Buried Caesars (23 page)

“I know who has the papers,” I said.

“Excellent,” he said.

“And I know who killed Hower, Lansing and Pintacki’s men,” I added.

“Fine,” said MacArthur. “Will you now share this information with us? Who is it?”

“Major Castle,” I said pointing a thumb over my shoulder in his direction.

“M
ajor Castle?” MacArthur asked, stopping suddenly and looking at me as if I were more than a little insane.

I looked at Castle, who stood at ease and met my eyes. His were cold.

“The way I put it together,” I said, “our Major Castle went to Hower’s and Lansing’s place for the papers. Lansing was gone. He persuaded Hower to tell him where Lansing bad gone and then he killed Hower and left him for me and … an associate to find. He got to Angel Springs ahead of me and found Lansing, but Lansing had already turned the papers over to Pintacki. Our Major Castle shot Lansing and made a mistake.”

“A mistake?” MacArthur said, looking at Castle.

“When Major Castle showed up in Angel Springs in record time and rode to our rescue,” I continued, “he routed Pintacki and then helped me and my associate search for the papers. Pintacki told me today where he had hidden the papers. When we searched his place I’d looked there but they were gone.”

“And that was Major Castle’s mistake?” MacArthur said, humoring me.

“No,” I said. “His mistake came when we drove past Lansing’s body and Oren mentioned that Lansing had been shot in the back of the head. Lansing was on his back. There were no exit holes visible. He could have been shot in the back, stabbed, bludgeoned. You name it. I’ve got a witness, my associate, a trained Pinkerton agent.”

I had MacArthur’s interest now, if not his confidence. “Go on,” he said and I did.

“Our Oren’s next step was to see to it that Pintacki and his boys, when they were released, would be blamed for taking the papers. He couldn’t have them going around looking for papers that they were supposed to have. But he didn’t catch up with them in time. They came right for me. He didn’t get to Conrad and Wylie till after they’d come to me for the papers. You following me so far, General?”

Distaste was evident on MacArthur’s lips, but I didn’t care whether he liked me so long as he believed me.

“I am,” he said.

“I can go get Pintacki out of the car so you can hear it from him. He’s not much fun but he’s pretty convincing. All we have to do is bring him in, tell him we have the papers and you’ll see that he believes it.”

“Unconvincing,” MacArthur said.

“But true,” I insisted, wiping my sweating neck with my sleeve.

“Why would Major Castle kill four men to get my political papers?” asked MacArthur.

“Ask him,” I suggested.

We both looked at Castle, who moved from his at-ease position to attention without being told. I could see a dark dot of perspiration just above his collar.

“Major,” MacArthur said. “Do you have the papers we have been looking for?”

Castle’s mouth quivered. The question was direct, an order from his commander. I’d have had five lies ready with variations as needed, but Castle was a career soldier. He hadn’t counted on it coming to this.

“Yes, sir,” Castle said, strain in his voice.

“Where are they?” MacArthur asked, hiding his surprise rather brilliantly.

“In my kit by the door ready for our debarkation,” Castle said.

“Get them,” MacArthur ordered.

Castle shuddered. He clenched his teeth and his eyes filled with tears.

“No, sir,” he said.

“Major, I’ve issued an order,” MacArthur said, stepping toward Castle.

“I’ll have to disobey that order, sir,” Castle said, tears now coming freely.

“Why on earth? …” MacArthur began. “You did kill those men?”

“I did, sir,” said Castle.

“Explain, Major,” MacArthur ordered.

“My friends … my …” Castle began, and then pulled himself together. “I watched them die around me on Bataan. For two and a half months I watched them die and you told us to hold the line. They died. Archie Stimson, that jug-eared Lieutenant. Do you remember him, General?”

“I do,” said MacArthur, softly.

