The Doomsday Bag Page 8

  The FBI agents summoned by Congressman Charles Cornell as soon as he got back to his mansion had arrived too late. They always do, too. It's not always their fault either.

  I did need rest, and Felicia certainly looked as though she would prove useful in knowing the Washington scheme of things, too.

  Still—you can't just hole up and let the rest of the world go by.

  The rest of the world won't let you.

  Not the one we live in now, at any rate.

  Emil the waiter had found that out the hard way.

  The falling rain outside beat a monotonous tattoo on the stone facade of the Carlton as Felicia and I slept. The moles were working underground and they weren't going to stop until they had eaten their way right up to the presidential chair.

  But that night I didn't know it. I didn't know anything except that I felt like I was falling in love.

  Don't laugh.

  A good dame these days is hard to find.

  Almost as hard as a missing bagman.

  Pump Guns over the White House

  By morning, Felicia Carr had faded back into the imagination. It was as if she had never been in the room. She had observed the protocol of affairs the world over and quietly slipped out of the hotel before sunrise. The only reminder that I had that she had spent the night with me, other than my lively memory, was a crumpled pack of the Salem brand lying by the telephone.

  I left the Carlton at eight o'clock sharp, following a light breakfast of eggs, toast, and lots of coffee. The only company I had during the meal was the morning edition of the Washington Post. Miss Carr's column, "D.C. To Me" was indeed on the editorial page, as Charles Cornell had said, but she had gotten her scoop all right. The front-page headline story, pushing the peace talks and the crash of an airliner in California over to one side, was the attempt on the Congressman's life. There was a fine file photo of Cornell showing every congressional line of his owl face. There was one of me, too, from my palmy New York days when the world had looked a helluva lot younger. And nicer. The story had to be a local sensation already. Even in the Carlton Coffee Shop, I could hear the diners buzzing about it. But no one recognized me. I was able to finish my food in peace and get out before anybody spotted me. I was anxious to get on the move before Rowles of the FBI, assorted Federal agents, and Murder, Incorporated, could pick up my trail again. There had been no phone calls and no messages.

  The murder of Emil wouldn't hit the papers until the afternoon editions, and by that time I would have heard about it from the Congressman. I kept my special blue presidential pass in my wallet. I was going to need it as sure as Texas has twenty-five electoral votes. With somebody upsetting the local D.C. applecart, there were going to be investigators all over the place.

  Meanwhile, the Bagman was still missing.

  I was sure somebody would have phoned me if he had wandered back to the roost, been picked up or found dead.

  It was a lovely day, for a change. You'd never know it had rained most of yesterday. The city shone, the monuments glistened, the gingerbread facade of the Smithsonian Institution looked red in the morning sun. A bright golden glow permeated the air. There was a breeze more like summer than spring. I took another cab to the scene of Congressman Charles Cornell's hearings. They were still in progress, even though my part in them was finished. Knowing that they began promptly at ten o'clock, I figured I could catch the Congressman before then.

  I figured right but I was dreaming.

  Somebody had tried to dynamite the Congressman into an early grave the night before and the communications media wasn't letting the grass grow under their TV cables.

  The building was alive with activity. N.B.C., C.B.S., and A.B.C. trucks and the local D.C. stations had closed in on the building like an invading army. Newspapermen, technicians, and television bigwigs had advanced inexorably. The front of the hearing chambers was a jigsaw of thick cables, floodlights, cameras, and microphones. There was a cordon of tired policemen in blue uniforms trying to make some order out of chaos. It was a crush all the way. I only got through the mess by using my unique pass, and even then it got me the fish-eyed amazement of more than one newsman. Then just as one of them thought he recognized me, I was quickly hurried down a dim corridor into a side room. The worst aspect of the nation's Capital is that, when in official environs, you just never know who the people are who are pushing you all around the place and steering you into rooms. Agents, cops, bodyguards, secretaries, or what. The red tape would strangle a dinosaur. Two dinosaurs.

