The Touch of Treason (5 page)

Yet what he had wanted for his daughter was not a replica of himself. He couldn’t have managed Priscilla if she’d been like Francine, a Roman candle you held as far away from yourself as possible without letting go as each colorful outburst went off with a bang. Widmer laughed to himself. A Roman candle was such a masculine image. Was that what was happening, liberated young women turning into part-men? In a drawer at home, Widmer kept a once-crumpled nude Polaroid photograph of Francine that he’d found in a bag of things she was throwing away. He assumed it’d been taken by an errant boy friend on a lark. Though she was recumbent in it, she looked as if she was ready to spring at the photographer, or was it to bolt away? When he’d seen it, it was a bite of the apple he could not spit back. It had stirred him, just for a second. His eyes told him she was a woman with a beautiful body that he had helped create and therefore—
therefore
?—could not touch. Only once was he tempted to get rid of the photograph, when it brushed his memory as he was making love to Priscilla. His only fear now was that if he was to die without warning, the photograph would be found among his effects.

“What is it, Miss Hargood?” Widmer asked.

“It’s a man named Randall, sir.”

“Please put him on.”

The man spoke in a rush, without niceties. “Mr. Widmer, do you remember me? Jackson Perry introduced us.”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

“You were Martin Fuller’s attorney?”

“Were?”

Widmer’s other guilty secret, of course, was that he had several clients whom his partners thought of as eccentric to their corporate practice. Widmer’s partners did not know that he had taken on these people at the behest of Jackson Perry, a very old friend who’d been a Skull and Bones brother at Yale and whose wealth had enabled him to indulge his proclivity for intelligence work, then thought of as a frivolous occupation during peacetime, except, perhaps, for Princeton men. “Ned,” he’d said, “we need to know who their lawyers and accountants are. Take them on. You won’t be sorry.” Widmer remembered Perry’s later call. “Ned, this is the important one I spoke about. His name is Martin Fuller. Compared to the others, he’s uranium.”

The man Randall was saying, “Could I ask you to come to the Fuller house as quickly as possible?”

“Is he ill?”

He could hear Randall’s breath but not a response.

“Out with it,” Widmer demanded.

“I’m afraid Fuller is dead.”

At moments like this one’s immediate, uncensored thoughts are rawly selfish. Widmer thought
My education is over. I will die knowing only what I know now.

Though Fuller was eighty-two, he could not imagine that storehouse of intellectual vitality stopped like a clock. His few meetings with Martin Fuller over routine matters such as a will and a real estate transaction, as soon as their business was done, provided Widmer with more intellectual stimulation than he’d had in thirty years. Widmer had said something about “balance of power” and Fuller had snapped back, “Nonsense. That concept misled three generations. The power of nations is constantly in flux. A surprise attack tilted it for the Israelis. Oil tilted it for the Arabs. An oil glut tilted it back. The power of nations rests not on balances, but on countervailing forces.”

In that one perception Fuller had rocked Widmer’s life-long view of himself as a man who understood how the world performed. And of course Fuller’s conversation, brimming with insights, made Widmer realize the relative emptiness of his intelligent friends and successful clients who knew as little as schoolchildren about the transactions between nations. When he first listened to Fuller, he’d felt hollow. As the years went on, Widmer felt lucky. In Fuller’s presence, his mind felt as alive as it had when he was an undergraduate discovering the world.

“Heart attack?” he managed to ask because that was the death he always imagined for himself.

“Fuller burned to death.”

Widmer thought
I do not deal with people who burn to death.
“When was this accident, Mr. Randall?”

“This morning, early. Mr. Widmer, I must ask you to come now.”

Widmer could not contain the sudden grief that seemed to fill his lungs. He wanted to cry his immediate anger to the world. As a child, his parents had made it clear:
Others are not to know.
His voice husky with embarrassment, he found himself saying, “I have several appointments.”

“Please have your secretary cancel them. Don’t tell her or anyone where you are going. Perry’s flying in from Washington. There are some matters we must discuss with you before the police arrive.”

“Police?”

“Mr. Widmer, we believe Mr. Fuller was murdered and his murderer may still be in the house.”

CHAPTER FOUR

W
idmer drove. It was the only sensible way to get quickly from lower Manhattan to Chappaqua, more than an hour north. When he arrived, there were three black cars in the driveway where usually there were none. In front of them was a blue Datsun sports car. He parked in the street and walked up the bluestone path, conscious of each step’s crunch. He remembered when Perry first brought him here to meet the Fullers. He’d said
Bluestone is better than blacktop. You can hear a car coming.
He’d thought, at the time, that people in intelligence work become overcautious.

The Fuller house, set well back from the road, seemed squashed by trees on all sides. You had the feeling of a house jammed into a stockade. The saplings were planted too close to the foundation. The branches grew toward the house as well as away from it, and if you cut the threatening branches back, they’d try again, while the roots went right at the foundation, searching for the water pipes. Widmer liked space. His own house was fifty feet from the nearest tree.

When he rang the bell, the door opened almost at once. The man in the dark blue suit put his hand out. “Randall,” he said. “I’m glad you could come.”

Inside the house, Widmer immediately noticed the lingering acrid aftersmell of a fire. There were several other men about the house. One of them was taking measurements in the hall. Another was taking photographs into the bathroom that Fuller used.

“Where is Mrs. Fuller?” Widmer asked.

“In her bedroom in the back. Try to be brief. Upstairs there are three former students of his who stayed the night. My people have been talking to them at length.”

As Randall led Widmer past the men working in the hallway outside the bathroom, he said, “This is where it happened.”

