The Man Who Heard Too Much

by Forrest, Richard;

  “They tried to kill her—I think we have to trust her.”

  Althea hung up and came toward them. The weave to her walk was more pronounced, and Martin rushed forward to grab her arm and help her inside the Ford. She sat with her head tilted back. Her breathing was shallow. “Listen, I’ve only got a couple of minutes before I pass out. Take me to the Emergency Room entrance and leave me. Don’t wait. I’ll tell them some damn story or other. You have an appointment with Senator Crowell at seven. This car sticks out like a sore thumb. Dump it and go to 112 Washburn. He’ll be waiting. Now hurry and get me to the hospital before I die on you.”

  Senator Harris Crowell was disgruntled. He poured boiling water into the teapot. It was a sad state of affairs when the most exciting event of his evening was waiting for tea to brew.

  Who the hell was Althea Remington? She seemed to know him personally, and she insisted that she had once worked for him.

  He couldn’t remember her and that bothered him.

  There had been so many over the years. Twenty-eight years was a long time to serve, and that encompassed a great many senatorial aides, clerks, interns, and assistants. It was a long procession and she would have been one of many.

  The tea was ready. He ceremoniously poured it into a small porcelain Japanese teacup. They had brought the tea set back from Japan in … when was it? ’sixty … ’sixty-one? God, even the years were merging together. Yes, ’sixty-one, the fact-finding mission. He had taken Alma along but he had paid her way, of course. Free junkets were one thing, but you paid for your wife.

  “I miss you, Alma.”

  He mumbled it aloud as he did every night. God, he missed her. She had died five weeks after his last reelection, and only later did he discover that she had known of the malignancy during the campaign. She hadn’t told him until there was no way to withhold the secret.

  She wanted him reelected, and now he didn’t even bother going home for the summer recess. There was no need—he wouldn’t stand for election again. The years were catching up and the impatient young Turks at home were beginning to yap politely at his heels.

  He missed the old house back home on Bedford Avenue. It was the same still as it had been since the day they moved in after their wedding, except now the furniture would be covered with sheets, and the arms of easy chairs would stick out like the appendages of apparitions.

  He should sell both houses and move into Watergate. The space was a nuisance, the upkeep required constant supervision, and God only knows he didn’t need it.

  If he moved, it would mean leaving the place that had been her home and that would make her all the more distant.

  He would stay and live with her memory.

  He should probably retire before his term ended. That would allow the governor to appoint an interim senator. He drank tea and thought about that a moment. The governor—the very reason he would not resign. He would not allow that idiot to appoint—in fact, he would probably appoint himself and allow the lieutenant governor to assume office—and that was a worse fate.

  He’d hang on as long as he could and hope that the last vestiges of his political strength would allow him to be somewhat instrumental in the nomination of his successor.

  That is, if he didn’t die first.

  He had to take more nitroglycerin this afternoon. It had taken two tablets under his tongue before the squeezing angina pains had subsided.

  The attacks seemed to be coming with greater frequency. He’d have to ask Dr. Shelton about that.

  He glanced at his watch. Fifteen of seven. His visitors would arrive at seven. He hoped that they would be interesting. He needed some stimuli for the long evening.

  Martin and Sara sat at a small Formica-top table in a luncheonette four blocks from the senator’s house. They stirred coffee listlessly and watched the slowly creeping second hand on a large wall clock.

  “He’s not going to believe us,” Martin said. “And Operation Barbados starts tomorrow.”

  “We convinced Sperry,” she replied without much conviction.

  “But he was able to make one phone call and get some sort of cor—”

  “Corroboration.”

  “Thank you. That’s a good word. I’ll try and remember it.”

  She squeezed his hand. “And I hope Senator Crowell can get it.”

  “There’s so little time.”

  “We don’t have any other choice, Martin. This is our last chance to convince anyone. If we don’t get the story out before they start the operation, it will be too late. The information means nothing after the fact.”

  Martin sipped his coffee thoughtfully a moment. “Which is why we have to do things differently. I think I can pull it off if you go along.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  The massive wooden front door of the senator’s Georgetown house was crisscrossed with brass fittings, dominated by a lion’s head knocker at shoulder height. Sara lifted the heavy brass ring and let it fall.

  The sound seemed to reverberate throughout the downstairs and the door was opened within seconds.

  The man who greeted them was slight to the point of frailty. His features were pinched and drawn, giving him a cadaverous look. Thinning white hair and the severity of a dark navy blue suit seemed to accentuate his slenderness. Only his eyes, piercing blue from deep sockets, seemed to give a hint of true vitality.

  “Yes?” It was a firm and resonant voice that belied the physical appearance.

  “We have an appointment with Senator Crowell at seven.”

  A thin smile on drawn lips. “I am Harris Crowell. Please come in.” He stepped aside as they entered. “Go straight back to the kitchen. I’ve just made some tea, and I’ve turned into a great kitchen sitter in recent years. Would you care for some?”

  “That would be fine,” Sara answered.

