A Movement Toward Eden

  A Movement Toward Eden

  Clark Howard

  Dedication

  To Ned and Victoria Benham

  whom I have never met—

  but whom I know so well.

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty One

  Twenty Two

  Twenty Three

  Twenty Four

  Twenty Five

  Twenty Six

  Twenty Seven

  One

  When the maid answered the door at the J. Walter Keyes home that evening, she looked up into the face of a quite tall, lean man whose cheek bore a two-inch halfmoon scar that curved around and under the outside corner of his left eye. The maid’s attention, like that of most people seeing the man for the first time, was immediately attracted to the scar, for it was so cleanly drawn and precise a mark that it might have been purposely etched there to lend some final touch of ominous distinction to an already foreboding countenance.

  Momentarily forgetting her position and purpose in life, the maid neglected even to address the caller, but stared curiously at the odd scar as if entranced by it. Standing before her unabashed scrutiny, the man waited patiently for her brief fascination to pass, and when it took longer than he thought necessary, interrupted her distraction by introducing himself.

  “My name is Devlin,” he said in a voice not at all sinister. “I believe Mrs. Keyes is expecting me.”

  The maid returned to reality sufficiently to open the door for him, take his hat, and show him across an entry foyer to a large, richly appointed sunken living room.

  “I’ll tell Mrs. Keyes you’re here, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  Devlin did not sit; instead he walked across the room and critically inspected the brickwork of a large fireplace. He noted with satisfaction that the masonry had been done with lime mortar instead of cement, but shook his head distastefully at the machine molded firebrick that created too much geometrical perfection to really be considered craftsmanship. Should have used magnesite brick, he thought; it would have given the design more character, more strength. Machine molded bricks don’t have any life in them.

  He stared into the dry hearth, thinking suddenly of his grandfather, wondering how many times as a young boy he had heard old Sean Devlin use those very words. Machines don’t feel, Sean Devlin used to preach as he labored at his kiln baking bricks formed by his own heavily veined hands. A machine don’t put any life into the product, lad; it takes a man to do that. Whether it’s a hearth or a house, a fence or a flue, it’s got to have a bit of the man in it or it won’t last. The Devlins, he would say proudly, make bricks that last.

  And so they had. Houses still stood in Ireland that had been made from the brickwork of Devlin’s great-great-grandfather. Others still stood in Australia where his great-grandfather, an Irish rebel sent there as a convict, had formed the very first brick ever burnt on that continent. And still others in Pittsburgh made by his grandfather and his father, both of whom had died proud and poor rather than capitulate to the mass production of the machine age.

  Devlin smiled fondly at the hearth before him, at the memories it stirred in his mind; he sighed a brief, wistful sigh in tribute to his brick-making ancestors. Then the sound of high heels on the foyer tile intruded upon his reverie and caused him to turn back to the present. He looked around as a striking redhead, wide shouldered and narrow hipped in a finely brocaded housecoat, crossed the room toward him.

  “Mr. Devlin? Good evening. I’m Jennifer Keyes.”

  “Good evening.” Devlin took the hand she extended. “You’re also Jennifer Jordan, aren’t you? The motion picture actress?”

  “Jennifer Jordan during the day,” she said, “Jennifer Keyes after working hours.” She glanced briefly at Devlin’s scar, then moved her eyes to meet his. She found him looking at her with a frankness that was strangely distracting. For a brief instant she experienced the odd sensation of being suspended in time and space by the sheer force of his stare. Abruptly she was reminded that he was holding her hand longer than necessary. “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Devlin—”

  Devlin let go of her hand, reluctantly, for it was warm and soft, and he was certain that had he the opportunity to press it to his lips, it would have had quite a delicious fragrance. He sat on the couch and Jennifer Keyes took a chair opposite him.

  “How much do you know about this situation?” she asked.

