Flynn's In (3 page)

“Good morning,” the man said.

“Good morning,” answered D’Esopo.

“Ring for Taylor, will you?” one man said to the other. He came across the room to the bar table and poured himself three fingers of Wild Turkey bourbon.

He downed it in a swallow. “They were really biting,” he said to the room at large.

After pressing a wall button, the other man went to the bar table. They each made themselves taller drinks, with bourbon, ice and water.

Taylor came through the small door by the other side of the fireplace.

“Taylor,” one of the men said. “Our creels and boots are in the front hall. You’ll find them full.”

“Both the creels and the boots!” laughed the other man.

“Full creels. But ol’ Hewitt sure isn’t the man he used to be.”

Taylor acknowledged their wishes, then said to Commissioner D’Esopo, “Mister Rutledge has heard Mister Flynn is here. He’d like you both to go up, now.”

“All right.” D’Esopo moved a little too fast halfway across the room. He looked back to see why Flynn wasn’t following.

Slowly Flynn rose from the comfortable chair by the fire. He crossed the room to Cocky and took him by the left elbow.

He walked Cocky into the front hall.

From a few steps up the wide, wooden staircase carpeted in forest green, D’Esopo said, “Frank. This doesn’t include Walter. Just you and me, please.”

“Just having a quiet word with the retired one, Eddy. I’ll be right along.”

Flynn turned his back to the stairs and asked Cocky quietly, “Who are those two men?”

“One is Senator Dunn Roberts.” Cocky did not seem surprised at Flynn’s not recognizing a United States Senator. He gave Flynn the Senator’s party affiliation and state.

“And the other one?” asked Flynn.

“I’m pretty sure it’s Walter March. You don’t see too many photographs of him.”

“And who’s he when he’s at home?”

“He owns a lot of newspapers.”

“A powerful man, would you say?”

“Very.”

“Oh,” said Flynn. “I see. I think I’m beginning to see.” Flynn asked Cocky one more question: “What’s a Rutledge?”

“There is a Charles Rutledge,” Cocky answered. “Any utilities he doesn’t own, he’s on the boards of. He’s an art collector. Also, I believe, through his wife he invests in theater.”

“Cocky.” Flynn started up the stairs. “You’re worth your weight in lobster tails.”

“C
harles Rutledge the Second.” The man in the dressing gown announced his name as if stating a universal certainty, such as,
The East is where we say the sun rises
. In shaking hands with Flynn he did not smile. His eyes, cold for brown, beamed into Flynn’s only long enough to tell him that Flynn never, ever would surprise him. “My assistant, Paul Wahler.”

The other man in the room was dressed in a full, three-piece dark suit, necktie, black city shoes. His smile, when he shook hands with Flynn, looked as if it came from a box. In his left hand was a manila folder.

Outside was full daylight, however gray and overcast. The dark morning and the small windows required the lights to be lit in the small living room of Suite 23. The chairs and divan in the room were patterned in large, bright flower blossoms. Through a partially opened door, Flynn saw an unmade bed.

“I’ve telephoned some of the others,” Rutledge said to Commissioner D’Esopo. “They concur in our decision, and advise us to go forward as planned.” To everyone, he said, “Do sit down.”

The four men sat on the blossoms. Rutledge took the chair with his back to the window light.

“At The Rod and Gun Club, tradition is that we dispense with titles and ranks, Flynn.”

“Very democratic, I’m sure,” said Flynn.

“How much has D’Esopo told you?”

“He’s been as quiet as a Chihuahua in a snowstorm.”

“I’d like to meet with you twice this morning, if you don’t mind,” Rutledge said. “I want to meet with you now to stress the delicacy of this matter. After your—shall we say?—discreet preliminary investigations, I’d like to meet with you again. Say about ten o’clock. That should give you time to view the body and have a good breakfast.”

“And whose body am I viewing,” asked Flynn, “before the toast and marmalade?”

“Oh, we can provide you with a better breakfast than that,” smiled Rutledge. “The body is of Dwight Huttenbach.” Rutledge waited futilely for Flynn’s reaction. “You don’t know who he was?”

“Already having an impression of your membership,” answered Flynn, “I would suppose he was a barber keen on huntin’ and fishin’.”

