Carmingler arrived at four that morning after the police had gone and after they had taken Beverly away. I don’t remember much about that except the confusion and the noise. Carmingler came in without knocking and I didn’t look up until he cleared his throat. He told me who he was and I noticed that he carried a copy of the Washington Post.
He was younger then, of course, only twenty-nine or thirty, but he already wore a vest and diddled with his Phi Beta Kappa key. He also smoked a pipe, but was polite enough then to ask if he could light it. He never asked me that again.
“The colonel’s dead,” he said after he got his pipe going. He never seemed to say anything important until he had lighted the pipe.
I said, “Oh.” I wasn’t really interested.
“The story’s here in the Post,” he said and tapped the newspaper.
I said nothing.
“The police are calling it suicide. They say he shot himself because of what happened to Beverly.”
“But it wasn’t,” I said, “and he didn’t.”
“No. We got the police to say that and it took a little doing. Somebody shot him, of course. They tried to get to him through his daughter. They must have told him what was going to happen to her; probably had it timed down to the minute. He was supposed to break. They even let him make that phone call to you so that he could be sure she was home.”
“He just sat there and let it happen,” I said.
“He couldn’t do anything else. There was always the chance that they were bluffing. When it didn’t work, they gave up and killed him. Not much point to that, really.”
“What about my wife, goddamn it?” I yelled. “What was the point there?”
Carmingler was unruffled. “He might have cracked when they were halfway through. If so, he’d have to talk to her — she’d have to tell him what — well, that’s how it happened.”
“Who was it?” I said.
“The colonel had been in the East.”
“East what?” I said. “East Baltimore?”
“Europe,” Carmingler said. “Someone from there probably, but we’re not sure.”
“You’re not sure?”
“No.”
“You want a drink?”
“No.”
“What the hell do you want?”
“We have to know about you.”
“What about me?”
“If you’re coming with Section Two?”
I stared at him. “Jesus, you’re a cold-blooded shit.”
He shrugged. “Not really. We just have to know.”
“Why?”
Carmingler made a vague gesture with his pipe. “With the colonel dead, there’ll be a shake-up. Top to bottom. The Section’s a small, specialized organization. He was counting on you heavily. We want to know if we can.”
“Bullshit,” I said. “He never counted on anyone in his life except his daughter and she’s dead.”
“Have it your way,” Carmingler said. “But are you in or out? We have to know.”
I looked around the room and at the things in it that had once been ours. When they were ours they had looked fine. Now that they were mine they just looked old and worn and used up. I examined the carpet on the floor and noted how shabby it looked. I didn’t think about my answer; I just said it. “I’m in.”
“Good,” Carmingler said. “We’ll be in touch.”
I looked up as he rose, moved to the door, and paused. “By the way,” he said, gesturing toward the chair he’d sat in. “I left the Post in case you’d like to read about the colonel.”
“You’re too kind,” I said and kept some of what I felt out of my voice.
“Not at all,” he said.
I didn’t attend the colonel’s funeral, but Carmingler said that a lot of people were there. I wondered who they were. Beverly didn’t have much of a funeral. She’d once said that she didn’t want one, so it was just a hearse and a limousine from the funeral home that carried Smalldane, Carmingler and me to the cemetery. There was no graveside service either. Some men in blue overalls lowered the casket and I stood there watching for a time, but it seemed to take them forever, so I turned away and walked back to the limousine. Carmingler was still there. He hadn’t approached the grave.
The three of us rode back to town in silence. Carmingler got out first. “We’ll be in touch,” he said, and I said all right.
Smalldane didn’t look at him but stared through a window instead. Finally, he said, “Fuck it.” I nodded and he seemed to understand that I knew what he meant. I don’t think that I ever did introduce him to Carmingler.
Part 2
Chapter 21
Victor Orcutt didn’t like my idea and he was telling me why not as we sat there in the living room or parlor of the Rickenbacker Suite on the top floor of the Sycamore Hotel. Only three of us were sitting really, Carol Thackerty, Necessary and I. Orcutt glided about the room, picking up ashtrays and putting them down, straightening pictures that weren’t crooked, and talking endlessly.
“They just won’t believe you,” he said for what may have been the fifteenth time. I had lost count.
“They won’t or you don’t?” I said.
“Oh, I have perfect faith in you.”
“That’s why you’ve been tearing it to pieces for the past thirty minutes.”
“It just won’t work,” he said.
“Sure it will,” Necessary said.
“It’s all conjecture,” Orcutt said. “Sheer conjecture.”
“All right,” I said. “You get me inside if you’ve got a better way.”
Orcutt walked over to a gold-framed mirror and admired himself for a moment. He patted a stray curl of blond hair into place.
There are those who sneak furtive glances at themselves in every mirror that they pass and most seem afraid of being caught in their act of self-love and admiration. They look quickly and even more quickly look away, either reassured or disappointed. Orcutt liked what he saw and he didn’t care who knew it.
“Suppose we do it your way,” he said. “What’s your first move?”
“I accept their offer for twenty-five percent more than you’re paying me.”
“They won’t believe you.”
“But they’ll pretend to. They may even pay me some money, which would be something of a novelty.”
Orcutt spun around and when he spoke his voice was small and tight and mean. “Carol, write Mr. Dye a check for twenty thousand dollars.”
“No checks,” I said.
“Pay him in cash.”
“Tonight?” she said.
I shook my head. “Tomorrow.”