Conspiracy of Silence (14 page)

Taking a few deep breaths, I surveyed the back of the house. I couldn't tell where the stairs to the basement were, but the back door was only a few feet away. A quick check showed not only that it was locked, but that a deadbolt was in place.

I was, however, prepared for that.

Out of a bag I got my suction-cup device and quickly—and silently—began cutting a circular hole into the glass pane of the door nearest the deadbolt. As Joseph looked on in amazement, I completed the circuit, pulled out the suction-cup with the glass now attached to it, reached my hand in, silently unlocked the deadbolt, and then turned the doorknob from the inside. The door began to yawn open, but a slight creak caused me to halt abruptly. However slowly I opened that door, the creak continued to sound. At this point I whispered some instructions to Joseph, who stayed just outside the door, automatic ready for use, while I pulled the door open just enough to let myself in.

I was in the kitchen, which was ferociously untidy and stank of stale cooking and alcohol. Luckily, the basement stairs directly faced the back door, so that it was the work of seconds for me to begin my descent. So far as I could tell, my entry was undetected.

The basement stairs, inevitably, creaked also, no matter how lightly I trod on them. It seemed a century before I descended those thirteen steps to the basement floor, after which I had to navigate a baffling maze of cartons, old toys, decrepit furniture, and other objects of a less comprehensible sort. The basement was sizeable, but seemed smaller because of all the debris cluttering it.

It wasn't long, however, before I made my way to Lizbeth Crawford.

She was tied firmly with thick twine to the chair—her hands and ankles tied together, and a rope that wrapped around her midsection and proceeded to the back of the chair. There was also a dirty red bandana gagging her mouth. Her hair was mussed, her nightgown was torn and rumpled, and dried tears had streaked her face. She made no movement as I approached.

I gently lifted her head, which had slumped over to one shoulder. With a penknife I rapidly sliced through the bandana, which fell to the floor. Taking precautions, I covered her mouth with my hand.

That was a smart move, for my actions had caused her eyes to pop open, and a shrill moan or scream began working its way out of her throat.

I tightened my grip on her mouth and hissed into her ear, “
Shhhh!
Be quiet. I'm going to get you out of here.”

Her entire frame, which had clenched in shock and fear, relaxed abruptly, almost as if she were a balloon that someone had let the air out of. She looked at me with such a mixture of relief and gratitude that it wrenched my heart.

But I had work to do.

I quickly cut the ropes tying her to the chair. I gestured to her not to try to get up too quickly, as I suspected that she would need to restore blood circulation to her legs and arms before she could become ambulatory. She had nothing but slippers on, and they—and her thin, wispy nightgown—would have to do to protect her from the elements until we got to my car.

If we made it that far.

It seemed inconceivable that the Nolans had not been aroused by this invasion of their wretched abode. Could they really be such heavy sleepers? Could they be so careless of their prize after committing a serious felony? Was it possible they weren't even in the house?

I got the answers to all my silent queries when a gunshot exploded out of the dark and whizzed past my ear.

At once I flung Lizbeth to the ground and fell directly on top of her, to shield her from any more bullets. In spite of the clutter in the basement, there was nothing substantial behind which we could take refuge, so all I could do was fire blindly in the direction where that gunshot had lit up the area for a fraction of a second. The only thing that happened in response was a ferocious volley of shots that lit up the basement like freakish little pellets of lightning. Most of them went wildly astray.

But one got me in the left shoulder. It seemed to go all the way through, for only a few seconds after my own grunt of pain, I heard Lizbeth emit a little squeal. My right arm was, however, unaffected, and I returned fire as best I could, firing upward toward the top of the stairs.

Without warning, a heavy body tumbled down those stairs and landed violently on the floor. After an initial groan, it was motionless and silent.

Suddenly the lights blazed on, and I took in the scene quickly: The body on the floor must be Jake Nolan, although in overall girth he looked not unlike Franklin. At the top of the stairs was Joseph, beaming with pride and holding his automatic out in front of him like Wyatt Earp after a showdown.

But he celebrated a bit too soon. Out of nowhere behind him, a middle-aged woman, shrieking like a banshee, barreled into him with her arms extended. Before he had a chance to turn around, she had thrust him violently down the stairs. If he hadn't reached spasmodically for the rickety banister, he would have tumbled to the floor. As it was, he was forced to let go of his weapon, which clattered on to the floor of the kitchen above. Seizing the opportunity, the woman snatched up the weapon and leveled it at Joseph, teetering on the stairs while clutching the banister for dear life.