“Stimson died next to me,” Castle said. “Wallford, Maas, hundreds of them and more died when the Japanese marched them across the island, and more are still dying, and why? Because you were too proud to back up. You sat in your cave on Corregidor and told us to die, and we did. You were a few miles away by boat and how many times did you come to Bataan, General?”

“I was in a vital command position,” said MacArthur, softly.

“Once,” Castle shouted. “Once in seventy-two days. You know what we called you?”

“Yes,” said MacArthur, so softly that I could barely hear him.

“Dugout Doug,” spat Castle.

“We were shelled on Corregidor, Major,” MacArthur said. “We, my wife, my son, myself, were shelled and near starvation. We …”

“You can’t be allowed to turn this country into another Bataan,” said Castle. “Not if it means my life. No more Corregidors, General. I’m turning those papers over to someone who’ll see to it that every radio station, every magazine, every major newspaper in this country sees them. You’ll be lucky to keep your stars for a week. Pintacki wanted to use you. I know you can’t be used. But you can be destroyed.”

“Major,” MacArthur said. “You won’t destroy me. You’ll destroy the morale of this nation. You’ll destroy it at a time when the United States needs to put its faith in General Douglas MacArthur.”

“Sorry, General,” Castle said. “You’re just not that important. I could shoot you. I wouldn’t hesitate for a second, but turning over those papers will destroy you every day of your arrogant life. I hope you live forever, General. I hope you live forever and suffer the way we did on Bataan.”

“It’s over, soldier,” MacArthur said, gently. “Stand at ease and …”

“We sang a song on Bataan, General,” Castle said, his voice cracking. “Would you like to hear it?”

“I think not, Major,” MacArthur said, standing face to face with Castle.

“Dugout Doug MacArthur lies ashakin’ on the Rock,” Castle began singing it to the tune of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” his voice cracking and slightly off-key:

          
Safe from all the bombers and from any sudden shock

          
Dugout Doug is eating of the best food on Bataan

          
And his troops go starving on …

          
Dugout Doug come out from hiding

          
Dugout Doug come out from hiding

          
Send to Franklin the glad tidings

          
That his troops go starving on
.

MacArthur’s hand came up in a low arc. His open palm slapped against Castle’s cheek, turning the Major’s head to the right in a sudden jerk.

“Steady on, soldier,” MacArthur whispered.

Castle’s wet eyes blinked madly and fixed on MacArthur. I’d seen that kind of look before. Castle’s hand went to the holster at his hip and came up with a pistol leveled at the General’s stomach.

“Steady on, soldier,” I said, showing the Luger I had eased into my lap.

MacArthur didn’t blink, didn’t flinch. He continued to meet Castle’s eyes and I could see Castle glancing at my gun. Madness might overcome his plan, so I reminded him: “If you shoot the General, he won’t suffer when you turn in the papers.”

Major Castle took a deep breath, gulped and turned his army .45 in my direction.

It was a stand-off, though I had the uncomfortable feeling that if triggers were pulled I’d come out the worse for wear. I’d survived two other stand-offs in the last couple of days. I wasn’t sure about this one. Castle knew how to use his gun. He was a pro and I was seated and in no hurry to start shooting in that small, hot room. I glanced at MacArthur. The son of a bitch still wasn’t sweating.

Castle reached back for the doorknob, keeping his .45 aimed at me. MacArthur’s right hand began to move and I said, “No, General.”

MacArthur shot me a less-than-friendly look but dropped his hand as Castle backed out of the door and slammed it. I got out of the chair and MacArthur went to the phone.

When I stepped into the hall I saw Castle turning a corner. Behind me, MacArthur was barking orders into the phone. I followed the rapping of Castle’s shoes ahead of me and peeked around the corner. He picked up a small khaki bag near the door, heard me behind him, turned and fired. The bullet cracked a mirror over my shoulder and I flattened myself against the wall. I heard the front door open and close and Castle’s footsteps on the porch.

