«That is the payment; that is not the reason. Why should you wish to know?»
She said, «Because I’m afraid you think Mr. Devore was murdered.»
I paused and considered, but there was nothing to consider. I hadn’t the faintest idea whether it would serve my investigation (or, perhaps, from its general failure to accomplish anything, I ought to give it the disgrace of quotation marks and call it an «investigation») to admit it or hide it. All things being equal, I decided, tell the truth.
«Yes,» I said. «I’m sure he was.»
«Oh, for goodness’ sake,» she said, looking far more troubled than that miserably mild expletive would justify.
«I know,» I said wearily. «It would be bad for the hotel.»
«Yes, it could. I’m thinking of Dr. Asimov and his book about murder at the ABA.»
I had forgotten about that completely. «Oh, boy,» I said.
«Have you told him?»
«No, I haven’t, but if it’s murder, it will come out and then Asimov could use it if he wanted to. But don’t worry. I know him well enough to know that by the time he’s through prettying it up and translating it into his own milk-and-water style and changing all the characters to suit his own pseudo-romantic notions, no one would recognize the truth behind it. And I tell you what, I will personally guarantee that he will not name the hotel or in any way give hints that would identify it.»
«But that’s prior restraint, isn’t it?» She seemed in two minds as to whether to smile or not, and ended not smiling.
«I’ve changed my mind. Now, what are you going to tell me?»
«That the whole thing may be more complicated than you think. I scarcely like to say this.» Her voice had lowered, nervously.
«If you think the room is bugged,» I said, «I’ll turn on the radio loud, and you can whisper in my ear. Or let’s go out somewhere.»
«Oh, it’s not bugged. I just don’t like to say… It’s so disgraceful and I’m not supposed to know… Darius.»
«Yes?»
«Darius, there is a drug problem. I’ve heard talk about it.»
«Are you guessing? Or is this hard information?»
«Not rock-hard, but I would bet on it.»
«As much as eleven to five?» I said. (I never gamble, actually, though I keep score in my own head of the bets I make with myself. I’m about three hundred fifty dollars ahead, as of now.)
She said, «Better. Three to one at least.» She seemed to have no problem falling in with my betting game.
«Okay. What’s the problem?»
«This may be a clearinghouse for drug distribution.»
«Here?»
«Why not? Thousands of people pass in and out. Anything can happen here anonymously. If Mr. Devore was killed, who could find the murderer in the crowd? Who could identify anyone who went to his room? Who would see such a thing? Who would be interested? There is scarcely anywhere as anonymous and safe from oversight as a huge hotel.»
«So they could use it as a clearinghouse? Someone gets the drug and someone distributes it here?»
«I suppose. I know very little about it.»
«Well, then, why doesn’t the hotel report this to the police? Or has it already done so?»
«I don’t think it has. The evidence, perhaps, is not clear, and Mr. Marsogliani—»
«—wants to save the reputation of the hotel?»
Sarah shook her head. «That is not quite it. If he can gain more evidence and present the whole to the police, then not only is police involvement less long-drawn-out, but the hotel’s work can be praised. What was bad publicity could be made into less-bad publicity, even into almost-good publicity.»
«And I’m threatening to upset the whole scheme, just over a little thing like murder.»
«You don’t really know that it’s murder, do you? And suppose it were, how can you be sure it had a connection with the drug traffic?»
I said, «There was heroin in the room.»
She looked shocked. «Are you sure?»
«No, I’m not sure in the ordinary sense of the word. There was no time to analyze it, for it disappeared—and the disappearance is analysis enough for me.»
«Was Mr. Devore a drug addict?»
«I’m sure he wasn’t. I tried to get Marsogliani to check that for me, but not a chance.»
«Even if he were not a drug addict, is it your theory that he might be part of the chain of distribution? Would that explain his murder? Is it that he was not behaving in such a way as to please the—please the—»
«Syndicate?»
«Yes, so they—they—»
«Rub him out?»
«Yes. Is that what you believe?»
«No,» I said—but that wasn’t quite true. Again someone was handing me something I hadn’t thought of and something that seemed disturbingly plausible.
She said, «But if Mr. Devore were himself a drug pusher, wouldn’t it be more important to expose the whole ring than to find one little small-time killer and allow the head men of the ring to escape? Shouldn’t you leave the investigation to professional people?»
«I don’t think professional people will accept the death as murder.»
«But don’t you see that if he were killed and if drugs were involved, surely desperate people are involved, and you will be in danger if you get too near the truth?»
That sounded very much like Marsogliani’s warning, and the hell of it was that it made sense. And I’m no hero.
I said, in a troubled way (for since I felt troubled, how else could I say it?), «I’m not out to get killed. I’ll be careful.»
She smiled suddenly and said, «Good. Let Mr. Marsogliani handle it. He’ll know when to go to the police.»
It seemed to me that she had reacted too quickly and too sunnily. Marsogliani had warned me and he had then called Sarah and set this up as a further pressure. It was all a game, with Sarah maneuvering me into cooperation by playing on my cowardice. What the devil made her so sure it was there to play on?
I said coldly, «I must go. I’m catching a panel.» I left quickly.
She must have been astonished at my sudden change in manner and my abrupt leave-taking, but it had occurred to me, further, that she chose that route to persuasion because she assumed that a small man was bound to feel fear of violence.
Damn her! And damn myself for feeling that fear!
5 MICHAEL STRONG 10:40 A.M.
I went down to the third floor and, in a mood of disconsolate anger, took my seat in an otherwise empty ballroom. It was nearly a quarter to eleven before the audience began to gather for the panel, which was called «Explaining the Unexplained.» There was some time to go, but I have a moderate experience with audiences and I could tell already that it would be a light one. It would not come near to filling the room and it was quite clear that the interview room, which was in charge of these panels, would be mightily disappointed.
It didn’t matter to me. I was emotionally uninvolved.
In the panel, that is, but not in Sarah Voskovek. I went over the previous conversation in my mind. There were the trappings of intrigue—the special room, not to be interrupted, the secret to be given away. It was a matter of atmosphere, wasn’t it, designed to play on my fears and shut me up. The more I went over it in my mind, the longer the odds grew in my private book that the attempt had been made to play me into the net of shut-up.
And it bothered me because I had been starting to think that Sarah was a nice person. I was beginning to count on her, to rely on her for little things, like getting me an empty room or getting me in to see Marsogliani. And I was just being set up—
I could feel myself flushing.
«Mr. Just.»
I looked up and blinked my eyes into focus. Michael Strong, the security guard, was standing in front of me.