Ride a Pale Horse (33 page)

I may have answered my question why Coulton was present on Saturday night, Bristow thought, but I’m still floundering around on the exact timing of his departure. Both taped interviews had been vague about that. There was one way to solve that problem: call Doyle and ask him to have Saturday’s records checked on everyone who was signed out between ten and ten thirty.

So he called Doyle.

“Yes, it’s possible,” Doyle said in answer to his request, but obviously thought Bristow was beginning to saw sawdust. “Give me until one o’clock. May have more to report by then. New developments. We’ve had a spot of luck.”

We could use it, thought Bristow. “Also, would you check if anyone returned to this building after he had signed out?”

“A re-entry? That’s a bit unusual.”

“Anything
unusual—that’s what we want to know. Okay? One o’clock will be fine. See you here.”

Bristow spent the next hour making his own notes on his talk with Fairbairn, comparing them with the earlier statements to Menlo. No divergence. Just more explanation, a clarification that changed the whole picture. Carefully, he went over his series of questions to Fairbairn. They had prodded, but they hadn’t led. Why the hell hadn’t Fairbairn been more explicit in the first place? But when Menlo had talked with him, Fairbairn hadn’t thought it necessary to go into details of justifications. He had assumed, in typical fashion, that everyone knew he could never be guilty of theft or treason.

There was still half an hour before Doyle would appear. Time to check in with Joe at the answering service, let him know he was back from vacation. Some vacation, he thought as he dialled Joe’s number and relaxed at his desk with a cigarette.

Joe was astounded to hear his voice. “Then you can take the six-ten call instead of Mr. Menlo. He told me to put it through to your office.”

Bristow swung his feet off the desk, stubbed out the cigarette. “What call?”

“Didn’t Mr. Menlo tell you? I ’phoned him at his home yesterday evening. He said I did the right thing.”

“’Phoned him about what?”

“An urgent call for you at five forty. A man. Spoke a lot, but wouldn’t give his name. Said—”

“Play it back to me.”

“Just a minute. Got your taped messages right here. You’ll have to listen to all of them, Mr. Bristow. They’re on one—”

“Okay, okay. I’ll listen.” A call puzzling enough to make Joe call Menlo, interesting enough for Menlo to thank Joe for having trespassed into his privacy—Bristow’s tension increased by the moment as Joe’s minute stretched to almost two. Finally, the week-end’s messages came through. And the very last was one in a stranger’s voice, speaking fluent American with a foreign inflection when his words rose in anger. The sudden oath was definitely Russian. The phrases “No one else. Only Bristow” echoed Vasek’s words to Karen in Prague. “Two weeks earlier”—yes, two weeks had been his time limit when he spoke with her in Rome. “Someone Bristow would very much like to meet...”

“You bet I’d like to meet you, Vasek,” Bristow said under his breath as the tape ended. “One more trick out of you, and I’ll wring your bloody neck.”

Joe was saying, “Okay, Mr. Bristow? Clear enough?”

“Clear and true. I’d like to collect that tape.”

“I’ll be here from five on. My brother—”

“That’s right—he takes over for the afternoon. I’ll drop around this evening—could be late, very late.”

“Anytime until midnight,” Joe reassured him. “Hope you had a good vacation.”

“Just loafing around,” Bristow said. “And Joe—tape all the calls for me for the next few days, especially the one that will be made at six ten this evening, even though I’m taking it in my office. Got that?” Bristow replaced the receiver, thinking of Vasek. Farrago. The man who trusted no one.

How the devil had he managed it—safely out of Europe, across the Atlantic, into America, and playing everything alone? He had courage, plenty of that to match his self-confidence. A master of planning, of the unexpected, of deception, too. In his peculiar way, a genius. Was he proving that we need him more than he needed us? Establishing his superiority, even domination, before we met? If he ever learned what a mess we are trying to clean up here, he’d add one more tally to his conviction that Americans are nitwits, only to be tolerated when useful.

Then Doyle breezed in, and Farrago retreated into the shadows.

Tom Doyle might not have had much time for sleep last night, but his step was elastic, his eyes gleamed with barely concealed excitement. “Some interesting developments,” he began as he took the chair opposite Bristow at his desk. “We got—”

“First,” said Bristow, “have you heard from Taylor or Hansen?”

“Every hour on the hour. Checked with Hansen just before I came here. Everything is quiet and under control at your place.”

