8

Harry London sat brooding, looking at the papers Nim had shown him.

At length he said glumly, “Do you know the way I feel about all this?”

Nim told him, “I can guess.”

As if he had not heard, the Property Protection chief went on, “Last week was the worst in a long time. Art Romeo was a good guy; I know you didn’t know him well, Nim, but he was loyal, honest, and a friend. When I heard what happened, I was sick. I’d figured when I left Korea and the Marines I was through with hearing about guys I know being blown to bits.”

“Harry,” Nim said, “I’m desperately sorry about Art Romeo too. What he did that night was something I’ll never forget.”

London waved the interruption away. “Just let me finish.”

Nim was silent, waiting.

It was Wednesday morning, in the first week of March, six days after the trauma at the Christopher Columbus Hotel. Both men were in Nim’s office, with the door closed for privacy.

“Well,” London said, “so now you show me this, and to tell the truth, I wish you hadn’t. Because the way I see it, what else is there left to believe in any more?”

“Plenty,” Nim answered. “A lot to care about and plenty to believe in. Not any more, though, the integrity of Mr. Justice Yale.”

“Here, take these.” Harry London handed the papers back.

They comprised a batch of correspondence—eight letters, some with copies of enclosures attached, and all were from the files of the late Walter Talbot, until his death last July, chief engineer of GSP & L.

The three cardboard cartons from which the letters had been taken were open in Nim’s office, their other contents spread around.

Locating the letters, which Nim suddenly recalled to mind at the NEI convention, had been delayed because of last week’s tragedy and aftermath. Earlier today, Nim had had the files brought up from a basement storage vault. Even then it had taken him more than an hour to find the particular papers he sought—those he remembered glancing at seven months ago, the day at Ardythe’s house when she gave him the cartons for safekeeping.

But he had found them. His memory had been right.

And now the letters must inevitably be used as evidence at a confrontation.

Exactly two weeks earlier, at the meeting between J. Eric Humphrey, Nim, Harry London and Justice Paul Sherman Yale on the subject of power stealing, the former Supreme Court justice had stated unequivocally, “… I find the entire concept of power theft interesting. Frankly, I had no idea such a thing existed. I have never heard of it before. Nor did I know there were such people in the public utility business as Mr. London.”

The correspondence Nim had found showed all four statements to be deceitful and untrue.

It was, in the oft-used phrase of Watergate, “the smoking gun.”

“Of course,” London said abruptly, “we’ll never know for sure whether the old man gave his approval to the power thievery by the Yale Trust, or even if he knew about it and did nothing. All we can prove is that he’s a liar.”

“And was worried as hell,” Nim said. “Otherwise he would never have trapped himself by those statements.”

The facts of the matter were simple.

Walter Talbot had been a pioneer in drawing attention to huge financial losses incurred by electric and gas utilities as a result of theft. He had written articles on the subject, made speeches, been interviewed by news media, and had appeared as an expert witness in a New York State criminal trial which wended its way, via appeals, through higher courts. The case had generated wide interest. Also correspondence.

Some of the correspondence had been with a member of the United States Supreme Court.

Justice Paul Sherman Yale.

It was clear from the exchange that Walter Talbot and Paul Yale had known each other well during earlier years in California.

The first letter was on a distinguished letterhead.

It began: My dear Walter.

The writer expressed his interest, as a legal scholar, in a burgeoning new field of law enforcement, namely, that related to the stealing of electricity and gas. He asked for more details of the types of offenses involved and methods being used to combat them. Also requested were any known facts about prosecutions, and their outcomes, in various parts of the country. The letter inquired after the health of Ardythe and was signed “Paul.”

Walter Talbot, with a sense of decorum, had replied more formally: My dear Justice Yale.

His letter was four pages long. Accompanying it was a photocopy of one of Walter’s published articles.

Several weeks later Paul Yale wrote again. He acknowledged the letter and article and posed several pertinent questions which demonstrated he had read the material carefully.

The correspondence continued through five more letters, spaced over eight months. In one of them Walter Talbot described the function of the Property Protection Department in a typical public utility, and the duties of an individual heading it—such as Harry London.

Not surprisingly, the letters pointed up the sharp, inquiring mind, the lively interest in everything, of Paul Sherman Yale.

And the entire correspondence had taken place only two years before Mr. Justice Yale’s retirement from the bench.

Could Paul Yale possibly have forgotten? Nim had already asked himself that question and decided the answer was an emphatic “no”. The old man had demonstrated, too many times, his remarkable memory—both for large issues and for detail—to make that believable.

