101 Mystery Stories

80 Counterplot Francis M. Nevins, Jr

The weekend ice storm made the motel cleaning woman late for work on Monday morning. The woman assigned to the rooms at the end of the west wing gave a ritual tap of the door of 114, then used her passkey and stepped in. When she saw what lay on the green shag carpet she shrieked and went careening down the corridor in terror. The Cody police arrived ten minutes later. When the fingerprint report came back from F.B.I. headquarters the next day, they knew a part of the story. The rest they never learned, and would not have believed if someone had told them.

She followed instructions precisely. The Northwest jet touched down at Billings just before 5:00 P.M. on Friday, and by 5:30 she had rented a car from the Budget booth near the baggage-claim area. As the sun dropped over the awesomely close mountaintops she was crossing the Montana border into Wyoming. The two-lane blacktop rose and fell and wound among the magnificent mountains like a scenic railway, bringing her to the edge of Cody around 8:00.

She’d been told there would be a reservation for her at the Great Western Motel in the name of Ann Chambers. There was. She checked in, unpacked the two smaller suitcases, left the large gray Samsonite case at the back of the room closet, locked. Then she bathed, changed to a blue jumpsuit, turned on the TV, and settled in to wait. Until Monday morning if necessary. Those were the instructions.

Friday passed, and Saturday, and Sunday. She heard the harsh sound of frozen rain falling on the streets, the screech of brakes, the dull whine of car motors refusing to start. The storm didn’t affect her. She stayed in the room, watching local television and reading a pile of paperback romances she had brought with her. Three times a day she would stride down the corridor to the coffee shop for a hasty meal. The only other customers were a handful of pickup-truck cowboys who kept their outsized Stetsons on as they ate flamboyantly. None of them could be the man she was waiting for. She wondered if the storm would keep him from coming.

At 10:00 P.M. on Sunday, while she was sitting on the bed bundled in blankets, boredly watching a local TV newscast, a quick triple knock sounded on her door. She sprang up, smoothed the bedcovers, undid the chain bolt, and opened two inches. “Yes?”

“Software man.” The words were exactly what she expected.

“Hardware’s here,” she replied as instructed, and cautiously drew back the door to let him in. He was heavy-set and rugged-looking, about 40, wearing a three-quarter-length tan suede jacket with sheepskin collar. When he took off his mitten cap she saw he was partially bald. He threw his jacket on the bed and inspected her.

“You sure ain’t Frank Bolish,” he said. “So who are you?”

“Arlene Carver. One of Frank’s assistants.” She held out her hand to him and took a chance. “If you read his columns you’ve probably seen my name mentioned. I do investigative work for him.”

“Never read his columns,” the man grunted. “I don’t think newspapermen should be allowed to attack public officials the way Bolish does. Prove who your are.” His accent was heavily Western, almost like Gary Cooper’s but too soft and whispery as if he had a sore throat. Taking small steps, she backed toward the formica-topped round table at the room’s far end where her oversized handbag lay.

“Hold it right there,” the man ordered. “I’ll find your ID myself.” He strode long-legged across the room, passing her cautiously, reached for the bag, and shook its contents out on the bed.

“There’s no gun,” she told him, trying to control the irritation she was beginning to feel, “and the money’s not there either. Do you think I’m a fool?”

He pawed through her alligator wallet, studying the array of plastic cards in their window envelopes. “Okay, so your name’s Arlene Carver and you live in Bethesda, Maryland. That’s close enough to Washington all right, but what tells me you’re with Bolish?”

“How do I know you’re Paxton?” she demanded. “I was told he was a skinny guy with thick gray hair. You’re two hundred pounds and could use a toupee.”

“I never claimed I was Paxton.” He tugged a bulging pigskin wallet from his hip pocket and passed her a business card. “Ted Gorman, from Cheyenne. Private investigator. Paxton got cold feet Friday, hired me to drive up to Cody and make the delivery for him.” He took a long careful breath. “He said either Bolish himself or his chief assistant Marty Lanning would pick it up.”

