David Morrell - Desperate Measures

by Desperate Measures(lit)

  of someone named Duncan Kline?"

  Denning studied him, his elderly face developing lines of strain.

  111fto?"

  "Duncan Kline."

  "Are you sure we haven't met before?" Denning asked unexpectedly.

  Pittman tried not to look worried. "Quite sure."

  "Then maybe it's something in the news. Talking about Millgate, Lloyd,

  and the others makes me associate you with .

  Damn it, Pittman thought. I was wrong. He doesn't remember me from

  seven years ago. I don't have to worry about that. No, what I have to

  worry about is something worse. When Millgate died, Denning would have

  devoured every speck of news on the subject. Needing to gloat, he would

  have read and reread every story. He's seen my photograph dozens of

  times. But because I'm using a different name and I look different than

  I looked seven years ago, he hasn't realized who I am.

  But I'm afraid he will. And what'll happen when he does?

  "I don't know how to explain it," Pittman said. "Duncan Kline." Jill

  interrupted, obviously wanting to dist Denning and get the conversation

  back where they wanted.

  Denning gave Pittman one more puzzled look, then turned to Jill,

  frowning in concentration. "I can't say the name is familiar. Perhaps

  if I had a context."

  "He was a teacher at Grollier Academy. That's the prep school the grand

  counselors attended. He was their main instructor.

  "Ah," Denning said.

  "Then the name is familiar?"

  "No, but . Odd.

  "at?"

  "As I get older, events from thirty and forty years ago can be vivid,

  and yet I have trouble remembering things that happened last month."

  "Forty years ago?"

  "Nineteen fifty-two. The summer. July. I remember so well because

  that was the turning point in my life. The Republicans had their

  convention that month. Eisenhower was nominated to run for President.

  In fact, he won the nomination on the first ballot. Eisenhower and

  Nixon. Given the national mood, it was obvious to me that Eisenhower

  would defeat Stevenson in the upcoming election. Evidently it was even

  more obvious to Millgate and the others. Immediately after the

  convention, they intensified their efforts to ingratiate themselves with

  those Republicans who mattered. It's a measure of their ability to

  manipulate that they succeeded, convincingly crossing the line from

  Democrat to Republican."

  Pittman noticed that Denning's cheeks had become more flushed with

  agitation, that a film of glistening sweat had formed on his upper lip.

  Denning picked up a glass, not his whiskey glass, but instead, one

  filled with water. He sipped quickly and continued. "July of 1952 was

  also the month in which they brought their campaign against me to its

  peak. I was so thoroughly branded as a Communist sympathizer that I

  became ineffectual as a diplomat." Denning squinted at Pittman. "In

  selfdefense, I spent most of my time keeping myself informed about

  everything Millgate and the others did. I had to be on the alert

  against their next offensive. And that's when I noticed that something

  had made them slightly panicky. A man had arrived at the State

  Department near the end of July. I never saw him, but I was given a

  description of him. A man with a deeply tanned face and a solid frame,

  big shoulders, an athletic appearance, but a man who had gray hair and

  seemed to be in his sixties. My informant told me that for all the

  signs that the man was physical and preferred the outdoors, he had a

  refined, almost effete manner, a patrician pseudo-British accent. He

  asked to see Jonathan Millgate. Well, of course you don't just walk

  into the State Department and expect to be allowed to see one of the

  deputy secretaries without an appointment. The visitor gave his name

  and Millgate's assistant put it at the bottom of a long list. In

  frustration, the visitor then asked to see Anthony Lloyd. Same

  reaction. With greater frustration, the visitor asked to see Eustace

  Gable. Winston Sloane. Victor Standish."

  "All the grand counselors," Pittman said.

  "The same reaction in each case. The visitor's name was put at the end

  of a long list. At that, the visitor -lost his patience, stopped asking

  to see them, and demanded to see them. For a moment, it appeared that a

  security officer would have to be summoned. But instead, Millgate heard

  the commotion, came out of his office, and ... Well, according to my

  informant, Millgate turned pale. His usual domineering manner

  disintegrated. He immediately ushered the visitor into his office, told

  his assistant to cancel -his next appointment, then sent for Anthony

  Lloyd and the rest of them. Most unusual. I have never forgotten the

  incident. It has puzzled me to this day. I've always suspected that if

  I had understood the subtext of the event, I would have had ammunition

  with which to defend myself."

  "Was the visitor's name Duncan Kline?" Pittman asked.

  "I remember some things so vividly and ... Unfortunately my memory for

  names ... The fire destroyed my records. I don't recall."

  "Then why would you have told us about this?"

