“You didn’t?”

  “No.”

  “Then why did you?”

  “You should have more confidence in your sexual magnetism.”

  “Really?” Sassie’s laugh was a little confused, a little embarrassed. “You’re just trying to buck up an early widow.”

  “Maybe.”

  She said, “Inspector Francis Flynn. Married. Four children—”

  “Five. Jeff is ten months old.”

  “In love with your wife.”

  “Deeply,” said Flynn. “Totally.”

  He sat back from his omelette, holding his napkin in his lap.

  “For all that,” he said, “a man has a natural instinct, against any woman’s compulsion to comprehend him totally, however indebted he may be to her, however loving he is of her, however fast friends they may be, against her thinking she knows all about him, can record every moment of his day and night, capture him, pin his wings against a board. He needs himself, some sense of himself beyond her, his own self. It’s hard for a man, when he loves deeply and well. But for her sake, as well as his own, he is himself, and has a private self; he does love, and play, individually. No matter how close she is, he has to die alone. For this good reason, if for none other, no man, no woman, however much in love, ever gives up being alone. He never gives up individuality. He never gives up privacy. He lives, for the best of everyone. This must be true of woman, as well, God love us all.”

  Sassie looked at her plate a long time.

  “At least your psychoanalysis is kindly,” she said. “And I expect it’s worth more than a dime.”

  “At least eleven cents,” said Flynn.

  “You’re really very reassuring. In the right, odd way.”

  “I’ll include it in a little book of sermonettes,” Flynn said, “called Yes, There Is a World Out There.”

  “Do,” said Sassie. “Send me a copy.”

  “I might even hand-deliver.” Flynn ordered tea for them both.” I take it you haven’t heard much from your stepson. Charles, Junior. Chicky, is he called?”

  “Chicky. I haven’t heard a word from him. Is there any way he couldn’t know his father was killed?”

  “Everyone in the world knows it.”

  “I guess he’s been mourning in his hole, and I’ve been mourning in mine. I guess I should have called him.”

  “I guess he should have called you,” said Flynn..

  “Death in the family is no time to draw lines,” Sassie said. “Be stand-offish.”

  “Then why haven’t you called him?”

  “I just— I don’t know. I just haven’t wanted to get Into that whole Chicky-thing.”

  “Which is what?”

  “Charlie’s death is hard enough to take, without surrounding myself with Chicky immediately. Am I being selfish?”

  “I don’t know. What’s wrong with Chicky?”

  “He has his problems,” she said. “He’s a gambler. Compulsive. Gets into these gambling fevers. Nothing can stop him. God knows we’ve tried. Married young. She walked out on him, of course. Thank God there were no children. Chicky couldn’t keep in possession of anything. I mean, truly. He sold the toaster. He sold the bed.”

  “He’s a pharmacist?”

  “Yes. And he’s almost always kept a job. Although how, I don’t know. He gets into these gambling fevers and he’s not rational. He’s not sane. I would think he’d be dangerous, you know, making up a prescription for somebody when he’s on one of these crazy streaks. He insists he’s never more sane. He hasn’t killed anybody yet—as far as we know.”

  “Surely you and the Judge would have gotten him to a psychiatrist by now.”

  “Dozens of them. It doesn’t take. He resists the whole thing. I think basically he resists me, as much of the work I do is in criminal psychology. So he resists any shrink we send him to. Every time Chicky’s come a cropper and Charlie’s had to pay his way out of it, the deal has been that in return Chicky would get himself to a psychiatrist and work hard at getting himself cured. Never works.”

  “What have his debts amounted to?”

  “Oh, three thousand dollars. Seven thousand dollars a year ago. Twelve thousand dollars six months ago. Nice the way these bastards keeping extending his credit, isn’t it?”

  “He hasn’t asked for anything in the last six months?”

  Sassie said, “Not as far as I know.”

  “You do know,” said Flynn. “You know that that walk Chicky and the Judge took in the woods on Sunday was another request for money.”

  “I don’t absolutely know it,” said Sassie,

  “You don’t know it, but you think so.”

  “Yes. I think so.”

  “You said the Judge was a little depressed when he came back from the walk.”

  “He was. But he didn’t tell me what it was about.”

  “Did he usually tell you about Chicky’s debts?”

  “Sooner or later.”

  “But he didn’t this time.”

  “He was leaving for England the next night. He probably didn’t want to throw something sad and ugly at me at that point.”

  “You say the Judge didn’t have any real money?”

  “No. He didn’t. Our incomes ran ahead of our expenses, so we had savings accounts, of course. We’d put money in savings and sooner or later Chicky would need it. This last amount, the twelve thousand dollars —Charlie had to borrow half of it from the bank.”

  “Is it all paid back?”

  “Yes. I’m pretty sure it is. I don’t think there’s much in savings, though.” Sassie pushed the empty teacup away from her. “Poor Chicky. So mixed up. His father was so important, so bright, so beautiful. There was no way for Chicky to compete decently. Away down deep, I think Chicky thought too well of his father—to his own detriment. He worshiped him. Charlie was God. I don’t know whether this whole gambling compulsion was Chicky’s way of punishing his father or himself. It worked both ways. Either he’s been trying to prove his father wasn’t God, or that he was. I can’t imagine what he’ll do now.”

