Desperate Measures (34 page)

“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 the 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. 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?”

“No.” Agitated, Denning wiped his face with a handkerchief. “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 maître d’ glowering at them from the restaurant’s open door.

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

The maître 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 maître 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 before
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 taxis. 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.”

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 scoop-necked
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-cheekbones look of someone who’d had numerous face-lifts.

The woman stepped forward, her high heels clicking on the mirror-like finish of the vestibule’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 the story directly
from the source.”

The woman’s severe face didn’t develop lines of emotion. Instead, suspicion and confusion were communicated by the rigid tilt
of her head and the hardness of her gaze. “Come in.”

“No, Vivian,” Denning said.

The woman ignored him. “It’s all right. Come in.”

“Thank you,” Pittman said.

“But if it turns out that you
are
here to make trouble, I’ll have George summon the police.”

The threat caused a further surge of adrenaline to roil Pittman’s stomach. He fought not to show his concern.

As the servant shut the door behind them, the woman led Pittman and Jill toward Denning. They went through the doorway on
the left.

Pittman had expected antiques and a Colonial atmosphere. On the contrary, the large room was furnished in a glinting glass-and-chrome
modern style. Abstract Expressionist paintings hung on the walls, splotches of colors communicating a welter of emotions.
Pittman thought he recognized a Jackson Pollock.

“May I offer you anything?” the woman asked.

“No, thank you.”

“Jack Daniel’s,” Denning said.

“Bradford, you reeked of alcohol when you arrived. You know how I feel about overindulgence. You’ve had enough.”

Denning continued to wipe his flushed, glistening face.

“Since none of the rest of us wants anything, why don’t we sit down and discuss why the three of you came here?”

“Yes,” Pittman said, “I’d like to hear Bradford’s version of the conversation we had with him. If that’s all right with you,
Mrs.…?”

“Page.”

The name meant nothing to Pittman. His lack of appreciation must have shown on his face.

“Mrs. Page is one of Washington’s leading socialites,” Denning said, his boastful tone suggesting that he thought he gained
stature by knowing her.

“Obviously our guests still don’t recognize the name,” Mrs. Page said. “Or else they have the wisdom not to be impressed by
society.” Her lips formed a tight, bitter smile. “But perhaps another name will be significant to them. It’s the only reason
Bradford ever comes to see me, so I assume that your visit has some connection with it. I’m Eustace Gable’s daughter.”

The woman’s announcement that she was a daughter of one of the grand counselors was so surprising that Pittman inhaled sharply.
He sensed Jill become tense beside him.

“I didn’t realize,” Pittman said.

“Obviously. But now that you know, do you intend to continue the conversation?”

“That’s up to you, Mrs. Page,” Jill said. “Some of what we need to talk about may be indelicate.”

Pittman frowned toward Denning, wondering why the man had felt compelled to come here. Was Denning’s claim to hate the grand
counselors merely a ploy that allowed him to gain the confidence of their enemies? Was Denning a spy for the grand counselors
and the first person he’d decided to report to was Eustace Gable’s daughter?

“When it comes to my father,” Mrs. Page said, “
every
subject is indelicate.”