  Sara noticed that the rooms they passed—living room, formal dining room, and study—seemed empty and unused. As she entered the kitchen, she understood why the senator preferred to sit there. It was a bright and shiny room that gave off an ambiance of a thousand past gourmet meals. Copper pots hung along the walls and gleamed in cheerful light. A dozen plants grew in a planter along a rear wall that could receive morning light from a large window overlooking a tiny formal garden.

  Senator Crowell placed two porcelain cups before them and poured. “Lemon?”

  “Thank you,” Sara said as Martin nodded.

  “Miss Bucknell and Mr. Fowler, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  He sat down and seemed to appraise them in a pleasant fashion. “And exactly what can I do for you? I assume you are not from my state?”

  “No. We’re from New York.”

  He gave the slightest fey smile. “Obviously my loss.”

  “We’ll get right to it. We know you are busy.”

  The eyes of the old man laughed. “Not as busy as you might think. It would seem that the causes I have fought for during my political career are in slight disfavor at the moment. But please proceed.”

  Sara took a deep breath. “We have reason to believe that the columnist, J.J. Sperry, was murdered. As I see it, they probably injected him with a powerful muscle relaxant that caused heart failure.”

  Senator Crowell held up a thin hand. Martin noticed that the blue blood vessels on the back of the hand seemed barely contained by the white skin. “That is hardly the province of a United States senator. You should take your suspicious to the police.”

  “That’s for a later time,” Sara said. “We’re here to see you because of why Sperry was murdered.”

  Crowell nodded. “I see. And that is?…”

  “I’d like Mr. Fowler to tell you,” Sara said.

  Martin clasped his hands together and hunched over the table to stare directly into the eyes of Senator Crowell. “I was hired by the columnist J.J. Sperry for a specific undercover assignment. It was my job to infiltrate Camp Mohawk located in the Adirondacks.”

  Crowell nod
ded. “I have heard of it.” The eyes smiled again. “Although I must confess I was never asked to join.”

  “In order to do so,” Martin continued, “I had to become a patient-student at a training school for the mentally retarded.” It was his turn to smile. “Or the intellectually exceptional as they are more humanely called. I was taken to the training school under the guise of being the son of an older man and woman. They said they feared that I would have no one to take care of me when they passed away, and were therefore desirous that I be trained to become self-sufficient. The reason for this approach was that Camp Mohawk each summer hired a large group of the educable retarded.”

  “For confidential purposes, I’m sure,” Crowell added.

  “Yes. Shortly after I arrived, I was able to prove to the staff that I was ‘educable’ and capable of selection for assignment to the Camp Mohawk staff. This subsequently happened, and I worked at the camp for Senator Rutledge G. Baxter.”

  The piercing blue eyes widened. “Baxter, yes,” the senator said softly. “We have often crossed swords.”

  “While working at the camp for Senator Baxter, I was able to gather the following information concerning Operation Barbados.…”

  Sara was astounded. She had agreed to let Martin make the presentation, sensing that he was able to do so, and that it would give the facts further credibility. She continued listening as he talked, and found herself almost believing that he was in fact an undercover legman for Sperry. She also noticed that his succinct account deleted any reference to Billie Bamburg.

  Senator Crowell had to believe them immediately. There was not time to explain Martin’s misclassification as a mental defective, or to go into the machinations of the men and woman who had stalked them and finally murdered Ray Heath.

  She noticed that the senator listened intently, occasionally asking a direct question or sipping on his tea. From time to time he would nod his head in a benign manner. She felt a rush of warmth for this aging politician with the patrician bearing.

  “Mr. Sperry was preparing an exposé,” Martin concluded, “the night he died.”

  “Or was killed,” Sara added.

  Senator Crowell looked pensive. “I wouldn’t put an operation like this past Senator Baxter. I never have trusted the man. He always seemed a little too ambitious, a little too jingoistic, a little too calculating and politically expedient. He has great plans for himself, I’m afraid.”

  “The plan is to go operational tomorrow evening,” Sara said. “If you could reveal this information on the Senate floor tomorrow, before Operation Barbados begins … they would be forced to call it off.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” the senator said slowly. “Such information put into the record would effectively stop them.” He stared off into space for a moment. “Yes, it would certainly stop them, or make a damned fool out of an old politician.”

  “You don’t believe us?” Sara asked.

  “Oh, I didn’t say that. I’d just like a little background information. You don’t begrudge me that, do you?”

  “No, of course not,” she replied with a sinking heart.

  “Exactly how did you get involved in this, Miss Bucknell?”

  “Martin and I are friends.”

  “Close friends?”

  “Very close friends,” she replied.

  “I see. Both of you must understand that if I made such extreme allegations on the Senate floor and were proven incorrect … I could be censured.”

  “We understand that,” Martin said, “but the matter is so important. It could lead us into war.”

  Crowell smiled. “I believe they have recently called them police actions. Yes, you are correct. It is important—so important that I would be derelict of my duty if I did not follow through.” He stood and went to the kitchen wall phone.

  “Who are you calling?” Sara asked.

  “Martin mentioned a Captain Newmark. From his position in this matter, I would imagine he is attached to Naval Operations. I think a call to the night duty officer there should obtain the good captain’s home phone number.”