Before she could fire the weapon, I went into action. Forcing myself into a roughly sitting position in spite of the pain in my shoulder, I aimed my own automatic—not at her, but at the gun in her hand. I hit it squarely, and it flew out of her hand and tumbled down the stairs, landing not two feet from the recumbent form of her partner in crime.

She shrieked with pain and turned tail. I hastily crawled over the basement floor, picked up Joseph's weapon, and pocketed it. Nolan seemed unconscious, maybe dead, but I wasn't taking any chances. Only a few seconds later, I heard a car door open, then slam shut. There was a grinding of gears, a shriek of brakes, and then a motor revved up to full speed. In less time than it takes to tell, the sound of a speeding car receded into the distance.

The fleeing Effie Nolan was the least of my worries. A little weak-kneed, I made my way back to Lizbeth. I saw the back of her nightgown covered with blood and was momentarily alarmed; but her expression, while fearful and apprehensive, had little of pain in it. I began to realize that most of that blood was probably my own. As I looked down at my shoulder, I both saw and felt more than a trickle of blood emerging from the entry and the exit of the bullet.

I staggered to the very chair that Lizbeth had been tied up in. As she rose to her feet, she cried out in alarm, “Joe! You've been hit!” and stumbled over to me. There was little she could do except pass a hand gently over my face. There was nothing within easy reach to stanch the flow of blood—that dirty red bandana would not have served the purpose—so all she could do was coo at me.

Meanwhile, Joseph had staggered to his feet and made his way down the stairs. He stood looking at the body of Jake Nolan, now almost petrified that he had been the cause of someone's injury or death.

“How is he, Joseph?” I managed to breathe.

“I . . . I don't know, sir,” he stammered. “I think he may be dead.”

I saw a gunshot wound in his lower back, and a small pool of blood emerging from under his belly.

“Turn him over,” I said. “Let's see what gives with him.”

With extreme reluctance, Joseph took Nolan by the shoulder and tried to roll him over. His size—and Joseph's distaste—made the task difficult, but he managed it in the end.

We were rewarded by a low groan from deep within Nolan's throat. The front of his shirt was doused in blood, and he could do little but moan in pain.

“Better call the police, Joseph,” I managed to say, “and an ambulance.”

Then I passed out.

I awoke to find myself in a room in the only hospital in Pompton Lakes. As I opened my eyes, I found Lizbeth slouched half-asleep in an uncomfortable chair near my bed. I was propped up in a half-sitting position, and my left shoulder was heavily bandaged. Aside from that, I seemed fine.

But as I shifted my body to get into a more comfortable position, a shooting pain went through my shoulder and down my back. I groaned heavily and fell back on to the bed.

My cry startled Lizbeth awake, and she sat up sharply, half surprised and half fearful. Then, as if suddenly remembering where she was, she sat back, exhausted. She looked all in. I hated to think that she had spent the entire night—or what was left of it after our escapade—in that dreadful chair.

“Can you tell me what's going on?” I managed to croak.

Lizbeth was hardly capable of speaking herself.

“There's so much to tell,” she said wearily. “After you . . . um . . . fainted, Joseph managed to get to an all-night drugstore and call the police. I stood guard over you”—she smiled at the memory—“holding your gun. . . . The police came and took both you and that horrible man—”

She shuddered at the memory.

“Nolan?” I said. “Jake Nolan?”

“Yes, I suppose that's his name,” she went on. “Anyway, they brought us all here. It seems Mr. Nolan just got a flesh wound...but I guess he'll go to jail. They're still looking for that wife of his.”

“What about Myron Franklin?”

“Joseph said he was still in your car—he was slouched over on the back seat, all tied up, and sleeping. The police have him too. I think he spilled the beans about the whole business. . . .”

“What do you mean, exactly?” I said sharply.

“Well . . .” she seemed reluctant to speak further. Finally, in a rush:

“They've arrested Grandma.”

“Have they now?” I said with a grim smile. “So Franklin squealed on her?”'

“I guess so,” she said in a small voice.

“Well, that makes things a little easier,” I said. “Where's Joseph now?”

