Driving out of the hospital parking lot, he turned left, by-passed the center of town and headed for the north side where the houses were older, larger and further apart. He passed the entrance to the country club and, a quarter of a mile beyond, saw the Stanhope name and house number engraved on a polished brass plaque fastened to one of a pair of tall brick gateposts framing a gravel driveway lined with elms.
The heavy, wrought iron gates attached to the posts were open and he drove through. Only the crenelated roof of the house and the tops of the chimneys were visible until he passed a small rise and the grounds sloped away to reveal it set in a green carpeted landscape against an autumn tinted background of a grove of birch trees. He felt sure that, if he could have seen it from the road, he would have recognized it as Stanhope’s without the aid of the plaque on the gatepost. It was the typical English manor house-Tudor in style, constructed of fieldstone and stucco, crisscrossed with dark oak beams. It was as handsome and impressive, in its way, as Stanhope himself. But, like him, there was a certain spuriousness in its appearance that belied its authenticity. He thought that it accurately reflected the character, and hypocrisy, of its owner.
He followed the gracefully curving driveway and stopped in front of the main entrance. Getting out, he walked around the front of his car and up the three shallow stone steps leading to the intricately carved, brass-studded front door. He could hear the faint sound of the chimes inside as he pushed the pearl button set in the jamb on the right, and was mildly surprised that they did not play the British national anthem. A glance at his watch showed it to be eight-fifteen. Chances were that Stanhope would be up but had not yet left for the bank. Now that he was here, he wondered what he would-or could-say to him. He was not a sadist, and did not nurture any desire to see him squirm. The abhorrence and revulsion he felt for what the banker had done, and was mixed up in, was no less than when he had first learned of it from Wanda. But, he was equally mystified and intrigued by the contradictions in the man’s character, tastes and predilections which; on the one hand; inspired his genteel surroundings and an obvious yearning to be thought of as an English gentleman of culture and refinement and; on the other; allowed him to associate himself with-and, possibly, even direct—the unsavory, amoral and deadly pursuits of the smuggling/hijacking ring.
He started to reach for the button again when a small panel behind a grille in the center of the door was opened and a pair of watery, close-set blue eyes surmounting a long, thin nose looked out and up at him, apprehensively. He realized that the bruises on his face and the way he was dressed made him look rather disreputable-certainly not like anyone who would be welcome at the front door of that house. The eyes shifted briefly to where his Mercedes sat in the driveway behind him and the apprehension changed to a puzzled frown.
“Yes? What d’ye want?”
It was a high-pitched female voice containing more than a hint of a Cockney accent. He thought it was probably the only authentically British aspect of the place.
“I’d like to see Mr. Stanhope if he’s home,” he replied.
“E’s ‘havin ‘is breckfus’. Wha’ d’ye want t’see ‘im about?”
“Just tell him Mr. Tuesday would like to see him on some personal business.”
“’Oo did ye sigh?”
“Tuesday, Mark Tuesday.”
The watery eyes blinked at the note of impatience in his tone. “Wait ‘ere.”
The panel closed and about thirty seconds later the door was opened by Stanhope himself. A mixture of surprise and wariness seemed to be fighting for control beneath the patently false heartiness of his greeting.
“Well, well! Mr. Tuesday! What brings you here this.” A look of genuine shock erased his forced smile. “Good heavens, man! What’s happened to you? You look as if.”
“As if I’ve been in an accident. I know. Except it wasn’t accidental,” he said as he stepped unbidden through the doorway, causing Stanhope to back up and issue a somewhat reluctant invitation.
“Oh, yes. Of course. Do come in. Sorry about the maid keeping you standing out there, old man.” He peered at him solicitously. “Can I get you something? Coffee? A drink perhaps?”
“I’ve had coffee and it’s too early for a drink. But, thanks anyhow,” he told him. “Is there somewhere we could talk in private?”
Even in the dim light of the wide, dark paneled hall he could see Stanhope’s tanned visage turn a shade paler and his eyes cloud with fear. He pulled back the wide sleeve of the maroon silk dressing gown which he wore over gold pajamas with maroon piping around the edge of the collar. There was an embroidered gold crest on the breast pocket of the gown-and probably a maroon mate to it on the pocket of the pajamas, he thought to himself.