“Frank has to be on a TV show tomorrow morning and Marty’s down with flu,” she said.

He gazed coldly at her. She knew he was trying to decide if she was genuine or an impostor. “Come on, man!” she told him impatiently. “I knew the stupid password and I knew what Paxton looks like. Give me the damn videotape!”

“Not yet.” He perched himself on the round table and pointed a finger at her. “If you’re with Bolish you’ll know what’s supposed to be on the tape. Tell me.”

“The way Frank said Paxton described it over the phone,” she answered slowly, “it’s a videocassette made with a hidden camera at Vito Carbone’s condo in Miami Beach. It shows Senator Vega taking a $100,000 payoff from Carbone and agreeing to sponsor some amendments to the Federal Criminal Code that the Mob wants.” She paused and looked at him.

“More,” he demanded.

“The videocassette was made for Angelo Generoso,” she went on. “His family and the Carbones have been in an undeclared war for years. Paxton was the low-level torpedo the Generosos sent to Carbone’s pad to dismantle the equipment and bring back the cassettes when it was all over. Only Paxton found out what was on that one tape, saw a chance to get rich, and disappeared with the thing instead. He’d grown up in rural Wyoming, so he came back out here to hole up till the heat died down. Then he phoned Frank in Washington and offered him the cassette for $25,000.”

“Okay.” The bald man nodded slightly. “That’s the same story Paxton tells. You got the money?”

“Yes. You have the cassette?”

“Hold still a minute.” He strode across the room and out into the corridor, leaving the door slightly ajar. She watched him enter the alcove down the hall that held the soft-drink machine. There was the sound of a lid being lifted, then the rumble of ice cubes being displaced. He re-entered the room rubbing the moist white protective jacket of the cassette against his shirt. “Ice machine didn’t do it any harm,” he said. “Let’s see the money.”

She bent over the bureau, pulled out the bottom drawer, and removed the Gideon Bible. Then she shook the Bible out over the bed. Twenty-five $1000 bills fluttered down from the pages onto the rumpled blanket. She picked them up and arranged them in a neat stack but did not hold them out to him.

“They could be counterfeit,” the bald man muttered.

“Oh, for God’s sake! This is throwaway money for Frank Bolish. Now give me the damn cassette!”

Hesitantly he placed it on the blanket beside the bills, then perched on the edge of the formica again, while she rebolted the chain lock. She then dragged the large gray Samsonite suitcase out of the closet, lifted it to the bed, and unlocked it. She took out the videocassette player, set it down on the bureau top, and used a tiny screwdriver to connect its wires with certain wires of the room television. When the player was ready she flipped the ON switch, took the cassette out of its protective jacket, and inserted it into the machine. Then she depressed the PLAY button and turned on the TV to watch the images from the cassette.

The tape ran for about twelve minutes. Its technical quality was poor, which was natural considering the secrecy in which it was made. It showed a quiet conference between two men in shirtsleeves. The older she recognized — Vito, lion of the Carbones. The younger — tall, slender, hypnotic-voiced — certainly looked like Senator Vega. The hidden camera caught the quick transfer of an envelope, the counting of the money, the careful repetition of what the senator must do in return for the gift.

She hit the STOP button before the scene had ended. “I don’t like it,” she said. “There’s something stage-looking about that payoff. One of them’s an actor, maybe both of them.” She chewed her underlip nervously and turned her back for a second to switch off the TV.

When she faced him again, he was holding a small .25 aimed at her middle.

“You took a gamble and lost, lady,” the bald man said. “It happens I do read Bolish’s column every day, and I got a real good memory for names. He’s never mentioned you in any of his material. Now, who the hell are you?”