“He went back to Thornleigh after the police finished questioning him.”

“What about you? Don't tell me you've been sitting here all night?”

“Yes,” she said softly. “I had to be here. I wanted to make sure you were OK.”

“So what's the prognosis on me?”

“I think they said you'd be all right. The bullet went all the way through you, but no bones were broken. I think it grazed me a bit . . . they put a little bandage on me also.”

She seemed proud to have endured her share of suffering during our rescue of her.

“So what happens now?” she went on.

“What happens now,” I said heavily, as I struggled to get up out of the bed, “is that I have it out with your father. Maybe not today—I need to rest up a bit. But I have to get him to tell me what he knows about all this.”

“You're just going to get up and leave?” she said in alarm. “But you're wounded! You have to wait till the doctors say it's OK to go . . .”

“I don't have to wait for anyone,” I said gruffly, finding my clothes hung up in a closet. “Do you mind leaving while I get dressed?”

Lizbeth continued to flutter around me like a mother hen. “Joe, please, you have to rest. . . . Anyway, I think the police want to talk to you. They have a guard outside, I think. You'll have to meet with that police chief first.”

“Yeah, OK, I can do that. But I'll see him—he doesn't have to come here and see me. Now out you get.”

I shoved her out the door, closed it, and put my clothes on.

The policeman outside the door was startled to see me up and about, but I told him bluntly that if Police Chief Taber wanted to see me, somebody'd better take me to the station. Lizbeth had mentioned that Joseph had had to take my own car back to Thornleigh, and she called him to bring it to the station.

My talk with Taber confirmed what Joseph had told him earlier. Nolan had confessed that Franklin had pressured him and his wife Effie to do the actual kidnapping; Franklin had then pointed the finger at Helen Ward Crawford. Joseph had admitted that Mrs. Crawford had taken a drive into town the night before the kidnapping. That was enough for Taber, who had roused the household at Thornleigh at something like two in the morning and taken an outraged and fuming grandmother in handcuffs to jail.

I suspected, however, that it wouldn't be long before some expensive and high-powered attorney got her out on bail. So I said to Lizbeth:

“You're staying with me tonight.”

Her eyes opened wide at this. “Joe, but I couldn't . . . .”

“You can and you will. I can't risk having you stay at Thornleigh until this matter is settled. Don't worry,” I went on. “My girl Marge will be there.”

She looked down at her feet. “I wasn't worried about anything like that.”

“Good. Then it's settled.”

Joseph brought my car over. He was grinning from ear to ear—whether from the recollection of his thrilling feats of the night before, or because the gorgon matriarch of the clan had been clapped in jail, or both, I couldn't say. I grinned back at him and gave him the thumbs up.

Then I drove Lizbeth to my crummy little flat on West 14th Street in Manhattan. By this time it was mid-afternoon, and I'd given Marge a call to tell her to come by after work. After that, I collapsed in my bed.

I awoke to find
two
mother hens clucking over me.

One of them was fixing up some kind of witches' brew—which turned it to be a pretty good beef stew—in my primitive kitchen, and the other was pulling up the blankets over me as if I was some little boy with the mumps. I was so exhausted I didn't know who was doing what.

Sleeping arrangements that night had to be improvised. Both girls refused to let me sleep anywhere except in my own bed, saying I needed to recover my strength. I hate being babied by women, but there wasn't much I could do about it. Marge would share my bed, while Lizbeth professed herself to be happy on the couch in the living room. I didn't relish the thought of her spending two uncomfortable nights in a row, but I guess we all had to rough it.

I was propped up on the left side of the bed, since lying flat still sent shooting pains all down my shoulder and back. The latest issue of
Black Mask
should have held my attention, as a new guy named Chandler was doing good work; but the painkillers I was still regularly taking made me feel woozy and confused. I was thinking of just calling it an early night when Marge sidled into her side of the bed. She had a file folder in her hand.

“This afternoon I looked through the files for anything relating to the Crawfords,” she said. “You'd asked me to look up the Bislands, but I thought maybe the Crawford file might be useful too.”

I tended to doubt it, but I took the file from her and began leafing through it. It was surprisingly ample, but at a superficial glance it seemed to be anything but promising. The usual society column fluff—parties at Thornleigh where the New Jersey
haut ton
gathered like a herd of zebas at a watering-hole; the redoubtable Helen Ward Crawford making a name for herself by donating to local charities; even a brief notice, on November 8, 1918, of the birth the previous day of a little girl named Lizbeth Allen Crawford.