Stanhope consulted the slim gold watch on the underside of his right wrist. “Well, ah.I should be getting ready to leave for the bank. I, ah.have an early appointment. Could it wait? Perhaps I could see you there later?”
“No. We’d better talk now. Later will be too late.”
He looked as if he wanted to ask ‘too late for what,’ but was afraid to.
“Well, ah.. .if you insist. Why don’t we go to my study. It’s just down the hall.”
He hesitated for a moment longer, as if hoping he would change his mind, and then turned to lead him to the study. As he followed Stanhope’s stiff back along the broad passageway; past the wide staircase leading to the upper floors, and beneath the austere, watchful and somewhat disapproving gaze of the portraits lining the walls on either side; the hate and anger that had brought him here was tempered by pity and contempt. Seeing him here in his own home, surrounded by the artifacts and trappings of his own self-deception-complete to the suit of armor standing outside the study door, and inside; affixed to the walls and intermingled among the books lining the ceiling-high shelves; the shields, crossed swords, lances, battle axes, maces and other memorabilia of when knighthood was in flower; it would have been almost impossible to believe what Wanda had told him-if he had not seen the picturesof him and Sally in action, and felt the two caviar jars in his pocket.
Stanhope closed the door of the study behind them and invited him to make himself comfortable in the closest of a pair of matching deep leather armchairs positioned on either side of a small fireplace. The unlit logs on the hearth were imitation-as phony as the man who sat down opposite him-but still, the room possessed a warm and cozy quality, in contrast to the other rooms he had glimpsed which had looked almost museum-like in their cold formality. He thought that Stanhope probably spent a lot of time here, among his books and mementoes-all of which; a quick, cursory examination indicated were devoted to British and European history. If he was not really an Englishman, he had done everything possible to make himself one except take out British citizenship-and he would not be surprised to learn that it was in his plans to do just that at sometime in the future. It was too bad he had not done so before now.
“Well, now. What was it that you wanted to see me about?” Stanhope asked, assuming something of the air of the benign, tolerant father confessor. But, his outwardly calm demeanor was betrayed by a small, twitching nerve in his right cheek. He waited while the banker extracted a long, slim cigarette from a hammered silver box on a small table next to his chair and lit it with a matching lighter.
“I had a long talk with Wanda last night,” he told him. “Actually, she did most of the talking. She told me everything-about the lodge, and the parties, and about you.”
He blanched visibly but maintained his composure. “Oh.Wanda, you say? I, ah.I’m afraid I don’t know anybody by that name.”
“Come off it, Stanhope, There’s not much point in trying to deny it. I went up to the lodge myself after I talked to her and, from what I found up there, I know she was telling the truth. The FBI will know it too, once they hear her story and go up there themselves. I don’t need a confession from you. I only came here to tell you that your little charade is just about over.”
He made a pathetic attempt at indignation. “Now, see here, old man. I really don’t have any idea what you’re accusing me of. You have no right to come here and.”
“Stop it, Stanhope. It’s useless. Don’t you understand? Wanda’s confessed, and I’ve verified it with my own eyes. If you think I’m bluffing, maybe these will convince you otherwise.” He took the two caviar jars from his pocket and held them out so Stanhope could get a good look at them. He seemed to slump deeper in his chair, but said nothing. “I’ll be turning these over to the FBI within the next couple of hours, along with the location of the rest of them at the lodge-and some pictures of Flynn and Bucheck in the act of hijacking them and attacking the driver of the truck they were taken from.”
Stanhope’s eyes widened in surprise. “Pictures?”
“Yes, Closter took them. My guess is that he was forced to join in the scheme in the first place and wanted out. So, he followed the truck on Monday and took the pictures, hoping to use them as a means of getting free of you and the rest of the gang.”
Stanhope seemed genuinely bewildered. “Closter? You mean the man who.who killed himself a couple of nights ago?”
