Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 67, No. 3. Whole No. 388, March 1976

The Dark Gambit by Hugh Pentecost[2]

As we told you last month, when this new series began, Hugh Pentecost envisions a group of multinational corporations “on the verge of running the world,” of breaking down all trade barriers in order to gain the ultimate in a Global Supermarket.

In such a corporation, which Mr. Pentecost calls Quadrant International, he imagines a head man with such enormous power that he considers himself above the law — able and willing to buy some foreign governments, to silence or remove enemies, to achieve his conglomerate goals by any means — blackmail, boycott, terror, violence...

It is that head man whom Jason Dark is trying to identify, that unknown supertycoon whom Jason Dark is pursuing singlehanded — literally...

He was a plump sandy-haired man wearing wire-rimmed glasses that were slightly tinted. He had come out by the swimming pool and had sat down in one of the aluminum deck chairs to watch the child floating on her back. She had waved to him, although she didn’t know him, and he had waved back. His right hand was covered by a black glove. He drew it down quickly. It was still instinctive for him to use it.

The girl turned over and swam like a joyful porpoise, diving below the surface, rising up again and blowing water, then diving again. Finally she came to the edge of the pool where the man sat. It was the shallow end of the pool and she stood up. She took off her bright-scarlet bathing cap and shook out shoulder-length dark hair. She was about ten years old, he guessed.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” the man said.

“Do I know you?” she asked. “Or rather, should I know you, since I don’t know you?” She laughed.

“I’m Jason Dark,” he said, “which I’m sure doesn’t mean anything to you. You must be Elizabeth Stanton.”

“Everybody calls me Liz,” she said. “Nice to meet you, Jason.”

He had passed his fiftieth birthday but somehow she wasn’t fresh; she was just being very natural.

“What’s with your hand? I mean that black glove,” she said.

No adult would have asked that direct question. Jason Dark’s mouth tightened into a thin line for an instant, then it relaxed. “An accident,” he said.

“Is your hand scarred or something?” she asked.

“It isn’t really a hand,” he said. “It’s just a plastic substitute.”

“Oh, wow!” the girl said, interested but not shocked. “How did it happen?”

How it happened she wasn’t going to know, but the question sent unwanted images rushing across Jason Dark’s memory screen. He could see his hand strapped to the butcher’s block in the kitchen of the deserted restaurant; he could feel the agony as the man in the black ski-mask brought the flat side of the meat cleaver down on his hand, crushing the bones; he could hear his own unashamed screaming as ski-mask began to chop his hand to ribbons with the blade of the cleaver; he remembered being dumped in Central Park, in New York, and the tourniquet being applied to his arm by a shocked park policeman, who kept swearing under his breath; he could see the neat job the surgeon had done to finish the amputation.

“It got crushed in an accident,” Dark said to the girl.

“Were you right-handed?” she asked.

Damn her persistence, he thought, but not angrily. She was just a curious child. “Well, I’m having to learn to write again. And it’s hard to eat in public. In private, I can hold a steak down with this plastic hand and cut with my left. I can hold down a steak no matter how hot it is because there’s no feeling in this.” He held up the black gloved thing.

Her eyes clouded. “I don’t think I want to talk about it any more, Jason,” she said.

“I don’t want to talk about it, either,” he said. He smiled at her. “Tell me, where did they hold you, Liz?”

Her eyes widened with excitement. “It was in a little cottage by the ocean. I never saw how we got there so I don’t know—” She stopped, clapping a hand over her mouth. “Oh, gee, I promised Daddy not to talk to anybody about it. Not anybody!”

“So we’ll forget you said anything,” Dark said.

A young man came out of the house and over to where Dark was sitting “The Senator will see you now, Mr. Dark. He’s sorry to have kept you waiting.”

“No sweat,” Dark said. He stood up. “See you around, Liz.”

“I’d like that, Jason.”

Dark followed the Senator’s aide toward the house.

“She’s very quick with first names,” the young man said.

“Rather nice, though,” Dark said. “It helps you to know right away whether she likes you or not.”

