The Penny Ferry - Rick Boyer (39 page)

* * *

Lapels walked behind us, the big smoothbore aimed at
our kidneys. It would have made me nervous if I hadn't been so woozy
already. The sap had taken the tar out of me all right. I could
barely walk. Roantis, his pride no doubt injured at having been
outfoxed by a common thug, stomped on ahead of me, his hands shoved
deep into his Windbreaker's pockets, looking at the ground and saying
nothing. We passed my parked Scout, then the jeep. It was obvious to
me now how he'd gotten the drop on us. The chauffeur brought the jeep
around behind the house, out of our line of sight. It had stopped
there momentarily for the chauffeur to get out and Lapels, with his
smoothbore, to climb in. He'd left the estate, doubled back up the
dirt road, then crept up on us. One thing was becoming more and more
apparent to me: Old Man Critchfield was smart and tough. And he had
help that was utterly loyal and brutal.

After we passed the vehicles we walked down a steep
and twisty path, and it was there that Roantis fell down. It happened
so fast that I almost stumbled over him. He had tripped over a root
and fallen flat on his face. He'd fallen hard because we were going
downhill. I regained my balance and leaned over him. He didn't move.
He had covered his head with his hands, and was moaning. I noticed
one strange thing: his watchband had been turned inside out.

"
Get away," said Lapels. I stood ten feet
away, swaying back and forth to keep upright. I wasn't faking. Lapels
held the shot-gun at Roantis and kicked him in the legs. More
whimpering from Roantis, whose hands went down under his face for a
pillow.

"It's broken," he wailed. "I think I
broke my ankle. Please don't kick . . ."

Lapels listened to his whining and whimpering with a
disgusted look. Then Roantis tried to get up several times, but each
time he fell back on his stomach.

"
Want me to help?" I asked. Lapels told me
to shut up and stay where I was. I watched him kick and prod Roantis,
finally grow impatient, and reach down and grab the prone man by the
back of his jacket collar and heave."

Wrong move.

* * *

We walked single file through the gates of the
Critchfield estate. Roantis was right behind me, and Lapels followed,
holding the gun on both of us as before. The gatekeeper-gardener, a
husky chap of Hispanic heritage, watched our little parade closely to
make certain nothing was amiss. Lapels nodded at him and he closed
and locked the gate behind us.

We were in there now, and couldn't get out. we
climbed up the stone terrace steps to the huge oak door. The old
black chauffeur opened it and let us in.

"Bring them in here, Lundt!" cried a shrill
and imperious voice.
 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

"And so you see, Doctor Adams, when I took
Lundt's advice on the hiring of DeLucca, I really had no idea of the
kind of man he was. I needed someone sufficiently schooled in
violence to make the point, you see . . . but I admit I got way more
than I had bargained for. I assure you I have fully apprised Mr.
Lundt of my displeasure at the choice."

The old man glared across the wide room at his
assistant, whose eyes lowered under the withering gaze. He still had
the shotgun across his knees, but he seemed intimidated by the old
codger nonetheless.

The room was huge, with an ornate plaster ceiling,
leaded windows, oak wainscoting, and a gigantic Tabriz rug which
extended the entire length of the room underneath the overstuffed
furniture. We could have been in a castle in Scotland instead of a
big house on the outskirts of a New England mill town.

I looked steadily at old Critchfield. He was dressed
in a wool suit and vest. He looked the part. He was old, no doubt of
it. The white hair was almost gone; the flesh had left the beaky
face. A big blood vessel stood out like a piece of twine on his high,
bony forehead. His chin and neck were bags of saggy wrinkles and
liver-splotched skin. And yet there was the look of vitality, of
tremendous strength and will in the face and eyes, which twinkled
bright blue beneath the bushy white eyebrows. He glared in my
direction, a look of self-satisfaction, even hauteur, in his intense
eyes. I glared right back at him.

"Your story doesn't impress me one bit," I
said. "You say Andrea Santuccio was blackmailing you with the
photographs. I frankly find that hard to believe."