It was Harry London who raised the key issue Nim had been debating. “Why did the old boy do it? Why did he lie to us the way he did?”

“Probably,” Nim said thoughtfully, “because he knew Walter was dead, and because the chance of any of the three of us—the chairman, you, me—knowing about that correspondence was remote. In fact, it must have been obvious that we didn’t. Also, the odds on those letters ever surfacing were a million to one against.”

London nodded his agreement, then said, “The next question, I reckon, is: How many other times has the Honorable Paul done the same thing and gotten away with it?”

“We’ll never know, will we?”

The Property Protection chief motioned to the letters. “Of course, you’ll show these to the chairman.”

“Yes, this afternoon. I happen to know Mr. Yale is coming in later today.”

“Which brings up something else.” Harry London’s voice was bitter. “Will we go on trying as hard as we have to keep that precious Yale name out of those court proceedings which are coming up? Or, in view of this new information, will ‘Mr. Integrity’ take his chances like anybody else?”

“I don’t know.” Nim sighed. “I simply don’t know. And, in any case, it won’t be my decision.”

The showdown with Mr. Justice Yale occurred shortly after 4 P.M. in the chairman’s office suite.

When Nim arrived, having been summoned by J. Eric Humphrey’s secretary, it was obvious that tension already existed. The chairman’s expression could best be described, Nim thought, as “wounded old Bostonian.” Humphrey’s eyes were cold, his mouth tightly set. Paul Yale, while unaware of precisely what was afoot, clearly shared the knowledge that it was something disagreeable and his normal cheerfulness had been replaced by a frown. The two were seated at a table in the conference area and neither man was speaking when Nim joined them.

Nim took the chair on Eric Humphrey’s left, facing Mr. Justice Yale. He placed on the table before him the file containing the Talbot-Yale correspondence.

Earlier, Eric Humphrey and Nim, after some debate, had agreed on the sequence of procedure. They also decided that Harry London need not, this time, be included.

“Paul,” Humphrey began, “on the previous occasion when the three of us were together, we had a discussion about certain problems of power stealing. In part, they involved the Yale Family Trust. I’m sure that you remember.”

Mr. Justice Yale nodded. “Yes, of course.”

“At that time you made a number of statements. All were to the effect that you had no idea, prior to that moment, that such a thing as power theft existed.”

“Now stop this!” Paul Yale’s face flushed angrily. “I do not like your tone or attitude, Eric. Nor am I here to be questioned about what I may, or may not, have said …”

Humphrey’s voice cut acidly across the protest. “There is no ‘may’ about it. What you told us was precise and unambiguous. Moreover, it was repeated several times. I remember it that way. So does Nim.”

It was plain to Nim that Paul Yale’s mind was working at high speed. The old man said sternly, “Whatever was said, it does not follow from it …”

“Nim,” the chairman ordered, “show Mr. Yale the contents of our file.”

Opening the folder, Nim slid the small pile of letters and attachments across the table. The earliest dated letter—on Supreme Court stationery—was on top.

Paul Yale picked it up, glanced at it, then dropped it hastily. He did not bother with the others. His face, which had been flushed before, suffused an even deeper red.

Afterward, replaying the scene in his mind, Nim guessed that while Yale expected some kind of unfavorable revelation, the possibility of being confronted with his old correspondence had not occurred to him. If Nim’s conjecture was true, it would explain the old man’s abject, total shock.

His tongue moistened his lips. He seemed unable to find the words he wanted.

Then he said awkwardly, defensively, “Sometimes, especially in Washington … with so much happening, so many papers, the unending correspondence … one forgets …” The statement trailed off. Obviously it sounded as false and unconvincing to Mr. Justice Yale as it did to the other two.

“Strike that,” he said abruptly, and stood up. Pushing back his chair, he walked away from the table and, without looking at Nim or Humphrey, asked, “Please give me a moment to collect my thoughts.”

Briefly the old man paced the chairman’s broadloom. Then he turned, though continuing to stand.

“It is plain, gentlemen, as only documentary evidence can make it, that I have been guilty of deception and—no doubt deservedly—been caught.” Paul Yale’s voice was lower than normal; his face reflected pain as he continued. “I will not compound my error by explanations or excuses, either by describing my considerable anxiety at the time of our earlier talk, or my urgent and natural desire to protect my good name.”

Just the same, Nim thought, you’ve managed to do both while saying that you wouldn’t.