Senator Rufus Stanton was in his second term in the United States Senate, elected overwhelmingly by his Midwestern constituency. He was a young vigorous man with an attractive smile, light blue, rather shrewd eyes, and hair the color of his daughter’s.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Dark,” the Senator said. He looked up from the desk in his study, lined with calf-bound law books. He waved Dark to a chair. “I suppose you’re disappointed in me.”

“Astounded is more nearly the right word,” Dark said. He fished a cigarette out of his left-hand jacket pocket, put it between his lips, then produced a lighter from the same pocket. He narrowed his eyes against the smoke. He was just beginning to manage simple things, like lighting a cigarette with his left hand.

The young Senator’s voice sounded ragged with fatigue. “I thought about it and thought about it, Dark, and I finally decided not to make the speech in support of the new bill. I voted for it, of course.”

“And it lost by two votes,” Dark said. “A speech by you in support, with your eloquence, Senator, might have turned a dozen doubters into supporters. They were waiting for it. And so Quadrant International and a hundred other multinational corporations will continue to spread out over the globe like monstrous spiders!” Dark’s voice had risen slightly, but now it was low again. “Well, at least, thank God she wasn’t hurt.”

The Senator’s head jerked up, his eyes wide. “What the hell are you talking about?”

The sunlight streaming through the study windows glinted on Jason Dark’s tinted glasses. “You are a man whose integrity is beyond question, Senator. You are dedicated. You used information I supplied you with, plus the investigations of your personal staff, to build a case against multinational corporations in general and Quadrant International in particular. A speech from you on the Senate floor in support of the Wilson-Strohmeyer Bill would have put a crimp in the indecent profits and the actual anti-American operations. You backed off at the last minute. I tried to guess why, and I could come up with only one answer. Someone had kidnaped your daughter. To get her back you had to keep your mouth shut.”

“What nonsense!” Stanton said.

“They held her in a little cottage by the ocean,” Dark said. “She couldn’t see how they got there, so she can’t tell where it is.”

“Oh, my God!” Stanton said, his voice shaking.

“I’m sorry, Senator. I threw her a curve. She spoke a sentence and a half before she realized she was breaking her promise to you to say nothing to anyone about it.”

“You’ll never be able to guess what it was like,” Stanton said, turning his head from side to side, pain etched on his face. “Everything I believed in, everything I’d spent months working on was at stake. The Vice-President kept looking down at me, knowing I was going to make a speech in support of the bill, waiting for me to ask for the floor, to be recognized. And all the while I could hear that voice on the phone. ‘Make your speech, Senator, and you will never see your daughter alive again.’ What else could I do, Dark, knowing they had Liz? It was right, wasn’t it? She was returned, safe and sound, less than an hour after the Wilson-Strohmeyer Bill was defeated.”

“I guess I would have done the same thing,” Dark said. “She’s a lovely child.”

“She’s mine, my flesh and blood!”

Dark nodded. “So the milk is spilled, Senator. There’s no point in crying over it. I have to go on with the fight, even if you can’t.”

“How can I help?”

“You could turn over your files to me, the information collected by your staff. I think I know it all, but there might be something there I’ve missed.”

The Senator picked up his phone and gave an order to his secretary. He leaned back in his chair. “I’ve never asked you something that interests me, Dark. I know you were a policeman before you became a private investigator.”

“Twenty-two years as a cop and a detective,” Dark said. “Then five years on my own.”

“You gave all that up for a private crusade against Quadrant International,” the Senator said. “Why?”

The end of Dark’s cigarette glowed red as he took a deep drag on it. “You are a decent, liberal idealist, Senator,” he said. “You were for legislation that would curb the power of the multinational corporations. All of them, not just Quadrant International. You don’t like them because some of them buy elections in countries where there are elections, and even help arrange governments by assassinations in countries where the people have no voice. I have another reason. High up in the chain of command of Quadrant International is the man who gave the order for this!” Dark’s voice shook. He held out his black plastic hand.

“If you can prove that—?”