"Then believe what you like," he snapped.
"I can't stand impertinence. It is true. As I told you, he
claimed he wanted to use the money for some rehabilitation project in
that North End neighborhood. Likely story. He made some asinine
statement that I owed his people some sort of reparation."

"And you don't think you do? You don't feel any
guilt at all for helping railroad Sacco and Vanzetti into the
electric chair?"

"I didn't railroad anyone. I was an adviser to
the prosecution. An able one too, I might add. Many of us who were
perhaps less emotionally swayed by the immigrant community's appeals
for socialism saw the grave danger that these men, and all like them,
posed to capital investment and free enterprise. This ignorant,
superstitious, and ill-mannered peasantry! Effluvium of Europe!
Flotsam and jetsam washed upon our shores! How dare they seek refuge
and plenty here, then proceed to denounce the very source of their
newfound security and freedom as unjust? How dare they? My God,
Adams, you're a dunce!"

I was about to rise from my chair and go over and
smack him one. I wondered what Mary would have done to him. I
shuddered at the thought, and remained seated. I had to remember that
we were prisoners in Critchfield's mansion.

"
The picture you see before you, which shows
Sacco standing in front of the penny ferry in the North End, proves
he was innocent. An innocent man was executed. That means nothing to
you?"

"It was unfortunate. Many innocent people die
every day. It is the nature of the world we live in. It isn't good,
but it's all we have. Now Sacco and Vanzetti: two men who dodged the
draft and avoided the First World War by fleeing to Mexico, and who
at the time of their arrest were armed and carrying literature
denouncing the nation that had fed and clothed them far better than
their native Italy ever did. Do I feel sorry for them? Not on your
life, Doctor. I did not and to this day I do not," he shouted,
and sat back with a smirk.

"Very well. There then remains a more recent
transgression: the murders of John Robinson and Andrea Santuccio.
Hear me, Critchfield: I said murders. You're the primary accessory
before the fact. You're in on it. Up to your wrinkly old ass. And
I'll tell you what. I'm going to see you spend your last days not
here, in this fancy place, but in a cell six feet by ten, with all
those other 'dregs' like Sacco and Vanzetti. How do you like that?"

Well, you should have seen the old buzzard. It was as
if I'd hit him between the eyes with a splitting maul. He sat bolt
upright on the couch and looked daggers at me with a purple face. He
shouted to Lundt to strike me across the face. Lundt remained seated,
not moving a muscle. Critchfield turned his stare at him. He looked
at Lundt, then at the shotgun, then back at Lundt.

'
Did you hear me?" he squealed at Lundt.

"
Yeah I heard. No."

"Get out. You're terminated!"

But still Lundt sat, the shotgun across his knees,
and now he glared back at the old man. Then the old man, beside
himself with rage, got up off the couch, came over to me, and slapped
me. It hurt more than I thought it would. For a guy over ninety, old
Critchfield was in good shape.

I stood up slowly and took hold of his right wrist,
which I bent back and around in what police call the "come-along"
grip, and led him back to his couch,. He was a little bent over by
the pain, but that didn't stop him from trying to kick me twice. I
had to give him one thing: old Critchfield had grit. It was easy for
me to see how he'd become so rich and powerful.

I returned to my chair and watched him stare at
Lundt. Then he pushed a button on the end table, and almost
immediately the black man appeared. He was wearing a white coat.

"I'll have my tea now, Geoffrey,"
Critchfield growled, never taking his eyes from the man with the
shotgun. The chauffeur seemed momentarily to go limp, then recovered.
He looked imploringly at his boss.

"Mr. Critchfield, I— "

"Now, Geoffrey!"

The man stood motionless for perhaps five seconds
before he turned and left. I saw him grab his forehead.

"You want a murderer, Doctor Adams?" said
the old man, pointing across the room. "There he sits. DeLucca
was his friend, not mine. I provided the cash to hire. That is all.
As I told you, it was not my intention to kill Santuccio . . . just
to threaten him and get the film back. I certainly did not wish to
kill the other man. He's the one you want."

