds outta the cedar closet and let's get 'er. done. Besides, we heard there's no sight in the world to take your breath away like the Alps in winter and no more comfy way to see ‘em.”

  “Speakin’ of sights to see,” Caroline pointed toward the bar, “here comes Susan now. My, look at all those turnin' heads.”

  Susan had chosen a long, filmy black dress, almost backless, arms and shoulders bare except for two tapering strands that flowed up over her breasts and tied behind her neck. Her skin was flawless and richly tanned, her jewelry understated, her color rising with each step she took. Paul and Ray Bass rose as she approached.

  “I think I may have overdone it,” she said through her teeth. “Why don't I run back and get a blanket.”

  “Don't you dare,” Paul pulled her seat back. “You're absolutely lovely*”

  “Honey,” Caroline told her, “if I could wear that dress I'd steal it first time you turned your back.”

  Ray Bass chuckled. “She turns her back, it disappears all by itself.” He flinched as Caroline threw an elbow.

  “Sorry,” he grinned. “I couldn't help that. It's a source of great pride to me that the two handsomest women on this whole train are sitting right here at my table.”

  As Caroline muttered something about snake-oil salesmen, Paul reached for Susan's hand, which she had shyly crossed over her breast and shoulder, and lowered it in his. “By the way, where are you two headed?” he asked, only partly to ease Susan's discomfort by getting off the subject.

  “We're ticketed through to Venice,” Ray Bass answered. “But we might just get off for a spell at St. Anton, rent a car, and work our way down through some of those jet-set playgrounds like St. Moritz and such.”

  “Then you'd be passing right through Klosters, where we're going,” Susan said. “Why don't you look us up?”

  “Might be a fine idea,” Caroline brightened. “Ray, you take down their address and phone number just in case.”

  He used a business card for the purpose. Paul asked for another for himself. The Bass Pecan Company. Lumberton, Mississippi.

  “Pecans,” Paul nodded. “They come from hickory trees, don't they.”

  “They do indeed. So does the walnut, which is a kissin' cousin but ain't nearly so refined.”

  “Don't get Ray started on pecans,” Caroline warned. “It's not a subject he's bashful on.”

  “Fact is, it's a real interestin' nut.” Ray Bass chose not to be denied. “If we were in some low roadhouse and the company weren't so elegant, I'd tell you about the sex life of the pecan. The little devils are hermaphroditic, you know. That means they go both ways and don't care which.”

  “But you're not goin' to tell, of course,” Caroline jabbed him, “us being so elegant and all.”

  “Their botanical name,” he pressed on, “is Carya illinoensis.. That's if you want the real nutty-gritty. It's the Cree Indians called them pecans. Ate them by the treeful, and you couldn't find a healthier bunch of Indians. They were a little stupid about real estate, however.”

  Paul, smiling, made a time-out sign with his hands and slid his chair backward. “Of course, I don't want to miss a word of this…”

  “Count that day lost when you don't learn something, Paul.”

  “But I'd want to give it my full attention.”

  “Understood and you're excused. We'll mind Susan for you.”

  Paul stepped from the table and made his way back past the bar before anyone could tell him there was a facility much closer. He continued on to the sleeping car where he found Andrew the steward busily transforming the compartments into sleepers. He peeled a £50 note from his pocket. It caught Andrew's attention.

  “Andrew,” Paul spoke softly, “there's a Ray and Caroline Bass in the bar car. They're very nice but I'd like to be sure they're who they say they are.” He held up the fifty. “How about a quick peek at their passports?”

  Andrew glanced up and down the corridor. “I'm sure they're in order, Mr. Bannerman. They're checked at every border we cross.”

  “Just a glanc
e, Andrew. I'll feel better.”

  Andrew beckoned Paul to a small service compartment at the end of the car. He unlocked it, then slipped a key into a padlocked wooden cabinet. The Basses, listed alphabetically, were near the top. Paul took them and studied them. They seemed legitimate enough. Issued in New Orleans. But only this past December. The only entries were a French transit visa and a Heathrow immigration stamp. That bothered Paul. He'd like to have seen more of a travel history. On the other hand, his own passport, being recently renewed, didn't tell much about him, either, and Susan's was also new in December. It could mean nothing at all. Nor had he any reason to wonder about Ray and Caroline except they seemed to go out of their way to make contact. But he saw no wariness in their eyes; none of the involuntary, searching looks that would have suggested a prior knowledge of him. And Ray Bass certainly knew his pecans; their sex life had probably served him well at cocktail parties over the years.

  “Everything on the up-and-up, Mr. Bannerman?”

  “Everything's fine, Andrew.” He handed back the passports, forcing the £50 on him as well. “I think I've been reading too much Agatha Christie.”

  Susan was right, he thought, turning back toward the bar car. He's got to learn how to relax.

  In a far corner of the smallest of Mario's three dining areas, Molly Farrell poured coffee for Anton, Carla, Gary Russo and herself, then wiped her hands and sat down with them.

  Carla's eyes were shining. Although Anton's expression gave nothing away, she was sure something was happening. She'd seen John Waldo parked at the entrance onto Railroad Avenue, a bag of Grand Union groceries at his side, which she knew concealed an Ingram machine pistol. She'd seen Janet Herzog standing at the station door, directly across, as if waiting to be picked up, hugging herself under a thick fur jacket that would nicely conceal another Ingram. Then, upon entering Mario's, a perfunctory nod from Billy at the bar as he kept his attention not on her but on her back. Hot dog, she thought to herself. Maybe it's show time.

