I handed it back. «There you are.»
He put it into his jacket pocket and said, «I just want to show you how I admire Mr. Devore and why I was hoping you wouldn’t say anything about murder and drugs without any better evidence. It would make a terrible impression and could ruin his reputation. Even if everything showed it was an accident and he didn’t take drugs, if something like your theory gets to the public, there’d always be people saying he died of an overdose, or that he was killed, and that’s what he would be remembered for instead of his books. That wouldn’t be right.»
Damn it, it wouldn’t. «I know,» I said, and went back to pinching my upper lip. One way or another, he was making it very hard for me to insist on murder.
Then I said, «Hey, you had that book signed this morning?»
«Yes, Mr. Just.»
«Well, then, you were there. Didn’t Mr. Devore make a fuss while he was on the platform? What was that about?»
«Fuss?» Strong looked confused.
«I heard he made a fuss,» I said.
He shook his head slowly. «I don’t know anything about that. I came early and I was at the head of the line, third or fourth maybe. Then I had to go back to my post outside the exhibit room. Maybe there was trouble after I left. I wouldn’t know. It couldn’t have amounted to much or I would have heard about it, it seems to me.»
He got up and ducked his head as though to say goodbye, and then he said suddenly, «Do you know Mrs. Devore?»
«I met her once or twice,» I said.
«I think she would like to see you.»
«You mean she’s here? You’ve seen her?»
«We tried to call her at her home, but there was no answer, and we gave up. And then at just about that time, she came in and tried to get Mr. Devore on the house phone. Naturally the operator asked her to identify herself and—»
He spread out his hands.
«Where is she?»
«I’m not sure. Last I heard she was in Public Relations. She may not be there any more.»
«Where is that?»
«It’s on the sixth floor; 622. Only thing is, Mr. Just—» And then he hesitated.
«Yes?»
«I don’t think it would be such a good idea to talk to her about your theories. Poor woman must be in a pretty bad way; left a widow so young.»
I said, «Don’t worry about it. I haven’t told the police and I won’t tell her. Okay?»
«Okay.» He grinned with relief. «And, Mr. Just, you keep up the good work. Your books, I mean. You should write more.»
«I will,» I said, «if I manage not to slip in the bathroom.»
He looked a little shocked at the gallows humor and left.
13 SARAH VOSKOVEK 3:30 P.M.
A few minutes later, I got up and left, too.
I’d met Eunice Devore oftener than the once or twice I’d admitted to, but I had never taken to her. She was of only slightly more than average height for a woman; five feet five would be my guess; but she managed to look down from that height. She didn’t give me the «little fella» treatment Roseann did, and I suppose I could count that on the side of virtue, but she managed to tilt her head just slightly back when she spoke to me, so that her eyes glanced unmistakably downward.
A little thing, but I found it irritating.
She was also a proto-liberationist. That is, long before Women’s Liberation had become a force in the land, she was fighting her way through the world of men with long fingernails and a reinforced brassiere. She was a lawyer, wore no makeup of any kind, kept her brown hair short, her business suits mannish, her voice harsh, and her stride swinging. When I first met her, I bet myself twelve to one she was a lesbian, and I was completely taken back—right through the wall—when Giles coyly announced that they were getting married.
I couldn’t conceive what he saw in her—or she in him.
Nor did I ever see any inordinate display of affection between them after they were married—any display at all, actually. Nor did I labor, particularly, to imagine what such a display would be like. He with his hulkish slouch, she with her solid lack of all the qualities I had taught myself to consider feminine.
Please!
And now, to commiserate with her on a death I had discovered was more than I could easily face.
But I had to. Aside from the requirements of common humanity, she was the one who would be most likely to tell me whether Giles had changed his habit and whether, just possibly, I was wrong to deduce murder from the condition of his clothes.
That is, I would check, but I had no fear, absolutely none, of being proved wrong. It is only the huge habits that people change without trouble. Communists can become Fascists with a day’s notice and Conservatives can crawl into the Liberal bed (or vice versa) with scarcely an extra breath between; men can switch wives and mousy women can go liberationist—but show me a fellow who squeezes his toothpaste tube with his left hand, and I’ll show you a fellow who will never do it with his right hand, except maybe to win a bet and even then he’ll have trouble.
But I would ask. The wild Game of People is not won on generalities, however sound.
I chose the proper bank of elevators to reach the sixth floor, and found myself facing an arrow that said «Offices.» I turned left and faced a glass door. I went through it and at once heard little Sarah’s clear and precise accented English.
I followed it and it led me to Room 622. There were two rooms actually, the outer one containing a desk which presumably should have been occupied by someone who served as buffer between Sarah and the world. It was vacant at the moment and I walked into the inner room.
I did so slowly and softly, possibly because I did not want to attract Eunice’s attention and have to confront her without the maximum possible preparation. (I never met a woman who looked less like her name—but that’s a purely subjective reaction, for who knows what a Eunice would look like in someone else’s imagination.) If it were my intention to avoid attracting her attention, however, it was effort wasted, for Eunice was not there.
It achieved another purpose, unintended, however, for Sarah Voskovek (I was getting to remember the name) did not hear me. Her back was to me, and she was looking at a series of large cardboard placards. Facing her, one side toward me, was a rather large, stout, white-haired, clearly uneasy man, who did give me a brief glance as I walked in, then lost interest in me at once.
I sat down quietly and listened. The only reason for interrupting would have been to ask the whereabouts of Eunice and I was in no hurry. This might be more interesting.
Sarah was saying, «But why four makeups on the same subject? Each one features the lobby.» She held them up like large playing cards.
I could see that there were headlines on top, others (taillines, I wonder?) on bottom, and photographs in the middle. In between, there were wavy lines supposed to indicate print. The details would follow later, I suppose.
One of the headlines was «The Lobby-Lovely Hotel,» which I thought was a phrase to set anyone mewling and puking in his nurse’s arms. Another one was «From Lobby to Living, You’ll Love It,» which seemed only marginally better. I averted my eyes from the other two, so I’ll never know what new depths were reached.
Sarah said, «I’ve spent the Memorial Day weekend here in the office, but I’m not letting this pass. Why the lobby? Who’s interested in lobbies? The lobby is just an extension of the street, air-conditioned in summer and warmed in winter, but that’s all. It’s always crowded, always busy, always strange and cold. We’re selling rooms, beds, closets, windows, dining rooms, ballrooms, conference rooms, every blessed thing but lobbies, and after all our discussions you come here with four lobbies.»