  “Factually, only two things,” Devlin told her in an ingenuous voice that matched his gaze. “First, you have a husband who is missing, plus a publicity problem that requires confidential handling of the matter; second, your attorney or your press agent or your studio—perhaps even you yourself—have considerable influence in the hierarchy of this fair city’s government.”

  “Why do you say that?” she asked curiously. “About the influence, I mean.”

  “Because, Miss Jordan—do you mind if I call you Miss Jordan? I rather like the image you create on the screen. Because, you see, I am not what you would call an ordinary policeman. I am a special investigator, on the staff of the state’s attorney general. I am on loan here for a year to aid your newly elected chief prosecutor in, quote, cleaning up organized crime in this community, unquote.” He paused to smile at her; an easy, practiced smile that looked very charming indeed, but conveyed no emotion whatever. “Normally,” he continued, “my talents concern me with such sordid activities as vice, narcotics, and illegal gambling; never missing husbands. The fact that I have been given this assignment strongly suggests that someone knows someone, if you follow my meaning.”

  “I follow your meaning quite clearly, Mr. Devlin,” Jennifer Keyes assured him. “I also seem to detect a slightly caustic undertone. Do you resent handling so unsordid a matter as my missing husband?”

  “I did,” Devlin said frankly, “until you walked into the room a moment ago.”

  The woman’s lips parted slightly in surprise; a brief look of unexpected pleasure lighted her face before she quickly composed herself. As Devlin had suspected, she was far too attractive a woman not to appreciate so straightforward a compliment, brash and unsophisticated though it might be.

  “Thank you, Mr. Devlin, you’re very kind. And for your information, it is my husband’s attorney, Everett Simmons, who has the influence with the people for whom you work. I’m expecting Mr. Simmons to join us momentarily.” She stood up. “May I offer you a drink while we wait?”

  “All right,” Devlin said, not particularly overjoyed at the prospect of a third party intruding upon what he had freshly presumed would be a private discussion with Jennifer Jordan Keyes.

  “What would you like, Mr. Devlin?”

  “Scotch will do, thank you.” Devlin watched the fluid movement of her shoulders and hips as she went to an alcoved bar across the room. He noticed the light from a nearby lamp catch in the deep redness of her hair and glow with an almost blood-colored luster.

  “Are you of Irish extraction, Miss Jordan?” he asked curiously. She threw him a quick amused glance over her shoulder.

  “No. German originally. Why do you ask?”

  “The red hair, the name Jennifer.” He shrugged. “You seem Irish.”

  She brought the drink to him and he thought how broad and square her shoulders seemed when h
e was sitting and she was standing.

  “The hair and the name are courtesy of my studio, Mr. Devlin. Actually my hair is a rather washed-out auburn, and my real given name is Madge. Does that thoroughly disenchant you?”

  “Yes, but I’ll try to get over it.” He sipped at his drink, watching her over the rim of the glass.

  “Now you tell me something,” she suggested, returning to the chair opposite him.

  “All right.”

  “Where did you get the peculiar scar next to your eye?”

  “That,” he said wryly, “was courtesy of my studio—or rather, my grandfather’s, where I worked when I was a youngster. My grandfather and father were brickmakers. I stood too close to the kiln one time and when my grandfather flipped the door open, it swung back and the knob handle struck me on the face. It was red hot; burned clear through to the bone.”

  She shuddered.

  “It must have been a horrible experience.”

  “Only for my mother,” Devlin said. He continued to look at her, the rim of his raised glass drawing a crystal line beneath his eyes; eyes that were as black as bullet holes. Jennifer Jordan’s own cool, brown eyes, completely incapable of matching his stare, grew uneasy and retreated. She glanced down at her drink, then over toward the door; glanced here, there, anywhere—except directly at Devlin. As an actress she could perform at any given moment before the multitude of people that crowded a modern sound stage; but for some ridiculous, disconcerting reason, she could not look this man Devlin in the face without feeling distinctly uncomfortable. Physically uncomfortable, she thought with sudden warmth—

  “Jennifer—”

  It was a voice from the foyer. Devlin looked over to see a paunchy, thick-lipped man coming into the room.

