Or was I wrong? Did I know all the ins and outs of emotions? Did I know exactly how deeply something Giles had done had cut into someone’s heart? Did I know exactly how some small deed might fester in a particular type of personality? Was I aware of how unconnected factors might have contributed? Look at all the different things that had combined to reduce me to the kind of rage from which I usually do not suffer, and made me scream at Giles for what could have seemed, on the face of it, no reason at all.
And who could get into Giles’s locked room if he did not, like Giles or myself, have a key. Actually, anyone.
If a writer is at a convention in some field allied to writing, he is particularly vulnerable. Anyone, anyone, can knock on the door and in response to «Who’s there?» say through the locked barrier, «I’m a fan, sir. Could you sign a book of yours that I have here?»
Theoretically, the writer could answer, «Beat it, you punk! I’m busy,» but I’d bet myself a hundred to one anytime that there isn’t a writer, certainly not a young writer, who can resist the implied flattery.
And how could it be done? It would have to be a blunt instrument at the base of the skull, something the supposed slam against the bathtub faucets could have caused. What was it? A karate chop?
But then what would it take to drag Giles into the bathroom? Roseann Bronstein might have been able to do it, but I’ll bet Teresa Valier couldn’t. But might it not have been two people working together?
And what of the heroin? I was convinced the heroin had been there and was heroin but how on earth could I prove it, and if I could, what connection did it have with the murder?
Some connection, I’m sure, but what?
In whatever direction my mind turned, I came up with nothing. I could in no way limit the possibilities or work up a reasonable list of suspects. The matter needed investigation but I lacked the talent and the facilities for that and I didn’t see how I could persuade the police to do it for me.
And then I heard the sound of someone clearing his throat. I looked up and it was Michael Strong, the security man, looking uneasy and unhappy.
He said, «May I talk to you, Mr. Just?» .
I said dully, «Aren’t you supposed to be on duty?»
«Someone is covering. Just a few minutes, sir.»
«Well, then, sit down. If you’re allowed to drink on duty, have one on me.»
«No, thanks,» he said, and then for a while he just sat there.
«Well?» I said.
«I’m glad I found you, sir,» he said. «I thought you might be in one of the bars. It seemed natural.»
«I don’t drink,» I said, «but you found me, so three cheers for your reasoning powers. What can I do for you?»
«I—I want you to know,» he said, «that I’m sorry for what happened.» He kept rubbing his hands against his thin tan jacket as though to wipe off the perspiration. His rather comical face (or it would have been comical if I had been in the mood to smile) was twisted into a distress that did not make it less comical.
I was pinching my upper lip and I withdrew my hand long enough to give it a what-can-you-do? wave and said, «Do you think he was murdered?»
«Me? No. Did you tell the police—?»
«No. I told the police nothing. They wouldn’t believe it. You don’t.»
«Just because the clothes were thrown around? That’s not much.»
«And the heroin?»
«There wasn’t any.»
«No, not after you two came in. There was heroin before that. I’m not crazy. You or your boss or both of you got rid of it.»
He shook his head. Then said, «Why would we?»
«You wouldn’t want murder, would you? Bad for the hotel. You wouldn’t want a drug scandal. Even worse for the hotel.»
Strong thought about it. His brows furrowed together and he made a visible effort. He said, «Suppose there were drugs there. That works against murder.»
«Really?»
«Sure. If Mr. Devore were an addict, he might have been high and then you can’t argue what he would do or how he would handle his clothes. Maybe he might be very careful about them when he was normal, but he might throw them around when he was high. He might also be unsteady on his feet and fall in the bathtub, see? That’s what probably happened if there really was heroin in the room.»
It was my turn to think. What Strong said didn’t exactly sound stupid. And really, how stupid could he be if he enjoyed Crossover? That was not a stupid man’s book. Could he be right? Was I stubbornly tying myself, emotionally, to the theory that Giles had been killed only in order to intensify my feeling of guilt over my failure in connection with the package?
I said, «When’s the autopsy?»
«Not before tomorrow. The Medical Examiner isn’t even here yet. Probably won’t get here till dinnertime.»
«Why the delay?»
«It’s always that way. It takes time. There’s lots of bodies in the city at any given time and the M.E. has to see them in order.»
I said, «I don’t think Giles was a hophead; I don’t think he was high; I think he would have taken care of his clothes neatly and because they were not taken care of, he’s not the one who put the clothes there. And the heroin had to have something to do with it; I won’t let you talk me out of its being there.»
«If it were there,» said Strong, «and if Mr. Devore did not take drugs, then the heroin could have nothing to do with him at all. It could be there from the previous occupant. It could have been there for weeks. The maids don’t always do things so carefully as all that. You see what I mean?»
I saw what he meant. It seemed entirely unlikely, but it could be so. I knew even less about the whole mess than I thought I had known and my thoughts shrank inward and built a wall of silence about me.
Then Strong said, «Mr. Just, if you don’t mind, I’ll have to be getting back soon. Could I explain something?»
«Go ahead,» I said.
«This is not just part of the job for me. I read fantasy; as I told you yesterday, I admired Mr. Devore’s book. I got his signature on my copy of Crossover this morning, not the ones they were giving away. I just want you to know my personal feelings.»
He brought out a dog-eared paperback edition of Crossover and passed it to me. I opened it to the title page and there was Giles’s signature all right, with «Best wishes» above it and «26 May 75» under it. The «Best wishes» looked faint and the final «s» almost wasn’t there, but the signature was considerably darker as though Giles had put his heart into that. It’s a phenomenon I’ve often noticed with writers.
No matter what they write in addition to their signature, it’s their own name into which they put their muscles and their heart.
Strong said, «Would you sign your name to it, too, and date it?»
«It’s not my book,» I said.
«I know that, sir, but I’ve read two of your books and I’ve seen your movie.»
He didn’t exactly move me. I’m not that amenable to flattery; and if I were, I was at an unamenable moment. It seemed quite clear to me that a signature by Giles, dated the day of his death, accompanied by a signature of the discoverer of the body, dated the same day, could make the book quite valuable—
But then I thought, hell, we were neither of us Abe Lincoln. At best our signatures would make the book worth five dollars to some collector and I had a notion that Strong wouldn’t sell it. So let him have something that he valued greatly and that cost me nothing.
I signed. No «Best wishes,» which seemed inappropriate.
Just my name and the date, under those Giles had written.
Absently, I admired my signature, small, neat, clear, each letter perfectly formed, and, to add character, the upper loop of the capital J large and roundly triangular, so that the rest of the name seemed to be suspended from a balloon.