Widmer stole a look at the bathroom. Blackened wallpaper, bits of charred cloth. His eyes fixed on the kerosene heater.

“He used that every morning,” Randall said.

“I thought those things were safe now.”

“It seems to have exploded.”

In the back bedroom, Leona Fuller sat sunk in an armchair that seemed much too large for her. A younger woman was holding both Mrs. Fuller’s heavily bandaged right hand and good left hand in her own. Widmer had met the woman once. Leona Fuller had said, “Emily helps with the cleaning three times a week.” Leona was the kind of person whose domestic could become a friend.

Widmer stooped to kiss Mrs. Fuller’s cheek. Behind her, on the dresser, he could see a silver-framed sepia photograph of Leona Fuller as a young woman, taken, he had been told, by Alfred Stieglitz. She’d been a striking beauty, with eyes that could only be measuring the intelligence of the man looking at her. She was a woman devoid of gossip, who more than understood her husband’s work, who actively contributed so much to its fine honing that Widmer suspected she merited not just the dedication of his masterwork but her name on the title page alongside his.

Widmer took her left hand just for a moment. It felt small and bony. “I’m sorry,” he said. He was aware of the paintings on the wall—Orozco, Siqueiros, Diego Rivera—staring at him.

“Thank you for coming,” Leona Fuller said.

“I am here to help,” Widmer answered.

“He is beyond help.”

“I meant you.”

“I am beyond help, too.” The maid took Mrs. Fuller’s hands again.

“Will you excuse us?” Randall said to Mrs. Fuller.

Widmer’s instinct was to back out of the room. He felt the need of alcohol, which, of course, he never drank except before dinner.

*

When Randall and Widmer were in the living room by themselves, Randall said, “The hospital gave out a statement with the time of death. I persuaded the public-relations director to say that Fuller apparently died from a household accident. Just to stall. At this moment, the
Times
is probably freshening up its file obit. It might be page one. If the cause of death gets out, it’ll hit the tabloids.
Once the suspected perpetrator is charged, we’ll have TV crews on our hands.”

“I understand,” Widmer said.

“It would help if you’d speak on behalf of the widow when the time comes. As family attorney and friend. If Perry or I do the talking, our presence will raise questions we don’t want to get into.”

“There’s much that I don’t know,” Widmer said.

“Exactly. That’s why you’re the perfect spokesman.”

*

When Perry arrived, there were quick handshakes. Perry and Randall whispered together. Then Widmer heard Randall say, “We pulled the fourth one, Barry Heskowitz, out of class. He admits he used Fuller’s bathroom once before he left. He says he offered Ed Porter a ride back to the Columbia area, but Porter declined.”

Perry, an energetic man who dressed in pinstripes and handcrafted Napa leather shoes, saw himself as a diplomat of the new school. He would not spend a measurable portion of his career in meetings with foreigners, moving the alphabet of negotiation from A to B. Skiing, racquetball, indoor swimming skimmed his reservoir of energy but did not drain it. He was determined, despite a career in government, to get things done.

“The widow,” Randall reminded him.

“Of course,” Perry said. He hurried to the back bedroom to convey his condolences, returned in less than a minute.

“She knows it wasn’t an accident,” he said.

“Couldn’t be helped.”

“Damn.”

“She’d know soon enough anyway,” Randall said. “It’s best she not feel we were deceiving her in any way.”

“You’re right. Did the hospital find the key to Fuller’s study in the pockets of his bathrobe, what was left of it?”

“We looked through it before the rescue squad came. It wasn’t there.”

“You said he always carried it with him.”

“Right.”

“Into the bathroom?”

“Everywhere.”

“Okay,” Perry said. “I’m authorizing you to use the duplicate to get in there. Disconnect the alarm at central. Have McDougall with you at all times as a witness. Open the safe, check the manuscript in front of McDougall to make sure the pages are consecutive and none are missing, and have him fly it to Washington today in a package marked ‘Williams, Eyes Only.’ Confirm all the steps you take in writing, handwritten will do. Have McDougall initial each paragraph. What do you think happened to Fuller’s copy of the key?”

“I don’t know yet,” Randall said.

It was answers like that that subverted Perry’s career.

How could he fly back to Washington? He wouldn’t want to be at
that
meeting.
Fuller was the last of them. Now we’ve got to depend on the second-handers.
Somebody would say
Bring him back to life.
How could the United States be so dependent on what one man knew?
Why
the hell didn’t somebody get him on the project ten years ago? He would have been knocked off ten years earlier.
It was a meeting to miss.

“Let’s go upstairs,” Perry said. When faced with the insoluble, get busy with the diversions of detail. “Come along, Ned.”

Widmer’s feet were heavy on the stairs. The genie was out of the bottle. Fuller couldn’t be brought back to life. How could you possibly deter the death of the next individual by finding out who caused this one? What was the use of the law when justice had no point except revenge?

*

Perry interviewed Melissa Troob first. “Mind if I ask you a few questions, Miss Troob?”

She sat on the edge of the bed, her spine straight, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a scrunched-up handkerchief.

“I’ve already been asked a great many questions by that man,” she said, pointing to Randall. Then she stared at Widmer. “Who’s he?”

“I’m Mr. and Mrs. Fuller’s lawyer,” Widmer said. “And a friend.”

“Thank God,” Melissa Troob said, “you’re not one of them.”

“Miss Troob,” Perry said, “Mr. Randall said you lived less than an hour away. Why did you stay the night?”

“When we’d have a late-night gab session, we’d often stay the night.”

“Who’s we?”

“His…” She hesitated. “How shall I characterize us? His permanent students?”

“Why did you particularly stay last night? You. Last night.”