“I will prove it,” Dark said. “But it isn’t just enough to destroy that one man, Senator. I intend to pull down his empire along with him.”

“According to your information — notes supplied by you, Dark — General Motors is bigger than Switzerland, Pakistan, and South Africa put together. Royal Dutch Shell is bigger than Iran, Venezuela, and Turkey. Goodyear Tire is bigger than Saudi Arabia. Quadrant International is bigger than any two of a hundred big ones. You, one man, propose to destroy that kind of power?”

“Or die trying,” Dark said quietly.

When Jason Dark unlocked the door of his room in Washington’s Hanover House a pretty blonde girl, who had been sitting by the windows overlooking the Potomac, came quickly across to him and threw her arms around him, holding him close.

“My poor darling, what happened?” she asked.

Jason Dark had felt old and tired coming up in the elevator. He had worked for weeks preparing a case for Senator Stanton to present to his fellow Senators. The Wilson-Strohmeyer Bill, had it passed, would have struck a sharp and painful blow to Quadrant International and other multinational corporations that were trying to become the Earth’s Managers. The girl’s cool fingers on Dark’s cheek revived him.

This girl, Sharon Evans, was a recent miracle in Dark’s life. She was young enough to be his daughter. It was preposterous that she could love him, and yet, by all that was holy, she did. He had used her, shamelessly, in his first move against Quadrant, and instead of hating him for it she had fallen in love with him, joined him as a woman and as an ally in his self-appointed search-and-destroy mission.

In moments when he was removed from the magic of her physical presence he debated whether she was a plus or a minus. An ally he could use; but she had, in effect, created a weakness in his position that hadn’t been there before. If she was ever in danger — and she could be, simply by associating with him — he might back off, just as Senator Stanton had backed off, to make sure of her safety.

He looked at her steadily for a moment through his tinted wire-rimmed glasses, as if to make certain she was real and not a mirage.

“The Senator’s daughter was kidnaped just before he was due to make his speech,” Dark said. “No speech or else. He had no choice.”

“And the girl?”

“Home, safe and sound.” Dark described his brief visit with Liz Stanton.

“How awful for the Senator — and for the child’s mother,” Sharon said.

“The Senator is a widower,” Dark said. “He lives quite simply. A cook-housekeeper and young Michael Braden, his aide and secretary, are the entire household.”

“Make you a drink?” Sharon asked.

“Not just yet,” Dark said. He walked over to the windows and looked down at the river. “Let me try something on you for size.”

She came over to stand beside him, her arm linked through his. He looked at her, smiling faintly. “There are only a very few people in the world who can’t be bought. There’s you, and me, and at the moment I can’t think of who else.”

“Thanks for including me.”

He touched her bright gold hair. “This was a tricky business, Sharon. It had to be handled very precisely. Given time to think about it, the Senator’s reaction might not have been predictable.”

“I don’t follow.”

“If Liz Stanton had been kidnaped hours before, or a day before, the Senator might have considered calling in the F.B.I., or some other course of action. But this is how it happened. The Senator got up at his usual time, had breakfast with his daughter as always, then went to his office in the Senate building. Just as he was about to go into the Senate Chamber to make his speech he got a phone call. ‘No speech or else!’ He had no time to think, to weigh one action against another. He acted out of instinct, out of love.”

“So?”

“This was terribly important to Quadrant and the others. Their plan wouldn’t have been haphazard. They had to know exactly what the Senator planned to do. Would he make a speech in support of the Wilson-Strohmeyer Bill? It didn’t matter how he voted, only if he planned to make the speech that would sway other votes. They had to know for sure — and they did. Then there was the time pressure. They had to know exactly where Liz Stanton would be so they could snatch her. They couldn’t risk her wandering off somewhere, or going to visit some unknown friend. They had to know exactly where she would be at the critical moment.”

“How could they know that?”

“From someone in the household,” Dark said. “Someone who knew that on Thursday mornings a special tutor came to the house to help Liz make up school work she’d lost because of a bout with measles. She had to be at home.”