  “I’m sorry to be late, darling,” he said, crossing to kiss her on the cheek. He turned to Devlin, squinting slightly and putting down an attache case he carried. “And you would be Mr.—?”

  “Devlin,” said Devlin.

  “Yes, of course. I am Everett Simmons, Mr. Keyes’ attorney.” He glanced anxiously at Jennifer Jordan. “My dear, I know this is going to be very trying for you, but we must be brave—” He looked back around. “I have been assured by your superiors, Mr. Devlin, that you can be relied upon to handle this matter in a completely confidential manner—”

  “I am a pillar of discretion,” Devlin said in a tone that defied classification.

  “Excellent,” said Simmons. “Suppose we get down to business, then. Where would you like to begin?”

  “I usually start with the victim,” Devlin said dryly. “How long, exactly, has Mr. Keyes been missing?”

  “Since night before last.”

  “Who was the last person known to have seen him; where; and at what time?”

  “His secretary, as far as we know. Shortly after six o’clock as he was leaving his office. ”

  “Where was he going? Presumably, that is.”

  “Home, presumably.”

  “And he never arrived?”

  “No.”

  “What have you done to try to locate him?”

  “The usual things,” Simmons said, spreading his hands in a helpless gesture. “We called his club, checked several restaurants and other places he might have stopped off; and, of course, the hospitals and the traffic accident bureau—your office did that for us.”

  “His car is missing too?” said Devlin.

  “Yes.”

  “Have you checked with any of his close friends or business associates?”

  “We cannot do that, Mr. Devlin,” Simmons shook his head firmly. “There’s too much risk of the columnists getting hold of it.”

  “Columnists? You mean the gossip columnists?”

  “Precisely.”

  “I see,” Devlin said, casting a knowing look at the woman. “That, of course, would mean unfavorable publicity for Miss Jordan.”

  “Not only Miss Jordan,” Simmons said, opening his attache case, “but a number of other people as well. Mr. Keyes, you see, is the confidential business manager for a number of well known celebrities in the entertainment field. Here,” he handed Devlin a typewritten sheet, “is a list of their names. As you can see, any notoriety arising from Mr. Keyes’ absence would be widespread.”

  Devlin’s eyes scanned the page in a sweeping glance, recognizing every name on the list.

  “Very impressive,” he said tonelessly.

  “And very much in the public eye, every one of them,” Simmons added. “And of course, in his position, Mr. Keyes handles all manner of highly personal and confidential matters, some of them quite delicate in nature—”

  “Yes, I can imagine,” said Devlin in the same flat voice, the same undecipherable tone. He put the sheet of names into his inside coat pocket and sat back, folding his arms. “Just what would happen, Mr. Simmons, if public knowledge of Mr. Keyes’ absence, as you termed it, did occur?”

  “For one thing,” the attorney said, “a great many of his clients would probably withdraw their business transactions from his trust. In his position, you see, he must be above reproach at all times; there must be nothing about his character or habits to indicate instability or uncertainty. His clients must be assured that their personal trusts are in the most capable and conscientious hands. If they were to lose the confidence they have always had in Mr. Keyes, and transfer their business elsewhere, it would result in a most significant financial loss, not to mention the damage to Mr. Keyes’ prestige and personal reputation.”

  “In short,” Devlin capsulized, “he might be ruined.”

  “Exactly. Yes, exactly.”

  “All right then, that gives us the first possible motive for his disappearance. Now tell me, Mr. Simmons, who would have reason to want to see Mr. Keyes ruined?”

  “Why, no one,” the attorney answered without hesitation.

  “Who are his business enemies, his personal enemies?”

  “Mr. Keyes does not have an enemy in the world,” Simmons stated emphatically.

  “All men have enemies,” Devlin retorted, just as emphatically.

