‘Sure,’ said Dryden. ‘Did you get to speak to the parents?’
‘A few words now and then. Time of day, generally. Nothing to interest you guys. Hold on, now. I’m forgetting. Serafin had some kind of accent. Till now I never thought much about it. Funny how you just accept these things. Well, the Serafins liked to keep their distance, and people around here respect each other. When I heard the wife took off with some intern from the City Hospital, I kept it to myself, like it was no business of mine. You could see them each lunchtime holding hands on a bench in the Cunningham Memorial Garden.’ His eyes bulged. ‘Say, you don’t suppose he was the contact?’
‘Not a chance,’ said Dryden. ‘Thanks, anyway.’
‘My pleasure.’ His informant grinned conspiratorially. ‘I knew you was CIA when you parked on the next block. Saw you drive past the first time.’
The campus of the California Institute of Human Science must have been symmetrically faultless when the main four-story block and tower were completed in 1915. A eucalyptus-lined drive exactly bisected five acres of lawn to end at the broad steps and fluted pillars of the portico, itself positioned at the very center of the red brick façade. At some point afterward, the symmetrical concept had been abandoned. A series of extensions in bricks an expert could probably date from their various shades of pink had extended the west wing toward the gate, while the economic strictures of the seventies had reduced further expansion to a colony of gray prefabs on the east lawn.
‘I’d like to see the Professor of Anthropometry, if that’s possible.’
The porter looked Dryden up and down. ‘Professor Walsh, sir? You have an appointment?’
‘I don’t,’ admitted Dryden. ‘But I’ve driven up from Los Angeles.’
The expression hardened under the peaked cap. ‘You some kind of rep?’
‘I’m not selling anything, if that’s what you mean. The name is Martindale, and I’m from England. Perhaps you’ll be so kind as to convey that message to the Professor.’
The porter gave him a doubtful look, and dialed a number on the intercom. ‘Patsy? Listen, some guy here from England wants to see the Prof. Name’s Martingale.’
‘Dale,’ said Dryden. ‘Martindale.’ Having gone to the trouble of looking up the name of the English publisher of Professor Walsh’s book on radiographic measurements, he wasn’t going to have it mispronounced.
The porter repeated it correctly. ‘Yeah, I know, sweetheart, but see if it rings any chimes with the Prof, will you? This guy seems to think it should.’ He put his hand over the mouthpiece and told Dryden, ‘Professor Walsh just finished lecturing. There’s this heap of letters to sign. I tell you straight, Mr. Martingale— What’s that? Yeah. Patsy? Well, that beats everything!’ He put the phone down. ‘Take the elevator to floor three, Mr. Martingale. Professor Walsh’s secretary will meet you there.’
Patsy got the name right. A small, efficient-looking blonde, she weaved a route confidently through a mass of students converging on the lift, and led Dryden along a corridor lined with bulletin boards. Through an office, presumably her own, to a room unlike any Dryden was prepared for. No filing cabinets, timetable, group photos on the wall. Not a skeleton in sight. It had a thick bottle-green carpet and biscuit-coloured hessian wallpaper, three steel-framed chairs with white leather upholstery, and an occasional table with a tall Venetian glass containing white roses. A woman was adjusting the angle of the blinds at the window. Martindale’s name seemed to have made an impact.
The Professor was obviously still in the lecture theater. There were sure to be questions afterward. He was welcome to stay there for the next few moments. The academic staff in all its robes wouldn’t top the figure in this blue velvet pantsuit. She turned, a brunette with greenish-blue eyes, hair shaped to her head, with a thick fringe. She was near Dryden’s age. The smile she gave him mingled mockery and invitation. ‘Mr. Martindale from England, I understand.’
He blinked in surprise. ‘You wouldn’t be—’
‘Stephanie Walsh?’ She put a cool hand into his. ‘I confess that I am. Won’t you sit down?’
He sank into one of the steel chairs. ‘Excuse my confusion. They didn’t tell me downstairs. I presumed Professor Walsh was—’
‘A man?’ She took a chair opposite him. ‘You’re not the first. Perhaps we could both be excused some confusion, Mr. Martindale. You are Douglas Martindale of James and Martindale? The publisher of Anthropometric Radiography and its Applications?’
‘Is there any problem about that?’ he cautiously inquired.
‘Just that I had it on very good authority — the London Times, I think — that you were dead.’ She held the smile impeccably. ‘Is it more disturbing, I wonder, to discover that a professor is a female, or that a publisher has risen from the dead? No, that’s a presumption on my part. You haven’t actually said you are Douglas Martindale.’
It was a silk-glove job, but it was still a very firm put-down. Gulling Stephanie Walsh wasn’t going to be easy. He studied her eyes as they waited evenly for his reaction. He decided he could trust them.
‘Maybe your secretary didn’t catch my name right. It’s Dryden. Jack Dryden.’
She gave a quick laugh. ‘I’m prepared to believe that’s not the name she caught, Mr. Dryden. Do you smoke?’
She picked up a box of cocktail Sobranies from the table. He took a red one. A gold Ronson Varatronic followed.
‘Thanks. Professor, I’m curious to know why you agreed to meet me when you knew Douglas Martindale was dead.’
She held the lighter flame steady as she thought. ‘You’re surprised you beat the security? Getting to see a professor shouldn’t really be so difficult, but we do get bothered incessantly by sales reps. They have their job to do, I know, but you can get a little weary of seeing overhead projectors demonstrated, so we put aside a few days in July and invite them all to bring their books and hardware then. It ought to simplify matters, but there are still a few implacable gentlemen.’ She shrugged. ‘So they have to get past the porter first. When I heard the name you gave, I was a little amused, a little intrigued. It isn’t customary for these men to resort to assumed identities. I decided to take my fate in my hands and have a look at you. You don’t have a medical encyclopedia up your sleeve?’
‘Not a single volume,’ said Dryden. ‘I won’t deny that I am in merchandising, but I’m not here to sell you anything.’
She smiled. ‘Try a little harder, Mr. Dryden. They all say that.’
He nodded, grinning. ‘This is more in the nature of an inquiry. God, there’s another cliché of the trade.’ He started again. ‘My job, Professor, involves managing the contractual arrangements for certain celebrities in sports and show business whose names are used in advertising. I have a client who, happily for both of us, has had a good run of success over the last two years. A fine sportsman, but a little innocent of the world. Easily taken in, I mean. Last week, he told me about a business venture he’s investing prettily heavily in, even by his standards. It’s all terribly sub rosa. In fact, at first I was worried my client was being conned, but now I’m satisfied it’s on the level. There are others chipping in, some hard-bitten characters among them. Now they’re asking me to join them in a promotional capacity. Before I do, I want to know some more about the scheme and the man who dreamed it up. His name is William Serafin.’
‘I see.’ She thought a moment, and felt in the box for a cigarette. Dryden supplied a light. ‘And you suppose I can fill you in on Bill Serafin? Mr. Dryden, before we go any further, how would you have broached this subject as Douglas Martindale?’