Flynn's In (24 page)

“You’re what?”

“I’ve had it. Every week I request a transfer.”

“Every week I request you to be transferred.”

“Now I’m writing the Commissioner a letter telling him exactly why, Frank. The Commissioner personally.”

“You mean, D’Esopo?”

“That’s another thing. You’re not supposed to call your superiors by their last names. He’s Commissioner D’Esopo to you, Inspector.”

“I stand corrected.”

“Everything you do is bad for morale.”

“Your morale.”

“The morale of the whole police force. Like calling me Grover.”

“It distinguishes you.”

“Your sudden, unexplained disappearances. Like your present absence. And the fact that you keep getting away with it. I’ve kept a complete log. Dates, your excuses, everything. According to the records, you’ve had your appendix out twice, Frank.”

“Healthy diet. I keep growing new ones.”

“You keep me from bowling on the Police League. On Sunday night, for God’s sake. I’ve been complimented by being put on the Eats Committee, and you won’t even cooperate. You won’t even tell me if you like tuna fish.”

“About this Matson business, Grover, I’ll be in the office this afternoon—”

“Trying to do your work by telephone, while you’re off at some resort. Falling for stories any weeping women give you. I’ve had it! I’m putting it all down in black and white, Frank, you’re a lousy police officer, and I’m sending the full report to Commissioner D’Esopo personally.”

“It won’t do you any good, Grover.”

“I’d like to know why not.”

Flynn decided he would say the most elitist thing he could think of before hanging up.

“Because,” he said, “we know something you don’t know.”

W
hen Flynn came out of his room, baggage in hand, Senator Dunn Roberts was loitering on the upper landing.

“Good morning, Inspector Flynn. How do you feel?”

“Like a man who has been drugged unconscious one night and knocked unconscious with the butt of a shotgun the next. Like a man who has been lied to, used, played with, insulted and imprisoned.”

“Insulted?”

“I’m not forgetting being served broccoli, boiled fish and tapioca pudding at one sitting.”

“Oh.”

The door to Suite 23 was open.

“And what imaginative demise did you engineer for Charles Rutledge the Second?”

“You’ll read about it in the newspapers.”

“I’m sure. Been quite a rash of prominent men dying by accident in these environs lately.”

“Well, they were all active men. Sportsmen.”

“And what scheme have you hatched for the man Hewitt?”

Folding his arms across his chest, Roberts leaned his lower back against the banister. “Your friend, Concannon, has sat up with him all night, you know.”

“It doesn’t surprise me.”

“He agrees with our plan. This morning, Buckingham and Taylor will drive Hewitt to a small hospital for incurables supported by the Huttenbach Foundation. And there, nature will take its course. He’d never live to stand trial, Flynn. There would be absolutely no point in your putting the wheels of justice into motion.”

“There’s justice, and there’s justice.” Flynn took a step closer to Roberts. “You’re resigning from the United States Senate.”

Roberts looked up in surprise. “I am?”

“Within thirty days.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you have profited enough from your seat in the Senate. Especially has your wife’s bank account swollen each time you have cast a vote in your Transportation Deregulation Committee.” Flynn stepped back. “There’s my reward.”

Roberts studied Flynn’s eyes. “You have some evidence?”

“Of course.”

Roberts looked away. He stood up from the banister. He blinked, but only once. Then he said: “You’re a gentleman, Flynn.”

“But not,” Flynn said, heading for the stairs, “a member of The Club.”

Jacket collar up in the bright morning, Commissioner Eddy D’Esopo stood on the front porch of The Rod and Gun Club watching the slow-moving scene in front of him.

“How’s your head?” he asked Flynn.

“Which one?”

In the parking lot, Hewitt was overseeing Taylor packing things in the trunk of a car. On the other side of the car, Buckingham was pacing up and down.

Nearby, Cocky stood, satchel in hand.

“You all right to drive?” D’Esopo asked.

“It’s mostly downhill from here. You extending your stay at The Rod and Gun Club?”

“Going upstairs to pack now.”

“Oh. Thought you might want to have another go at the locks on the refrigerator doors.”

Hewitt was writing something on a piece of paper, using the car roof as a writing surface.

“I’m very grateful to you, Frank.”

“You’re very grateful to Detective Lieutenant Walter Concannon, Retired, Eddy. He’s the one who brought the murderer in. Last night, you would have been burned to death in your bed, Eddy, if it hadn’t been for Detective Lieutenant Walter Concannon. Retired.”

D’Esopo nodded. “He’s not retired any more. He’ll be back on full pay before the end of the week, Frank.”

Clifford was coming down the slope on cross-country skis.

“Retroactively reinstated, if you please,” Flynn said. “Cocky never did retire, you know.”

“Retroactively reinstated,” D’Esopo agreed.

Across the driveway, Hewitt handed Cocky the piece of paper, folded.

“Anything I can do for you, Frank?”

For a moment, Flynn thought. He knew he would kick himself for not taking this opportunity to rid himself and his office, his life, of Sergeant Richard T. Whelan. But, at the moment, Flynn had the distinct desire to oppress Grover. If not oppress him, at least teach him to return telephone calls.

“No,” Flynn said. “Nothing.”

As Flynn crossed the driveway, Taylor backed the car out of its parking space.

Buckingham sat in the back seat with Hewitt.

Cocky stood clear of the car.

Clifford slid alongside Flynn on his skis and stopped.

Together, they watched the car go down the slope and move slowly along the road at the edge of the lake.

Clifford said: “Why did he hate us so much?”

Flynn turned and looked at Clifford hanging over the ski poles propped in his armpits. At his handsome tanned face, clear eyes against the bright snow, superbly cut, full black hair, broad shoulders in an expensive dark, hand knit sweater, tall, slim body on the light skis. At a young man promoted well beyond his age and experience in a glamorous, powerful job. Bursting with health, more safe from the ravages of disease and accident than others. More safe from the law. Guaranteed, as much as one can be, a permanent, important place in the big world, a voice and the ability to use it.

Flynn said: “Have a nice ski, Ernest.”

Cocky was in the front passenger seat of the Country Squire station wagon, boxed chess set beside him, satchel at his feet, when Flynn got behind the wheel. Flynn had put his own luggage in the back of the car.

Cocky sneezed.

“The heater will work in a minute,” Flynn said, starting the car.

“’Fraid I’ve got a bit of a cold.”

Backing the car around, Flynn said, “We might just stop at the Three Belles of Bellingham. Pour some Jameson’s whiskey into you. Isn’t that good for a cold?”

“No.” Cocky wiped his nose with a handkerchief. “But it would make me feel better.”

He looked around at the huge, dark-timbered Rod and Gun Club as Flynn drove down the slope to the lake.

“It’s a wonder that old place didn’t burn down in a minute.”

“Ach, Cocky. The elite are ever with us.”

Snow sparkled along the roughly plowed road. To their right, sunlight shimmered on the lake. Overhead, snow lay along the dark branches of the trees.

“Mind my asking what was on that piece of paper Hewitt handed you?”

With the fingers of his right hand Cocky held up the note so Flynn could read it as he drove.

“SILY BASTIDS THINK THEY RUN THE WURLD.”

“Truth is,” Flynn said. “They do.”