On medical leave from the Boston Police Department, the eccentric Police Inspector and offbeat operative, Francis Xavier Flynn might have his most perplexing assignment yet. Someone is giving away hundreds of millions of dollars, and Flynn has to find out who in a hurry. As he races from Texas to Las Vegas, from Massachusetts to Russia, Flynn quickly discovers that this is not the pastime of an eccentric billionaire, nor is it a nefarious counterfeiting scheme. Someone is looking to wreck the nation’s economy and bizarrely enough, spending a lot of money to do it. With every lead going nowhere, Flynn’s most dizzying logic is put to the test, but the clue he needs could be somewhere in his own murky past.
From the Trade Paperback edition.
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
Gregory Mcdonald is the author of twenty-six books, including eleven Fletch novels and four Flynn mysteries. He has twice won the Mystery Writers of America’s prestigious Edgar Allen Poe Award for Best Mystery Novel, and was the first author to win for both a novel and its sequel. He died in 2008.
From the Trade Paperback edition.
FROM across the men's room Flynn aimed his gun at the President of the United States.
The President had said, "I don't need you guys to help me do what I'm about to do," and closed the door on the crowd of Secret Service agents and other aides in the hotel corridor. He nodded to the agent stationed in the men's room, who smiled and nodded back and left. Believing himself alone, taking a small plastic vial of eyedrops from his pocket, the President stepped to a washbasin. It was while he was using the mirror, applying the eyedrops, that he saw Flynn appear through the wall behind him.
"Oh, Lord." The President dropped the plastic vial into the washbasin. He turned around. "I'm dead."
"That you are," agreed Flynn. "Deader than a campaign promise."
Through a peephole, Flynn had watched the President enter the men's room. As soon as the President busied himself at the washbasin, Flynn slid aside the panel he had built into the false wall and stepped out, gun in hand.
The President glanced at the door to the corridor. "What if I yell?"
"It will come out a whistle," Flynn assured him, raising his aim, "through the wee hole in your throat."
The President nodded at the front of Flynn's handgun. "That's a silencer."
"It is," confirmed Flynn. "It permits me to empty the gun into you without threat of interference."
The President was trying to look around Flynn, at the wall behind him, a section of which was missing. "How did you do it? How did you get in here?"
"I didn't get in here. I was in here."
"You couldn't have been. There was a Secret Service agent in here."
"A man with the unfortunate habit of suckin' his teeth when he's nervous. I was here before him."
"You couldn't have been here while they were checking the room. They would have put you out."
"I was here," said Flynn, "watching them. They checked the room twice, they did. They even opened the cabinet door and flushed the toilet. And, in fact, they did ask an old man to leave, an hour ago, sayin' they were securin' the room. He'd been here a dreadful long time. I think he was tryin' to pass a stone. Sure, they could have given him another ten minutes." Flynn continued in his soft, rapid lilt. "The Secret Service made the same presumption I did, you see, that most likely you'd use the bathroom nearest the speaker's platform here at the Waldorf-Astoria, to straighten your tie, clear your eyes, pat your hair, practice your smile in the mirror, whatever, before being introduced to . . . who is it? Who's waiting to hear you speak?"
"The Brotherhood of Christians and Jews."
"Ach," said Flynn, "a noble group. Won't they be surprised to hear you've been shot right in the middle of their salad? They'll know the right prayers to say over you, that group will."
"I want to know how--"
"Are you really interested? Or are you merely stallin' for time, Mister President, thinkin' that one of your Secret Service agents--good lads that they are--might get curious and come through that door, lookin' to see how things came out?"
"You're standing there with a gun on me. If one does come through that door, you're deader than--than--"
"Deader than last year's pain?"
"You mean to torture me with your humor--"
"I mean to shoot you. The locked-door mystery, Mister President. Do you read mysteries?"
The President blushed. "I don't read anything else--voluntarily."
"Then you know all about the locked-door mystery. You might consider this room locked, in that it has been searched, everyone's been put out of it--except you, the victim--there is no window, there is no way in, except through that door, which has rows of guards outside it. And yet here you are, about to be found shot."
"How did you get in?"
"You keep asking that. I didn't get in. I was in. False wall." Flynn kicked the wall behind him with his heel. "See how the panels fit together?"
The President nodded.
"I finished putting it up yesterday noon. In my Johnny Strong overalls and Black and Decker cap. The hotel staff was very helpful to me. They kept out of my way and let me do my work. Of course people always cooperate with people doin' work they might be asked to do themselves."
"You've been behind the wall--the false wall--all night?''
"With thermoses of tea, a dozen sandwiches, and, of course, access to a perfectly fine men's room. There have been times I've had it worse." Flynn waved his gun impatiently. "If you don't mind, Mister President, it's been nice chattin' with you and all that, but let's get on with it. Any last words for the library wall?"
"You're not going to--"
"I am. Would you mind opening your suit jacket a wee bit, so I won't miss the heart?"
"People are waiting for me to give a speech--"
"Aren't they always, though?"
"The Brotherhood of Christians and Jews--"
"Open your jacket, please, Mister President. You don't want to spoil my aim, do you?"
The President flapped open his suit jacket.