Rutledge’s smile assured Flynn Rutledge was not surprised. “United States Congressman Dwight Huttenbach.” He mentioned Huttenbach’s congressional district, state and party affiliation. Neither the state nor the party affiliation matched the state or the party affiliation of the United States Senator downstairs sipping a preprandial bourbon.

“By the way,” Rutledge added, to D’Esopo. “I’ve talked with his wife. Mrs Huttenbach. First name…”

“Carol,” said Wahler.

“Seems to be taking it as well as can be expected. She’s on her way up. To Timberbreak, that is.”

“I see,” said D’Esopo.

Flynn noticed slight perspiration on D’Esopo’s face. Even in his tweed suit, Flynn was surely not warm enough to perspire.

Rutledge said to Flynn: “The Congressman was killed by a shotgun blast.”

“‘Was killed,’” echoed Flynn. “I see you’re not givin’ me the accidental euphemism.”

Rutledge opened the palms of his hands to Flynn. “I’m not a policeman, Flynn. I have no expertise in such matters. You need to go see what is to be seen. I’ve asked Wahler to drive you.”

Instantly, Wahler stood up to go.

Looking at Rutledge’s silhouette against the window, Flynn said, “Usually people rush to show the police the corpse. Seldom are we invited in, given tea and, in a word, read our rights.”

“You brought a man with you, Flynn.”

“My driver.”

“I’d like you to vouch for his discretion.”

“You mean, his silence?”

“This is a delicate matter, Flynn,” Rutledge said most
reasonably. “Huttenbach was young, with a wife and children. Other family. He represented an important constituency. He was enormously popular, greatly respected. A young man with a great future in national politics. I believe it important not to nullify such a man in death. Don’t you? Don’t you think it important not to break people’s hearts?”

A week before, also at dawn, Flynn had arrived at a city housing project. A man had been stabbed to death by his wife. They had eight children. People from the project were stirring around in various sleep apparel, barefooted for the most part, crying, screaming, shouting things that were not understandable. Broken hearts were all over the sidewalk and the stairs. Most of the eight children were huddled in a corner of the open kitchen, like so many wide-eyed, trembling mice in a trap. One fat daughter sat on a bed watching cartoons on color television. The man had been nullified—as had his wife.

“Something terrible has happened,” Rutledge said. “I’m sure you agree with me it’s important, for all concerned, that the right face be put on it.”

Flynn looked at Rutledge’s silhouette another long moment.

Then, without saying anything, he stood up from his chair.

Wahler had opened the door to the corridor and awaited Flynn.

D’Esopo went through the door.

From his chair, Rutledge said, “Paul, wait for Flynn downstairs, will you?”

Wahler nodded and left, closing the door behind him.

Rutledge said: “Flynn, would it surprise you to know I’ve talked with the head of No Name this morning?”

“Yes.”

“You’re right. I haven’t. And I wasn’t about to say I had. You could find out I hadn’t too easily.”

“What you’re trying to say is you believe you could, if you wanted to.”

“Something like that. I have telephoned other people about you this morning. Since D’Esopo recommended you for this job last night.”

“ ‘This job?’ ” asked Flynn. “I don’t remember applying for a job.”

“I know something of who you are, Flynn.”

Discreetly, Flynn yawned. “You’re trying to tell me you’re more important than the Commissioner of Boston Police.”

“I guess I am.” Rutledge stood up. “I’m sure I don’t need to present images to you of carrots and sticks.” He shook hands with Flynn again, as if they had agreed on something. “Don’t commit yourself in any way, Flynn, or talk to anyone, including your friend, Concannon, until you come back and talk to me.”

“Kippered herrings,” said Flynn.

“Beg pardon?”

“I wouldn’t mind kippered herrings for breakfast. With my toast and marmalade.”

“T
he idea is, Flynn,” Wahler said, turning the ignition key of the Rolls Royce, “you’re staying in the motel, Timberbreak Lodge, down the road. It will be an easy matter for you to introduce yourself to the local police, and offer your assistance.” He backed the car around. “They’ll be delighted to have you confirm their findings.”

In response, Flynn committed himself to silence.

The morning remained gray but the mist had lifted. Along the dirt road to the main gate of The Rod and Gun Club, the fog patches had left all but the deepest dells. The trees along the road seemed uniformly pine, tall and dark, with the odd stand of silver birch. On the rises of the road, broader views could be seen of October foliage muted by overcast.

