heaters full blast. When it became stuffy he had lowered the automatic window. He also took precautions – protruding from under a cushion on the passenger seat was the butt of a 9-mm. Luger.
He stiffened as he heard the click-clack of heels approaching, then relaxed when he realized it had to be a girl. He caught a glimpse of her as she passed along the footpath towards Vevey. A tall good-looking blonde. Mencken sighed. He had been so busy he hadn't had time to indulge in his favourite form of relaxation with a girl.
The elderly Swiss man with one of their funny hats trudged slowly along the promenade towards him. From under the hat a lot of untidy shaggy grey hair protruded. Perched on his nose was a pair of those weird glasses looking like a couple of half-moons.
The old character walked leaning on a stick, staring out at the lake. Probably came this same walk every day if the weather was OK. Bored as hell with life. Mencken promised himself a lot of fun before he ever got into that state. He put a cigarette in his mouth as the old man was turning on to the footpath. In the next second Norton rammed the muzzle of an HP3S Browning automatic against Mencken's chest through the open window, pulled the trigger. The sound of the shot was muffled by the thick scarf round Mencken's neck which fell over his chest. His head dropped forward.
Norton's gloved hand reached in through the window. He extracted the portion of the unlit cigarette Mencken's teeth had bitten through, dropped it into undergrowth. Opening the door, a wave of foetid heat swept into his face. He quickly shoved the body over sideways on to the floor, grabbed hold of the Luger, pressed the button to shut the automatic window, closed the door.
There was no one about, no traffic in sight when he first hurled the Luger way out into the lake and followed it by throwing the Browning in the same direction. A glance at the car before he left showed him that the windows were already steaming up, masking the view of the corpse even if someone peered in. He had already phoned Senator Wingfield and, with luck, he'd be aboard a flight for Washington before Mencken's body was even discovered. Yes, you must tie up loose ends.
53
Senator Wingfield had operated the projector screening the film himself. When he'd seen who starred in the horror of the burning log cabin he was glad he'd taken this precaution. His audience in the Chevy Chase study -the banker and the elder statesman – had sat in stunned silence through the viewing, listening to the girl's agonized screaming.
Wingfield switched on the lights, quickly packed film and tape away in the canisters. The banker reacted first in a hoarse voice.
'My God! I need a drink. Bourbon…'
Wingfield, a rare drinker, joined his companions with a stiff bourbon, seated again at the table. The statesman cleared his throat, spoke in a controlled tone.
'Well, now we know the worst. And if I had to dream up a nightmare scenario I couldn't have come up with anything to touch this.'
'And he's still adding to the deficit,' the banker reminded them, for something to say.
'He's also not taking any action to counter the threat from the East,' the statesman commented.
'Kids' stuff,' Wingfield snapped. 'Compared with what we have seen. I ran it through before you arrived. This is a national crisis. March can't be allowed to sit in the Oval Office any longer. I've taken the most difficult decision of my whole life.'
'Which is?' enquired the statesman.
'An ex-FBI man called Norton has arrived in Washington. I knew him years ago. March has announced he's flying down South tomorrow. I've given Norton certain orders. A serial murderer in the White House – calls for drastic action.'
'How did you get hold of that terrible film?' asked the banker.
'Sent here by the very cautious special FBI agent Barton Ives. A messenger delivered it – together with a highly detailed report on the six serial murders never solved in certain Southern states. Damning evidence against Bradford March.'
'Why very cautious?' enquired the statesman with a quizzical expression since he'd guessed the answer.
'Because Ives is somewhere in Washington hiding. I doubt I'll ever track him down. And in his letter he says Tweed, a top security officer from Britain, will be calling on me. I remember Tweed – the kind of man you don't forget. He is the one who eventually obtained the film and tape.'
'What the hell are we going to do?' the banker asked in a desperate tone.
'I can't imagine you doing anything. Someone has to take the responsibility for initiating drastic action. Guess I'm elected. I'm using Norton. I met him secretly early this morning. He has his instructions. The President is due to fly south today from Andrews Air Force Base.'
'What does that mean?' the banker asked, showing a great degree of nervousness.
'Sure you want to know?' Wingfield fired back.
'The Senator is more than capable of handling the problem,' the statesman said emphatically. 'Remember how the John F. Kennedy situation was solved when his domestic policies were going wildly wrong.'
'I don't think I want to know any more about this,' said the banker, draining his glass. Time I got back to my desk…'
'What about this Norton?' the statesman queried when he was alone with Wingfield. 'He could know too much for your health.'
'I've thought about that too. We don't have to worry about Mr Norton. He's a top pro, bought and paid for to do the job. But I don't delude myself I've bought a tight mouth. Arrangements have been made. Just wait for this afternoon…'
In the Oval Office President Bradford March was checking his shave in a mirror – got to be smart when you're making speeches to the people. Sara came in without knocking. March grinned as he turned towards her.
'Tell me I look OK for the trip.'
'You look OK, but I think you ought to cancel this trip.' She was talking at machine-gun rate. 'I've heard plenty of rumours someone high up is gunning for you. Dallas all over again is the word…'
'Crap! Now I have Unit One pros guarding me. I've even got a Unit One crew to fly Air Force One from Andrews. Time I talked to the folks, whipped up the support with some of the most rabble-rousing stuff of my career.'
'Don't let anyone hear you call them rabble,' Sara warned.
'That's what they are.' He gave his famous grin. 'Look, I should know, that's where I came from. I know the crap that gets them throwing their hats in the air.'
'Listen to me.' Sara felt she had to make one more effort. 'Our watchers reported there was a meeting of the Three Wise Men an hour ago. At Wingfield's place again…'
'That old political hack…'
'This time both his guests arrived with an FBI guard – who surrounded each man as he dashed from his limo into the house.'
'So they're running scared. Is my limo ready to take me to Andrews?'
Norton left the President's plane carrying a case which was supposed to contain explosive-detection equipment. As he descended the staircase he blinked in the strong sunlight. Dressed in an orange boiler suit zipped up to the neck – it carried a badge Ul, Unit One – he made himself resist the temptation to hurry away from Air Force One.
He was the last maintenance man to leave the aircraft and a motorcade was approaching. The TV crews were already penned up by guards who were careful to let the technicians have a clear view of the aircraft's staircase March would walk up. The President was very publicity-conscious.
Underneath his boiler suit Norton wore a grey business suit. Earlier, arriving at the checkpoint, he had passed through without trouble – simply showing his Unit One card issued before he'd left for Europe weeks ago.
He had prowled the maintenance shed looking for a mechanic close to his build and height wearing one of the