“I will, however,” Yale went on, “swear to you that I neither participated in power theft by the Yale Family Trust, nor had any knowledge of it prior to our first discussion here.”

Eric Humphrey, who, Nim remembered, had been eager to accept Paul Yale’s word before, remained silent. Probably the chairman was thinking, as was Nim, that anyone who would lie once to protect his reputation would lie again for the same reason.

Inevitably, Nim was reminded of Harry London’s question: “How many other times has the Honorable Paul done the same thing and gotten away with it?”

As the silence hung, the pain in the old man’s eyes deepened.

“Nim,” Eric Humphrey said quietly, “I don’t believe it’s necessary for you to stay any longer.”

With relief, Nim gathered up the papers on the table and returned them to the file while the other two watched. Taking the file with him, and with no further word spoken, Nim left.

He did not know it then, but it was the last time he would ever meet Mr. Justice Yale.

Nim never learned what else transpired in the chairman’s office that day. He didn’t ask, nor did Eric Humphrey volunteer the information. But the end result was revealed the next morning.

At 11 A.M. Humphrey sent for Nim and Teresa Van Buren. Seated at his desk, and holding a letter, he informed them, “I have received the resignation of Justice Paul Sherman Yale as our public spokesman and a director of this company. The resignation has been accepted with regret. I would like an announcement made immediately to that effect.”

Van Buren told him, “We should state some reason, Eric.”

“Ill health.” Humphrey referred to the letter in his hand. “Mr. Yale’s doctors have advised him that, at his age, the strain of his new duties at GSP & L has proven too arduous. They have advised him to discontinue them.”

“No problem,” the p.r. director said. “I’ll have it on the wires this afternoon. I have another question, though.”

“Yes?”

“That leaves us without a spokesman for the company. Who takes over?”

For the first time the chairman smiled. “I’m too busy to search for someone else, Tess, so I suppose there’s no alternative. Put the saddle back on Nim.”

“Hallelujah!” Van Buren said. “You know the way I feel. It should never have been taken off.”

Outside the chairman’s office Teresa Van Buren lowered her voice, “Nim, give me the straight dope behind this Yale thing. What went wrong? You know I’ll find out sooner or later.”

Nim shook his head. “You heard the chairman, Tess. Failing health.”

“You bastard!” she shot at him. “For that, I may not put you on TV until next week.”

Harry London read the published report of Paul Yale’s departure and came to Nim the next day.

“If I had any guts,” he declared, “I’d resign in disgust at that fiction about ill health and acceptance with regret. It makes all of us liars, just the way he is.”

Nim, who had not slept well, said irritably, “So go ahead—resign.”

“I can’t afford to.”

“Then knock off the holier-than-thou crap, Harry. You said yourself there’s no way we could prove Mr. Yale was into power theft personally.”

London said dourly, “He was, though. The more I think about it, the more I believe it.”

“Don’t forget,” Nim pointed out, “that Ian Norris, who ran the Yale Family Trust, swore he wasn’t.”

“Yes, and the whole thing smells like a deal. Norris will get his payoff in some way later—maybe by staying on as trustee. Besides, Norris wouldn’t have gained anything himself by involving the great man.”

“Whatever we think, or don’t,” Nim said, “it’s over and finished. So get back to work and catch more power thieves.”

“I already have. There’s a bunch of new cases, as well as others developing from the Quayle inquiry. But Nim, I’ll tell you one thing for the future.”

Nim sighed. “Go ahead.”

“We’ve been part of a cover-up, you and me; a cover-up to protect that high-and-mighty Yale name. It goes to show there are still special rules and laws for those with pull and power.”

“Look, Harry …”

“No, hear me out! What I’m doing, Nim, is serving notice that if I have clear evidence in any case in the future, no matter who it is, no one is going to stop me from bringing it out in the open and doing what has to be done.”

“Okay, okay,” Nim said. “If there’s clear evidence, I’ll fight it with you. And now we’ve settled that, please go, and let me get some work done.”

When he was alone, Nim regretted having vented his bad humor on Harry London. Most of what London had said, about the resignation statement being a lie and part of a cover-up, had already occurred to Nim, and troubled him last night, when he slept only fitfully. Were there degrees of lying? Nim didn’t believe so. As he saw it, a lie was a lie. Period. In which case, wasn’t GSP & L—in the persons of Eric Humphrey, who authorized a public falsehood, and Nim, who endorsed it by his silence—equally culpable as Paul Sherman Yale?

There could be only one answer: Yes.

