Denning studied him, his elderly face developing lines of strain.
111fto?"
"Duncan Kline."
"Are you sure we haven't met before?" Denning asked unexpectedly.
Pittman tried not to look worried. "Quite sure."
"Then maybe it's something in the news. Talking about Millgate, Lloyd,
and the others makes me associate you with .
Damn it, Pittman thought. I was wrong. He doesn't remember me from
seven years ago. I don't have to worry about that. No, what I have to
worry about is something worse. When Millgate died, Denning would have
devoured every speck of news on the subject. Needing to gloat, he would
have read and reread every story. He's seen my photograph dozens of
times. But because I'm using a different name and I look different than
I looked seven years ago, he hasn't realized who I am.
But I'm afraid he will. And what'll happen when he does?
"I don't know how to explain it," Pittman said. "Duncan Kline." Jill
interrupted, obviously wanting to dist Denning and get the conversation
back where they wanted.
Denning gave Pittman one more puzzled look, then turned to Jill,
frowning in concentration. "I can't say the name is familiar. Perhaps
if I had a context."
"He was a teacher at Grollier Academy. That's the prep school the grand
counselors attended. He was their main instructor.
"Ah," Denning said.
"Then the name is familiar?"
"No, but . Odd.
"at?"
"As I get older, events from thirty and forty years ago can be vivid,
and yet I have trouble remembering things that happened last month."
"Forty years ago?"
"Nineteen fifty-two. The summer. July. I remember so well because
that was the turning point in my life. The Republicans had their
convention that month. Eisenhower was nominated to run for President.
In fact, he won the nomination on the first ballot. Eisenhower and
Nixon. Given the national mood, it was obvious to me that Eisenhower
would defeat Stevenson in the upcoming election. Evidently it was even
more obvious to Millgate and the others. Immediately after the
convention, they intensified their efforts to ingratiate themselves with
those Republicans who mattered. It's a measure of their ability to
manipulate that they succeeded, convincingly crossing the line from
Democrat to Republican."
Pittman noticed that Denning's cheeks had become more flushed with
agitation, that a film of glistening sweat had formed on his upper lip.
Denning picked up a glass, not his whiskey glass, but instead, one
filled with water. He sipped quickly and continued. "July of 1952 was
also the month in which they brought their campaign against me to its
peak. I was so thoroughly branded as a Communist sympathizer that I
became ineffectual as a diplomat." Denning squinted at Pittman. "In
selfdefense, I spent most of my time keeping myself informed about
everything Millgate and the others did. I had to be on the alert
against their next offensive. And that's when I noticed that something
had made them slightly panicky. A man had arrived at the State
Department near the end of July. I never saw him, but I was given a
description of him. A man with a deeply tanned face and a solid frame,
big shoulders, an athletic appearance, but a man who had gray hair and
seemed to be in his sixties. My informant told me that for all the
signs that the man was physical and preferred the outdoors, he had a
refined, almost effete manner, a patrician pseudo-British accent. He
asked to see Jonathan Millgate. Well, of course you don't just walk
into the State Department and expect to be allowed to see one of the
deputy secretaries without an appointment. The visitor gave his name
and Millgate's assistant put it at the bottom of a long list. In
frustration, the visitor then asked to see Anthony Lloyd. Same
reaction. With greater frustration, the visitor asked to see Eustace
Gable. Winston Sloane. Victor Standish."
"All the grand counselors," Pittman said.
"The same reaction in each case. The visitor's name was put at the end
of a long list. At that, the visitor -lost his patience, stopped asking
to see them, and demanded to see them. For a moment, it appeared that a
security officer would have to be summoned. But instead, Millgate heard
the commotion, came out of his office, and ... Well, according to my
informant, Millgate turned pale. His usual domineering manner
disintegrated. He immediately ushered the visitor into his office, told
his assistant to cancel -his next appointment, then sent for Anthony
Lloyd and the rest of them. Most unusual. I have never forgotten the
incident. It has puzzled me to this day. I've always suspected that if
I had understood the subtext of the event, I would have had ammunition
with which to defend myself."
"Was the visitor's name Duncan Kline?" Pittman asked.
"I remember some things so vividly and ... Unfortunately my memory for
names ... The fire destroyed my records. I don't recall."
"Then why would you have told us about this?"
"Because I do recall managing to learn the visitor's connection with
Millgate and the others. He had been one of their teachers at their
prep school."