He was momentarily speechless, stunned by the apparent sincerity of his question. “You know damned well that’s who I mean! Are you trying to say you didn’t know him-or knowthat he was part of the gang, and that he didn’t kill himself, but was murdered?”
“No! that is, yes. I mean...I did know him,” Stanhope responded in obvious confusion, holding his hands up in front of him as if to ward off a blow. “From the bank.he was a customer of the bank. I.. .we hold the mortgage on his home, But.. .I had no idea.”
He leaned forward; a sharp, stabbing pain in his side reminding him of his taped ribs. “You’re a liar!”
But, he was not sure whether he was or not. His surprise seemed as real as Bentley’s had been when he told him who Closter was. And yet, it was incomprehensible that neither of them had known anything of the dead traffic manager’s involvement. It meant that someone else-someone still nameless and faceless-was Mr. In-Between and that, somehow, he had managed to keep Closter’s identity a secret from both of them-and vice versa. It was-or had been-an incredible arrangement, like a master puppeteer independently manipulating his stringed dolls.
“No! No! I swear to you, Tuesday,” Stanhope was saying, “I didn’t know he was involved or.. .or that he was murdered!”
Whether or not he was lying, it was the closest he had come to admitting his own connection to the smuggling/hijacking operation and he pounced on it. “But, you are involved, aren’t you, Stanhope! You and Bentley, and his two deputies, Flynn and Bucheck, and Grossman. And everything that Wanda told me is true! About how Bentley used her confession of what had happened with Ronny and his friends, before the Beamer accident, to persuade her to take the job at the truck-stop, and coerce her into becoming a prostitute. And, about the raffle, and how eager you were to prove to her that you were better in bed than your son-and failed!” Stanhope flinched as if he had slapped him across the face. “But, then you lost interest in her, and the other girls, after Bentley’s receptionist, Sally, began coming to the parties. I found the pictures of the two of you exhibiting your.. .talents. You make a charming pair.”
He grimaced, and feebly tried to defend himself. “It wasn’t like.like that at all. I.I never said.. .She was perfectly willing to.. .You can’t take the word of that.. .that little tramp against mine!” His British accent had all but disappeared, along with his composure.
“You bastard! If she’s a tramp, what does that make you? It was you, and that fat pig of a sheriff who conspired to turn her into a fifteen year old prostitute in the first place. Fifteen years old, for God’s sake, Stanhope! You can’t avoid the consequences of your actions by calling her names, regardless of whether they’re true or not. You’re up to your ears in dope smuggling, hijacking, prostitution and murder. It’s easy to understand how Bentley and the others could get involved in such activities. They’re obviously motivated by pure and simple greed. But-what’s your motive, or excuse? Why would a man like you-who has obviously gone to such pains to build and maintain a facade of decency and respectability for himself and his family-why would you endanger it in order to take part in such a filthy business? Isn’t your income sufficient to support you in the style you’ve become accustomed to-or are you just greedy too? Why, Stanhope? Why?”
The banker seemed to physically shrivel until the chin of his classic profile almost rested on his chest. He raised a shaking hand to his forehead as if to shield his eyes from the blinding glare of the truth, and his body shook convulsively with deep, rasping breaths as he struggled to control his emotions. Looking at him, he dismissed all thought of any possibility that he was anything more than just another pawn in the game.
“You.. .you don’t understand, Tuesday.” He lowered his hand. “It wasn’t.. .like you think. It’s.. .my wife. She’s.. .she’s been ill.a long time. There were bills. Very large bills.”
He felt a renewed surge of disgust at his attempt to shift the blame for his sins to his wife. There could be no excuse for his actions, but invoking her illness was less acceptable than anything else he could have offered, and he told him so. “Do you expect me to believe you only got yourself involved in the mess you’re in, in order to pay your wife’s medical expenses? That’s sheer nonsense, Stanhope, and you know it.”
