“I’m not that much of a celebrity,” Garrod replied quickly. “What was the idea of feeding all that bull to the Press last night?”
“Bull, Mr. Garrod?” Pobjoy looked puzzled.
“Yeah—the stuff about my being confident of pinpointing the killer with new Retardite interrogation techniques.”
Pobjoy’s brow was restored to the smoothness and sheen of a new chestnut. “Oh, that! Somebody in our publicity department got a little over-enthusiastic, I guess. You know how it is.”
“As a matter of fact, I don’t. My publicity manager would sack any member of his staff who pulled one like that. Then I would sack him for having allowed it to happen.”
Pobjoy shrugged. “Somebody got carried away, lost his head, that’s all. It’s a big embarrassment to the state that Wescott got himself murdered here—the only reason it happened in Maine was that the Senator came up here regularly for the fishing and hunting—so everybody’s very anxious to show willing.”
Garrod found the black man’s attitude strangely unsatisfactory, but he decided to let the matter slide. On the ride into downtown Augusta he learned that the other members of the expert panel were an FBI man called Gilchrist and a military research chief who had temporarily been detached from the Army for the purpose. The latter turned out to be Colonel John Mannheim, one of the very few men in the military establishment with whom Garrod was on comfortable drinking terms. Mannheim was also—and the thought caused Garrod’s heart to lurch slightly—the immediate boss of the Korean-looking silver-lipped girl who, without raising a finger, had destroyed Garrod’s sanity for a day. He opened his mouth to ask if the colonel had brought any of his secretarial staff with him, then remembered the vision and sound recorder on his lapel. His hand rose instinctively to the smooth plastic.
“That’s an unusual gadget you’ve got there,” Pobjoy smiled. “Is it a camera?” “Sort of. Where are we going now?” “To your hotel.”
“Oh. I thought we’d have gone straight to police headquarters.”
“Have to get you freshened up and fed first.” Pobjoy smiled again. “A man can’t give of his best on an empty stomach, can he?”
Garrod shook his head uncertainly as the feeling of being manipulated returned. “Have you arranged for laboratory and workshop facilities?”
“All laid on, Mr. Garrod. After you meet the other members of the panel and have lunch we’re all driving up to Bingham so you can see the scene of the murder for yourself.”
“What good will that do?”
“It’s hard to say how much good it ever does—but it’s the natural starting point for all homicide investigations.” Pobjoy began scanning the street through which they were passing. “It helps, you know, to get the best possible picture of the actual crime. The relative positions and angles…Here’s the hotel now—what do you say to a drink before lunch?”
Another group of reporters were waiting on the sidewalk outside the hotel, and again they were being held in check by a larger force of police. Pobjoy waved to the newsmen in a friendly manner as he urged Garrod quickly through into the foyer.
“You don’t need to register,” Pobjoy said. “I’ve taken care of all the details and your baggage is right behind us.”
They crossed an area of lush, expensive carpet, rode up three floors in the elevator, and walked a short distance to a large, pale green, sunny room which appeared as though it might have been used for Rotary Club meetings. On this occasion a single table was laid with about twenty places. A bar had been set up in a corner and a number of men who looked like politicians and police executives were standing around in small groups. Garrod at once picked out John Mannheim, looking slightly uncomfortable in a business suit.
Pobjoy fetched Garrod a vodka tonic from the bar and took him around the assembly performing introductions. The only name which stuck with Garrod was that of Horace Gilchrist, the FBI forensic expert, who was a sand-coloured man with cropped, forward-growing hair and the intent expression of someone whose hearing is poor but is determined not to miss a word. Garrod was on his second extra-strong drink and an air of unreality was stealing over him by the time he reached Mannheim.
He drew the colonel aside. “What’s going on here, John? I feel like I’m taking part in a charade.”
“But that’s exactly what it is, Al.”
“What do you mean?”
An amused expression appeared on Mannheim’s ruddy fisherman’s face. “Nothing.”
“You meant something.”
“Al, you know as well as I do that murders aren’t solved at this level…”
“Lunch is served, gentlemen,” Pobjoy called, ringing his glass loudly with a spoon. “Please be seated.”
At the long table Garrod found himself directly opposite John Mannheim, though just too far away for discreet conversation. He kept trying to catch Mannheim’s eye but the colonel was drinking quickly and talking to the men on each side of him. During the meal Garrod answered occasional questions from his own neighbours and did his best to disguise his impatience with the proceedings. He was moodily stirring his coffee when he became aware that a woman had entered the room and was leaning over Mannheim’s shoulder, whispering to him. Garrod glanced up and felt his throat go dry as he recognized her black, black hair and silver-painted lips. It was Jane Wason.
At that instant she raised her eyes and they locked into Garrod’s with a directness which seemed to drain the strength from his body. The businesslike set of the beautiful face appeared to soften momentarily, then she was hurrying away from the table. Garrod stared after her, filled with the elated certainty that he had shaken Jane Wason as she had shaken him.
A full minute had passed before he remembered Esther’s eyes clipped to his lapel, and again his hand rose of its own accord to cover the sentient glassy discs.
In the afternoon Garrod freshened up, changed his clothes and joined the other men—Mannheim, Gilchrist and Pob-joy—who were being driven to Bingham to examine the scene of the crime. There was a sleepy, well-fed atmosphere in the limousine and they spoke very little as it worked its way into the north-bound traffic flow. Garrod kept thinking about Jane Wason, seeing her face shimmering in his vision like a bright after-image, and they had travelled perhaps three miles before he absorbed the fact that they kept passing work crews who were replacing slow glass lighting panels above the road.
“What’s going on?” He tapped Pobjoy’s broad knee and nodded at one of the maintenance trucks.
“Oh, that!” Pobjoy grinned. “We’ve got a really active chapter of the Privacy League here in Augusta. Some nights they go out in their cars with the sunroofs open and shoot up the lighting panels with duck guns.”
“But that would only blank out the glass for a few hours until the light came through again.”
Pobjoy shook his head. “As soon as the material is holed or cracked it’s considered unsafe structurally and has to be replaced. City ordinance.”
“It must be costing the city a fortune.”
“Not only this city—it’s the new national sport, man. And I know I don’t need to tell you that people don’t buy Scenedows much any more.”
“As a matter of fact,” Garrod said guiltily, “I’ve been neglecting the business for the last year, so I’m out of touch with the sales position.”
“I daresay it’ll get in touch with you soon enough. Hotheads in the League throw bricks through Scenedows. The more subtle types blank them out with ticklers and the proud home-owners are left with black windows.”