Twenty Plus Two

Chapter 21

At eleven o’clock, Alder was in his hotel room, preparing to go to bed when the phone rang.

He answered, but there was no voice on the other end. Alder was about to speak again impatiently — and then heard the humming on the line. The humming of a long-distance call.

His pulses suddenly pounded. He said, “This is Tom Alder... Hello...?”

There was no reply.

He knew that there was someone at the other — end of the wire, he knew that the person was a long ways off — far from the hotel, from Chicago.

He knew who it was.

“Nikki,” he said softly, “I’m here.”

He waited. He thought he could hear the breathing at the other end, but he knew that he could not hear it.

“I’ll come to you, Nikki,” he said. “I’ll come — wherever you are.”

There was a click on the wire, and the connection was broken. She had hung up.

He knew, though, who it had been. He knew.

He picked up the phone. “You just put through a call to my room,” he said to the operator. “It was a long-distance call. I want to know from where the call came.”

“One moment, please,” said the operator.

It was a full two minutes before the operator returned. “Sir, I’ve been trying to trace the call you inquired about. I have the long distance operator on the lines...”

The long distance operator came on. “What can I do for you, sir?”

“This is Tom Alder,” he said. “I’m occupying Room 1424-S at the Palmer House. A long-distance call just came through to me — less than five minutes ago. I want to know from whom the call was — no, from where it came.”

“One moment, sir!”

Two minutes went by, three. The long distance operator returned. “Regarding the call you asked about, sir. Are you the party to whom it was placed?”

“I am.”

“Your name?”

“Tom Alder — Thomas Alder. I’m registered at the Palmer House.”

“The call you are inquiring about, sir, came from Minneapolis, Minnesota. The Minneapolis operator informs me that it was transmitted from Bismarck, North Dakota — from a pay telephone.”

“What was the number of the phone?” cried Alder.

“The call was placed from 24026, Ring 2.”

“Ring two?”

“A party line. Many of the smaller communities have party lines. They are identified by the letter R, for ring. Ring one, Ring two, sometimes Ring three.”

“Get me the number — the Bismarck number, 24026, Ring 2.”

“I’m sorry, sir, you’ll have to place that in the regular way. Dial your local operator.”

Alder gritted his teeth, but hung up, jiggled the prongs and got the telephone operator. “I want to put in a long distance call,” he said, “to Bismarck, North Dakota. The number is 24026, Ring two.”

“24026. Ring two, you said?”

“Ring two. That’s a party line.”

He waited. He heard the call routed through Minneapolis, Fargo, and Bismarck. Finally the connection was made. The phone rang two, three, four times. There was a click on the phone, but it still continued to ring. After six rings the Bismarck operator said, “I’m sorry, operator, your party does not answer.”

“Somebody answered,” cried Alder. “I heard the receiver taken off.”

“Ring two did not answer. Ring one perhaps picked up the telephone.”

“Sir,” said the hotel operator, “the party you called in Bismarck, North Dakota, does not answer. Shall I try the number again in a half hour?”

“No,” said Alder, “it’s a pay phone and the place where it is probably closed for the night. Cancel the call.”

He held the phone in his hands. Bismarck, North Dakota.

She had called him — and then had not spoken a word.

Why?

He knew the reason — he hoped that he knew the reason.

He put the telephone to his ear. “Operator, give me your travel desk... I want to make an airplane reservation... Travel, this is Mr. Alder in Room 1424-S. Can you tell me how soon I can get a plane for Bismarck, North Dakota?... I’ll wait.”

He waited. Three minutes.

The travel clerk said then, “I’m sorry, sir, but there’s no direct flight from Chicago to Bismarck. Best I can do is give you a seat to Minneapolis. You’d have to take your chances there on the local fights.”

“Minneapolis,” snapped Alder. “One ticket... how soon?”

“One way or round trip?”

“One way — round trip. It doesn’t matter. How soon?”

“There’s a flight in forty-five, no forty-two minutes. If you could get to the airfield in that time... Would you like me to...”

“No,” said Alder.

He put down the phone, got to his feet. His purchases were scattered on the bed. He had not bought a bag. He shook his head strode to the door and went out.

He punched the elevator button and fumed until the car door opened. He strode swiftly across the lobby and out to the State Street entrance. A cab was unloading at the curb.

Alder thrust a twenty-dollar bill at the cabby. “The airport. I’ve got exactly thirty-nine minutes — and if you make it in thirty-five minutes, you get another ten dollars to pay your speeding ticket.”

“Hang on,” cried the cab driver.

He made it to the airport in thirty minutes, but used up another minute jockeying about to get Alder close to the terminal building.

Alder strode through, stopped at the Information Window. “The flight to Minneapolis—”

“Gate seven. Leaves in three minutes.”

He went through the gate to the plane. The co-pilot and stewardess stood at the foot of the stairs.

“I’m sorry,” Alder said. “I didn’t have time to buy a ticket. Do you have a seat — to Minneapolis?”

