The Judas Goat

3

My first move was to call the airline. They said I could bring a handgun as long as it was disassembled, packed in a suitcase and checked through. The ammunition had to be separate. Of course it couldn’t be carried aboard.

“Okay if I chew gum when my ears pop?” I said.

“Certainly, sir.”

“Thank you.”

Next I called the British Consulate. They told me that if I were bringing in a shotgun there would be no problem. I could simply carry it in. No papers required.

“I had in mind a thirty-eight caliber Smith and Wesson revolver. A shotgun in a hip holster tends to chafe. And carrying it around London at high port seems a bit showy.”

“Indeed. Well, for a handgun the regulations state that if you are properly licensed it will be held at customs until you have received authorization from the chief of police in the city or town of your visit. In this case, you say London?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that is where you should apply. It is not permitted of course to bring in machine guns, submachine guns, automatic rifles or any weapon capable of firing a gas-disseminating missile.”

“Oh, damn,” I said.

Then I called Carroll back. “Have your man in London arrange a permit for me with the London cops.” I gave him the serial number, the number of my Mass carry license and the number of my private detective license.

“They may be sticky about issuing this without your presence.”

“If they are they are. I’ll be there in the morning. Maybe Flanders can have softened them up at least. Don’t you people have a somewhat special status with the London fuzz?”

“We will do what we can, Mr. Spenser,” he said, and hung up.

A little abrupt for a guy with his breeding. I looked at my watch: 2:00. I looked out my office window. On Mass Avenue a thin old man with a goatee was walking a small old dog on a leash. Even from two stories up you could see the leash was new. Bright metal links and a red leather handle. The old man paused and rummaged through a little basket that was attached to a lamppost. The dog sat in that still patient way old dogs have, his short legs a little bowed.

I called Susan Silverman. She wasn’t home. I called my answering service. There were no messages. I told them I was out of town on business. Didn’t know when I’d be back. The girl at the other end took the news without a quiver.

I locked up the office and went home to pack. A suitcase, a flight bag and a garment bag for my other suit. I packed two boxes of .38 bullets in the suitcase. Took the cylinder out of the gun and packed it in two pieces in the flight bag along with the holster. By three-fifteen I was packed. I called Susan Silverman again. No answer.

There are people in the city of Boston who have threatened to kill me. I don’t like to walk around without a gun.

So I took my spare, and stuck it in my belt at the small of my back. It was a Colt .357 Magnum with a four-inch barrel. I kept it around in case I was ever attacked by a fmback whale, and it was heavy and uncomfortable under my coat as I took Carroll’s check down to my bank and cashed it.

“Would you like this in traveler’s checks, Mr. Spenser?”

“No. Plain money. If you have any English money I’d take that.”

“I’m sorry. We could get you some perhaps Friday.”

“No. Just give me the greenies. I’ll change it over there. ”

“Are you sure you want to walk around with this amount in cash?”

“Yes. Look at my boyish face. Would someone mug me?”

“Well, you’re quite a big man.”

“But oh so gentle,” I said.

Back in my apartment at quarter to four I called Susan Silverman again. No answer.

I got out the phone book and called the registrar’s office at the Harvard Summer School.

“I’m trying to locate a student. Mrs. Silverman. She’s taking a couple of courses there in counseling, I think.” There was some discussion of how difficult it would be to find a student like that without more information. They’d transfer me to the School of Education.

The School of Education offices were closing at fourthirty and it would be quite difficult to locate a student. Had I tried the registrar? Yes, I had. Perhaps someone in the Department of Counseling and Guidance could help me. She switched me there. Did I know the professor’s name. No, I didn’t. The course number? No. Well, it would be very difficult.

“Not as difficult as I will be if I have to come over there and kick a professor.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Just check the schedules. Tell me if there’s a counseling course meeting at this hour or later. You must have schedules. Pretend this isn’t a matter of life and death. Pretend I have a government grant to award. Pretend I’m Solomon Guggenheim.”

“I believe that Solomon Guggenheim is dead,” she said.

“Jesus Christ… ”

“But I’ll check,” she said. “Hold the line, please.” There was distant typing and vague movement at the other end of the line and in thirty seconds the secretary came back on.

“There’s a class in Techniques of Counseling, Professor More, that meets from two-o-five to four fifty-five.”

“Where is it?”

She told me. I hung up and headed for Harvard Square. It was four-twenty.

At four-forty I found a hydrant on Mass Avenue outside the Harvard Yard and parked in front of it. You could usually count on a hydrant. I asked a young woman in tennis shorts and hiking boots to direct me to Sever Hall and at four-fifty-six was waiting under a tree near the steps when Susan came out. She was wearing a blue madras jumpsuit with a big gold zipper, and carrying her books in a huge white canvas shoulder bag. She had a quality coming down the steps that she always had. She looked as if it were her building and she was strolling out to survey the grounds. I felt the jolt. I’d been looking at her for about three years now but every time I saw her I felt a kind of jolt, a body shock that was tangible. It made the muscles in my neck and shoulders tighten. She saw me and her face brightened and she smiled.

Two undergraduates eyed her covertly. The jumpsuit fitted her well. Her dark hair glistened in the sunshine and as she got close I could see my reflection in the opaque lenses of her big sunglasses. My white three-piece suit looked terrific.

She said to me, “I beg your pardon, are you a Greek multibillionaire shipping magnate and member of the international jet set?”

I said, “Yes, I am, would you care to marry me and live on my private island in great luxury?”

She said, “Yes, I would, but I’m committed to a smalltime thug in Boston and first I’ll have to shake him.”

“It’s not the thug I mind,” I said. “It’s the small-time.”

She hooked her arm through mine and said, “You’re big-time with me, kid.”

As we walked through the Yard several students and faculty eyed Susan. I didn’t blame them but looked hard at them anyway. It’s good to keep in practice.

“Why are you here?” she said.

“I gotta go to England at eight tonight and I wanted some time to say goodbye.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know. Could be long. Could be some months. I can’t tell.”

“I will miss you,” she said.

“We’ll miss each other.”

“Yes.”

“I’m parked out on Mass Avenue.”

“I parked at Everett Station and took the subway in. We can go to your apartment and I’ll drive you to the airport in your car.”

“Okay,” I said. “But don’t be so bossy. You know how I hate a bossy broad.”

“Bossy?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you have a plan for our farewell celebration?”

“Yeah. ”Forget it.“

“Okay, boss.” She squeezed my arm and smiled. It was a stunner of a smile. There was something in it. Mischief was too weak a word. Evil too strong. But it was always there in the smile. Something that seemed to be saying, You know what would be fun to do? I held the door for her and as she slid into my car the jumpsuit stretched tight and smooth over her thigh. I went around and got in and started the car. “It strikes me,” I said, “that if you were wearing underwear beneath that jumpsuit it would show. It doesn’t show. ”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out, big fella.”

“Oh, good,” I said, “the celebration is back on.”