  "Because I do recall managing to learn the visitor's connection with

  Millgate and the others. He had been one of their teachers at their

  prep school."

  "Then it was Duncan Kline," Jill said. "The big shoulders you

  mentioned. Kline was an expert rower. It's the kind of build that a

  rower would-"

  "Why is Duncan Kline so important to you?" Denning frowned and wiped

  sweat from his upper lip.

  "Someone else I interviewed mentioned him," Pittman said. "The

  implication is that there may have been a secret about Kline that would

  have threatened the grand counselors' reputations if it were known. "

  "What type of secret?" Denning's gaze was disturbing.

  "That's what we're trying to find out. We're reasonably certain that as

  teenagers at Grollier Academy, all the grand counselors were sexually

  molested by Duncan Kline."

  Denning slammed a hand on the table. "If I'd known that, I might have

  been able to fight back, to defend myself against them. "

  "In what way?" Jill asked. "How could being victims of a child

  molester have hurt their careers? Wouldn't it have made people feel

  compassion?" . "In t he fifties? Take my word, there wasn't a lot of

  compassion going around during the McCarthy period. Guilt by

  association. But what if Millgate and the others weren't victims? What

  if they consented? In the political climate of the fifties, they would

  have been dismissed from the State Department at once. " Denning

  breathed rapidly.

  "Did you ever hear even a hint that ... "No." Agitated, Denning wiped

  his face with a handkerchief. "No. But there's someone who-" Denning's

  hands shook.

  "Someone?" Pittman leaned forward. "I don't understand. Who? What

  are you talking about?"

  "Nothing. I meant, there must be someone who could prove it. " Denning

  spoke with effort. "Are you feeling all right?" Jill asked.

  "Fine. I'm fine." Denning swallowed deeply from
his glass of water.

  "Perhaps you can help us with something else," Pittman said.

  "Apparently, one of the last things Jonathan Millgate said was, 'Duncan.

  The snow.' Does the reference to snow make any sense to you?"

  "None whatsoever. Even supposing that the incident was traumatic enough

  He paused for breath. traumatic enough for Millgate to refer to it when

  he was close to death ... "

  "Are you sure you feel all right, Mr. Denning?"

  "The teacher who showed up at the State Department and startled Millgate

  ... arrived in the summer, not the winter.... The snow. I have no

  idea what it means. I wish I did. Anything to punish them."

  The waiter reappeared at the booth. "For our specials tonight-"

  "I don't have an appetite." Denning groped to stand. "I don't feel

  well."

  Jill hurried to stand, allowing him to lurch from the booth.

  "All this excitement. Millgate, then Lloyd. Too much excitement. Too

  many questions."

  "Do you need a doctor?" Pittman asked quickly.

  "No."

  "Can we give you a ride home?" chief "I'm fine. I can manage by

  myself." He stumbled past the waiter, almost bumped into another waiter

  carrying a tray of food, then veered past crowded tables.

  Pittman and Jill tried to go after him, but a group being seated blocked

  their way for a moment. Past a woman in an evening dress, Pittman saw

  Denning reach the front lobby. Then the group was out of the way and

  Pittman and Jill hurried toward the front exit.

  On the busy sidewalk outside the restaurant, amid the noise of traffic

  and the glare of headlights as well as streetlights, Pittman studied the

  pedestrians to his left, then those to the right, while Jill studied the

  opposite side of the street.

  "What the hell was that about?" Pittman asked.

  "I was hoping you'd know. He looked as if he might be ill, but ... "

  "Or maybe what he said was true-that the conversation overexcited him."

  "The thing is, what's he going to do about it? Where was he going in

  such a rush?"

  "Come on, let's split up and see if we can find him."

  "There they are," a man said accusingly behind them. When Pittman

  turned, he saw their waiter and the matre d' glowering at them from the

  restaurant's open door.

  "We needed to see if our friend was all right," Pittman said.

  The matre d' fumed. "This is what happens when I make an exception to

  our dress code."

  "We were coming back."

  "Certainly. But in case you're detained, I'm sure you won't mind paying

  for your cocktails before you look for your friend."

  "Jill, run down to the corner on the right," Pittman said. "Maybe

  you'll see him on the next street. If we get separated, I'll meet you

  at the car.... How much do we owe?" Pittman quickly asked the mattre

  d'.

  "Four Jack Daniel's, a Heineken, and-"

  "I don't need it itemized. Just tell me how much."

  "Twenty-eight dollars." Pittman shoved thirty dollars at the waiter,

  seriously depleting their money supply, and hurried in the opposite

  direction from Jill, wincing from cramps in his legs after having been

  in the car for so long.