He was still thinking about it when his secretary, Vicki Davis, buzzed and told him, “The chairman would like to see you immediately.”

J. Eric Humphrey, Nim could tell at once, was unusually perturbed.

When Nim came in, the chairman was moving restlessly around his office, something he rarely did. He continued standing as he talked and Nim listened.

“There is something I wish to say to you, Nim, and shortly I will explain why,” the chairman said. “Recently I have been ashamed and disgusted at certain events which have happened in this company. I do not like to feel ashamed of the organization which pays me a salary and which I head.”

Humphrey paused, and Nim remained silent, wondering what was coming next.

“One matter for shame,” the chairman continued, “has been dealt with within the past twenty-four hours. But there is another, larger issue which persists—the outrageous attacks upon the lives and property of this company.”

“The FBI and police …” Nim began.

“Have accomplished nothing,” Humphrey snapped. “Absolutely nothing!”

“They have Birdsong in jail,” Nim pointed out.

“Yes—and why? Because one intelligent, determined woman reporter was more resourceful than a veritable army of professional law enforcers. Remember also that it was information from the same young woman which resulted in those other blackguards at that Crocker Street house being shot and killed—their just deserts.”

Only J. Eric Humphrey, Nim thought, would use words like “blackguards” and “just deserts.” All the same, Nim had seldom seen Humphrey so openly emotional. He suspected that what was being said now had been bottled up inside the chairman for a long time.

“Consider this,” Humphrey resumed. “For more than a year we have suffered the indignity of having our installations, even this headquarters, bombed by a ragtag, smalltime band of terrorists. Worse still, it has cost the lives of nine of our own good people, not including Mr. Romeo who died at the Christopher Columbus Hotel. And that is something else! I am deeply ashamed that while we were the host city, the host company, to the NEI convention, that terrible episode was allowed to happen.”

“I really don’t believe, Eric,” Nim said, “that anyone could, or does, blame GSP & L for what occurred at the Columbus.”

“I blame us, and I blame myself, for not having been more insistent, earlier, that the law enforcement agencies do something. Even now, that vile man, the leader, Archambault, is still at large.” Humphrey’s voice had risen in pitch. “An entire week has gone by. Where is he? Why have the law enforcement agencies failed to find him?”

“I understand,” Nim said, “that they’re still searching, and they believe he’s somewhere in the North Castle area.”

“Where he is doubtless plotting to kill or maim more of our people, and do our company more injury! Nim, I want that villain found. If necessary I want us—GSP & L—to find him.”

Nim was about to point out that a public utility was not equipped to perform police work, then had second thoughts. He asked instead, “Eric, what do you have in mind?”

“I have in mind that we are an organization employing many high caliber people with an abundance of brainpower. Judging by results, the law enforcement agencies lack both. Therefore, Nim, these are my instructions to you: Bring your own brain and those of others to bear on this problem. Call on whoever you require to help you; you have my authority. But I want results. For the sake of our people who were killed, for their families, and for the rest of us who take pride in GSP & L, I want that despicable person, Archambault, caught and brought to justice.”

The chairman stopped, his face flushed, then said tersely, “That’s all.”

It was a coincidence in timing, Nim thought, after his encounter with Eric Humphrey, that he, too, had been thinking about brainpower.

Four months ago, largely because of skepticism by Mr. Justice Yale, Nim had abandoned the “think group” approach to the problem of terrorist attacks by the so-called “Friends of Freedom.”

Following Paul Yale’s criticism that they had “pushed supposition—pure conjecture, unsubstantiated—to the limits and beyond,” Nim had summoned no further “think meetings” between himself, Oscar O’Brien, Teresa Van Buren and Harry London. And yet, reviewing what was now known, the quartet’s ideas and guesswork had been uncannily close to the truth.

In fairness, Nim reasoned, he could only blame himself. If he had persisted, instead of becoming overawed by Yale, they might have anticipated, possibly even prevented, some of the tragic events which had since occurred.

Now, armed with Eric Humphrey’s instructions, there might still be something they could do.

Originally, in discussing the then-unknown leader of Friends of Freedom, the “think group” labeled him “X.” The identity of “X” was now known, and the man—Georgos Archambault—dangerous, an overhanging threat to GSP & L and others, was believed to be hiding somewhere in the city.

Could intensive thought and probing discussion somehow penetrate that hiding?

Today was Friday. Nim decided that sometime during the weekend, using the chairman’s authority if needed, he would bring the four “thinkers” together once again.