"Then it was Duncan Kline," Jill said. "The big shoulders you
mentioned. Kline was an expert rower. It's the kind of build that a
rower would-"
"Why is Duncan Kline so important to you?" Denning frowned and wiped
sweat from his upper lip.
"Someone else I interviewed mentioned him," Pittman said. "The
implication is that there may have been a secret about Kline that would
have threatened the grand counselors' reputations if it were known. "
"What type of secret?" Denning's gaze was disturbing.
"That's what we're trying to find out. We're reasonably certain that as
teenagers at Grollier Academy, all the grand counselors were sexually
molested by Duncan Kline."
Denning slammed a hand on the table. "If I'd known that, I might have
been able to fight back, to defend myself against them. "
"In what way?" Jill asked. "How could being victims of a child
molester have hurt their careers? Wouldn't it have made people feel
compassion?" . "In t he fifties? Take my word, there wasn't a lot of
compassion going around during the McCarthy period. Guilt by
association. But what if Millgate and the others weren't victims? What
if they consented? In the political climate of the fifties, they would
have been dismissed from the State Department at once. " Denning
breathed rapidly.
"Did you ever hear even a hint that ... "No." Agitated, Denning wiped
his face with a handkerchief. "No. But there's someone who-" Denning's
hands shook.
"Someone?" Pittman leaned forward. "I don't understand. Who? What
are you talking about?"
"Nothing. I meant, there must be someone who could prove it. " Denning
spoke with effort. "Are you feeling all right?" Jill asked.
"Fine. I'm fine." Denning swallowed deeply from his glass of water.
"Perhaps yo
u can help us with something else," Pittman said.
"Apparently, one of the last things Jonathan Millgate said was, 'Duncan.
The snow.' Does the reference to snow make any sense to you?"
"None whatsoever. Even supposing that the incident was traumatic enough
He paused for breath. traumatic enough for Millgate to refer to it when
he was close to death ... "
"Are you sure you feel all right, Mr. Denning?"
"The teacher who showed up at the State Department and startled Millgate
... arrived in the summer, not the winter.... The snow. I have no
idea what it means. I wish I did. Anything to punish them."
The waiter reappeared at the booth. "For our specials tonight-"
"I don't have an appetite." Denning groped to stand. "I don't feel
well."
Jill hurried to stand, allowing him to lurch from the booth.
"All this excitement. Millgate, then Lloyd. Too much excitement. Too
many questions."
"Do you need a doctor?" Pittman asked quickly.
"No."
"Can we give you a ride home?" chief "I'm fine. I can manage by
myself." He stumbled past the waiter, almost bumped into another waiter
carrying a tray of food, then veered past crowded tables.
Pittman and Jill tried to go after him, but a group being seated blocked
their way for a moment. Past a woman in an evening dress, Pittman saw
Denning reach the front lobby. Then the group was out of the way and
Pittman and Jill hurried toward the front exit.
On the busy sidewalk outside the restaurant, amid the noise of traffic
and the glare of headlights as well as streetlights, Pittman studied the
pedestrians to his left, then those to the right, while Jill studied the
opposite side of the street.
"What the hell was that about?" Pittman asked.
"I was hoping you'd know. He looked as if he might be ill, but ... "
"Or maybe what he said was true-that the conversation overexcited him."
"The thing is, what's he going to do about it? Where was he going in
such a rush?"
"Come on, let's split up and see if we can find him."
"There they are," a man said accusingly behind them. When Pittman
turned, he saw their waiter and the matre d' glowering at them from the
restaurant's open door.
"We needed to see if our friend was all right," Pittman said.
The matre d' fumed. "This is what happens when I make an exception to
our dress code."
"We were coming back."
"Certainly. But in case you're detained, I'm sure you won't mind paying
for your cocktails before you look for your friend."
"Jill, run down to the corner on the right," Pittman said. "Maybe
you'll see him on the next street. If we get separated, I'll meet you
at the car.... How much do we owe?" Pittman quickly asked the mattre
d'.
"Four Jack Daniel's, a Heineken, and-"
"I don't need it itemized. Just tell me how much."
"Twenty-eight dollars." Pittman shoved thirty dollars at the waiter,
seriously depleting their money supply, and hurried in the opposite
direction from Jill, wincing from cramps in his legs after having been
in the car for so long.