  The call was made and Crowell jotted down the home phone of Captain Newmark in Fairfax, Virginia. He dialed the second number.

  “Captain Newmark?”

  A hesitant “Yes?”

  “This is Senator Crowell. I wonder if you would mind answering a few questions?”

  “No, sir. Of course not.” The reply was crisp and military, almost as if the respondent had snapped to attention.

  “Are you aware of Operation Barbados?”

  “Yes, sir. I am surprised you know about it, sir. The exercise is highly confidential—for training purposes, of course.”

  “I see. And this exercise takes place tomorrow in the South Atlantic?”

  “Yes, sir. In international waters off the South American coast. I prepared the tactical details myself, after a recommendation by the war college.”

  “What sort of training exercise is it?”

  “Antisubmarine and submarine surveillance, Senator.”

  “That seems harmless enough.”

  “Routine, Senator. We run similar exercises constantly—almost an ongoing thing.”

  “Yes, I would imagine you do.”

  “May I ask the senator’s interest in the matter? I would assume it’s a cost question, but I can assure you, sir, the cost is well justified if we are to stay alert.”

  “And this exercise will take place at 34 degrees, 17 minutes latitude, and 58 degrees, 30 minutes longitude?”

  A moment of silence, and during the interim Sara had time to be surprised at the senator’s instant recall.

  “I believe those are the correct coordinates. I would have to check the file to be absolutely certain,” Captain Newmark said.

  “That won’t be necessary. Thank you for your cooperation, Captain.”

  “Anytime, Senator. I consider it my duty to cooperate with the Congress.”

  “Yes. Well, so it is. Thank you again and goodbye.” Crowell slowly hung up and turned to face them.

  “He verified it?” Sara asked.

  “He verified that a routine exercise is to take place in the approximate location Martin suggested. I hope it has occurred to you two that you may have misconstrued this whole matter?”

  “I think they intend to use this as justification to get American troops involved in South America,” Sara said. “It is not a routine maneuver.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “They wouldn’t be trying to kill us if it were routine,” she blurted.

  “Kill you?”

  The words spilled out of Sara in an avalanche. “They ran us off the road, they shot and beat Martin when he was in the halfway house, and they killed Ray Heath. What more! What more can you possibly want?”

  The facial lines around the senator’s eyes seemed to tense. His eyes turned cool. “It would seem that Mr. Fowler omitted a few details.”

  “Oh, what’s the use!” Sara stood so abruptly her chair fell on its back. “I’m tired. I want to find a deep hole somewhere and just climb in it and pull down the sides.”

  She rushed toward the hallway, but Martin caught her wrist. “No,” he commanded. “We have to try and convince him. It’s our last chance.”

  Sara brushed a tear away with the back of her hand. “Of course you’re right, but I think we’re fighting a losing battle.”

  “I think it’s time you filled me in on the not-so-insignificant details,” Senator Crowell said.

  Sara finished a cool cup of tea and began to speak carefully and intently.

  “I took a position as director of a halfway house for the educable retarded,” she began.

  Harris Crowell’s specialty was the manufacture of grilled cheese sandwiches with crisp slices of bacon imbedded within melted cheddar. He flipped the final one over on the griddle, pressed it down firmly with his spatula and then onto a plate. He sat at the table and nibbled disinterestedly while the others did the same.
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br />   “You’ll have to come back sometime and have my other gourmet meal—roasted pepper burgers. I’m rather limited in the culinary arts.”

  “The sandwich is very good,” Martin said.

  “You know, Martin, I believed the first story about your position as an investigative reporter for J.J. Sperry. It’s hard to assimilate that you spent over twenty years in a training school.”

  “I kept a low profile.”

  “A modern colloquialism. Your usage is surprising.”

  “We watched a great deal of television.”

  “Yes, I can imagine you did.” He turned to Sara. “You know, of course, that I am in a deep quandary. On the one hand, I have spoken with a high military person who tells me that Operation Barbados does exist, but that it is a routine training exercise. On the other, I listen to you two, mindful of the fact that you are fugitives, and hear a rather implausible story of murder, attempted murder, and a conspiracy that can shake the country. Exactly what do you think I can do?”

  “Denounce them on the floor of the Senate,” Sara said. “Denounce them before the plan is operational. They wouldn’t dare go ahead with it.”

  “They will call me irresponsible, and worse, they will call me senile, Miss Bucknell.”

  Sara looked at the delft clock on the kitchen wall. The hands were at nine. There were less than twenty-four hours before Operation Barbados began. “You’re going to have to believe us.”

  “I know several of the men involved. I have fought Senator Baxter for years. Of any senator now serving, I am probably more inclined to believe you than anyone else—and even if I do, my hands are tied. Without proof of your allegations, there is no responsible way I could bring these charges to the floor.”

  “Then we all have a quandary, Senator. There is no possible way we can corroborate what we say in the time remaining. Tomorrow at this time it will be too late.”

  “I will fight the Baxter Amendment on the floor of the U.S. Senate.”

  “And you will be outvoted.”

  “Probably.”

  “Would you bring it to the floor if you were absolutely certain that what we said was the truth?” Martin asked.