“Your luggage, sir?” asked the co- pilot.

“I didn’t even have time for that. It’s an emergency. I can pay, however.”

“That’s all it takes to fly with me,” grinned the co-pilot. “Money.”

“This way, sir,” said the stewardess and led the way up the flight steps into the plane.

The plane touched the broad runway of the Minneapolis airport a few minutes after two. It had rained recently and the concrete was glistening. There was a bite in the night air.

Alder went into the terminal building. There were booths of a half dozen or more small airline companies, feeder lines that spread out into all directions of Minnesota, Wisconsin, the Northwest, Canada.

He was referred from one booth to another. The one he wound up at was closed for the night.

He questioned, prodded the attendants who were on duty at other desks. He used money and he found one who was willing to accept it. The attendant made a phone call. He talked at some length, whispering part of the time. Then he put down the phone.

“Mike Erlinger,” he said. “The Great Plains Airways.” He grinned. “Fancy name for two crates that are held together by baling wire. But so far Mike’s always come down, right side up. He’ll be here in fifteen minutes. He lives only about a mile away.”

Alder paced the terminal building, then went outside. There was a bench beside the door. It was in heavy shadows, but there was a man sitting on it.

He said, “Good evening, Mr. Alder. Or perhaps I should say, good morning.”

It was Jacques Pleschette.

He rose heavily to his feet, towering over Alder. “You are not unduly surprised, Mr. Alder?”

“I’m surprised all right, Frenchy.”

“Please — Mr. Alder! We agreed not to use nicknames. Are you impressed, Mr. Alder? That I arrived here before you? I did not stop over in Chicago. I went from one airplane to another. I have been here for exactly one hour and forty-five minutes — no, one hour and fifty-one minutes precisely. I saw you descend from the plane. You passed within six feet of me and did not even see me.”

“I thought I’d seen the last of you in New York!”

“The certificates, Mr. Alder. The beautiful one-thousand dollar treasury certificates. They are insidious — they work on a man’s mind, yes, even while he is asleep. Covetousness is a cardinal sin. None of us are immune from it. Not even you, Mr. Alder, and you are the only honest man I have ever known. Very well, my good sir, you shall have them. The laborer is worthy of his hire.”

A man wearing a leather jacket came from the gloom of the car park area into the lights about the terminal.

Alder said, with harsh mockery: “‘Parting is such sweet sorrow,’ but—”

“You quote the Bard of Avon!” cried Big Frenchy. “Capital, sir. Excellent.”

The man in the leather coat came up. “Alder? Either of you men happen to be?”

“I’m Alder.”

The man nodded. “I’ll get her out of the hangar, rev her up.” He shrugged. “Six-seven minutes and we’re off.” He started to turn away, then stopped. “It’s an unusual situation, Mr. Alder, and I, uh, I’d like to have assurance — two hundred dollars?”

“You’ll be paid,” Alder said. “I don’t have quite enough cash with me, but as soon as we reach our destination I’ll cash a check, or use a credit card.”

“No need, Mr. Alder,” cried Pleschette. “It costs no more for two than one. We’ll share our air conveyance, sir. Half and half — down the line.”

“No,” said Alder. “I’ll travel alone.”

“You are wasteful, sir. Besides — you know me well enough by now. You know I will be there. I will be right behind you — if not before. Come, we will travel together. We can alleviate the tedium of travel.” Pleschette beamed. “Whether you will it or not, you are working for me. No, don’t trouble to deny it. Our interests are not inimical. You and I are intertwined.” He turned suddenly to the waiting pilot. “Here, sir, is our fee.”

He produced his wallet, rummaged, and brought out two one-hundred dollar bills. “A man’s truest friend — money. It never lets you down. It comforts you, it nurtures you in time of distress.”

Alder gestured to the man in the leather coat. “Tickets for two if it won’t make your ship lopsided.”

The pilot regarded Alder gloomily. “You wanna take him along? I don’t know if I can stand the gab—”

“I’ll keep you awake,” declared Pleschette heartily. “You may even find it interesting — and educational. I will try, sir — I can’t guarantee it, of course, but I’ll make a sincere effort — to keep my words basic and simple. So it can be understood by—”

“Oh, hell!” said the pilot.

He started toward the hangars. Alder and Pleschette followed.

There were only six seats in the plane, aside from the pilot’s. Pleschette watched cautiously until Alder had seated himself, then took a seat directly opposite. “Balance the weight.”

He sat almost on the edge of the seat and kept his hands on the arms of the chair. When the pilot revved the motors his hands tightened on the seat arms. He did not enjoy flying and while the plane taxied across the field he kept his eyes glued on the windscreen. He was silent.

Finally, when the plane had reached cruising altitude, Pleschette relaxed somewhat. He looked at Alder.

“You are a man of prodigious activity, Mr. Alder. You covered more ground, acquired more data in the past two days than another man would have in a month.”