At the corner to the left of the restaurant, he gazed intensely toward
pedestrians on the next street. Immediately he straightened at the
sight of Denning, a quarter of the way along the block, lurching from
between parked cars to hail a taxi. The elderly man looked more
agitated as he got into the taxi, blurting instructions to the driver
before he closed the door.
Pittman ran to try to reach the taxi, but it pulled away, and at once
Pittman raced back toward Jill, his cramped legs protesting.
"I didn't see him." Jill was waiting where they'd parked the car across
the street from the restaurant.
"I did. Hurry, get in."
Pittman started the engine and steered impatiently from the curb,
narrowly missing a BMW. A horn sounded behind him. He ignored it and
turned left, reaching the street where he'd seen Denning get into the
taxi.
"Where do you suppose he's going?" Jill asked.
" I don't know. But this is a one-way street headed north. Denning
wouldn't have waited until he was around the corner he hailed a taxi
unless he intended to go in this direction. There's a good chance that
the taxi is still on this street. "
"You've already passed two is. How will you know which one is
Denning's?"
"I got the license number." Pittman kept driving. "I don't see ...
Damn it, do you suppose we lost him?"
"There."
"Yes! That's the taxi."
Pittman immediately hung back, keeping a reasonable distance between his
car and the taxi so the driver wouldn't realize he was being followed.
Fifteen seconds after he obeyed the speed limit, a police car passed
them.
"It's your lucky night," Jill said.
"I wish I felt lucky. Where on earth is he going?"
"Back to where he lives?"
"In the heart of Georgetown? No way. He doesn't have enough money."
Elegant town houses gave way to mansions.
Pittman followed the taxi, turning left onto a street paved with worn
bricks, streetcar tracks embedded in them. The taxi stopped in front of
one of the few mansions set back from the street. The brightly lit
building was on top of a slight hill and had a large landscaped yard,
its shrubs enclosed by a waist-high wrought-iron fence.
Denning got out of the taxi and hurried up concrete steps toward a
spacious porch, its pillars reminding Pittman of a Greek temple.
"I wonder who lives here," Pittman said.
"And why was he in such a rush to get here?"
They watched Denning knock repeatedly on the mansion's front door. A
uniformed male servant opened it. Denning gestured, talking
insistently. The servant turned to request instructions from someone
inside, then allowed Denning to enter.
"Now what?" Jill asked.
"I'm tired of sitting in this damned car. Let's make a house call.
six m 0 m
The uniformed male servant opened the door in response to Pittman's
knock. "Yes, sir?" He was middle-aged and somewhat portly. So much
unexpected activity evidently puzzled him.
"A minute ago, a man named Bradford Denning came here," Pittman said.
"Yes, sir?" The servant looked more puzzled. "Did he mention that he
was expecting us?"
"No, sir." The servant's brow developed deep furrows. "Well, we're
with him. It's important that we see him."
"George?" a woman asked from inside. "Who is it?"
"Someone who claims to be with your visitor, ma'am."
Pittman peered inside toward a tall, slender woman in her late fifties.
Her hair was short and frosted. She wore a scoopnecked designer dress
made of silk, the blue of which brought out the sparkle in her diamond
earrings. Although attractive, her features had the severe
tight-skin-against-prominent cheek bones look of someone who'd had
numerous face-lifts.
The woman stepped forward, her high heels clicking on the mirrorlike
finish of the vestibule's hardwood floor. "You know Bradford?"
> "We were supposed to have dinner with him tonight."
"The last time we saw him, he didn't look well," Jill said. "Is he all
right?"
"Actually he looks dreadful." The woman's expression became tighter.
"But he didn't mention anything about you. "
Pittman tried to remember the false names he'd given to Denning. "Tell
him it's Lester King and Jennifer."
"Don't listen to them, Vivian." Denning appeared suddenly at a doorway
on the left. With a wrinkled handkerchief, he continued to wipe
glistening sweat off his face. "They're reporters.
The woman's gaze darkened, her voice deepening with disapproval. "Oh?"
"But we're not here to make trouble," Jill said quickly. "We're here to
help."
"How?"
"We suspect Bradford Denning came here to tell you what we spoke to him
about earlier. You might want to get tile story directly from the
source. "
The woman's severe face didn't develop lines of emotion. Instead,
suspicion and confusion were communicated by the rigid tilt of her head