C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
Generally speaking, most people have cause to lose their poise at one time or another. Preston's training did not allow him to cast off self-control, but he could, and occassionally did, willingly override this inherent subjugation, permitting his temper full rein in certain special instances. These times invariably proved unfortunate for the subject of his vexation. Occasions when rampant anger made him “see black”, as it were, occurred when Preston Diamond witnessed abuse of animals, children or women. He dealt swift and very strict lessons to perpetrators of such injustices…
The sleep Moody Dexter had rudely interrupted in the morning did not immediately return this evening. Preston Diamond's subconscious had deliberately stalled the drowsiness allowing him to review events of the day. His thoughts centred around the beautiful lady who had joined him for dinner. Her heart breaking story now tortured his mind. However, Samantha's version had been in error on two counts: The young man who rescued her was not a policeman; the assailant had not been knocked unconscious:
Several years previous, Preston Diamond worked an assignment in Boston. The project required: establish the existence, identify the perpetrators and bring to justice a cabal of racketeers associated with a particular workers' union. A foot-in-the-door necessitated taking a position in a union run operation at a shipyard. In this demanding employment, with its rough and tumble after hours excitement, Preston tested and honed his investigative talents, ferreting out the subservient, greedy rodents who did the bidding for the King Rat. The trail grew complex, at times confusing. Patient perseverance eventually exposed the pertinent information required to supply conclusive evidence. In its turn, this evidence led to multiple convictions.
Mid-winter relaxed an extended cold snap. Favourable weather descended upon the Tea Party City. On an especially mild Saturday afternoon, Preston Diamond tailed a gangly, unkempt ruffian believed to be a messenger, a pawn whom Preston hoped would lead him another step higher, another step closer, in the the widening circle of his investigation. Initially the hoodlum travelled alone but during the course of the afternoon he had met up with a second chap of like character. Together the pair left a noisy, tobacco smoke filled bar with Diamond, unknown to them, in tow. When the men crossed the open space of Boston Common, a park and part time pasture near town central, Preston allowed the two to put some distance between hunter and prey. Evening had started to settle in, patrons of the park thinned. Preston's subjects suddenly disappeared into a small copse on the edge of the Common. He considered the possibility he had been discovered. Perhaps they lay in ambush.
Caution necessitated deliberation, however the tracker did not wish to have wasted a day's work. Suddenly hysterical screams, feminine screams of terror, reached his ears. Preston raced across the open area but the cries faded. He could not make his body move fast enough. The soft, slushy snow dragged at his feet. Time stood still. He struggled, clawed his way through a slow-motion freeze. Blood roaring in his ears, heart pounding against the wall of his chest, lungs starving for oxygen, Preston at last reached the fateful grove. Pausing to listen, the rush inside his own body masked his hearing. Closing his eyes he mentally forced calmness. A moment later Diamond detected muffled sounds of a struggle. Following the intermittent utterances, he soon reached the heinous, sickening scene. The man Preston had trailed all day was viciously attacking a young lady. The girl fought valiantly but the thug murderously struck her in the face knocking her senseless. The odious villain began tearing at her clothes…
Preston Diamond “saw black”.
Swiftly, methodically, Diamond punished the wretched by-product of humanity. He kept the attacker conscious, alive, only long enough for the gates of hell to swing open offering a welcome retreat.
Police arrived to find Preston attempting to console the bruised and battered young woman. Nearly hysterical, she begged them to find her companion. An officer led her away; a second took Preston's report. Darkness halted the search; the ravished body of the friend was found next day. No clues to the identity of the second attacker surfaced. Preston Diamond hoarded the information he held; the rapist represented the only thread he now had to find King Rat.
In time the thug did provide the connection Preston sought. Under Diamond's direction, Boston police carried out a raid, arresting the hoodlum along with several of his cohorts. The information dragged from these felons proved the undoing of the union racketeering ring.
In exchange for the evidence they needed for a conviction, the prosecution agreed to release the stool pigeon. Diamond realized the criminal would never be taken to task for the rape and murder of the deceased girl. This knowledge Preston found very difficult to live with. He could not rest. At night he saw the terror in the eyes of the beautiful young woman he had rescued. He heard the cries of the girl he had not been able to save. Utilizing prestigious links, Diamond gained access to the prison.