Sharon’s eyes widened. “The housekeeper? The Senator’s secretary?”

“I think we can eliminate the housekeeper,” Dark said. “The person who told them — I think we should call them the ‘enemy’ — also had to know that the Senator was definitely going to make the speech. I can’t see any reason for the Senator to confide in his cook. That leaves us with young Mr. Michael Braden, the secretary.”

“He was an accessory to the kidnaping?”

“It would have to be proved,” Dark said.

“How?”

Dark walked over to the desk in the corner of the room and wrote something on a plain sheet of paper. He handed it to Sharon. “See that this is delivered to Mr. Braden at breakfast time tomorrow morning.”

Sharon glanced at the message. It read: “Come to the cottage at once. Urgent.”

“If he ignores that we’re barking up the wrong tree,” Dark said.

At a quarter past eight the following morning Michael Braden hurried out of Senator Stanton’s house, went to the garage, and backed out his personal car. Gravel spattered against the fenders as he drove out onto the main highway. He looked around nervously. He saw the blonde girl in the parked car across the way, but she meant nothing to him. He had no reason to think he might be followed or that the blonde girl might be the follower.

Dark’s plan was simple enough. If Braden took the bait he would drive to the “cottage by the ocean” where Liz Stanton had been held. There were some “ifs,” of course. He might check out the message with someone by phone and discover it was a fake. But it was unlikely he would make such a call from the Senator’s house. The Senator still hadn’t gone to his office. Besides, the message itself would imply that a phone call was risky.

If he took the bait and drove to the cottage, Braden would have inadvertently confessed his guilt and Dark would learn who owned the cottage and where it was. Sharon was assigned the job of following because Braden knew Dark by sight and would instantly suspect something if he got a glimpse of him.

Dark waited by a pay phone about a block from the Senator’s house.

Sharon, driving a rented car, followed Braden’s car. It was difficult only because Braden drove so fast. Most of the traffic was coming into Washington. Braden was headed east, across Maryland, toward the ocean.

Checking her wrist watch, Sharon began to wonder if they could possibly reach their destination in less than an hour. Liz Stanton had been delivered safely home in just under an hour. Ahead, Braden’s car turned off the highway. He drove up a small side road toward a high point of land. Sharon was puzzled, because this was nowhere near the ocean. Then off to the left she saw a large inland lake.

Up ahead Braden turned into a private driveway. Sharon drove straight on past the drive, catching sight of a name on an RFD mailbox. CARTER CLEAVES.

Sharon left her car about a hundred yards past the driveway and made her way through a dense pine woods to where she could get a view of the Cleaves house. It was something more than a cottage. It had wide picture windows looking out over the lake that Liz Stanton had mistaken for the ocean.

She could see Braden. He was standing by the front door. He had rung a bell, and getting no answer he was pounding on the door with his fist. No one answered, and Braden began to circle the house, peering in at the windows. Presently he gave up, evidently finding no one inside the house.

He stood by the front door again, anxiously consulting his watch. Finally, after a short wait, he wrote something on a page in a small notebook, tore out the page, and slid it under the front door. Sharon guessed his problem was to get back to the Senator before his absence was noticed.

Sharon didn’t make any effort to follow Braden on the return trip. Her job was to find a telephone.

Dark answered her call almost instantly. He had been standing by the phone booth all the time.

“Jason? The child mistook a large lake for the ocean. The house belongs to someone named Carter Cleaves.”

She heard soft laughter from Dark. “You know who Carter Cleaves is?” he asked. “A duly and legally registered lobbyist for Quadrant International.”

“Jason!”

“Bingo,” he said.

“Braden’s on his way back in a big hurry,” Sharon said.

“Go to the hotel and wait for me,” Dark said. “Hope we have cause for a celebration.”

Braden, driving in the heavy stream of traffic now, chafed at the slowness of it. When he finally reached the Senator’s house he was wet with sweat. He put his car in the garage and hurried into the house. Mrs. Devens, the cook-housekeeper, was dusting the living room.

“Has the Senator been asking for me?” Braden asked.

