Page 7 of Shall We Tell the President? (Kane & Abel 3)

“It was more than I was expecting, boss.”

The two men left the office. Stames mentally checked off the items on his nightly routine.

“Barry, will you double-check that Aspirin is on duty, as you go out, and tell him we won’t be back again tonight.”

Calvert made a detour to the Criminal Room and delivered the message to Aspirin. He was doing the crossword from The Washington Star. He had finished three clues; it was going to be a long night. Barry caught up with Nick Stames as he stepped into the blue Ford.

“Yes, boss, he’s working away.”

They looked at each other, a night of headaches. Barry got in the driver’s seat, slid it back as far as it would go, and adjusted the seat belt. They moved quietly up Constitution Avenue, then past the White House on to the E Street Expressway, and on toward Memorial Bridge.

“If Casefikis is on to something, we’ve got one hell of a week ahead of us,” said Nick Stames. “Did he seem sure of the date for the assassination attempt?”

“When I questioned him a second time about the details, he repeated 10 March, in Washington.”

“Hum-uh, seven days, not very long. Wonder what the Director will make of it,” said Stames.

“Hand it over to the Secret Police, if he’s got any sense,” Barry said.

“Ah, let’s forget it for the moment. Let’s concentrate on warmed-over moussaka and deal with tomorrow when tomorrow comes.”

The car came to a halt at a traffic light, just beyond the White House, where a bearded, long-haired, dirty youth, who had been picketing the home of the President, stood with a large poster advising the world: BEWARE! THE END IS NIGH. Stames glanced at it and nodded to Barry.

“That’s all we need tonight.”

They passed under Virginia Avenue on the Expressway and sped across Memorial Bridge. A black 3.5 Lincoln passed them at about seventy miles an hour.

“Bet the Met pick him up,” said Stames.

“Probably late for Dulles Airport,” replied Barry.

The traffic was light, the rush-hour well behind them and when they turned on to George Washington Parkway they managed to stay in top gear. The Parkway, which follows the Potomac along the wooded Virginia shore, was dark and winding. Barry’s reflexes were as fast as any man’s in the service and Stames, although older, saw exactly what happened at the same time. A Buick, large and black, started to overtake them on their left. Calvert glanced toward it and when he looked forward again an instant later, another car, a black Lincoln, had swung in front of them on the wrong side of the highway. He thought he heard a rifle shot. Barry wrenched the wheel toward the center of the road but it didn’t respond. Both cars hit him at once, but he still managed to take one of them with him down the rocky slope. They gathered speed until they hit the surface of the river with a thud. Nick thought as he struggled in vain to open the door that the sinking seemed grotesquely slow, but inevitable.

The black Buick continued down the highway as if nothing had happened; past a car skidding to a halt, carrying a young couple, two terrified witnesses to the accident. They leaped out of their car and ran to the edge of the slope. There was nothing they could do but watch helplessly for the few seconds it took the blue Ford sedan and the Lincoln to sink out of sight.

“Jee-sus, did you see what happened ahead?” said the young man.

“Not really. I just saw the two cars go over the top. What do we do now, Jim?”

“Get the police fast.”

Man and wife ran back to their car.

Thursday evening

3 March

8:15 P.M.

“Hello, Liz.”

There was a moment’s pause at the other end of the phone.

“Hello, G-man. Aren’t you getting a little ahead of yourself?”

“Only wishful thinking. Listen, Elizabeth, I’ve had to come back to the hospital and keep an eye on your Mr. Casefikis until the police arrive. It’s just possible that he could be in some danger, so we’re having to put a guard on him which means I’m bound to be late for our date. Do you mind waiting?”

“No, I won’t starve. I always have lunch with my father on Thursdays, and he’s a big eater.”

“That’s good. Because I think you need to be fed. You look as though you might be hard to find in the dark. I’m still trying to get the flu, incidentally.”

She laughed warmly. “See you later.”

Mark put the telephone back on the hook and walked over to the elevator, and pressed the arrow on the Up-button.

He only hoped the Met policeman had arrived and was already on duty. Christ. How long was the elevator going to take to return to the ground floor? Patients must have died just waiting for it. Eventually the doors slid open and a burly Greek Orthodox priest hurried out and past him. He could have sworn it was a Greek Orthodox priest, from the high dark hat and long trailing veil and the Orthodox Cross around his neck, although something about the priest struck Mark as strange, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He stood, puzzling for a moment, staring at his retreating back and only just managing to jump into the elevator before the doors closed. He pressed the fourth-floor button several times. Come on, come on. Get going, you bastard, but it had no ears for Mark, and proceeded upward at the same stately pace as it had earlier in the afternoon. It cared nothing for his date with Elizabeth Dexter. The door opened slowly, and he went through the widening gap sideways and ran down the corridor to Room 4308 but there was no sign of any policeman. In fact, the corridor was deserted. It looked as if he were going to be stuck there for some time. He peered through the little window in the door at the two men, asleep in their beds, the voiceless television set was still on giving out a square of light. Mark left to look for the staff nurse and eventually found her tucked away in the head nurse’s office enjoying a cup of coffee. She was pleased to see that it was the better-looking of the two FBI men who had returned.

“Has anyone come from the Metropolitan Police to keep an eye on Room 4308?”

“No, no one’s been anywhere near the place tonight. Silent as the grave. Were you expecting someone?”

“Yes, damn it. Guess I’ll have to wait. Do you think I could take a chair? I’m going to have to stick around till an officer from the Metropolitan Police comes. I hope I wo

n’t be in your way.”

“You won’t be in my way. You can stay as long as you like. I’ll see if I can find you a nice comfortable chair.” She put her mug down. “Would you like some coffee?”

“I certainly would.” Mark looked at her more carefully. It might be an evening with the nurse rather than the doctor. Mark decided he had better go back and check the room first, reassure Casefikis, if he were still awake, and then call the Met and ask where the hell their man was. He walked slowly to the door a second time; he felt no need to hurry now. He opened the door quietly. It was pitch black except for the light from the TV, and his eyes were not quite focused. He glanced at the two of them in bed. They were quite still. He wouldn’t have bothered to look any further if it hadn’t been for the dripping.

Drip, drip, drip.

It sounded like tap water but he couldn’t remember a tap.

Drip, drip.

He moved quietly to the bedside of Angelo Casefikis, and glanced down.

Drip, drip.

Warm fresh blood was flowing over the bottom sheet, trickling from Casefikis’s mouth, his dark eyes bulged from their sockets, his tongue was hanging loose and swollen. His throat had been cut, ear to ear, just below the chin line. The blood was starting to make a pool on the floor. Mark was standing in it. He felt his legs sink, and he was barely able to grip the side of the bed and stop himself falling. He lurched over towards the deaf man. Mark’s eyes were now focused, and he retched loudly. The postman’s head was hanging loose from the rest of his body; only the color of his skin showed that they were once connected. Mark managed to scramble out of the door and get to the pay phone, his heartbeat thudding madly in his ears. He could feel his shirt clinging to his body. His hands were covered with blood. He fumbled ineffectually for a couple of quarters. He dialed Homicide and gave the bare outline of what had happened. This time they wouldn’t be casual about sending someone. The nurse on duty returned with a cup of coffee.

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