Flynn shot the President of the United States in the heart.
The President said, "Ouch."
"Stings a little?"
The President looked down at himself. "Thank God," he said. "The suitcoat will cover it."
"That's what I was thinkin'," said Flynn. "You about to make a speech and all."
"What is it?" The President was still looking at the goo on his chest.
"Ketchup and soy sauce. I've been ordered to provide evidence you've been assassinated," Flynn said, "without actually doin' the deed, that is."
"You were given a week to assassinate me." The President was breathing a little heavily. "And you did it within three days."
"The point is proven?"
"You and that little guy--"
"Yeah--said you could break through security within any given week."
"Three days, Mister President."
"And knowing you were trying, security around me was tripled this week. What did the Secret Service do wrong?"
"They failed to see something that wasn't there." Flynn placed his handgun on the sandwich wrappers behind the false wall. "I'm sure there are bathrooms without windows, but they're rare. Any bathroom without either a window or an air-conditioning system, I wouldn't want to use. Do you see either a window or an air-conditioning system in this bathroom, Mister President?"
The President's eyes surveyed the room quickly. "No."
"Yet on the outside of this building, there is a window for this room. Therefore, in this room, there had to be a false wall." Flynn smiled at the President. "Behind that false wall lurked an assassin. And in you sauntered, believin' you were as alone as if you'd lost the New Hampshire Primary."
The President buttoned his coat. "You've proven your point."
"Have we indeed?" Flynn answered easily. "The Secret Service agents, good lads that they are, Mister President, are prone to obey your wishes, because you're the President of the United States. The agent you just sent out of this room with a nod of your head should never have left." Without having washed his hands, Flynn dried them on a towel. "You have no right to endanger yourself, Mister President. Every time you think everything's been thought of, think again." Flynn dropped the towel into a bucket. "Excuse me for not stayin' for lunch. I'm full of sandwiches and tea."
Just as Flynn reached the men's room door, the President said his name.
"Yes, Mister President?"
"I have a message for you," the President said laconically. "Call your office."
"Thank you, Mister President."
"The little guy called this morning. N.N. Zero. Asked me to give you the message. Said I'd be seeing you before he would. Thought he was kidding."
"That particular little guy," said Flynn, "never kids."
Flynn came through the men's room door showing everyone in the corridor his most beguiling smile.
The Secret Service agents, good lads that they are, gasped and reached for their guns.
"Is there another men's room nearby?" Flynn asked innocently. "This one's occupied."
"N. N. 13," Flynn said into the telephone.
In the lobby of the Hotel Waldorf-Astoria, Flynn had dialed the Pittsburgh number and given the operator his credit-card number.
The man who answered drawled, "Are you free?"
"Yes. I'm in New York."
"One moment, please."
In the lobby Flynn watched a man and a woman greet each other. He guessed her clothes cost thousands of dollars. The man's suit and shoes, too, looked as if they cost plenty. Nearby stood a little girl. Dressing her had probably cost hundreds of dollars. Scanning everyone in the lobby, Flynn wondered what the total value of their clothes was. Probably more dollars than it took to dress the entire Continental Army.
"Yes," Flynn answered.
"Zero. 1600. Lions' cage, the zoo."
"Rightio," said Flynn. "Rightio."
DOWN the path the little man stood near the lions' cage. Three tall men were standing around him.
"About this title" may belong to another edition of this title.
Book Description Paperback. Book Condition: Good. Bookseller Inventory # PL01220857B
Book Description ARROW January 1983, 1983. Mass Market. Book Condition: Acceptable - Used. Book condition is good or better unless otherwise noted. Paperbacks, especially mass market paperbacks, will have spine creasing and may have age toned pages and curled covers. Binding will be intact, no major splits unless otherwise noted. We do our best to describe each book accurately. Any discrepancy between what is described and what is pulled will be noted in an email. If you would like a detailed description beyond what has been provided, please ask. Bookseller Inventory # 362785
Book Description Hamlyn, London Uk, 1983. Mass Market Paperback. Book Condition: Very Good. 12mo - over 6¾" - 7¾" tall. 216 pages. Bookseller Inventory # 003345
Book Description Book Condition: good. 127 Gramm. Bookseller Inventory # M00099330903-G
Book Description Hamlyn, Great Britain, 1983. Paperback. Book Condition: Very Good. Reprint. 216 pages. Covers have no creasing. Edges of covers have superficial wear. Spine is uncreased. Edges of pages are slightly foxed. Pages are lightly tanned. Quantity Available: 1. Category: Fiction; Crime; ISBN: 0099330903. ISBN/EAN: 9780099330905. Inventory No: 17050086. The photo of this book is of the actual book for sale. Bookseller Inventory # 17050086
Book Description London: Hamlyn Pbs. 1983, London, 1983. Mass Market Paperback. Book Condition: Very Good. No Jacket. Paperback. 10x110x180mm. Mass Market Paperback. Very Good/No Jacket. 10x110x180mm. 216pp, illustrated card. Light rubbing, Scarse Collectable paperback. Bookseller Inventory # 006517
Book Description Arrow 1983 Paperback, 1983. Book Condition: Good. 224 pages. Bookseller Inventory # 774172