The car was stopped at the gate. The armed guard came close enough to the car to ascertain there was no one in the back seat. He noted the names of the two men in the front seat on his clipboard.

As the car went through the gate, Flynn said, “He didn’t check our pockets for the silverware.”

“He has to know who is on the place and who has left, Flynn.”

“Why?”

There was no answer.

On the paved road, they turned downhill.

“Are you Rutledge’s driver?” Flynn asked. “Valet? Secretary?”

Wahler straightened one sleeve of his expensive three-piece suit. “Lawyer. I’m a graduate of Harvard Law School, member of the bar.”

“Please accept my personal regrets,” said Flynn.

“I’m not Rutledge’s only lawyer, of course. Just the one closest to him. I sort of work things out with him, then translate his decisions to other lawyers and all the other people he has to deal with.”

“So there is never any question about his expressing himself in a legal manner.”

“That’s right. Before he says or does anything, anything at all, all precedents and documents have been checked. By me.”

“Ah, the modern world,” said Flynn, spinning his Rs. “We’re all just puppets dancing on strings pulled by lawyers.”

“That’s about right.”

“Do you often travel with him?”

“Usually.”

“What? Even on a weekend like this, huntin’ and fishin’?”

Wahler did not answer right away. “Meetings go on at The Rod and Gun Club, Flynn.” More easily, he said, “And there’s always the telephone.”

“Married yourself? Have a home life?”

Flynn guessed Wahler was in his early thirties.

“Not anymore. Was married. I have an apartment between Rutledge’s home and his home office. His car picks me up most mornings, drops me off most nights.”

“Home
,” Flynn hummed. “And as the young husband said to the gynecologist, ‘What’s in it for you?’ ”

“No one in the world has a better overview of his business than I have. I’m listed as an executor of his estate now.” Gently, Wahler was braking the big car down a grade. “He controls many huge interests, Flynn. And I know them all as well or better than he does.” Wahler crossed the yellow dividing line and turned off the road to the left into the parking lot of The Timberbreak Lodge. “Sooner or later, as gaps appear, I should be able to pick any position I want. Meantime, I walk around with his power in my pocket. And everyone knows it.”

“And if Rutledge makes a mistake?” Flynn asked. “Is it the son of your mother named Paul who gets the blame?”

Wahler turned off the engine. “First we find the manager of the hotel. His name is Morris.”

Only a few cars were in the motel driveway. One was dented, mud-splattered and said “Bellingham Police” in chipped paint on its side. Its appearance did not suggest much concern for image.

From down the road an old Cadillac hearse waddled into the parking lot. Two men in dark clothes with very white faces were on the front seat.

Standing beside the car, Flynn looked at Timberbreak Lodge. As a piece of architecture, it seemed oddly truncated. Its main office area, under a peaked roof, seemed almost the right size, but the one-store area for rooms extending from the reception area seemed uncommonly small. The lodge looked like a gaunt woman in a long dress.

Following Wahler into the reception area, Flynn hit his knuckles against the wall. He might as well have knocked against a match box. Cheap plywood, covered with a pine stain with no insulation or other building material behind it, he guessed.

The reception area was colder than outdoors.

“Morning, Mister Wahler,” said the man behind the reception desk. He was a ruddy, outdoors type in a heavy woolen shirt.

“Morning,” Wahler said. “This is Police Inspector Frank Flynn.”

The man extended a heavily calloused hand over the counter.

“Pleased to meet you, Inspector. Sad business, this. Carl Morris, owner and manager of Timberbreak Lodge.” He looked down at the reception book on the counter. “You’re in Room 16, Inspector.”

“Am I indeed? I’m liable to be anywhere.”

“What room was Huttenbach’s?” Wahler asked.

“Other side of the building. Room 22.”

Across the reception lounge a huge window looked out over forested valley and hillsides. Flynn supposed the view would be dazzling, if the sun were out.

Open doorways led from the left and right of the lounge. Over one a wood-burned sign said “Rooms 11-16”; over the other, “Rooms 17-22.”

“Is there a lower level to this place?” asked Flynn. “A downstairs?”

“Nope,” Morris answered. “Just the one floor.”