George Chesbro - Shadow of a Broken Man

"Because the others might think that she does, or think that she knows where he is. You could be in great danger as a result of what you're doing, but that doesn't seem to bother you."

"On the contrary," I said; "you're scaring the hell out of me. I don't want anyone to get hurt, and that includes me. But I don't like to be threatened, either. You're not what I'd call a disinterested party."

"Why did you go to the U.N.?"

"If Rafferty is alive, he may have been working there two years ago. He may even be working there now."

"What are you talking about?" In his voice there was disbelief mixed with concern.

Lippitt seemed to grow agitated as I showed him the picture of the Nately Museum and gave him a quick rundown of what I'd learned.

"Impossible," he said when I'd finished.

"Why?"

Lippitt's body suddenly convulsed, and for a moment I feared he was having an epileptic seizure. He was shuddering, as if suffering from a bone-cracking cold blowing in from some subterranean region of his mind. I moved toward him, but he held out his hand to keep me away. I watched with horrified fascination as Lippitt struggled to bring his body under control. Gradually, the shuddering abated, his teeth stopped chattering, and blood came back to his face. He leaned hard against the wall, then straightened up.

"You must excuse me," he said quietly.

"Can I get you something?"

"No, thank you. I'll be all right." He took a deep breath. "Have you discussed this matter with anyone at the U.N.?"

"Maybe," I said after a pause.

"Then you've made a terrible mistake. I understand that you mistrust me and my motives, and that you think I'm lying. But I want you to consider what your burden of responsibility will be if I'm telling the truth."

"I'll give it a lot of thought," I replied, meaning it. "One more question: Do you know what it was that Rafferty knew?"

"That will have to remain a mystery." He turned and walked to the door. He hesitated a moment and I thought he was going to add something, but he didn't. He stared at me for a few seconds, then left. The air in the apartment suddenly felt oppressive and dank, as if Lippitt had left behind some of his private cold.

Lippitt had done his homework well; although he never said so, I was convinced he knew about my last case. He'd repeatedly warned me about the possibility of people getting hurt, and his words had had their intended effect. I sat on my couch for a long time after he left, thinking, staring into space. Finally I got up and went to the phone.

There was no answer at Mike Foster's office, so, reluctantly, I called his home. Elizabeth Foster answered in her hollow-sounding voice. I felt strange talking to her, knowing that she probably held the secret to the riddle of Victor Rafferty. I was beginning to see the dimensions, if not the exact shape, of the nightmare she was living.

Foster was out on a job, but his wife gave me a number where he could be reached. I dialed and finally got through to him.

"Frederickson here, Mike."

"Right." He sounded anxious.

"We should talk," I said. "Can we meet sometime today?"

There was a short pause. His breathing was rapid and shallow, as if he'd been running. "I can't get out of here now. Later?"

"How about dinner?"

"All right," he replied after another pause. "I'll tell Elizabeth I have to entertain a client."

"Can you stop home first?"

"Probably. Why?"

"You mentioned a safe containing some of Rafferty's personal effects. Can you get into it?"

He thought about it. "I don't know, Frederickson. I can't go rummaging around without Elizabeth asking why."

"I need something with Rafferty's fingerprints on it."

"I'll do the best I can," he said. "Have you got a suspect?"

"Just taking a wild shot. Do you know where Danny's is?"

"West Seventy-second."

"Is seven good?"

"Seven it is."

Next, I called Abu's office. His secretary told me he was out to lunch. "I want to leave a message," I said. "Tell him that Mongo called." I spelled it for her. "Right. Tell him I said to lay o ff our project. He'll know what I mean. Ask him to call me when he gets in, or whenever it's convenient." I gave her my number, thanked her, and hung up.

My talk with Lippitt had left me a little shaky. I certainly didn't want to be responsible for anyone's getting hurt, so I thought it better to ease off on any inquiries until I'd had more of a chance to determine whether Lippitt had been telling the truth or was just trying to bluff me.

Not wanting to miss Abu's call, I stayed in the apartment; I made myself some lunch and picked at it. The phone didn't ring. I tried reading a book and fell asleep; it was past five when I woke up. It wasn't likely that I'd slept through a ringing telephone, but I called Abu's office anyway. He hadn't returned from lunch. I sat by the phone for another forty-five minutes, then showered and tried to put the worry out of my mind as I went to meet Foster at Danny's.

Foster was sitting in a back booth, under an autographed picture of Mel Torme. I sat down next to him under a photo of Jack Dempsey. Foster's light hair was unkempt, as if he'd been running his fingers through it. He pointed silently to a package wrapped in oilcloth on the table in front of him. I carefully unwrapped the cloth. He'd brought me a draftsman's tool kit. I used the tip of my table knife to lift up the cover; inside was an array of drafting tools. Most of the surfaces were thin and round, but there were just enough flat surfaces to make me think there might be latent prints there.

"I imagine a lot of people have handled that box since Victor's death," Foster said, "but there may be some of his prints on the tools inside. Nobody would have had a reason to handle those."

I thanked him and slipped the thin box into my jacket pocket.

"Whose prints are you going to compare those with?" Foster asked.

"I told you it was a wild shot," I said, evading the question. "In any case, I think it's a good idea to have some kind of fingerprint record on Rafferty. The police didn't have him long enough to print him."

Over vodka martinis I brought Foster up to date. He absorbed it all in silence, occasionally stirring his drink. When I finished he grimaced and slowly, emphatically, shook his head.

"This Lippitt character is lying."

"Why do you say that?"

"I knew Victor Rafferty as well as anybody. He wasn't any Russian agent. He couldn't have been a spy. Architecture was his whole life. My God, Victor just didn't have time to be a spy."

"He did a lot of traveling, didn't he? His career would have given him a perfect cover."

"I'm telling you he wasn't a spy," Foster said determinedly.

"Actually, Lippitt never said Rafferty was a spy. He said Rafferty was going to defect to the Russians. There's a difference."

Foster spoke hotly. "It's still a dirty accusation! It would kill Elizabeth. He's lying, which means he's covering up something. I want to find out what it is."

"It might be better to leave it alone, Mike," I said quietly.

He glanced at me sharply, surprise and anger in his eyes. "I heard you didn't scare off so easy."

"How easily I scare isn't the point, Mike. There are other considerations. I don't know if Lippitt is telling the truth, but I do believe that Rafferty was somehow involved in some very dangerous business. Just for the sake of argument, let's assume that Rafferty isn't dead. Now, what's the point of trying to prove it? Do you think it will help your wife's peace of mind if she finds out her first husband isn't dead after all?"

Foster stared into his drink, then slowly nodded his head. "I see your point. Even if Victor is alive, maybe it's better if Elizabeth never finds out about it."