  “Sassie,” Flynn said. “There’s something you have to face. There’s a real possibility your husband needed a lot of money when he got on that plane to England the other night.”

  “I realize that, Frank.” But her eyes were hurt. “I’m not telling you anything I haven’t worked out for myself. But it doesn’t work that way.”

  “What doesn’t?”

  “I got a letter this morning. You remember either

  Grover or you said I’d get the half-a-million dollars’ worth of insurance policies in this morning’s mail?”

  “Yes,” said Flynn. “Actually, I said it.”

  “Well, I didn’t. They’re smarter than that. This morning I got a letter in the mail instead telling me there’s a limit of one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars on flight insurance. Apparently there was a big sign right there, saying so. We were tiddily. People were shoving by us. If we were thinking of the insurance as insurance, instead of some silly game we were playing, we would have noticed that sign, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know. Frankly,” said Flynn, “I find the contention that someone would not murder himself and one hundred and seventeen other people for one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars, but would do so for five hundred thousand dollars, more than a little capricious. Sign or no sign.”

  “And anyway,” Sassie said, “the letter went on to say even the one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars will not be paid until the satisfactory conclusion of an investigation.”

  “I see.”

  “So it means nothing, Frank. Nothing.’*

  “It means nothing now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It might have meant something to the Judge on Monday.”

  “He was a careful man, Inspector. He wouldn’t make such a mistake, if it were significant.”

  “On the other hand, Mrs. Fleming, one might expect a federal judge to consider himself and his wife above suspicion, in most matters. Most crimes require some conceit. Well, now.” Flynn was paying the check. “I shouldn’t worry you about this anymore, in your grief.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I said at the beginning of lunch I wasn’t grilling you.”

  “You did.”

  “Then this matter about Chicky came up.”

  “One of us brought it up.”

  “Was it myself, by any chance?”

  “I think it was, Inspector.”

  “Well, once on the table it needed a chew. I believe it best if you’re prepared for all contingencies. Even if it’s only a matter of having to confront your stepson —which you will have to do one day, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “By the way, if Chicky is in debt again, will you take it upon yourself to pay his debts?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Forever?”

  “No,” Sassie said. “This would be the last time.”

  “Are you sure of that, now?”

  “Absolutely sure.”

  “I hope so. Come on, I’ll find you a taxi.”

  “Do I dare leave your presence?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Grover. Your Sergeant Richard T. Whelan. How do I know he’s not lurking outside the door, ready to snap at me with handcuffs again?”

  “Since he insisted upon working the day, I sent him out to interview the widow of the other deceased who had the prescience to insure his last gasp—however, for only five thousand dollars. Burial expenses, I’d say: a modest man. A woman named Geiger, in Newton.”

  “I feel sorry for her, whoever she is.”

  “Have no fear,” Flynn said. “Nobody will arrest you henceforth, except, possibly, myself.”

  Nineteen

  “Come in, Mister Flynn.” The man in the dark brown suit stood up behind a mammoth desk.

  It was just three-thirty.

  Two other men in side chairs rose to shake hands as well.

  “I’m Henry Winton. This is Clarke Frings and Robert Mattock.”

  Flynn shook hands all around. He had been relieved of his overcoat downstairs.

  On one wall of the office was a Turner seascape.

  “Well,” Winton said. “Did you have a nice flight from Rome?”

  “Very nice,” said Flynn.

  “Rome is lovely this time of year.”

  “It was raining when I left,” said Flynn. “Cool.”

  He had wondered why N. N. had telegraphed him the Rome weather report. Anything to keep Flynn’s cover straight.

  As he had not been telegraphed what organization he was supposedly representing, he was reasonably sure the question would not arise.

  His credibility had been established efficiently by his knowing what the weather had been that morning in Rome.

  “Sit down, Mister Flynn. We’ll answer any questions to the best of our ability.”

  The Kassel-Winton Bank had not been easy to find.

  Down an alley in the old Huguenot section of Boston, Bay Village, the bank was far from the city’s financial center. Looking at the alley from across the street, one could only see a coffee shop.

  To enter the alley, Flynn had to mount three of the stone-apron stairs leading to the coffee shop, and walk down their other side.

  Number 11 (there were only six addresses in the alley) was the middle building, on the left. The far end of the alley was blocked by stout posts and a chain.

  He had to ring a doorbell and wait until a small man opened a small door to him. Flynn identified himself by name only. The small man seemed mostly interested in seeing that Flynn was alone; that no one else lurked in the alley.

  After hanging Flynn’s overcoat carefully in a hall closet, the man led Flynn up a carpeted flight of stairs.

  On the lower floor, to his left, Flynn had seen a white-jacketed man clearing silver from a dining table. Two side doors in the dining room were open, to rooms beyond.

  The upper storey, too, was extended well beyond the original size of the house, carpeted corridors going past several closed doors.

  The Kassel-Winton Bank obviously was all three houses this side of the alley, with a single entrance.

