Leopold's Way (48 page)

“You know what there is to know. The grand jury has indicted Carl Forsyth and we have every reason to believe he'll plead guilty. His lawyer, Samuel Judge, has been plea bargaining with the D.A.'s office.”

“So what will he get? Two years? Three?”

“It's a third offense. He could go away for a long time.”

“And what about the man who hired him?”

“He was hired by pro-casino money out to defeat you. But I guess that's no surprise.”

“It's a surprise to hear it like that. Do you have their names?”

Leopold pondered how much to tell him. “I have the name of one man, but nothing we can use in court.”

“Why not?”

“Because the man is clever. He might be the most clever criminal I've ever encountered.”

“A master criminal like Professor Moriarty?” Tenyon smiled as he said it. Leopold had not seen him smile since the attack on his wife.

“Something like that,” Leopold replied in all seriousness. “We don't like to admit they exist, because they rarely get caught. Today's master criminal isn't usually concerned with planning bank heists or mob killings. He's far more interested in pulling off a commodities swindle or falsifying the ownership of a tanker full of crude oil. The man I speak of is especially dangerous because he puts his talent at the disposal of anyone who can pay his price. The men who wanted to defeat you could pay.”

“Losing the election was one thing. What they did to Abby was something else. I can never forgive that.”

“How is she?”

“Her face is pretty well healed, but that's only part of it. Even our friends look at us a bit oddly now. Every time Abby gets a bruise someone will remember the stories that went around, and they'll forget that Forsyth was arrested for beating her.”

Leopold was silent for a time. Then he reached a decision and said, “After what you've been through I guess I owe you some information.” He told Tenyon about Jules Dermain. “That's the sort of man we're up against. I checked the Irish story and it's true.”

Ron Tenyon thought about that, his face lined with concern. “As long as you can't touch him, he's free to do this sort of thing again, to continue plotting the maiming and killing.”

“Oh, yes,” Leopold admitted. “But what can we do about it?”

“Do? We can stop him!”

“How? By killing him ourselves?”

Tenyon's face was very serious. “Why not?”

Never in his life had Leopold seriously considered killing a person, except in the line of duty and then always in self-defense. There was a brief scandal once when he'd been accused of killing his former wife, but even in the depths of it, knowing how much the woman had hated him, he never entertained the idea that he could have taken her life. The law was an important institution to him, and he was sworn to uphold it. Even a man like Jules Dermain must be protected.

“I want to meet Dermain,” Ron Tenyon told him the following day. “I've thought it all out and I want to meet him.”

“Do you now? So you can pull out a little pistol and avenge your wife?”

“If it's the only way to stop a man like that.”

“You're not meeting him. It would accomplish nothing.”

“If you won't go with me, I'll go alone.”

“That's out of the question. I'm sorry I told you as much as I did.”

“I have to confront him,” Tenyon said. “If I don't do it, Abby will.”

“You told her about it?”

He nodded. “Last night. With me it's the fact that he had her beaten. With Abby it's what he did to me and to my chances in the election. She wants revenge for that, and I can't say I blame her. If the police are helpless I have to do something myself.”

Leopold could see the man was serious. “I can't stand by while you do violence to him. I can't even condone a punch in the nose, though I might look the other way.”

“Arrange a meeting. Tell him I have to see him.”

“Do I have your promise there'll be no violence?”

Ron Tenyon hesitated, running a damp hand through his thinning hair.

“All right, if that's what it takes. You have my promise.”

“What are you going to say to him?”

“Even if Dermain planned it, I want the men who paid him to do it. They may be unimportant names, but I want those names. I'm prepared to pay for them.”

“I'll see what I can do,” Leopold promised.

He telephoned Jules Dermain later that afternoon. The Frenchman was friendly but guarded on the phone. There was no talk of mambas in Ireland or beatings in hotel rooms—not when he could assume his conversation was being recorded. “What can I do for you today, Captain?” he asked after some preliminary remarks about the weather.

“Ron Tenyon wants to meet you. He asked me to arrange it.”

“Oh? I don't really see that any good could be served by such a meeting.”

“He has a business proposition to offer you.”

A dry chuckle came over the line. “Really, now, you can't expect me to agree to such a thing.”

“If you're concerned about recording devices, the meeting could be held outdoors,” Leopold suggested. “That fountain in the park across the street could effectively muffle conversation.”

“What's your interest in all this?” the Frenchman asked.

It was a good question, and one that Leopold couldn't answer with complete satisfaction. “Maybe I'm trying to prevent a murder,” he replied.

There was another laugh. “I trust you, Captain. If you accompany Tenyon I'll meet the two of you tomorrow noon, at the fountain across from my house.”

Leopold met Tenyon at the railroad station shortly before nine o'clock. The express into New York took 90 minutes, and they wanted to be on time. “I told Abby about it,” Tenyon said. “She wanted to come along.”

“It's better to keep her away. I don't know what we'll be getting into.”

“I promise to behave myself,” Tenyon said.

“But I wonder about Jules Dermain. He didn't make any promises.”

They talked little during the train trip to New York, though Tenyon did speak of his future plans a bit. “George Crystal is a lightweight. Two years of him and the public will be ready for a change. I just might run again.”

“You're sounding more optimistic than you did the other day.”

“I've had time to think.”

“Do you really believe George Crystal is the name Dermain will give you?”

Tenyon's head came up. “Did I say that?”

“You didn't have to. Crystal is the man to beat and you're going to New York today to start your campaign. It's not even two years—he'll have to run again in the next regular election, in eighteen months. But tell me—what changed you? When this thing first happened to you and Abby it was the casino interests behind it—not George Crystal.”

“He profited from it. He can take some of the blame for it.”

“There's enough blame to spread around,” Leopold agreed. “Just make sure he deserves the part he gets.”