  There was a latch click behind me and I knew I was being locked in. Charles Cornell turned from the big window with the mauve drapes and waved me to a chair. He was tall, erect, and properly suited out in a sober sharkskin for the hearings. But the handsome head was slightly bowed this morning.

  "We can talk in here, Ed. Thanks for coming. We might not have a chance to talk again."

  "You're famous all over again," I said. "Local hero, huh?"

  His smile was vague.

  "There but for you go I. With the Kennedys and Martin Luther King. Did you hear about Emil?"

  I shook my head. It was then that he gave me the bad news. I cursed and felt the same cold wave of shock and anger that had flooded me when Thomas Miflow died.

  "You see, Ed, whoever they are they are not playing. That's why this Bagman thing is so serious. I don't think for a moment now that any attempt on my life has anything to do with these hearings. No, sir. I look to a higher motive. The Presidency."

  "Come again?"

  "Ed, Ed." His tone was almost fatherly. He had not taken a seat behind the square mahogany desk. "We discussed some of this last night. In the club and in the Lincoln. This Bagman business is a direct link to those people and parties who'd like nothing better than to see the President out on his ear. Splinter groups, I told you. And Oatley with his wooing of the isolationists and those fools who'd like to see this country be a benevolent tyrant on the global scene. This red alert can do a lot of harm to the President. Particularly if it becomes known—and it will. They can keep this kind of problem under wraps just so long and then somebody breaks the news. Somebody has to. The public will have its right to know. Before everything goes boom!"

  "You make it sound—pretty bad."

  "It is bad. It doesn't need any superlatives from me. Have you considered the possibilities?"

  "I'd rather hear them from you, Congressman."

  "All right. The man with the bag is gone. The thermonuclear war button, you might say. Vanished in thin air, with a ring of S men all around him in Convention Hall. That was yesterday. He's still missing and an army of special agents and agencies hasn't located him yet. Not a clue. I talked to the President not less than a half hour ago. Now if the Bagman didn't go of his own free will, didn't defect, let's say—then consider the alternatives." His eyes took on a determined gleam now, as if enumerating them made them very very real and very possible. "One—there are the Communists, the Red Chinese, and the Castroites to consider first. They could make mountains of this one little molehill, as you may well know. Two—left-wing fanatics opposed to war on any level could have arranged this coup. Again, to further their own aims in this political scheme of things. Three—let's not forget the right-wingers. They say go all out, use the bomb, end Vietnam with one blast, but who's to say they wouldn't kidnap a bagman to hurry matters along? Can you say they wouldn't? I can't. Four—Oatley and all those idiots who might like to see quite a different party in the saddle. Oatley may be Vice-President but I've watched him for too many years on the Hill not to know what he is, the way he thinks. That man is capable of anything. He's militantly patriotic on the surface but underneath beats the heart of a Cassius. The man's dangerous—he bears watching."

  "Does the President share your feelings about Oatley?"

  Congressman Charles Cornell smiled a tired smile.

  "Your President and mine is a fine man. A great man. He is also the sort of man who will wait and give another man en
ough rope to hang himself. Until then, he is merely waiting and watching. Like Wilson did in '14."

  I lit a cigarette. I felt small and useless and quite ineffective. Politics isn't my dish. The Washington arena wasn't my kind of ballpark. I can pretty well hit nearly anywhere, and it was true, the Chief had called me in as no more than a supernumerary, a pinch hitter, but I was kind of hoping the Secret Service, the FBI, and the CIA would get the job done before me. I was also a scab. Nonunion in a very unionized city, where all the jobs and assignments are prescribed, outlined, and mapped out.

  "From all you've told me," I said, "I'd better get my hat and get out of here."

  He nodded brusquely. "And do you have any leads?"

  "Not a one. Except for the fact that I'm a moving target. They tried to pop me once, they might try it again. No twice, counting last night. I agree with you that both attempts are related and tie in to the Bagman."

  "Good. Keep it in mind. It will keep you on your toes and save your life."