The Chinese Master, under whose tutelage Preston practised martial arts, imparted that there are many ways for a man to die. Chinese medicine evolved through centuries of experimentation; they did not use laboratory rats. Anatomical knowledge, beneficial results, at least for future generations, came from the life sacrifice of many, many 'patients'. These findings have been remarkably useful in terms of healing and self-defence. Diamond learned that an opponent can be killed instantly, in a minute, an hour, a day and so on, up to one, two, or even five years.
When Preston privately interviewed the rapist, he opted for the two day plan.
Rested, Preston Diamond emerged from his room. Had there been anyone in the passage they would have been surprised at his sudden, silent appearance. No one saw him as he stealthily padded along the dim, lamp-lit hallway. Instead of taking the lower flight of stairs, this night he softly trod up to the third floor level. Preston had discovered earlier, by a surreptitious glance at the hotel registry, where Governor Rittinger had taken residence. The Governor intrigued the investigator; could the lubricious politician possibly be more than he presented?
Never overlook; never underestimate; these policies were commandments in Diamond's world. He edged up to Rittinger's room, listening for sounds from within. The rooms in the Grand Hotel afforded considerable sound proofing, a luxury Preston periodically craved. On this occasion he would have appreciated being able to overhear activities behind closed doors. Some time passed as Preston internally tuned his dichotic ears. The louder noises issuing from two floors down were filtered through the left ear, the murmur of whispered voices beyond the oak door registered through the right. Individual words, sentences of the conversation from within the room he could not decipher. The gist came through quite clearly. Preston backed away, stepped noiselessly down the stair to his floor, collected his coat, descended to the lobby and vanished through the rear exit of the Grand Hotel.
From snatches of muted conversation Diamond had overheard, the eavesdropper drew several conclusions: Rittinger had a lady-friend in Way-cross; the two had known each other well enough to be quite 'friendly'; the visitor was more than a hired lady of the night.
Preston recollected that the governor had no feminine accompaniment during the dinner hour so the clandestine rendezvous, if that is what it was, may have been previously arranged. Way-cross would not consider it appropriate for a lady to openly walk into the hotel and trot up the stair for an intimate evening with the governor. No, someone probably assisted the politician in smuggling his guest unnoticed into the hotel. Preston recollected the hushed conversation between Rittinger and Collier, their sudden change of tone upon discovering his presence. What secrets did they share?
Back streets and alleys of Way-cross had become familiar ground for Diamond. Even the trash can cats no longer dashed away at his approach. They had less fear of him than the town folk who weren't at all comfortable with Preston's presence, although likely exceptions included Lonny Fischer, hopefully Samantha Dexter and probably the undertaker, Russell Frost. The unlit avenues were particularly dark on this evening, clouds had been building during late afternoon, now the air held a hint of rain. Diamond stealthily made a quick reconnaissance discovering nothing amiss. Obfuscated by darkness, he took up a comfortable position preparing for prolonged surveillance across the alley from the rear entrance of the hotel.
A swiftly advancing cloud bank gobbled up the stars. Darkness blended with, then vanished into, an inky blackness so thick you could poke it with a stick. The wind propelling the clouds touched down on Way-cross, stirring the dust and cinders. It blew stronger. Grit sandblasted Diamond where he maintained a statue's silent sojourn. Up and down the alley, unlatched screen doors and shutters banged and flapped. Garbage receptacles tipped over, their contents, including several surprised cats, fled ahead of the gale. The coal oil lantern burning above the Grand Hotel's rear entrance door rocked on its mooring. The light grew weak, flickering in protest but did not go out.
A solitary streak of angry, jagged lightning split the darkness. A single drum roll of thunder reverberated in applause. Then it started to rain.
Buckets.
Most people would have sought shelter. Preston Diamond did. However, just before abandoning his post, the rear door of the hotel opened against the force of the wind. A lady clutching at her dress, fighting the gale, stood framed in the dying lamp light. In the brief instant before the lantern blew out, something familiar about the woman struck Preston….
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