When the train finally arrived at Grand Central, it was a bright May morning with the temperature well into the sixties. “It's not too far,” Leopold said. “Want to walk?”

“Why not?”

They were still early when they reached Stuyvesant Park. Leopold pointed out Jules Dermain's house and considered presenting himself at the door. But if the Frenchman was nervous about their visit that would only increase his suspicions. Better to wait for his arrival at the fountain.

There were a few children at play, watched over by mothers or nursemaids, and an illegally unleashed dog made the rounds of the litter barrels situated at each of the two park entrances. “Looking down on this from Dermain's second-floor office, it seems a little like one of his game boards,” Leopold observed. “An entrance on the east and west sides, the fountain in the middle. I could almost imagine wooden chessmen moving along the paths.”

“He probably sits in there and plots his assassinations on it.”

“I'd like to—”

Leopold stopped speaking. Though it was only twenty to twelve, the door of Dermain's brownstone had opened and he was emerging.

“Is that him?”

“That's him,” Leopold confirmed.

Jules Dermain paused at his door to unlock the mailbox and extract a single slim envelope. He seemed puzzled by it but placed it in his inside pocket unopened. Then he came down the steps and crossed the street to the park. His brownstone was in midblock, facing south, so he had to walk around to one or the other park entrance. He hesitated an instant before choosing the one on the east side. “Shall we go meet him?” Tenyon suggested.

“No. I told him we'd speak by the fountain, so the sound of the water would help protect him against listening devices.”

They watched Dermain strolling along the edge of the park toward the entrance. He did not look at them, and anyone watching would have thought he was only out for a casual walk.

He'd almost reached the entrance when Leopold gripped Tenyon's arm. “Isn't that your wife over there?”

“My God—Abby!”

It was indeed Abby Tenyon. She'd materialized from somewhere, striding purposefully across the grass to intercept the path the Frenchman would be taking once he entered the park. Leopold could see her right hand go into her purse just as Tenyon shouted.
“Abby! Don't!”

Leopold waited no longer. He sprang forward, trying to get to her in time. She'd reached the path and was standing in the center of it, facing the open gate where Jules Dermain was just entering. Her purse had dropped to the ground and she held a small automatic pistol firmly in both hands, pointing it at arm's length directly at Dermain.

The Frenchman saw the pistol too, as he started into the park. Then everything seemed frozen in Leopold's vision as he tried to reach her.

Behind him Tenyon was shouting. Ahead, Abby Tenyon took aim.

Then Leopold hit her, lunging into her back just as the pistol went off. He saw its flash aimed at the sky and knew he'd reached her in time.

Knew, and yet froze again watching Jules Dermain as he vanished in a flash of fire.

Leopold hit the ground on top of Abby as a clap of thunder shook the park, echoing off the brownstones around the park. Then there was smoke and flying bits of wood and metal and flesh.

Finally, after a moment that lasted an eternity, Leopold lifted himself to his knees and stared toward the gate.

The litter barrel had exploded as Jules Dermain passed by. Where he and it had stood there was now only a hole in the earth.

The New York police blocked off the area as they searched for clues and the scattered remains of Jules Dermain's body. Even though he'd seen it happen, Leopold couldn't avoid the suspicion that the whole thing was some final trick of the puzzle master. Perhaps he'd been so frank in his meeting with Leopold because he planned exactly this sort of grand exit—a double to die in his place while he flew off to the easy life in South America.

New York City's bomb squad was represented by a calm, laconic man named Sergeant Phillips who went about his job with an assurance that brought admiration from a fellow professional like Leopold. “You say the lady fired the gun at the same time the bomb went off?” he asked.

“That's right. See any connection?”

Phillips was stooping over the twisted remains of the metal litter barrel. He seemed to be sniffing the air near the ground. “Plastic explosives in the barrel. Could have been set off by a sound-activated device but that's pretty doubtful. Too dangerous—a backfire might do it. Besides, if she was out there with the gun anyway, she could just as easily have shot him.”

Leopold suggested the other possibilities to the man. “It might have been a double.”

“We've got the fingers on one hand. We can check it soon enough.”

“Any chance it could be suicide?”

The bomb squad man shrugged. “Hell of a way to kill yourself, but we've seen it happen.”

“He had admitted some criminal activities to me during a prior meeting. He might have feared arrest.”

Sergeant Phillips grunted. He was working a portion of scorched clothing from the remains of the deadman. Finally he abandoned the gruesome task and stood up to survey the scene. “Couldn't have been set off by a trip-wire,” he decided. “Too many kids playing in the area. Probably a radio signal, which means the killer had to be nearby.”

Leopold's thoughts went back again to Ron Tenyon and his wife. He could see them across the street, being questioned by detectives. Leopold himself had undergone questioning too, but they'd accepted his credentials and allowed him to remain on the scene. “Wait a minute,” he said suddenly. “There's something wrong here. Dermain's house is across the street, in mid-block. When he started over here to meet us, he had a choice of either entrance. How could the killer possibly know which one he'd use?”

Phillips shrugged again. “Habit.”

“No, I saw Dermain hesitate before coming the way he did. Would a killer this clever risk spoiling his plot because his victim turned right instead of left?”

The sergeant was suddenly interested. “You're saying—?”

“I'm saying let's take a look at the trash barrel at the west entrance.”

Leopold reached it first and gingerly removed a crumpled newspaper and assorted litter. Underneath, resting in the bottom of the barrel, was a large package wrapped in plain brown paper. “Good hunch,” Phillips said. “That's it.”

The bomb experts carefully transported it to a truck with a covered-wagon look, made of woven steel cables that had the appearance of wicker from a distance. Later, when the package had been opened and the detonator removed from the mound of plastic explosives inside, Phillips came back to Leopold holding it in his hand.