“No. No. I didn’t mean it like that,” Stanhope protested. “She really is sick. Very sick. Hasbeen for years. But it I also made some bad investments, trying to raise more money to paythe bills. Everything seemed to.to go wrong at the same time. There were the doctors-so many of them-and the hospital, and special nurses. And then the brokers needed more collateral. It all just kept piling up.” He shrugged with a small, supplicating gesture that seemed to say now that it was, a poor excuse-but, the only one he could offer.
“What’s the matter with your wife?” he asked.
“Cancer. It’s terminal, but.it’s taken so long. She’s had one operation after another. But, now the doctors say that.that she can’t last out the year. I.I was planning to quit after she.was gone, and leave the country. There’s a lovely spot.in England that I.”
His voice trailed off as he bowed his head and contemplated the shattered remains of his dream on the floor of his mind. He wondered which he had been looking forward to most-his wife’s death, or the realization of his life’s ambition. He almost felt sorry for him, but remembered the lengths to which he had been willing to go to make his dream come true.
“I’m sorry for your wife, Stanhope, but I can’t help feeling sorrier for the wife of the truck driver who was murdered by your accomplices. She’s been married less than a year, and she’s pregnant. Maybe you’d like to explain to her why her child will never know its father.”
“Oh, God!” he moaned. “Please believe me, Tuesday! I didn’t know it would.it would lead to.to anything like that, or the other things with.with Wanda and.and Sally. At first, it was strictly business. But, the others, they wanted girls. Bentley and Grossman supplied them. I.I couldn’t help myself! Lydia, my wife, even before.she became so ill.she wouldn’t allow me.to.to make love to her. The girls, at the lodge, were so.so young.and, so willing. It.it was.impossible to ignore them. You.you’re a man, Tuesday. Surely you can see how.why.”
He voice faded again in the hopeless knowledge that there was no real justification for what he had done, or become.
“How did you get involved to begin with, Stanhope?”
There was only a momentary hesitation before he replied. “It.it was Bentley. He knew about my wife and he guessed the rest; about my financial difficulties; when I put the lodge up for sale. But, that wasn’t all. Ronny had been in trouble before, with another girl, even younger than Wanda. He threatened to have him put way if I didn’t cooperate. It would have killed Lydia.” He paused, as if wondering if it would have been more merciful than the deathshe was now facing. “I suppose it wouldn’t have really. But, even if it had, she would have been better off than to live, only to die, knowing what.. .what she will know about me.”
He felt a brief pang of pity for him-and for his wife-but quickly dismissed it. “What kind of deal did you make with Bentley?”
Stanhope lit another of the long, slender cigarettes with shaking hands. “He said he represented somebody-he didn’t say who-who wanted to rent the lodge to entertain some business associates, and to store things. I was to take care of the business end of the.the transactions, and to.. .to act as host for the guests at the.the parties-see to it that there was ample provisions for everybody, and all that. They.that is, the lessee, agreed to reimburse me for all expenses-taxes, utilities, maintenance, food and liquor bills, plus a monthly fee for my.. .my services.”
“How much?”
Stanhope took a deep drag on his cigarette before replying, “Ten thousand dollars.”
He was tempted to ask him if he thought it was enough to compensate him for the troubles it had brought him but decided to let him make that evaluation for himself. Instead he asked, “Did you know, beforehand, that the ‘business transactions’ would involve drug smuggling?”
“No. But, it didn’t take me long to figure it out.”
“Is it still in your name?”
“Yes. Oh.that is, it’s in my wife’s name. It was originally built by her father. He was a state senator. Dead now, of course. Perhaps you remember him? Senator Trumbull? Josephus Trumbull?”
He did not remember the man, but had noticed the name engraved on a gold medallion attached to the most imposing and prominent of the portraits hanging in the hall-and wondered if the dead politician had been as proud of his son-in-law as Stanhope seemed to be of his father-in-law. But, the question was irrelevant and he ignored it.
“How long have you been renting the lodge to them?”
Stanhope took a moment to reflect before answering. “Almost six years now. It was early in nineteen sixty-seven when Bentley first approached me with the proposition.”
Before the hijackings began. The lessee had been confident of success.
“Whose name is on the lease?”
“Bentley’s.”
“Who made the arrangements for the parties?”
