Desperate Measures

5

At last it was Pittman’s turn. He stopped the car at a phone booth on the edge of a shopping mall’s deserted parking lot in Fairfax, Virginia. Standing in the booth’s light, he studied the list of phone numbers, put coins in the box, and pressed numbers.

The phone on the other end rang only once before a man answered, his deep voice somewhat strained. “Standish residence.”

“I need to speak to him.”

The voice hesitated. “Who’s calling, please?”

“Just put him on. I’m certain he’s still awake, because I’m certain he just received calls from Eustace Gable or Winston Sloane, probably both of them.”

“How do you know that, sir?”

It wasn’t the type of question that Pittman expected a servant to ask. Just as the voice had hesitated a short while earlier, now Pittman hesitated. His plan depended in part on the likelihood that the grand counselors would feel pressured by the phone calls, that they would contact one another and feel even more pressure when they learned that each had been called in a similar manner but by different people. The message to them was clear: You failed to keep your secret; more and more people know what you did in the past and what you’ve done to hide it. With luck, the grand counselors would overreact, make mistakes, and…

The deep, strained voice interrupted Pittman’s thoughts. “Sir, are you still there? I asked, how did you know that Mr. Standish received telephone calls from Eustace Gable and Winston Sloane?”

“Because I want to talk to him about the same matter they wanted to talk to him about,” Pittman said.

“And what is that?” The voice sounded more strained.

“Look, I’m tired of this. Tell him Duncan Kline, Grollier Academy. Tell him he can talk to me about it or he can talk to the police.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand. Duncan Kline? Grollier Academy?”

In the background on the other end of the line, Pittman heard other voices, the sound of people moving around.

What the hell’s going on? Pittman thought.

“Who am I speaking to?” the voice insisted.

“I get the feeling you’re not a servant.”

“Mr. Standish won’t speak with you unless he knows who’s calling. If I could have your name…”

In the background, Pittman heard a man call out, “Lieutenant.”

“You’re with the police,” Pittman said.

“The police, sir? What makes you think that? All I need is your name and I’ll ask Mr. Standish if-”

“Damn it, what’s happened?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Of course. That’s why you’re having a police convention at his house.”

“Just a few guests.”

“Stop the bullshit! I assume you’re trying to trace this call. Don’t bother. I’m going to hang up if you don’t answer my questions. What’s happened?”

“I’m afraid there’s been an accident,” the voice on the phone said.