  At the corner to the left of the restaurant, he gazed intensely toward

  pedestrians on the next street. Immediately he straightened at the

  sight of Denning, a quarter of the way along the block, lurching from

  between parked cars to hail a taxi. The elderly man looked more

  agitated as he got into the taxi, blurting instructions to the driver

  before he closed the door.

  Pittman ran to try to reach the taxi, but it pulled away, and at once

  Pittman raced back toward Jill, his cramped legs protesting.

  "I didn't see him." Jill was waiting where they'd parked the car across

  the street from the restaurant.

  "I did. Hurry, get in."

  Pittman started the engine and steered impatiently from the curb,

  narrowly missing a BMW. A horn sounded behind him. He ignored it and

  turned left, reaching the street where he'd seen Denning get into the

  taxi.

  "Where do you suppose he's going?" Jill asked.

  " I don't know. But this is a one-way street headed north. Denning

  wouldn't have waited until he was around the corner he hailed a taxi

  unless he intended to go in this direction. There's a good chance that

  the taxi is still on this street. "

  "You've already passed two is. How will you know which one is

  Denning's?"

  "I got the license number." Pittman kept driving. "I don't see ...

  Damn it, do you suppose we lost him?"

  "There."

  "Yes! That's the taxi."

  Pittman immediately hung back, keeping a reasonable distance between his

  car and the taxi so the driver wouldn't realize he was being followed.

  Fifteen seconds after he obeyed the speed limit, a police car passed

  them.

  "It's your lucky night," Jill said.

  "I wish I felt lucky. Where on earth is he going?"

  "Back to where he lives?"

  "In the heart of Georgetown? No way. He doesn't have enough money."

  Elegant town houses gave way to mansions.

  Pittman followed the taxi, turning left onto a street paved with worn

  bricks, streetcar tracks embedded in them. The taxi stopped in front of

  one of the few mansions set back from the street. The brightly lit

  building was on top of a slight hill and had a large landscaped yard,

  its shrubs enclosed by a waist-high wrought-iron fence.

  Denning got out of the taxi and hurried up concrete steps toward a

  spacious porch, its pillars reminding Pittman of a Greek temple.

  "I wonder who lives here," Pittman said.

  "And why was he in such a rush to get here?"

  They watched Denning knock repeatedly on the mansion's front door. A

  uniformed male servant opened it. Denning gestured, talking

  insistently. The servant turned to request instructions from someone

  inside, then allowed Denning to enter.

  "Now what?" Jill asked.

  "I'm tired of sitting in this damned car. Let's make a house call.

  six m 0 m

  The uniformed male servant opened the door in response to Pittman's

  knock. "Yes, sir?" He was middle-aged and somewhat portly. So much

  unexpected activity evidently puzzled him.

  "A minute ago, a man named Bradford Denning came here," Pittman said.

  "Yes, sir?" The servant looked more puzzled. "Did he mention that he

  was expecting us?"

  "No, sir." The servant's brow developed deep furrows. "Well, we're

  with him. It's important that we see him."

  "George?" a woman asked from inside. "Who is it?"

  "Someone who claims to be with your visitor, ma'am."

  Pittman peered inside toward a tall, slender woman in her late fifties.

  Her hair was short and frosted. She wore a scoopnecked designer dress

  made of silk, the blue of which brought out the sparkle in her diamond

  earrings. Although attractive, her features had the severe

  tight-skin-against-prominent cheek bones look of someone who'd had

  numerous face-lifts.

  The woman stepped forward, her high heels clicking on the mirrorlike

  finish of the vestibul
e's hardwood floor. "You know Bradford?"

  "We were supposed to have dinner with him tonight."

  "The last time we saw him, he didn't look well," Jill said. "Is he all

  right?"

  "Actually he looks dreadful." The woman's expression became tighter.

  "But he didn't mention anything about you. "

  Pittman tried to remember the false names he'd given to Denning. "Tell

  him it's Lester King and Jennifer."

  "Don't listen to them, Vivian." Denning appeared suddenly at a doorway

  on the left. With a wrinkled handkerchief, he continued to wipe

  glistening sweat off his face. "They're reporters.

  The woman's gaze darkened, her voice deepening with disapproval. "Oh?"

  "But we're not here to make trouble," Jill said quickly. "We're here to

  help."

  "How?"

  "We suspect Bradford Denning came here to tell you what we spoke to him

  about earlier. You might want to get tile story directly from the

  source. "

  The woman's severe face didn't develop lines of emotion. Instead,