  Zivic glanced around the room, although it was otherwise empty, and leaned forward. “Have any of you heard the name Elena?” he asked. “The connection would be with Palmer Reid, with traffic in cocaine, or with Susan Lesko's father.”

  No reply. Just shaking heads.

  “What about a Mr. Brendan Donovan, also called Buzz Donovan?”

  They looked at each other. Nothing.

  “Then we appear to have a mystery on our hands,” he said. “Palmer Reid believes they are all somehow involved with us. He's had this Donovan killed. As a matter of policy I have asked John and Billy to retaliate.”

  “No offense, Anton,” Gary Russo said, “but have you talked to Paul about this?”

  Molly winced. “As it happens, Gary, he's alerted Paul. This is Anton's call.”

  “I said no offense. But if there's likely to be trouble, he should either get back here, or a couple of us should be over there with him.” -

  Anton knew that Russo was right. He could only repeat what Paul had told all of them from the beginning. That he would not live his life under guard. That if trouble comes to him, so be it, and the rest of them must go on with their lives. That he is not their shepherd any more than they are sheep. Next, he repeated, for the benefit of Carla and the doctor, what he and Molly had managed to learn from a scared and sickened Doug Poole. Then he told them of the subsequent execution of Reid's man Burdick, and of the method he had chosen to protect Susan Lesko's father from immediate harm.

  Carla understood at once. She liked it. “The cops and reporters will be all over that street all day, which protects Lesko. Reid, meanwhile, is thrown off balance because he thinks Glenn is not only dangerous but crazy.”

  “Yes, but what protects him tomorrow?” Gary Russo asked. “Do we keep on baby-sitting him?”

  Anton shook his head. “His continued welfare is not our concern.”

  “Then why the retaliation for this Donovan? What's he to us?”

  “Reid acted upon a connection he believes to exist,” Anton explained patiently. “Whether it actually exists is not the point.”

  “But you don't even know what's going on here.”

  “It doesn't matter,” Carla told him. “Any time Reid hits, we hit back fast and hard. You can't let that wacko hold the initiative.”

  “I want all our people alerted,” Anton rapped the table. “They are to remain as mobile as possible during the next thirty-six hours, which I suspect are the critical ones. I am sending Billy and John Waldo back to the Scarsdale house on the chance that Reid continues to use it as a base. Molly, Janet Herzog and Glenn Cook will drive to Maryland this afternoon. Glenn will keep Reid's home under observation. Molly and Janet already have their instructions.”

  “Janet?” Carla's face fell. “What about me?” She knew better than to ask what the instructions were but if they were finally getting around to popping Reid, seniority ought to count for something.

  Zivic understood. “No harm comes to Reid while Paul lives. That policy is unchanged. You know Klosters, do you not?”

  Carla nodded expectantly. “I know that whole part of the country.”

  “I am authorizing the vacation you and Gary have requested. You are to travel under your own passports and without weapons, first to Zurich and then to Davos. Davos will leave you within twenty minutes of Klosters in case you are needed, but you are to stay away from Klosters otherwise.”

  “We might as well be decoys,” Russo protested. “If Reid's people don't spot us at Kennedy, they will at Zurich.”

  Carla patted his hand. “I think that's the idea, sweetie.”

  Anton acknowledged her assessment with a quick, appreciative smile. This was a professional. She knew that they would almost certainly be spotted and that their very presence in Switzerland would cause Reid to rethink any plan he might have in effect. If they were found traveling with false documents, Reid could easily arrange to have them detained by Swiss authorities. As it was, Reid would see that their checked baggage received special attention in the hope that they had brought in weapons and would, without risk to himself, be consigned to a Swiss prison for the next two or three years. But Carla was nothing if not resourceful. She would arm herself if necessary. And Paul would have help close at hand if needed but, with luck, would never know it. Russo, with luck, would never know that he was being sent where he could do no harm.

  Moves and countermoves. Confusion to mine enemies.

  Lesko's phone rang an hour after nightfall. He snatched it up on the first ring, then waited until he heard Loftus say his name. '

  “Loftus,” he barked into the receiver. “Where the hell have you been?”

  “Saving your ass, for one thing. You were a prime suspect for killing Burdick until I said I was on your tail all night.”

  “Tell me where the Reid guy is and I'll give him his own ass to worry about.”

  “You can't touch him. He's holed up down at Fort Meade. When he sticks his head out again he'll be three-deep in bodyguards.”

  “Robert, let me ask you a question.”

  “What?”

  “You know who killed Burdick, don't you?”

  “No.”

  “It wasn't you or me. You say it wasn't Bannerman because he was on a plane and besides, he's a nice person. Who's left, Robert? Who are the other players?”

  “Lesko . . . we're talking on a fucking telephone.”

  “Which you made clean. Besides, we're just two innocent guys trying to figure what's happening, right? But that's hard, Robert, because you're keeping secrets.”

  “Look . . . I'm trying to stay on top of this. I'll call you when…”

  “Robert,” Lesko growled, “answer me. Bannerman has friends in Westport, doesn't he? And Reid doesn't like them, either.”

  Loftus drew a long breath. “Yes.”