Bristow drew a deep breath of relief. “What’s your news?”

“We got the car.”

“The one standing last night near Menlo’s house?”

“The same. Rented, of course. And abandoned in a parking lot at a bus stop on Wisconsin.”

“Quick work!” There were many bus stops along that avenue.

“Well—we needed some help on this one,” Doyle admitted. “We had the police circulate number and description—two-door sedan, dark colour, new-model Ford possibly. A patrol car spotted it this morning when they were cruising around Friendship Heights.”

Friendship Heights? That was near Chevy Chase, Fairbairn’s district. God, no!

“It wasn’t even well hidden. Standing in plain view.”

Bristow stared at Doyle. “Friendship Heights,” he said slowly, still aghast.

“About a couple of miles from Fairbairn’s house on Cherry Lane.” Doyle watched Bristow curiously. “He could have ditched the car and then hiked home. He walks a lot, I hear.”

“I’d have thought he’d have his own car waiting in that parking lot—if he was abandoning the Ford there.”

Doyle shook his head. “His Buick stayed in his driveway all night. Looked as if he never left home. But someone telephoned him around eleven. His wife answered. She said he had gone out for a late stroll.”

“You mean—you’ve his place under surveillance?”

“Menlo requested it. Suggested a proper search warrant, too. I’ve hung back on that, but perhaps it’s now time to get one and use it. We found a stocking mask lying on the floor of the rented car—slipped off the seat and was forgotten, no doubt. There were also a couple of cigarette butts—”

“Fairbairn doesn’t smoke,” Bristow interjected. A foolish clutch at hope, he realised. Fairbairn, under strain, might have gone back to his old habit.

“Then it could have been the other guy who does. We found his thumbprints on the steering wheel, but we can’t identify them. The FBI has no record of them, either. The same thumbprint is on an outside panel of Menlo’s front door and on his stereo.” Doyle looked at Bristow with some impatience. “Two men did the job: one wearing gloves and the other a little careless about that. Perhaps because he knew he couldn’t be traced in this country.”

“Two men—are you sure?”

“At least two. If a gun had been used, one man could have dealt with Menlo. But there is no trace of a bullet fired. There is no trace of a fight, either, and I don’t see Menlo being overpowered by one man without a struggle. Also, the search of the house was complete—a big job for someone working alone—upstairs, downstairs. They weren’t ordinary burglars. Nothing was taken. Not radio or a camera lying on the hall table or silver candlesticks and tray or Menlo’s supply of extra cash in his bedroom. The papers in his desk drawer—cleverly opened, by the way, and no fingerprints left—were jumbled. The bookcases had also been searched. My guess is they were looking for something like—well, those notes he made. And the guy who led that search must have known about them. How many in your unit could have known? The two who were interviewed by Menlo. Right?”

“What about Shaw’s movements last night? You had his apartment house under surveillance, too, hadn’t you?”

Doyle nodded. “Seemed to be spending the night at home. His Honda was parked in front—for a change, I must say—and the lights went on in his bedroom when the living-room was darkened.”

“That can be controlled with a timer.”

“Yes. But there was a telephone call at midnight, and he answered.”

“He spoke himself? Not a recorded message?”

Doyle took out a small notebook and consulted it. “He said, ‘Yes? Shaw here. Who’s speaking?’ A man’s voice answered, ‘Carl.’ Shaw said, ‘Look, Carl, call me tomorrow, will you? That’s a good chap. I’m busy right now.’ And he hung up.” Doyle waited for Bristow’s reply, got none. “You’re a hard man to convince,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m thinking you don’t find my news too welcome.”

“To tell you the truth, it knocked the wind out of me. I spent a good part of this morning listening to Fairbairn, studying his answers. And,” Bristow added wryly, “I found him innocent. A dupe, yes. Someone who was being used, set up to take the fall if our mole was in danger of being unearthed.”

“Mole?”

“That’s what it’s all about. Didn’t Menlo tell you? We’ve got one in my unit. He took the Vienna cassettes—Menlo used them as bait to catch him.”

Doyle was silent. Then he said, “A mole is a pretty expert con man. Clever, too. That car he ditched—” He broke off, looked at Bristow.

“Too clever to leave it anywhere near his own house,” Bristow said, and Doyle nodded in agreement. “Shaw’s apartment is right in Washington, isn’t it?”

