blue beneath the bushy white eyebrows. He glared in my direction, a look of self-satisfaction, even hauteur, in his intense eyes. I glared right back at him.
'Your story doesn't impress me one bit,' I said. 'You say Andrea Santuccio was blackmailing you with the photographs. I frankly find that hard to believe.'
'Then believe what you like,' he snapped. 'I can't stand impertinence. It is true. As I told you, he claimed he wanted to use the money for some rehabilitation project in that North End neighborhood. Likely story. He made some asinine statement that I owed his people some sort of reparation.'
'And you don't think you do? You don't feel any guilt at all for helping railroad Sacco and Vanzetti into the electric chair?'
'I didn't railroad anyone. I was an adviser to the prosecution. An able one too, I might add. Many of us who were perhaps less emotionally swayed by the immigrant community's appeals for socialism saw the grave danger that these men, and all like them, posed to capital investment and free enterprise. This ignorant, superstitious, and ill-mannered peasantry! Effluvium of Europe! Flotsam and jetsam washed upon our shores! How dare they seek refuge and plenty here, then proceed to denounce the very source of their newfound security and freedom as unjust? How dare they? My God, Adams, you're a dunce!'
I was about to rise from my chair and go over and smack him one. I wondered what Mary would have done to him. I shuddered at the thought, and remained seated. I had to remember that we were prisoners in Critchfield's mansion.
'The picture you see before you, which shows Sacco standing in front of the penny ferry in the North End, proves he was innocent. An innocent man was executed. That means nothing to you?'
'It was unfortunate. Many innocent people die every day. It is the nature of the world we live in. It isn't good, but it's all we have. Now Sacco and Vanzetti: two men who dodged the draft and avoided the First World War by fleeing to Mexico, and who at the time of their arrest were armed and carrying literature denouncing the nation that had fed and clothed them far better than their native Italy ever did. Do I feel sorry for them? Not on your life, Doctor. I did not and to this day I do not,' he shouted, and sat back with a smirk.
'Very well. There then remains a more recent transgression: the murders of John Robinson and Andrea Santuccio. Hear me, Critchfield: I said murders. You're the primary accessory before the fact. You're in on it. Up to your wrinkly old ass. And I'll tell you what. I'm going to see you spend your last days not here, in this fancy place, but in a cell six feet by ten, with all those other 'dregs' like Sacco and Vanzetti. How do you like that?'
Well, you should have seen the old buzzard. It was as if I'd hit him between the eyes with a splitting maul. He sat bolt upright on the couch and looked daggers at me with a purple face. He shouted to Lundt to strike me across the face. Lundt remained seated, not moving a muscle. Critchfield turned his stare at him. He looked at Lundt, then at the shotgun, then back at Lundt.
'Did you hear me?' he squealed at Lundt.
'Yeah I heard. No.'
'Get out. You're terminated!'
But still Lundt sat, the shotgun across his knees, and now he glared back at the old man. Then the old man, beside himself with rage, got up off the couch, came over to me, and slapped me. It hurt more than I thought it would. For a guy over ninety, old Critchfield was in good shape.
I stood up slowly and took hold of his right wrist, which I bent back and around in what police call the 'come-along' grip, and led him back to his couch,. He was a little bent over by the pain, but that didn't stop him from trying to kick me twice. I had to give him one thing: old Critchfield had grit. It was easy for me to see how he'd become so rich and powerful.
I returned to my chair and watched him stare at Lundt. Then he pushed a button on the end table, and almost immediately the black man appeared. He was wearing a white coat.
'I'll have my tea now, Geoffrey,' Critchfield growled, never taking his eyes from the man with the shotgun. The chauffeur seemed momentarily to go limp, then recovered. He looked imploringly at his boss.
'Mr. Critchfield, I- '
'Now, Geoffrey!'
The man stood motionless for perhaps five seconds before he turned and left. I saw him grab his forehead.
'You want a murderer, Doctor Adams?' said the old man, pointing across the room. 'There he sits. DeLucca was his friend, not mine. I provided the cash to hire. That is all. As I told you, it was not my intention to kill Santuccio… just to threaten him and get the film back. I certainly did not wish to kill the other man. He's the one you want.'
He pointed at Lundt, who sat still. The only person more immobile than the assistant was Roantis, who sat like stone, hands in pockets, looking down at the rug.
'DeLucca and that psychotic associate of his,' continued the old man in a tired, gravelly voice. 'The one who would get the fits whenever there was a chance to hurt someone. He was the one who performed the unpleasantness on Santuccio. Although I must say he deserved it- trying to extort money from an event fifty years old. Really!'
I watched him with a little pity. No doubt Critchfield gauged everyone and everything by the yardsticks of power and wealth. Accordingly, he showed no compassion, nor did he expect any. He did not believe it existed. It seemed to me that the world of old Joseph Carlton Critchfield was bleak indeed.
'You don't think you should bear any responsibility for- ' I began.
'Don't be an ass, Doctor Adams! My God, I would hate to entrust my health to the likes of you! Don't tell me what I should or should not do. Look around you. This property is but one percent of my net worth. I have liquid assets totaling twenty-three million, and real property and industrial equities totaling twice that. I have houses all over the globe. I'm rich. I didn't get where I am listening to people telling me what I should do, for God's sake.'
Geoffrey entered with a big silver tea tray laden with a tea service for one and a big basket of rolls wrapped in white linen.
Critchfield filled his teacup and sipped. Then he drew back the linen and looked at the rolls in the basket. He picked up the basket as if to take one, then set it down again.
'Very good, Geoffrey. That will do.'
The chauffeur bowed slightly. I saw the shine of perspiration on his upper lip and forehead. He departed quickly.
'I have my own set of rules, as you shall see,' the old man continued. 'It may interest you to know that I still work- hard- four hours a day in this room. I swim half a mile a day, and walk four. I work out with dumbbells. I am in better health and shape than most men of fifty. As greedy as you no doubt think me, I do give to charities, and to political funds too.'
'That would be the Genghis Khan Memorial Foundation, I presume?'
'I do not find that amusing, Doctor. I think you should show greater awareness of your current predicament as trespassers on my property. I was about to add that I am clever. But perhaps even you don't need that explained, seeing that I managed to capture you in your sneak-thievery and have you delivered here.'
'You'd have me take the fall wouldn't you?' said Lundt, staring at the old man. 'You'd have me take the whole damn rap wouldn't you?'
'Considering my family's immediate plans, it is impossible that these photographs be brought to light just now,' Critchfield continued, ignoring his assistant. He picked up a remote-control device and switched on the big television that stood against the far wall. It was hooked up to a VCR video recorder, and showed a tape of a recent debate between Joseph Critchfield III, whose fund-raiser Mary and I had attended, and the incumbent governor. We watched only the last few minutes of the debate, in which it was clear that Critchfield had run rings around the Democrat, who looked increasingly flustered and helpless in the onslaught of Critchfield's well-chosen words, memorable phrases, and awesome grasp of facts and events. The younger Critchfield ended his remarks with these words: 'And so, in light of these pressing problems that now seem to engulf our great Commonwealth, I feel a deep and personal conviction that it is time for new leadership in Massachusetts. Accordingly, and in line with the Critchfield family tradition of public service and service to the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, I declare my candidacy and fitness for the gubernatorial office of this great state. Thank you.'
The crowd cheered and carried on, waving signs and placards. The camera switched to a pretty blonde news