“Bentley. He usually called me a few days in advance to tell me the date, and who to expect.”
“Has he been your only contact?”
“Yes. Although, occasionally, I have received a message from him through either of his deputies, Flynn or Bucheck.”
“Have you had any contact with Grossman?”
“No. Bentley took care of all the arrangements with him.”
“But, you do know who he is.”
“Yes, Bentley told me.”
“Who arranged for the girls for the parties?” “Ahh.I believe Bentley arranged for them with Grossman.”
“But, you asked for Wanda, though, didn’t you?”
He flushed, and looked away, trying to cover it with the act of stubbing out his cigarette. “It.it was Bentley’s idea,” he murmured finally.
“But, you went along with it?”
He massaged his forehead with a trembling hand. “He said that.that she wouldn’t.that we could trust her to.to keep her.keep it to herself.”
“It was pretty stupid of you just the same.”
“Yes. I.I can see that now.”
“Almost as stupid as Ronny taking her up there in the first place.”
He nodded. “You’re right, of course. Bentley was livid about it. I had assured him that no one else would be permitted to go there. But, Ronny got a key from Lydia on the pretext of wanting to take a few friends to go fishing.” He paused, then added abjectly, “I felt quite badly about the Beamers but, of course, I.that is we couldn’t afford any further investigation. I.I wanted to offer them something; to take care of their hospital expenses; but Bentley wouldn’t permit it. He said it would be like an admission of guilt, and could lead to.to other problems.”
“Did Ronny know, or ever find out, what the lodge was being used for?”
“Thank God, no. He had never exhibited any interest in it before the Beamer incident and, after that one escapade, never went back, that I’m aware of.”
His son’s lack of curiosity seemed strange, but not worth pursuing.
“How much money was involved in the so-called ‘business transactions’?”
“It.ahh, varied, depending on, ahh.how much merchandise was available.” He hesitated as he calculated the amount. “Anywhere from a million to a million and a half, at a time.”
“How was it paid?”
“Oh, in cash. Always. At first I was rather surprised at how much was involved.” He sounded awed as if he thought the amount justified the enormity of the crimes that produced it. It did not, but it was more than enough to inspire them.
“What did you do with it?”
“I turned it over to Bentley when he came to the lodge to get it, after the others had left.”
“How were you paid?”
“By Bentley-in cash.”
“What about the rest of the stolen merchandise that’s stored up there? Are you responsible for that, too?”
Stanhope looked offended that he should think he would engage in the menial business of disposing of the clothing and appliances that had served to disguise the real intent of the hijackings. He dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “No. That was all handled by Flynn and Bucheck. I had nothing to do with that part of it.”
“Did you know where the drugs and the other things came from?”
“No. Not really.” Lighting another cigarette, he blew twin jets of smoke through the nostrils of his finely chiselled nose. He seemed to be re-gaining his confidence, as if he nowbelieved that, by confessing his sins, he was gaining some kind of absolution for them. “I had formed some conclusions from some of the things I had heard Flynn and Bucheck talking about-but, I.I never pressed Bentley for any of the details. I really didn’t want to know.too much. It seemed easier not to.”
His ignorance might have made it easier for him to participate in the scheme, but it was not going to make it any easier for him to pay for his part in it. “But, you know now, don’t you?” he asked.
Stanhope nodded, and without prompting, explained how he knew. “Bentley had called Monday afternoon to tell me there would be a.a party Thursday.. .that is, tonight, But, later that evening, he called back to say it was postponed. It was the first time it had happened, but when I asked why, he would only say there had been an accident and that we would have to wait to be sure there were no complications. When you showed up Tuesday morning at the bank and said you were investigating the accident of the night before in which the truck driver had been killed, I realized the two must be connected. I called Bentley after you left and arranged to meet him. I.. .demanded to know the truth and.. .and was sorry when he told me. I told him I hadn’t bargained for murder and that I wanted nothing more to do with him or the rest of it. He only laughed and said that I was in it as deep as the rest of them, and that there was only one way I could get out.” He paused, as if wondering if he should not have taken it, then and there. “I think I knew then that it was all over, even though Bentley said that Flynn and Bucheck had done a good job of covering up, and that he could make sure the coroner’s report would show the cause of death as accidental.”