  The office to which he had been shown, Henry Win-ton’s, enjoyed the central position in the three houses.

  The four men sat in the comfortable room.

  “Rashin al Khatid,” Flynn said, removing his pipe from his breast pocket. “The Ifadi Minister of the Exchequer. I need to know everything.”

  “Yes,” Clarke Frings said.

  Robert Mattock said, “Mister Flynn, you understand, of course, that we never discuss our clients, or our clients’ business. Mister Winton thinks there’s reason in this instance for an exception to be made.”

  “There is.” Flynn sucked on his cold pipe.

  “I see,” said Mattock.

  “Mister Flynn,” asked Frings, “is it conceivably true that Flight 80 to London the other morning was shot down by a rocket?”

  “It is.” Flynn continued to suck on his cold pipe.

  “I think,” said Winton, “we have every reason to answer Mister Flynn’s questions.”

  “Yes,” said Frings.

  “First, Mister Flynn,” proceeded Robert Mattock, “do you know that the Minister, his secretary, and bodyguard were in this country using United States passports especially prepared for them by the United States State Department?”

  “I do.” Flynn reached for his tobacco pouch in his jacket pocket.

  “Names of Carson, Bartlett, and Abbott,” said Frings.

  “What were they doing here?” asked Flynn.

  “A banking matter.” Frings looked cautiously at Winton.

  “Having to do with International Credits,” said Winton.

  “All very complicated,” said Mattock.

  “I daresay.” Flynn tapped tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. “Perhaps you could explain.”

  Mattock and Frings looked at Winton.

  “Well,” said Winton.

  “You see,” he said. He sat back in his chair in a studiously relaxed pose. “Our understanding is the new Republic of Ifad needs to replenish its arsenal.”

  “Ifad is buying weapons,” said Flynn.

  “Purely defensive weapons,” said Mattock.

  “From the United States,” added Frings. “Which explains the United States passports, of course.”

  “How much?” asked Flynn.

  “Well.” Winton jerked forward in his chair. “That all depends on the value of money, of course, at any given time.”

  “How much,” Flynn asked, “was the total arranged for in International Credits for the Republic of Ifad?”

  Everyone, including Flynn, looked at Winton.

  He said, “A quarter of a billion dollars.”

  Frings cleared his throat. “That really isn’t much, Mister Flynn, when you consider what the level of international arms flow is at the moment.”

  Flynn said, “I know.”

  “This matter isn’t as complicated as Mister Mattock indicated,” said Winton. “You see, Ifad has a quarter of a billion dollars’ worth of gold, built up over the last few years from their oil resources—”

  “Where is the gold?” asked Flynn.

  “In Ifad,” said Frings, “buried in the courtyard of the presidential palace.”

  Flynn hesitated before lighting his pipe. “Are you serious?”

  “I saw it two weeks ago.”

  “Literally,” Flynn asked, “you mean it is buried in the President’s backyard?”

  “There are steps going down.” Frings tried to show with his hands. “An iron door. Guards.”

  Winton laughed. “Exactly, Mister Flynn. You see, we, as bankers, have the responsibility of getting that money out of there, recycling it, as it were, putting it to work again, providing jobs—”

  “—and guns for Ifad,” added Flynn.

  “Well, we’d provide anything,” said Winton, “as long as the money comes into our factories. What they want are guns.”

  “Guns are what they all want,” said Mattock.

  “What they should want,” said Frings, “are air conditioners. Have you ever been to that part of the world, Mister Flynn?”

  Flynn didn’t answer.

  “We talk to them about air conditioners,” Winton said, “building food-freezing plants, irrigation systems—”

  “What they want—” said Mattock.

  “Are guns,” said Frings.

  “Right,” said Flynn. “So you did arrange a quarter of a billion dollars in International Credits for the new Republic of Ifad?”

  “Yes,” Winton said.

  “With which credits, Ifad is to buy a quarter of a billion dollars of American weapons?”

  “Yes,” said Winton.

  “How does this work?” asked Flynn. “I’m particularly interested in the timing of it.”

  “Well—” Frings looked at Winton.

  “I’m not sure I understand the question,” said Mattock.

  Flynn said, “The man got on the airplane at three o’clock in the morning and ten minutes later the plane blew up. I want to know what happened before that.”

  “I see,” said Mattock.

  “The Minister,” Winton began, “Rashin al Khatid, arrived last week. Wednesday, was it?”

  “Wednesday,” confirmed Mattock.

  “Of course, we knew about the proposition before he arrived. Clarke Frings had already been to Ifad for preliminary discussions—”

  “To make sure they had the gold,” said Frings.

  Winton laughed. “That’s right. Arrangements for such a matter as this are rather easy. Of course, we had the weekend in the way. By Monday night, late Monday night, we had already communicated with London, Zurich, Rome, and had had our final communication from Tokyo. We gave a little dinner downstairs for the Minister, signed the necessary remaining papers. What else happened? The Minister communicated with his capital. Mister Frings went in the car with them to the airport.”

  “He communicated with his capital, you said?” asked Flynn.

  “Didn’t he?” Winton asked Mattock.

 

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