He pointed at Lundt, who sat still. The only person
more immobile than the assistant was Roantis, who sat like stone,
hands in pockets, looking down at the rug.

"DeLucca and that psychotic associate of his,"
continued the old man in a tired, gravelly voice. "The one who
would get the fits whenever there was a chance to hurt someone. He
was the one who performed the unpleasantness on Santuccio. Although I
must say he deserved it— trying to extort money from an event fifty
years old. Really!"

I watched him with a little pity. No doubt
Critchfield gauged everyone and everything by the yardsticks of power
and wealth. Accordingly, he showed no compassion, nor did he expect
any. He did not believe it existed. It seemed to me that the world of
old Joseph Carlton Critchfield was bleak indeed. 

"
You don't think you should bear any
responsibility for— " I began.

"Don't be an ass, Doctor Adams! My God, I would
hate to entrust my health to the likes of you! Don't tell me what I
should or should not do. Look around you. This property is but one
percent of my net worth. I have liquid assets totaling twenty-three
million, and real property and industrial equities totaling twice
that. I have houses all over the globe. I'm rich. I didn't get where
I am listening to people telling me what I should do, for God's
sake."

Geoffrey entered with a big silver tea tray laden
with a tea service for one and a big basket of rolls wrapped in white
linen.

Critchfield filled his teacup and sipped. Then he
drew back the linen and looked at the rolls in the basket. He picked
up the basket as if to take one, then set it down again.

"Very good, Geoffrey. That will do."

The chauffeur bowed slightly. I saw the shine of
perspiration on his upper lip and forehead. He departed quickly.

"
I have my own set of rules, as you shall see,"
the old man continued. "It may interest you to know that I still
work— hard— four hours a day in this room. I swim half a mile a
day, and walk four. I work out with dumbbells. I am in better health
and shape than most men of fifty. As greedy as you no doubt think me,
I do give to charities, and to political funds too."

"That would be the Genghis Khan Memorial
Foundation, I presume?"

"I do not find that amusing, Doctor. I think you
should show greater awareness of your current predicament as
trespassers on my property. I was about to add that I am clever. But
perhaps even you don't need that explained, seeing that I managed to
capture you in your sneak-thievery and have you delivered here."

"You'd have me take the fall wouldn't you?"
said Lundt, staring at the old man. "You'd have me take the
whole damn rap wouldn't you?"

"Considering my family's immediate plans, it is
impossible that these photographs be brought to light just now,"
Critchfield continued, ignoring his assistant. He picked up a
remote-control device and switched on the big television that stood
against the far wall. It was hooked up to a VCR video recorder, and
showed a tape of a recent debate between Joseph Critchfield III,
whose fund-raiser Mary and I had attended, and the incumbent
governor. We watched only the last few minutes of the debate, in
which it was clear that Critchfield had run rings around the
Democrat, who looked increasingly flustered and helpless in the
onslaught of Critchfield's well-chosen words, memorable phrases, and
awesome grasp of facts and events. The younger Critchfield ended his
remarks with these words: "And so, in light of these pressing
problems that now seem to engulf our great Commonwealth, I feel a
deep and personal conviction that it is time for new leadership in
Massachusetts. Accordingly, and in line with the Critchfield family
tradition of public service and service to the Commonwealth of
Massachusetts, I declare my candidacy and fitness for the
gubernatorial office of this great state. Thank you."

The crowd cheered and carried on, waving signs and
placards. The camera switched to a pretty blonde news correspondent,
who said: "If this debate has proved anything, it is that
forty-six-year-old Joseph Carlton Critchfield III is an astute and
able contender. For if there were a winner in this debate, most would
agree that the spoils of victory would go to Critchfield, who now
faces Democratic challenger George Pappas of Saugus as well as the
incumbent. Tonight we'll have a special report on the Critchfield
family, an illustrious clan whose wealth and political power have so
long held sway over—"
 
Click.