Nothing here that I didn't know already.

Then a clipping fell out of the folder and fluttered to the ground. I tried to snatch it out of the air with my right hand, but even that motion caused jolting pains all up and down my left side. Slowly and gingerly, as Marge looked on with a mask of concern on her face, I reached to the floor and picked up the clipping.

“What do you have there, Joe?” she said.

“I don't know,” I said. “Maybe it's nothing.”

But it was something.

It was a short, simple notice of the wedding of James Allen Crawford and Florence Bisland, which occurred—if the handwritten date scribbled on the top of the clipping was accurate—on March 6, 1918. That itself was unremarkable, but a single sentence in the notice caused me almost to fall out of the bed.

“. . . the celebrations were festive in spite of the cloud of gloom that hung over the family from the death of James's elder brother, William, at Thornleigh only a month before.”

The death of James's elder brother
at Thornleigh.

If this clipping was right, then something was seriously wrong. Everyone had told me that Bill had died
in the war.
But according to the notice, he
hadn't
died in the war. He may have died
during
the war, but not
in
it.

He had died at Thornleigh.

The next morning, as soon as I was able, I got dressed and made plans to head back to Pompton Lakes.

Marge, leaving for work early, did her best to get me to promise not to overstrain myself. I didn't even reply to that, and she left in a bit of a huff, complaining about the pigheadedness of the male sex. Lizbeth, for her part, continued to flutter around me, trying to help me do things that no self-respecting man would let anyone help him with. Finally I had to speak to her a bit sharply, after which she flushed, backed off, and just looked at her toes.

When she said she wanted to accompany me back to New Jersey, I said:

“Not a chance, Lizbeth. There are things I gotta do alone. You'll have to stay here.”

“But Joe, please,” she pleaded, “maybe I can help . . . .”

“Maybe you can,” I said, as gently as I could, “but it's really best if I do this by myself. Please take my word for it.”

By this time I had taken her by the shoulders and was looking right into her eyes. She tried to match my gaze, but eventually she gave up. Choking back tears, she slumped down on the couch and said:

“OK, Joe. Do what you have to do.”

I can't remember what I said to that. It wasn't much. But I got out of there as quickly as I could.

That police station in Pompton Lakes was beginning to feel like a home away from home.

Taber and others looked at me in surprise as I marched in.

“What's up, Joe?” Taber said with the faintest whiff of apprehension.

“I need to look at your records again.”

“I thought you already saw everything pertaining to the Crawfords.”

“I saw the file for
Frank
Crawford. Now I need to see the file for
William
Crawford.”

Taber wrinkled his forehead in puzzlement. He was obviously unaware that there even was such a file. But I had to believe there was.

And, sure enough, there it was.

Why hadn't I seen it before? Even though everyone called him Bill, his given name was of course William. It had been placed, properly enough, directly behind the file for Frank. But a stray sheet of paper had protruded above the file and covered over the tab that had William's name on it.

OK, call me careless. But at the time I was looking at Frank's file, I had no reason to believe there even was a file for William. So that fraction of an inch of paper had sent me on something of a wild goose chase.

Anyway, the file contained much of interest. William Allen Crawford had indeed died at Thornleigh, on February 8, 1918. He was on furlough and had been home for close to two weeks. I saw that he hadn't even gone overseas to the war zone; instead, he had spent his entire military career stationed as a reserve officer at Fort Standish in Boston. I didn't doubt that his mother's influence had kept him out of harm's way. She may have had to give up at least one of her sons to the war effort, but she could at least contrive it so that he came back in one piece.

But it hadn't worked out the way she wanted.

The police report was ambiguous in some particulars, but from what I could piece together, it seemed that William had, on that morning of February 8th, fallen into the lake that abuts the rear of Thornleigh and drowned. There was some little mystery about this, because William had been known to be a reasonably good swimmer. A wound to the back of the head had been assumed to have been the result of his hitting a submerged rock.

The death had been reported by William's brother, James Allen Crawford.

So James Allen Crawford may or may not have killed his brother.

But it wasn't his brother Frank.

It was his brother William.