“No, sir. He’s gone to his office, of course.”

“I have to pick up some things in the study,” Braden said.

“Mr. Dark is in there, sir,” Mrs. Devens said. “I thought it would be all right.”

Braden stood very still, looking toward the study door. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the perspiration from his face. Then, his legs moving stiffly, he walked into the study.

Dark was sitting at the Senator’s desk, the Quadrant file in front of him. He was smiling, a faintly mocking smile.

“Good morning, Braden,” he said. “It seems that part of the puzzle is explained.”

“Puzzle?” Braden moistened his lips.

“I’ve wondered how the kidnapers got Liz back home in less than an hour if she was, in fact, being held ‘by the ocean.’ The child, who must have been scared out of her wits, mistook the lake in front of the Cleaves house for the ocean.”

“The Cleaves house?” Braden asked, his voice husky.

“It will save us a good deal of time and fencing,” Dark said, “if I tell you that I sent you the note that took you out to the Cleaves house this morning. You see, I wanted to know whom you’d sold out to. I knew it was someone at Quadrant, but who in the chain of command?”

“I–I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Braden said.

“Do I have to spell it out for you?” Dark asked. “You sold out the Senator, friend. You kept Quadrant informed of his intentions about the speech. You gave them the information that assured them Liz would be at home at the critical time. I imagine you gave Mrs. Devens some little job to do that kept her occupied. When I have told the Senator, God help you.”

Frantic choices were mirrored in Braden’s eyes. Choices — and fear.

“Of course, when Carter Cleaves is confronted with the proof that his house was used to hold the Senator’s child he will deny all knowledge of it. He will say his unoccupied house was used by criminals. He will be told how we know — that you answered a fake note which led us to the house. He will, of course, deny that he has ever had any contact with you.

“But he will be sweating, just as you are, Braden. He will know that you may spill the whole story. He won’t be able to risk that, so I suspect he will take steps to silence you. Permanently. It won’t be just a warning, like this.” Dark held up his black plastic hand. “Whatever you decide to do, Braden, you are up the well-known creek.”

“This is all madness!” Braden said. It was nearly a whisper.

“I took the liberty of going through your room upstairs while I was waiting for you,” Dark said. “You are an amateur, Braden, and like most amateurs you don’t take the most obvious precautions. Only an amateur would keep his bankbooks where someone might find them. I’m afraid you’ll never get to spend the twenty-five thousand dollars you deposited in your savings accounts three days ago.” Dark stood up. “Bunglers always pay a heavy price for their bungling.”

He picked up the Quadrant file and started for the door.

“Wait!” Braden said. He had moved around the desk. “There must be some way to—”

“There’s no way,” Dark said. He stepped to the door.

“Wait!” Braden said. “Wait if you want to live, Mr. Dark.”

Dark turned. From a desk drawer Braden had produced a murderous-looking handgun. It was pointed straight at Dark’s heart.

“Obviously I can’t let you go through with this,” Braden said.

Dark’s smile was contemptuous. “You haven’t got the guts,” he said.

He turned his back on Braden and extended his left hand to the doorknob. Braden’s finger pulled the trigger. There was a dull click. Again and again he pulled it. Dark turned.

“Do you suppose for a minute that I would confront you, Braden, knowing that you would back-shoot me the minute you had the chance? I found the gun long before you got here and pulled its teeth.” He jiggled the cartridges in his left hand. “I also have an eye for shoulder holsters and pocket bulges. If you’d been carrying a gun I’d have shot you dead.” He patted the holster under his right arm pit. “I’m not very good with my left hand, even after some months of practise. But at a distance of five feet—”

“Oh, God!” Braden moaned. He sank down in the desk chair and covered his face with his hands.

“Now we will see how good Mr. Carter Cleaves is at this game,” Jason Dark said. “Too bad you won’t be around, Braden, to witness the outcome.”

He walked out into the warm summer sunshine. He hoped Sharon had decided on champagne. She got such a delight from popping the corks, something that was beyond him now that he was one-handed.