He thought for a moment, then decided to employ an old technique for stimulating inspiration. Taking a large block of paper from a drawer, he began writing on it—at widely-spaced intervals—headings covering every aspect he could remember of Mayrick’s and Livingstone’s statements. He next filled in sub-headings relating to details, no matter how trivial, and induced thoughts. By the time thirty minutes had passed the sheet was almost filled. Garrod rang for coffee and stared at the sheet while he sipped the hot liquid. Finally, part-way through the second cup, he picked up his pen and drew a ring round a sentence Livingstone had used the previous night. It was under the heading, THE CAR, and read: “The engine is very loud now.”
Garrod had been in Livingstone’s turbine-powered Rolls, and he was familiar with the type of car. In his experience it was virtually impossible to hear the engine, even at full throttle.
While finishing the coffee he drew a ring round another sub-heading, then called Grant Morgan. “Good morning. How’s the old man?”
“Fast asleep—under sedation.” Morgan looked impatient. “Did you want to see me about anything special, Al? I’m working rather hard on Boyd’s behalf.”
“So am I, as a matter of fact. Last night he said something about having been drugged by someone who wanted him to lose his little election. I know how wild this sounds—but is there anybody who has a good reason to keep him off the County Board?”
“Now, Al, you’re galloping…”
“Off in all directions. I know that, but will you answer my question, or will I make enquiries down town?”
Morgan shrugged, a strangely incongruous movement. “Well, you know how Boyd feels about gambling. He’s been pushing for tighter controls on casinos for some time now, and if he makes the Board he’s certain to force a big clamp-down. I doubt, though…”
“That’s good enough. I’m not really interested in a motive—just the possibility. Now, have you ever been in Boyd’s car?”
“A Rolls, isn’t it? Yes, I’ve ridden with him several times.” “How does the engine sound?”
Morgan ventured a smile. “Has it got an engine? I had a feeling it was pulled along by an invisible wire.”
“You mean you’ve never heard the engine?”
“Ah…yes.”
“Then how do you explain this remark Boyd made last night?” Garrod picked up his block of paper and read, “The engine is very loud now.”
“If I had to explain it I’d say that a possible side-effect of MSR is increased sensory awareness.”
“Is this increased sensory awareness compatible with falling unconscious over the steering wheel?”
“I’m not a narcotics expert, but…”
“Forget it, Grant. I’ve taken up enough of your time.” Garrod broke the connection and returned to studying his notes. A little before noon he told his secretary, Mrs. Werner, that he was going out on personal business, left the plant and drove to. the police headquarters under a steel-grey sky. The building was crowded and he had to wait twenty minutes before being admitted to Lieutenant Mayrick’s office.
“I’m sorry about the delay,” Mayrick said when they were seated together at his desk, “but you’re partly to blame for the overload of work in this department.”
“How’s that?”
“So many glass eyes in use these days. Peeping Toms used to present a minor problem—when there was a complaint the guy either ran off or you took him, and the risk involved stopped it becoming too popular a pastime. Now you have people planting spyglass all over the place—hotel bedrooms, washrooms, everywhere you could think of. And when somebody notices it and puts in a complaint you have to stake the place out and wait for the peeper to come back and collect his property. Then you have to prove he was the one who put it there in the first place…”
“I’m sorry.”
Mayrick shook his head slightly. “Why did you come to see me?”
“Well, you must have guessed it’s about the charges against my father-in-law. Is your mind completely closed to the possibility that he just might have been framed?”
Mayrick smiled and reached for his cigarettes. “I know it isn’t the done thing to admit to having a closed mind about anything, but sometimes I get tired of trying to sound all liberal and aware, et cetera, so—yes, my mind is closed to that possibility. What now?” “Do you mind if I raise a few points?”
“No. Go ahead.” Mayrick waved grandly, creating whirlpools of smoke.
“Thank you. Number one—I heard on the radio this morning that William Kolkman, the man who was killed, was a pool hall attendant down by the river. Now, what was he doing walking along Ridge Avenue, of all places, at that time of the night?”
“Couldn’t say. Perhaps he was going to burgle one of those custom-built houses—but that wouldn’t entitle motorists to declare open season on him.”
“You don’t think it’s important?”
“No.”
“Nor even relevant?”
“Nope. Have you any other points?”
“One of my father-in-law’s recollections of the accident is of hearing a loud engine noise, but…” Garrod hesitated, suddenly aware of how superficial his words must seem, “…but his car makes no sound at all.”
“It must be nice for your father-in-law having such a fine car,” Mayrick said in a carefully neutral voice. “How does that affect the case?”
“Well, if he heard…”
“Look, Mr. Garrod,” Mayrick said abruptly, losing patience, “leaving aside the fact that your father-in-law was so high on MSR that he probably thought he was flying a bomber—other people heard this supposedly noiseless automobile. I have signed statements from people who heard the impact, were on the scene within thirty seconds, found Kolkman still pumping out his life’s blood in the gutter, and saw Mr. Livingstone in the car which killed him.”
Garrod was shocked. “You didn’t mention the witnesses last night.”
“Perhaps that was because I was busy last night. And I’m going to be busy today.”
Garrod got to his feet, prepared to leave, but found himself still speaking in a stubborn voice. “Your witnesses didn’t actually see the accident?”
“No, Mr. Garrod.”
“What sort of street lighting is there in Ridge Avenue? Retardite panels?”
“Not yet.” Mayrick looked maliciously amused. “You see, the moneyed residents of that area have objected to big sheets of spyglass being hung up near their homes, and the city is still fighting them over it.”
“I see.” Garrod mumbled an apology for having intruded on the lieutenant’s working day and left the building. The faint, illogical glimmer of hope that he could prove the world wrong about Livingstone’s accident had vanished, yet he discovered he was unable to return to the plant. He drove north, travelling slowly at first, then picking up speed as he finally admitted to himself where he was going.
Ridge Avenue was a tree-lined ribbon of ferrocrete which snaked up towards a minor offshoot of the Cascades. Garrod located the scene of the accident, indicated by yellow chalk marks on the road, and parked close by. Feeling strangely self-conscious, he got out of the car and surveyed the midday sleepiness of sloping green roofs, lawns and dark foliage. This was an area where there was no real need for Scenedows, the views from the houses being pleasant enough, but window-sized panels were still sufficiently expensive to make them good status symbols. Of the six dwellings which overlooked the place where the accident had occurred, two had windows which looked like rectangular sections chopped out of hillsides.