  "Will do. What's the real scoop on Felicia Carr?"

  He frowned at me. "Young, beautiful, brilliant. Also one of the greatest ladies I have ever known. And I have known quite a few of them in my time. Why?"

  "Just wanted your personal endorsement, I guess."

  "You got that last night. Do you think I would have invited just any sobsister to dine with us?"

  "No, I guess not. I read her story this morning. Pretty nice going for a female. Clean, neat prose. She didn't gush at all."

  "Like her, Ed? You could do far, far worse."

  "I'd say I couldn't do better."

  I got up, we shook hands. He had things to do, important things, and he'd told me all he wanted to. Or could. He straightened his shoulders and the old fighting-warrior look dominated his face. I felt sorry for some of the remaining witnesses who would feel the lash of his tongue and the steel of his mind. Some of the witnesses were hostiles and they would be getting Congressman Charles Cornell in a war-like mood.

  "Fight your way out of here," he offered, "and keep your eyes open. We haven't seen the last of this Bagman business, son."

  "Check. Is there another way out of this room? I think one of the newshawks outside recognized me from the picture in the papers this morning."

  There was. A back door that led down a stone stairway with a metal railing. When Cornell closed the door behind me, I could suddenly see the lines of age in his face. He was no chicken, certainly, but the events of the last two days had marked him already.

  Outside once more, I was removed from the madhouse scene going on at the front of the building. I passed through a high metal picket gate where a guard stood waiting for me. Once more the blue pass worked its wonders. The man frowned at it but couldn't question the authenticity of the Safe Conduct. It was like an open sesame wherever I went. It was also coming in mighty handy.

  Massachusetts Avenue was bustling but orderly. I looked around for another cab. I had decided against renting an automobile while in D.C., but now I was beginning to wonder if I'd had the right idea. For one thing Thomas Miflow would be alive today. I wondered if Rowles had gotten that information I'd asked him to. I'd have to ask him sooner or later. But it would have to be later. I'd squandered enough valuable time on my assignment.

  I waited on the sidewalk, looking for a cab.

  One came, cruising out of the light traffic heading north along the avenue and cutting out of the rat pack to come to a stop before me. I reached for the door handle and pulled it wide. The driver was in profile to me. About as young as Miflow and just as rugged-looking. Only he had no scar on that side of his face.

  With the door opened, I saw the man lying on the floor at the rear of the cab. He was on his back, head and shoulders resting against the opposite door. He had a pump gun hugged against his chest and the twin barrels were aimed at me. I froze.

  The man's face was barely visible beneath a pulled-down fedora, and his expression was unsmiling. There was no time to examine his face. But it looked mean. Meaner than a mad dog's.

  "Know what this is?" he asked softly.

  "A pump gun," I said.

  "Know what it would do to your face at this range?"

  "Please. I have a weak stomach."

  "Then get in and don't try anything."

  I got in. I didn't try anything.

  The man remained on the floor, just twisting a little to follow me with the gun. I had to sit in the far corner of the cab, giving him plenty of room. The double bores of the weapon were mammoth and ugly.

  They were well-organized, whoever they were.

  As soon as the cab door slammed shut behind me, the vehicle shot forward like a nervous horse. We spun out into the swarm of traffic, found a hole in the lane, filled it, and swept along with the streamlined tide. It was a veritable millrace of cars. Swirling along in a rapid run of automated humanity.

  The machine-like precision of the snatch rather forcibly reminded me of the lousy old days of gangland glory. When rub-out rides were standard operating procedure. Wherever Thomas Miflow was, he was about to have company. Same kind of death. Same kind of explosive finale.

  I tried not to think about that as the man on the floor never took his agate eyes off me and the man behind the wheel nosed the cab toward the sunlight. But the two of them were not interested in vitamin D or golden colors or anything remotely resembling nature in her primordial radiance.

  It looked remarkably like the last sun I would ever see, though.

  A little pump gun told me it was so.