She took another long deep breath to gain time. “All right,” she told him then. “I — guess I gave myself away with what I said about that tape. My name is Arlene Carver but I don’t work for Bolish. I’m a troubleshooter for Senator Vega. We heard rumors about a plot to smear him with a phony videotape, and then when Paxton offered the tape to Bolish one of Bolish’s staff leaked the story to us. My partner managed to sidetrack the man Bolish sent out to make the pickup and I came on in his place. Look, what do you and Paxton care who pays you? The tape’s a phony, but the media could crucify the senator with it, so we’re willing to pay to keep it under wraps.”

“Sure it’s a phony. All you true believers who think Jorge Vega can pull together that good old Sixties coalition of the Hispanics and the blacks and the feminists and the Indians and the kids, you’ll all swear till you’re blue in the face the tape’s a phony so your boy can become President in ’84. Only if the tape gets out, it’s Vega’s finish, and you know it.”

“It’s no use talking politics with you,” she said icily. “Take the money and leave this room, right now.”

“Not quite yet.” He waggled the .25 at her lazily. “You see, I still don’t know who you are, lady, but I surely know who you’re not. You don’t work for Jorge Vega. But I do.”

Consternation flushed her face, and she jerked back as though he had struck her.

“Paxton didn’t just make one long-distance call to Washington about that cassette,” the man explained. “He offered it to Vega for the same price he wanted from Bolish. I’m a Wyoming boy, so the senator took me off my other work on his staff and asked me to get the tape from Paxton. I did. Didn’t use money, just muscle. But then I decided to keep Paxton’s date with Bolish, hoping I could find out what Bolish planned to print about the senator. Now, you’re not with Bolish and you’re not with Vega, so before I get angry and ask you the hard way, you tell me who you are and what your game is.”

He took two slow steps toward her, his fingers tightening on the .25 as he moved.

“Put that toy away,” she told him calmly, “before you find yourself in deep trouble.” She reached inside her blouse with careful motions, pulled out a hinged leather cardholder, opened it, and held it out so he could see the gold shield and identification.

“Oh, hell,” he mumbled, and gently set down the gun on the dresser top. “Why didn’t you say you were F.B.I.?”

“Well, your loyalties weren’t exactly displayed on a billboard,” she told him. “The Bureau heard rumors about that cassette too, and my job was to run them down. A woman on Bolish’s staff leaked it to the Bureau when Paxton made him the offer. I told the truth when I said my partner intercepted Bolish’s messenger and I came on in his place. Another two minutes and I would have been reading you your rights. Depending on whether that tape is real or a phony, either Vega’s going to be charged with taking a bridge or some big bananas in the Mob are going to face extortion charges. I don’t think you broke any Federal laws by hijacking the cassette from Paxton, but I’ll keep the tape from this point on.”

“I’m not so sure of that.” He grinned at her, reached down to his oversized cowboy belt buckle, and disconnected it from its leather strap. From the interior of the hollow buckle he extracted a leather cardholder of his own and flipped it at her. “Damndest thing I’ve seen in fifteen years with the Bureau,” he laughed. “Two agents playing cat and mouse with each other like this. Yeah, I’ve been working the case from the other side. Picked up Paxton in Laramie on Friday night and decided to keep his appointment with Bolish’s messenger on the off chance I’d get something we could use against Bolish. He’s written a lot of columns the Bureau doesn’t appreciate.”

“Nice job,” she said. “You fooled me all the way. I never would have guessed you were with the Bureau.” She came toward him slowly, almost seductively, until she was two steps from the corner of the dresser that held his gun.

She leaped for the .25 at the same moment his hands leaped for her throat.

Late the next morning, when she entered to clean Room 114, the cleaning woman found the two intertwined bodies — the man shot with a .25 at point-blank range, the woman strangled to death. The police quickly determined what had happened but had no idea why they had killed each other, nor could they make sense of the inordinate number of artifacts of identify found in the room, all of them turning out to be spurious.

The F.B.I. report on the two sets of fingerprints, however, proved to be helpful. The man was identified as a pistolero for the Carbone organized-crime family and the woman as an enforcer for the more progressive and affirmative-action-oriented Generosos.