She stopped, but I had two things. I was certain now that Roseann had played the game with Giles, and the second was that she clearly agreed that the clothes could not have been strewn by Giles.
She said, «You mean someone else tossed those clothes around? Some woman—No, he wouldn’t let that happen.»
Then she, too, made the leap which, it seemed to me, declared her innocent. «You mean someone killed him and then spread the clothes around to make it look as if he had an accident while he was taking a shower?»
«Do you think that’s possible?»
«I don’t know, I—Yes, of course it was possible,» she exploded suddenly. «It was Eunice.»
«Eunice?»
«Of course. If she couldn’t have him, then no one could.»
«That can’t be, Roseann,» I said, deliberately lying to see if she had reason to say it or was the simple prey of spite. «Eunice has a rigid and solid alibi.»
Roseann made a croaking sound that might have been intended for laughter. She said, «Do you suppose she would do it herself. She hired somebody. You don’t have to invest much these days to get someone killed.»
«Do you have evidence for that, Roseann?»
«I don’t need evidence.»
«You do, legally, if you’re going to say things like that. Besides, it may occur to someone that your motive is the same as Eunice’s and as strong.»
«Mine?»
«If you can’t have him, then no one can.»
And she screamed, «Oh, don’t be a goddamn jackass,» and crashed the phone into its cradle.
Much more slowly and gently, I hung up.
Well, what had I accomplished? Both got my hint at murder without trouble, which made me tend to eliminate them from suspicion. To be sure, Eunice had not been able to accept the possibility, even for the sake of accusing Roseann, which she had clearly wanted to be able to do. Roseann, on the other hand, could and did accuse Eunice at once. That, however, might merely reflect the fact that Eunice was a lawyer and Roseann was not.
And meanwhile Roseann had brought up the point of a hired killer. Why not? It didn’t sound likely, but why not?
That would mean that alibis meant nothing. And perhaps the trace of heroin I had found was the sort of thing that a hired killer might have left behind. (Why? I couldn’t say why.) It was no use. In the last five hours I had thought harder and longer and steadier and more monotonically than I had ever done for an equal period at any time in my life. Not even when I was plotting my novels had I thought harder and longer—and yet it had all brought me exactly nothing. I was no wiser now than at the start—less wise, for others had suggested complications I would not have thought of myself.
But it was almost six and a customer would be arriving at any moment. I placed the key on the bureau, walked out the door of 1524, and locked it behind me. I was still thinking.
16 GWYNETH JONES 5:55 P.M.
The elevator took its time, but as it happened I was in no great hurry.
Since I couldn’t believe (and didn’t want to believe) that the murder depended on the triviality of the pens and my failure, and since it didn’t seem to me to involve either Eunice or Roseann, the motive had to rest elsewhere—another unsuspected woman, the heroin, a homicidal maniac (no, would a homicidal maniac bother to arrange an accident?).
In search of that motive, it might serve to track down everything Giles had done from the time he left me nearly twenty-four hours earlier to the time of his death.
The elevator still wasn’t coming. It was approaching dinnertime and people would be going up and down at an above-normal rate. Life went on. People were hungry.
I wasn’t.
When I last saw Giles, he was leaving with Henrietta Corvass. If I began with her—
The elevator came to the floor, going down. It was full and there was a halfhearted squeezing backward to make room for me. I stepped in. I don’t take up much room: I’ll say that for me.
I gave the group in the elevator one sharp glance to see if I recognized anyone. I was in no mood to talk.
Luckily, there was no need to. With thousands at the convention, in any random group of a dozen or so I would know no one.
I turned to face the front. The others were all conventioneers. They all wore badges. I sighed and tried to be unobtrusive about taking mine off.
I got off at the fifth floor and found the interview room still open. It surprised me; I had assumed it would have closed at five and I had gone there only to make sure of that.
There was only one person inside, a young woman with straggly hair, unobtrusive breasts, and sneakers. Her legs were spraddled apart as she slouched back in her chair and looked thoughtfully at what I assumed were releases. She had a sheet of paper in the typewriter and would undoubtedly begin typing in a moment. I looked at her legs, but that was unrewarding, so I looked at her nameplate and that said, «Gwyneth Jones.»
«Gwyneth!» I said to myself in disbelief.
I said it to myself just a touch too loudly, for the young woman assumed I was trying to attract her attention (which I meant to do in a moment), looked up, and said, «Yes?»
I said, «You wouldn’t know where Henrietta was, would you?»
The girl looked at me thoughtfully and said, «Henrietta Corvass?»
I said, out of curiosity, «Is there another Henrietta around?»
«No. She’s the only Henrietta here.»
«Then why did you ask me?»
«We’ve got to be accurate.»
«I’ll start over. You wouldn’t know where Henrietta Corvass was, would you?»
«As long as we’re starting over, who are you?»
I fumbled for my badge and showed her and got a blank stare.
«I’m a writer,» I explained. «Now what about Henrietta? Do you know where she is?»
And after all that, Gwyneth said, indifferently, «No.»
I said, «Look, sweetheart, pretend it’s an emergency. Suppose your bra strap broke and Henrietta had the only spare in the place. Where would you look for her? Guess, if you have to. Give me a start.»
She said. «I don’t wear bras. I think I heard her say something about the Sewall, Broom party tonight. Maybe she’ll be there.»
«Thank you, sweetheart. And where will the party be held?»
«I don’t know, but I think there’s a flyer somewhere around.» She looked about the top of her desk halfheartedly and said, «I’m behind in my work, you know.»
«I know,» I said. «I could tell. But spend five more minutes looking for it, will you?»
I bet myself eight to five she wouldn’t find it and I lost.
She got to it in less than a minute. She was a short girl and uninteresting but I kissed her on the cheek and said thanks.
She didn’t look overwhelmed with gratitude.
I went off to find a men’s room, where I took care of my biologic needs, washed my hands and face, looked earnestly at myself to see if I looked as crummy as I felt and decided I did, but what the hell. I’m not strikingly handsome, but I’m not grotesque either. I fall into that broad in-between that’s called «attractive» in various tones of voice and that’s about the best I can do in describing myself.
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It’s the best Asimov can do, or cares to do. Any reasonable consensus would have me «strikingly handsome.»
Darius Just
I would suggest, Gentle Reader, that you settle this matter for yourself. Just get a copy of any one of Darius’ books and look at the jacket photo.
Isaac Asimov
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I leaned against the towel dispenser and studied the flyer.
The party was not in the hotel but at a restaurant nearby, and it was slated to start at 6:30.