  “I don’t intend to debate the matter, Mr. Devlin,” the lawyer said stiffly. “Suffice it to say that I am unable to give you the name of anyone who wishes J. Walter Keyes any ill will whatsoever.”

  Devlin fell silent for a moment, fixing the attorney in a solemn stare and drumming his fingers soundlessly on the plushly upholstered arm of the couch. His black eyes narrowed a fraction, causing the halfmoon scar to wrinkle slightly at its upper tip.

  “Very well, Mr. Simmons,” he conceded abruptly, “suppose we explore other possibilities then. Does Mr. Keyes drink heavily? ”

  “Certainly not. He is a very moderate man in all respects.”

  “All right, that eliminates the possibility that he might be out on a drunk somewhere. Are there any other women in his life?”

  “Really, Mr. Devlin—”

  “Just exploring possibilities, Mr. Simmons,” Devlin said impersonally. “No women, then. Good. How is his health?”

  “For a man his age, which is forty—four, he is in excellent condition.”

  “Never any head injuries, brain damage, blackouts—anything like that?”

  “None.”

  “Splendid. How about sudden, unannounced trips away from home? Has that ever happened?”

  “No. Mr. Keyes has always made certain that he was accessible to his clients at all times. They can call on him day or night.”

  “Let’s hope none of them call tonight,” Devlin said pointedly. He stood up and walked several paces, rubbing his hands together briskly, as if just now beginning to warm to his task. “Let’s recap what we have determined thus far,” he said. “One,” he held up a finger, “Mr. Keyes hasn’t an enemy in the world, so he isn’t being detained by anyone attempting to damage his business or personal reputation. Two,” another finger whipped up, “he has no drinking problem, so he isn’t off on a bend somewhere. Three, no other women in his life,
so he isn’t, ah—occupied along those lines. Four, he is in good health, so there is only a very remote possibility that he is suffering from amnesia or some other form of memory lapse; and even if he were, I’m sure he could readily be identified by the contents of his wallet. Five, he has never made unannounced trips away from home, so he hasn’t gone off somewhere voluntarily. And six, you said my office checked and determined that he had not been admitted to any hospital in the area as an accident victim, heart attack patient or anything like that.”

  Devlin stood tall and straight as a new tree and clasped his hands behind his back. He ignored Jennifer Jordan Keyes as if she were not even present, but peered down at Everett Simmons like an all-powerful, blackeyed schoolmaster.

  “That, Mr. Simmons, leaves but one logical answer to our little puzzle, doesn’t it?”

  Simmons glanced uneasily at Jennifer Keyes. He moistened dry lips and, not speaking, stared hypnotically back at Devlin’s piercing eyes.

  “Kidnapped,” he finally muttered softly, almost fearful of the mere word.

  “Exactly,” Devlin confirmed. “Kidnapped—for ransom.” He looked now at Jennifer Jordan Keyes. Her face, he noted, was as calmly sedate as that of a woman whose husband was safely asleep upstairs. Her eyes were clear and lovely, untinged by any emotion at all. Devlin wondered briefly how much of her outward composure was woman, and how much actress.

  “Is that the only feasible theory we can go on?” Simmons asked quietly.

  “It is unless you can suggest an alternative,” Devlin said. “Of course, if you wanted to consider reappraising one of our earlier conclusions, possibly regarding any enemies Mr. Keyes might have—”

  “I’m afraid that is out of the question,” Simmons said uncompromisingly. “I’ve already made it clear that Mr. Keyes has no enemies; nor does he drink heavily, or take sudden, mysterious trips, or any of the other theories you advanced. I’m afraid that we will have to assume for the moment that he has been kidnapped.” The lawyer turned to Jennifer Keyes. “Come to think of it, my dear, that might be our best recourse in any event. That way at least, if the story does get out, it will be far less damaging to Walt personally. As a matter of fact, it will probably create a certain amount of sympathy that will be in his favor. What do you think?”