I took a breath, dried my palms against my pants, regripped the pistol and followed him out the door in a crouch. It took me a second to realize mat he wasn’t running down the driveway to the gate. He was on my right, running across the lawn, bag dangling from one hand, pistol in the other.

The first thunderclap from the coming storm crackled overhead like a massive short circuit. I went after Castle, fast as my back would let me. We went through a row of trees, and by the time he hit the rear fence I was losing ground. He threw the khaki bag over the fence, holstered the pistol and began to climb. It wasn’t an easy feat, but he was lean, more than a little nuts and in good condition. He went over and came down on the other side with me about twenty yards away and panting, a fence between us.

He turned to me, put his hand to his holster, changed his mind and ran into the grounds of the Huntington estate. There was no gate that I could see. No break. I paused at the fence to catch my breath, put the Luger in my belt and started to climb. It took me about six or seven months to get to the top of the fence and a frightening moment of hell to make it over the pointed iron stakes at the top. By the time I hit ground on the other side, my legs were as wobbly as a middleweight who’d made it to the fifth round with Tony Zale.

Castle was nowhere in sight and I didn’t know how well, if at all, he knew the Huntington grounds. It had been more than twenty years since I’d last been there, but if things hadn’t changed too much I knew where I was.

I jogged across a flat lawn and past a pond filled with colorful carp who came toward me with curiosity and then backed away when they saw I didn’t have anything. I didn’t see any people, any visitors. Maybe the place was closed for additions or repairs. Maybe the threatening rain had driven them away. Thunder cracked again and the rain began to fall from the dark sky. I kept going past the main house. Nothing. I searched the grounds for about ten minutes and considered giving up but decided to turn left and head for the Oriental garden.

By the time I got to the entrance on the hill the rain was getting serious. I looked down at the swaying white flowers and the red drum bridge over the pond. Pellets of water popped in the pond and I had the feeling that I was in the right place. The hill facing the pond was empty. I walked down the path carefully and reached for the Luger in my belt. It wasn’t there. I’d lost it along the way. I could have sworn until that very second that I felt it, chill and heavy against my stomach. But all my swearing wouldn’t make it so.

I was halfway down the path, blinking and wiping rain from my face, when Castle appeared on the red bridge. He had been crouched low behind the railing, apparently been watching me, and knew I had lost the gun.

“Stop,” he called. He stood, the bag in his left hand, gun in his right aimed at me. The rain was in my favor. So was the distance. But he had had bad-weather shooting experience and there was nowhere to hide. A bush can’t be relied upon to stop a bullet.

“I’m backing away, Major,” I said, showing my hands.

“Too late, Peters,” he said. “You’ll have to die. It’s not the way I want it, but I’ve got a mission and a lot of dead men counting on me.”

“You’ve got it wrong, Oren,” I said.

The shot tore a red rose from a stem at my left. No one could shoot that well. He’d either missed me or fired wide because, in spite of what he said, he still wasn’t sure about what he wanted to do.

Another clap of thunder and a flash of lightning on the hill behind seemed to help him make up his mind. He leveled the .45 in my direction and I closed rriy eyes.

The shot came, sharp and close and from the wrong direction. I opened my eyes and saw Castle glaring past me up the hill. I turned and watched Douglas MacArthur, my Luger in his right hand, gun leveled at Castle, walking down the path. MacArthur’s eyes didn’t blink, and even though he was soaked through he looked fresh and confident.

“It’s over, Major,” MacArthur called. “I don’t wish to shoot you.”

Castle laughed and stared up into the rain which pelted his face and mouth.

“It’s not over, General,” he said, holding up the khaki bag.

MacArthur’s arm went level and he sighted along it. He was a few feet behind me, and when he pulled the trigger it was followed by a recoil of lightning over the San Gabriel Mountains. On the drum bridge, Major Castle tottered and dropped the bag. It fell into the pond and began to sink. Blood mixed with rain and trailed down his left arm.