“M Street, west of Connecticut. But a long way from Friendship Heights early in the morning.”

“Unless Shaw had someone waiting for him in the parking area to drive him home. Or almost home.” Bristow thought over that and had a better idea. “If his friend was unwilling to be seen waiting there, what about a bus? Doesn’t one of the Owl Routes run from Friendship Heights right down into north-west Washington?”

“From one until five
A.M.,
” Doyle said softly. “Takes you down Wisconsin to Pennsylvania Avenue, ends at Seventeenth Street.”

“Shaw wouldn’t have to travel that distance. If he got off at Washington Circle—”

“Less than a mile to walk home. But what does that prove—unless we know he’s definitely the man we want? Suppositions don’t make a case.”

“It proves that Shaw could have ditched the car at Friendship Heights as easily as Fairbairn.”

“You have a point there.”

And not much more, thought Bristow. “I’ll talk with Shaw this afternoon. After that I’ll have to get Menlo’s report into shape, add what I can, turn it in tomorrow. It looks as if we’ll have to let others continue the investigation. We won’t look so good, will we? Menlo’s section can’t even clean out its own midden—as you so neatly put it.”

“Just a moment. May I use your ’phone?” Doyle was on his feet. “It isn’t bugged,” he said reassuringly. “I had your office swept this morning.” Then as Bristow looked at him, astonished, he added, “You’re in charge here now that Menlo has gone.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“You were close enough to him to raise questions in some minds. Right? So I was just making sure you weren’t under
their
surveillance.” He began dialling. “And I don’t want you working late here. Alone. If you were thinking of bedding down in your office, forget it. Can’t spare two more guards to babysit—” He turned his attention on the ’phone. “Jack? Any word yet from the lab boys?... No traces of hair oil or pomade? I see... Two hairs? Is that all?... Yes, I
know
it’s a cheap stocking sold in the millions, probably cut off from a pair of panty hose. Who wears stockings nowadays?” Doyle ended his call, turned to Bristow. “None of my three girls, that’s for sure. Well—did you get any of that?”

“Most of it.” Bristow repressed a sense of small triumph. “Fairbairn uses something on his hair to keep it in place. Smells of lavender, I’m sorry to say.”

“He does, does he?” Doyle was a good loser. With a grin, he added, “The two hairs that were found on that mask are brown. Shaw’s colour. Right?”

“Pity you don’t have that search warrant ready. Shaw isn’t at home this morning—a dentist’s appointment.” Which could mean anything, such as a quiet meeting with Coulton to discuss where Menlo might have kept his notes and tapes.

“He hasn’t left his apartment,” Doyle said. “His Honda is still parked out front. Dammit all,” he added in sudden temper, and picked up the ’phone again, dialled quickly. “Just trying to reach Shaw,” he explained, and listened as he let the ’phone ring twelve times. “He’s out, it seems. Those blasted exits from that apartment building—four of them.” He reached into his pocket for his small transceiver and contacted his office to send an immediate message to the two agents who were keeping faithful watch on the Honda. “He has left. Check first, then enter. Search thoroughly. Let me know as soon as you find anything. Look out for part of a panty hose or a nylon stocking. And check any recording machine that could be connected with the ’phone. Also time-set lighting. Got that?” He switched off his transceiver and said, “I’d better get back to my office. But one more thing—Menlo’s death was no accident. The medical examiners say that force was needed, considerable force, to make that wound in his head. A fall alone couldn’t have done it.” And with that gruesome information as his parting word, Doyle—now grim-faced—made a quick departure.

Bristow found Fairbairn at his desk with a mess of papers around him.

“Don’t feel much like lunch,” Fairbairn said. He was trying to work, and failing.

“You should call it a day and get home. And stay home, will you?” And keep out of Shaw’s way, Bristow thought. “Where did you go last night?”

Fairbairn looked at him.

“Emma said you went out for a stroll. Where?”

“I don’t see this is of any importance to—”

“It is. Where?”

“I stayed in the backyard, walked around the flower beds, and then sat down on a chair. I do that on clear nights. Any objection?”

“How long were you there?”

“Returned indoors around midnight. And if you want to know what I was doing—I was trying to find an answer for myself. Just looked at the sky, plenty of stars to steer by, a clear moon—easy sailing if I could only get to Chesapeake Bay.”