“You’re fishing, Pleschette,” said Alder. “But you’re going to have to use better bait.”

“My bait is excellent,” said Pleschette with gusto. “The beautiful green certificates. They are within your grasp. Tell me, have you accomplished your objective? I know that you are near the end, otherwise you would not be here beside me, flying to the beginning of things. You have a few loose ends to tie together — isn’t that it?”

“I’ll tell you this much, Pleschette,” said Alder. “Your brother isn’t worth looking for. By comparison, he makes you look like a Sunday school teacher.”

“Do you think I could pass for that? How kind of you, Mr. Alder. And my brother — you’ve learned that he is a consummate knave — a rascal and a scoundrel? That is exactly what I had come to believe. It is the reason I wanted to engage your services — to verify my beliefs. I knew or suspected—”

“You said you wanted to help him.”

“Surely you read between the lines? I seldom speak ill of anyone and as for a man’s blood relatives — a man who does not have strong family ties is a man to be pitied. As the immortal Scott said: ‘Breathes there a man with soul so dead,’ etcetera. Yes, Mr. Alder my brother is a lost soul. He got off to a wrong start and went from there to worse. Deplorable, but true. My brother was engaged in nefarious iniquities. He has been a thief—”

“So have you.”

“Please — there is a difference. I have never robbed or swindled an honest man. I have matched wits with scoundrels who were trying to get something for nothing. I have pitted my brains against their money and sometimes I have emerged victorious. Not always, though. I took calculated risks — my freedom for a substance. I lost much of that precious freedom, for there are scalawags so base that they have no shame. They had no pride, no sense of artistry. They were welshers, sir. When they lost they reneged — and to salve their wounds they had me incarcerated. No, sir, I have never considered myself a genuine, unadulterated thief, such as my brother has been. Poor lad, I understand he has even committed actual burglary.”

“He’s been a thug, a thief, panderer—”

“Panderer?”

“He’s trafficked in narcotics. He’s killed!”

“Alas,” sighed Pleschette. “I do not challenge your remarks, for a thing is not scurrilous if it is true. And I fear that what you say you can corroborate. You have investigated Auguste Pleschette thoroughly, and you speak with the ring of authority. You have seen the chapter and the verse—”

“The book, too,” said Alder. “It has a black cover.”

“The question,” said Pleschette, “is what are we going to do about it, you and I?”

“Twelve people are going to decide that. Not you and I, Pleschette. A jury.”

“Vengeance! Ah, yes. But have you considered, Mr. Alder? Is that morally sound? Or economic? They will put my brother in jail, or possibly if he does not have the best attorneys, his fate may even be worse. He may undergo capital punishment. A brief incarceration, then — poof! Death. At a considerable expense to the taxpayers. Death is not punishment. As the noble Socrates said — or was it Zeno, the Stoic? — ‘Count no man truly happy until he is dead.’

“’Tis better, far better punishment that he live — and pay for his crimes. Payment is a relative thing. Some pay in remorse and mental anguish. Persons suffer from the loss of a pet, a dear one. Others, crass souls, suffer from the loss of money. We should examine my brother’s character. What does he love most? Is it not money? Very well, take his money. He will suffer anguishes greater than eternal hellfire. To a miser, money is the most important thing in life. Each coin extracted is a drop of blood.”

“You’re suggesting,” said Alder, “blackmail!”

“Superb, my dear sir,” cried Pleschette. “That steel trap mind of yours, that cold, clear logic. It gets right to the heart of the matter. Blackmail! It has an ugly sound. Could we not call it retribution — punishment?”

“And that’s the long and the short of it,” said Alder. “Behind the Niagara of words, the mountain of sham and flimflam, behind it all is the one simple truth. The basic thing, blackmail!”

“Please, Mr. Alder. I don’t like the word. I told you—”

“Shakedown,” said Alder. “You’re going to shake down your brother.”

“He has so much,” said Pleschette doggedly. “He has so much and I have so little. He has youth. He is only forty-seven years of age. I am sixty-two. He has many more productive years ahead of him. He can earn money, much more. I have a barren old age ahead of me.”

“You can always go back to prison,” retorted Alder. “Your reading, your studies. Your old friends.”

“True,” admitted Pleschette, “some of the happiest days of my life have been in prison. The good, plain prison fare, the comfortable cells, the knowledge that one does not have to worry, because others are looking out for him. But is paternalism a good thing? Is it natural for a man to have someone else shoulder his burden? No, Mr. Alder, man was given a brain, a heart, and a soul. He was given lordship over the creatures of the earth. One must assume that burden. It is man’s bounden duty to try... to try to better himself, so that the world is a better place for his having been in it. We owe it to humanity.”

Alder settled down in his seat. “Keep talking,” he said. “I’m going to get an hour’s sleep, but don’t let it bother you. Just talk. I won’t be listening, but it may amuse you.”

He closed his eyes and in a little while he slept.