"He had some trouble with investors in Sea Resources."
Pratt puffed tranquilly. “That,” he said, “was business."
So it had been. Julian Minor had done his usual meticulous check on everyone involved, alive or dead, and had found that James Pratt had been more than a simple graduate student in 1960. It had been the time of the first great cholesterol scare, and Pratt had been involved in a dubious scheme to harvest kelp and process it into tablets that were supposed to lower blood cholesterol. Pratt and his partners, deeply in debt, were in hot water with creditors and investors. At the time of the survey they were being sued and were about to be investigated by both the IRS and the King County Prosecuting Attorney. Two years after Pratt's death, his partners, who had provided the capital (Pratt had supplied the botanical expertise), had paid backbreaking fines and gone to prison for three years.
"Were you involved in Sea Resources yourself, Mr. Pratt?” John asked.
"Not me. Jimmy was the businessman in the family."
"I understand you fish for a living?” More of Julian's legwork.
"That's right. Out of Ketchikan.” He rearranged his long frame in the chair, showing welcome signs of life. “Pink salmon, mostly. Sometimes a little chum. Got me a fiberglass work boat, thirty-four-footer, diesel powered, radio, radar, the whole shebang. Big power reel on the afterdeck with a couple of hydraulic gurdies. Rigged for gill netting and trolling both."
John understood about four words of this, and not just because the pipe had remained between Pratt's teeth the whole time. But at least now he knew the guy was capable of stringing together more than two sentences in a row when he was talking about something that interested him.
"No kidding,” John said.
Pratt was encouraged by this show of interest. “Rigged to handle longline gear, comes to that,” he added with quiet pride. “For halibut. Brought in a 440-pounder off of Hoonah last year. Name's Inez." He removed the pipe. “The boat."
"Mr. Pratt,” Minor said, restlessness spurring him to speech, “I'm given to understand you have the room next to Professor Tremaine's."
"That's right.” He looked at the ceiling and ticked off names on his fingers. “Miz Yount, me, the professor, and Dr. Judd, all in a row. Don't know where the others are."
"Did you hear anything unusual in Professor Tremaine's room last night?"
"Unusual?"
"Did you hear anything?"
There was a long, long silence. “Well, I did hear some voices, now that I think about it."
John and Minor both sat up. “Angry voices?” Minor asked. “Arguing?"
"Just talking."
"No other sounds?"
"Not that I remember."
"Did you recognize them?"
"Well, sure, it was the professor."
"By the professor, you mean Tremaine?"
"Well, sure."
"Who else?"
"Just the professor."
"You said ‘voices,” John said.
Pratt took the pipe out of his mouth and blew smoke to one side. “Figure of speech. All I heard was the professor say hello. Must have said it to someone."
Minor frowned. “You heard him say hello? The word ‘hello'?"
"You got it. I was just going to the toilet, you know, before I went to bed, and I heard his voice through the wall. Made me jump because I thought someone was talking to me."
"And nothing after the hello? No further sounds?” Pratt shrugged. “That's when I flushed the toilet."
"What kind of hello?” John asked. “Loud, quiet, scared, friendly…"
"Just plain hello.” Pratt sucked twice at the pipe while he sought further detail. “Pretty quiet, with kind of like a question mark at the end. You know, like, ‘Hello, is somebody there?’ Only all I heard him say was hello, because that's when I-"
"Flushed the toilet,” John supplied.
"You got it."
"Did you hear anything before the hello?” John asked. “Any other sounds?"
"No…well, yes, I heard his shower. Is that what you mean by sounds?"
John thought this over. “You were able to hear a quiet hello over the sound of the shower? Maybe it wasn't so quiet."
Pratt shook his head with relative vigor. “No, I'm telling this wrong. I was lying on the bed and I heard the professor's shower go off. The pipes make this noise-clunk-clunk-and that sort of woke me up out of a doze, and I figured it was time to call it a day. So “I went into the bathroom to take a pee and that's when I heard it: ‘Hello?"
"How long after the shower went off?"
"Maybe four, five minutes. Long enough to brush my teeth, wash my face, and take a pee."
"About what time was this?"
"Oh, maybe ten o'clock."
Ten o'clock, the probable time of death. “Is there anything else you remember?” John asked. “Sounds of a scuffle? Maybe a door closing?"
Pratt smiled. “Nope. Tell you the truth, I didn't know I remembered this much till you fellas started asking."
And that, despite further prodding by Minor, was all he had to say on the subject.
"So tell me, Mr. Pratt,” John asked, “why are you here?"
"Mm?” Pratt looked at him with renewed interest, his arms crossed, one hand holding the pipe to his mouth. “'Fraid I don't follow what you're after."
John didn't know what he was after; only that Pratt was there in place of his sister, who had originally been invited by Javelin Press. And he just didn't seem the type to willingly spend a week sitting around indoors talking about a manuscript. Especially while the salmon were still running strong (which they were, according to Minor's thoroughgoing research). Javelin was picking up expenses, but that didn't make up for a week's lost income. And private fishermen didn't get paid-vacation time.
"As I understand it,” John said, “the publishing company asked your sister, but you offered to come in her place. Why?"
"Didn't offer. Eunice asked me to."
"And why was that?"
"Well,” Pratt said with a sigh, “Eunice isn't what she was. Just didn't think she was up to talking about Jimmy getting killed and all, so she asked me to come instead. So I did."
"You gave up a week's fishing to be here?"
"Yup."
"Why? What did you hope to accomplish?"
With the bit of his pipe Pratt slowly scratched his temple. “Danged if I know."
That seemed to end that, at least for the time being. “And what about your brother? What was he doing here?"
"My brother? I don't follow-"
"In 1960. Why was he on the expedition?"
"Oh. Something to do with his schoolwork, wasn't it?"
"Yes, certainly,” Minor cut in impatiently, “but didn't it ever occur to you to wonder why he'd drop everything and agree to come way up here for the summer, when he was right in the middle of some major problems with his business?"
Pratt looked at him thoughtfully. “Nope."
"Well, why do you think he would?"
"Hard to say. Jimmy was sort of deep, you know? Even as a kid, he always liked to get away from things and think ‘em through. I remember, where we grew up, in Sitka, there was this old tree house-old packing crate in a tree is what it was, must have been a million years old…well, what the hell.” He reinserted the pipe.
"Did you know about his relationship with Jocelyn Yount?"
"Since I came up here, I heard about it. Don't know as I believe everything I hear."
"Would you say he had a bad temper?"
"I wouldn't say diddley-squat,” Pratt said, not so much angrily as doggedly. “Now, look, mister, if you're trying to get me to say maybe my brother killed somebody way back then, you're gonna have a heck of a wait. Besides, he's the one who got killed, far as I can see."
"What makes you say that?” Minor asked.
"Those are his sunglasses they found, aren't they, all busted up? That ought to prove something.” What it proved he didn't say. “Hell, sure, he could get mad like anybody else, but he was a good-natured kid; bighearted. Blow steam off at you, and then five minutes later buy you a beer. Jimmy didn't kill anyone. No such thing."