"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.
Old Critchfield sat back and sighed softly.
"God knows they need him. Haven't had a Republican in since Frank Sargent." He turned to me and raised his bushy eyebrows. "I'm not sure whether Santuccio knew of my grandson's political plans. There have been rumors for some time. In any event, he certainly picked an opportune time to try and put the squeeze on us. Well, you now see why I absolutely cannot permit the pictures and this distasteful business up in Lowell to become public. I'm sure, Doctor Adams, if you have any sense of public duty, you'll agree."
"I don't agree. I don't agree at all. That's the same weak ploy Nixon tried. It didn't work because it shouldn't have worked. It won't work now for the same reason. Those negatives will be in the hands of newspapers before the week's out. And you'll be indicted for murder one. Better pack your toothbrush, pal."
He glared at me again, started to rise, thought better of it, and shrank back onto the couch. The bright eyes glowed bluish-white, like acetylene torches.
"You said you'd make a deal," he hissed.
"Wrong," I said. "The note said I wanted to talk about it. I still do. But the story's coming out. And soon."
Critchfield turned to Lundt. His mouth turned down in a scowl. He seemed to ignore Roantis, who appeared to be asleep. Then a faint smile played on his lips. He took a roll from the basket on the tea tray, broke it, and set it down on the silver. He turned to me again.
"Thank God I had the cleverness and foresight not to trust you, Adams." He chuckled. "In addition to keeping your attention while you were up on the cliffside, my phone conversations on the terrace had another purpose."
"Aw don't tell us," I said, holding up my hand. "We already know, don't we, Liatis? Old Critchfield's hired some more thugs to come burn our feet with cigarettes and stick knives in us so I we won't release the photos. Right, Critchfield?"
"Wrong." He grinned impishly. "I called my pilot in Lawrence and told him to fuel the Lear jet and stand by for a possible business excursion. The aircraft has a significant range, Doctor Adams. There are several secluded stops I have in mind for you and your friend here. None is in the United States. You will remain there, your whereabouts unknown to your family, until after the election."
"They'll know who took us," I said.
"I don't think so. If approached, I shall deny everything. I know you came here alone because Lundt, in one of his rare moments of mental lucidity, checked the approaches to these grounds carefully before surprising you up there."
He looked away from me long enough to remove another roll from the basket and break it. He bit at one half quickly, then set it down on the tray with the other one.
"I am a realist, if nothing else," he continued. "I know I haven't long to live, despite my personal regimen. I wouldn't have cared a fig if Santuccio had released those papers if it weren't for Joe and the race. Not a fig. I also don't care if people come nosing around here after you're gone. I don't even care if they lock me up, which they won't. But I will not allow that film to get out."
"It's beyond our control. The Globe's already got it," I lied.
"That's a lie," he said, taking another roll from the basket.
"In a few minutes, when my pilot calls back and tells me the Lear jet is ready and at the proper place on the airfield, my staff will escort both of you to my limousine and thence to the Lawrence Municipal Airport, where you will be taken aboard the aircraft."
He looked up at Lundt again while his hands fumbled in the breadbasket. "I don't know if Mr. Lundt feels up to joining you or not-"
"Not," said Lundt, his upper lip curling in a sneer. "You'd try to pin the whole rap on me wouldn't you?"
"And why not? You disobeyed my instructions completely. I did not pay to have anyone murdered. If the law comes here, I'm afraid you'll have to speak for yourself."
"You said use any means necessary." Lundt unconsciously raised the gun slightly.
Critchfield stared at him, like a judge passing sentence. He was holding up the edge of the linen that had been wrapped around the rolls. We couldn't see his other hand. I stood up.
"Latis!"
Roantis was already in the air, leaping toward the old man on the couch. But the ancient, liver-spotted hand was raised, and the small black automatic in it spat flame. Lundt grabbed his chest and jumped up, and the small pocket gun spat again. In a reflex action Lundt jerked the trigger on the pump gun. It clicked. We knew it would. He shucked the action fast and snapped the trigger again. Empty. Then there was a loud splat as Roantis smacked Critchfield's hand with the sap. The old man sat there on the couch and screamed bloody murder. He held his hurt hand and bawled. Roantis seized the little pistol and emptied it. I examined Lundt, who was now down on the floor. He had taken two slugs. Critchfield sat moaning on the couch like a giant, cadaverous infant. He jabbed at the button on the end table and shouted for Geoffrey, who was nowhere to be seen.
I did what I could for Lundt, who had shoulder and chest wounds. Roantis took a big revolver out of his coat, wiped it off carefully, and handed it to me. It had been Lundt's. He'd taken it when he'd taken the sap. He couldn't be caught with it now. As I walked to the phone at the far end of the huge room I looked out the window and saw the big Caddy glide down the driveway. Geoffrey was at the wheel. He still had his white jacket on. He looked like a dining-car waiter. I heard him call to the Hispanic guard at the gate and motion him over to the car window. The guard stuck his head inside for a second, looked back at the house, then ran around to the passenger side and got in. The big limo spun out of the gate on two wheels.
I picked up the phone.