  Killer's Highway

  I did have time to think of several related things while the cab rocketed on a straight line down South Capitol Street. With the big golden dome of the Capitol shining like a sun-lit Taj Mahal behind me and several highway signs saying that Andrews Air Force Base was somewhere ahead, I did some mental math. The pump-gunner, oblique-eyed and stony-faced under his fedora, might have been a statue on the floor of the cab with the gun boring out at me like a third arm, but obviously I wasn't to be killed yet. If that were so, one blast at the curb when I had opened the door and I wouldn't have had to worry anymore about this year's tax return which I hadn't filled out yet. Also, they were taking me someplace. Someplace to kill me in quiet or someplace to deliver me. Not knowing which was making all the blood in my body congeal with terror. I shook the feeling off. Terror and nerves weren't going to bail me out of a jam like this, but there was no sweat. Whatever I did I wouldn't have been able to move fast enough. Whenever the pump gun blasted, it would scatter lead like poppy seeds all over the interior of the car. The single worst factor about a weapon like that is that it mows down anyone in front of the muzzle. You can't escape it. The main idea in a crowded taxicab is to keep the damned thing from going off in the first place.

  I hadn't been kidding Rowles about the gun looking like something a policeman or a Federal agent would carry to protect a president or a VIP of any kind. Ordinary hoods would have a helluva time getting their hands on such a technologically superior weapon. One of the S squad in the fatal Kennedy motorcade through Dallas had carried a gun like this one. I knew the force and impact of the blast could tear a man's head from his shoulders. A la poor Thomas Miflow.

  "Do we talk?" I asked.

  "Shut up," the man on the floor said.

  I could see the driver's shoulders hunch and fan out in a shrug. A low grunt sounded.

  "Talk to the man," the driver said. "If you lost the play now, you'd have to retire anyway. How the hell can he do anything with that cannon staring him in the face?"

  "You shut up, too," the floor man said. Without inflection. Or any kind of anger. It was an order. The driver shrugged again and his hands tightened on the wheel.

  "Where's the Bagman?" I tried that one on for size.

  The pump-gunner shifted the destroyer in his hands. It raised an inch higher so that it now centered just below my chin.

  "Forget about Santa Claus," he suggested thinly. "Where you're going, you can for
get about Christmas, too."

  "Would you tell me where I am going?"

  "Shut up, I said."

  I shut up. I didn't want to make him nervous or edgy. Not that he looked like the type. I silently prayed the driver wouldn't hit any bumps or have an accident of any kind. The pump-gunner was caressing a trigger. The slightest pressure of his finger would touch off disaster. There wouldn't be enough of me left to fill the family mailbox.

  There was no concentrating on the route they were taking me, either. Already I had lost sight of tall and short buildings, memorials, and identifying markers and milestones. The highway was broad, open, and flanked on both sides with taller trees. I'm not much of a Dan'l Boone on nature and growing things. I don't know a pussywillow from a cypress. A lilac from a violet. I have the green thumb only for money. Which made me a lousy Boy Scout. And a poor pathfinder. I'm a city boy. Now I was in a part of D.C. that was completely foreign to me. And when the cab suddenly crossed a lane and took a fork to the left and the macadam highway transformed into a country road, I was lost. Visions of a mobster-type rubout somewhere in the woods and then my weighted corpse left in some lake or abandoned cistern began to dance in my head. It was a somber samba of terror. Butterflies and worms began to form armadas and armies in my stomach. I tried not to bite my lower lip. If I had anything to warm me at all, it was memory of last night's and this morning's bedtime adventure with Felicia Carr. I caught myself wondering if I would ever see her again, and that was when I knew I was going off the deep edge into fear. Fear's no good for you. It chills your mind, freezes your logic, and destroys your hope of salvation. Making you a bad performer all around and a poor risk for a life-insurance policy. I got hold of myself in time. It was that damned pump gun staring me in the face, knowing what it could do to me. I've faced guns before. Dozens of times. Even a tommy gun. But a pump gun is worse than that, somehow.