“Did he ever mention Closter to you or indicate that he knew him?”
He seemed almost as surprised as he had earlier by the mention of the name. “No. Never. He might’ve known him, of course. He seems to know almost everybody in town. But, I doubt that he knew that Closter was involved. I would never have suspected it myself. He seemed like such a mild, quiet little man. Are you sure of your facts? He really took pictures of Flynn and Bucheck in the act of hijacking the truck? It’s too fantastic, really! What was his part in.. .in all of it?”
He sounded remotely intrigued and amused, as if he had just heard a titillating and somewhat scandalous, story about some mutual acquaintance.
“It doesn’t matter, now,” he told him. “What does matter is that he was murdered-probably by one or both of the deputies-on Bentley’s orders.”
He blanched again. “Do you really think so? But why? Did Bentley find out about him taking the pictures of Flynn and Bucheck?”
“Possibly,” he responded curtly, suddenly realizing that he was now the one answering the questions and not liking it. He had other questions of his own but did not seem able to put the words and images together to form a logical sequence of who, what, where, when and why. In the last few minutes he had gradually become aware of a bone-aching, mind-numbing weariness suffusing his body and brain. The temporary benefits of the brief nap at the hospital had now entirely worn off and his eyes felt raw and scratchy as if his lids were coated with sand. He was having trouble focusing on Stanhope’s pale and quivering features and, suddenly, no longer cared whether he was telling the truth or not. He was satisfied that he had been no more than a dupe in the smuggling/hijacking scheme, and his masquerade as lord of the manor would soon be over. It meant that he still did not know who the real leader of the gang was-the one who coordinated the activities of Closter, Bentley, Grossman and Stanhope-but he had delayed long enough-almost too long. He would go home, get the pictures from Phil, call Dan, tell him where he could find the loot from the Central States hijacking-and Wanda-and let him and Hollander wrap things up. Besides, there was a good possibility that Flynn’s body had been discovered by now and Bentley or Bucheck—or both-would be looking for him. He pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, feeling slightly dizzy. Stanhope looked up at him with mingled surprise and disappointment.
“Are you leaving?” he asked, as if he masochistically expected-or hoped-that the inquisition would continue so he could expiate all his sins-or, at least, those he was willing to admit to.
“Why not?” he replied. “Is there something else you want to tell me? Like, who Bentley takes his orders from?”
“I don’t know. Honestly. I’ve thought about it, naturally. Even hinted to Bentley about it. But, he just ignored me.”
Knowing how he had let himself be used, there was no reason to doubt him-and he had said earlier that he really did not want to know too much anyhow. He turned away from the forlorn, upturned face and walked to the door of the study. Before opening it, he looked back at where Stanhope still sat slumped in his chair.
“I don’t know if what you’ve told me-or how much of it is the truth, Stanhope-and, frankly, at this point, I don’t much care. But, as soon as I get home, I’m calling the FBI and turning everything over to them. You’ve got about two hours to decide what you’re going to tell them.” Stanhope made a motion as if to get up. “Don’t bother. I’ll let myself out,” he told him and walked out into the wide dim hallway, leaving the door-and Stanhope’s mouth-open behind him.
Passing the prepossessing portrait of the banker’s deceased father-in-law, he glanced up and thought he received a sternly approving look in return. He decided it was only his overtired imagination playing tricks on him and continued towards the front of the house. Pulling open the massive paneled door, he walked out, blinking with surprise, into the bright, warm sunshine that now illuminated the day and was reflected in the brilliant autumnal reds and golds that clothed the trees and shrubbery of Stanhope’s beautifully landscaped estate.
As he got into his car and followed the winding driveway back to the street, he felt another fleeting touch of sympathy at the thought that, before the day was over, Stanhope would have been forced to trade these genteel surroundings that he obviously loved so well, for the bleak, comfortless atmosphere of a prison cell.
“It couldn’t happen to a nicer guy,” he thought to himself.