“It’s all a cover-up, Al. Don’t you see it yet? They know, but they don’t want anybody to know how they know.”
Garrod shook his head. “Too much.”
“John told me you got pretty uptight with Mr. Pobjoy over the stories his department released to the Press,” Jane said insistently. “Why do you think they did that? Most people now believe you’ve developed a new kind of interrogation technique for slow glass. Even if you deny it the rumours will still be going the rounds.”
“So?”
“So when they arrest the killer they won’t need to make public how they knew his identity!” Jane lunged for the car’s ignition key and now her voice was angry. “Why am I bothering?”
Garrod caught her arm. She resisted for a second, then they were kissing, drinking from each other’s mouths, breathing each other’s breath. Garrod tried, without much success, to think on two levels. If Jane’s theory was correct—and as Mannheim’s secretary she would have access to top secret files—it would explain several things which had been bothering him, important things…but she felt and tasted just the way he had imagined she would, and her breast firmed naturally into his hand, pressing outwards through the fingers.
When they finally separated he said, “Do you remember the afternoon I saw you in Macon?”
She nodded.
“I flew from Washington just for that purpose, just hoping I would see you…”
“I know, Al,” she murmured. “I kept telling myself I was conceited, and it was impossible, but I knew.”
They kissed again. When he touched the satin-smooth skin of her knees they parted for an instant then closed hard, gripping his fingers.
“Let’s go back to the hotel,” she said.
On the drive back into town, despite a pounding sexuality such as he had never known, the mental habits of years kept sending his mind back to the riddle of Miller Pobjoy and his motives. And in her bedroom, by the time they had gone through the ritual of undressing each other, yet more thoughts were intruding, of Esther, of the watchful black beads that were her eyes, of his wife saying, “You’re a cold fish, Alban.”
And, when they coupled on the cool sheets, he felt the destructive tensions grow within him. The delay between the first moment in the car and this one had been too great.
“Relax,” Jane whispered in the darkness. “Love me.”
“I am relaxed,” he said with a growing sense of panic. “I do love you.”
And at that moment Jane, in her wisdom, saved him. One of her fingertips traced a line down his spine and as it reached the small of his back a diamond-bright plume of ecstasy geysered through his body, triggering a staccato, explosive climax which she shared and which annihilated all his repressions, all his fears.
They can drop the Bomb now, he thought. It doesn’t matter any more.
A moment later, simultaneously, they both began to laugh, silently at first then with a childish helplessness. And in the hours which followed Garrod’s renaissance was completed.
Chapter Twelve
Next morning Garrod called his home, although he knew that—because of the time difference—Esther would still be asleep. He left her a short recorded message:
“Esther, I can no longer agree to wearing eye discs for you. When the set which reaches you this morning is expended, you will simply have to make some other arrangements—about everything. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.”
Turning away from the viewplate he felt a powerful sense of relief that he had finally taken positive action. It was only when he was eating breakfast alone in his room that he began to wonder about the timing of his call. The positive way to look at it was that he had phoned immediately he awoke because he had an unshakable resolve to break free and would tolerate no delay. But within his personality was another Garrod who, judging by past performance, would deliberately have chosen to place the call at a time when he would not be forced to confront Esther directly. The notion disturbed him. He took a shower with a vague hope of driving it away, and emerged feeling refreshed. There was an unaccustomed warmth inside him, a feeling of easiness, which seemed to nestle in his pelvis and radiate along his limbs.
I’ve gone sane, he thought. It took a hell of a long time, but I finally experienced the madness which brings sanity.
Unexpectedly, Jane had insisted that they separate and spend the last hours of the night in their own rooms. Now he felt a deep sense of wrongness that she had not been with him during breakfast and in the shower. He decided to call her as soon as he had finished dressing, but within a few seconds his own viewphone chimed. He strode to it eagerly and activated
the screen.
The caller was Miller Pobjoy, his face as smooth and glossy
as a newly-hatched chestnut. “Morning, Al. I hope you got a good night’s sleep.”
“An excellent night, thanks.” Garrod refrained from mentioning sleep.
“Good! I want to tell you our programme for the day…”
“First let me tell you mine,” Garrod cut in. “In a few minutes I’m going to call my public relations manager and instruct him to issue a statement to all media that the investigation you’re conducting here is a pure sham, that you’ve no evidence from Wescott’s car, and that I’m resigning from…”
“Hold on, man! This channel may not be secure.”
“I hope it isn’t. A good news leak is usually more effective than straight announcements.”
“Don’t take any action till I see you,” Pobjoy said, frowning. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“Make it fifteen.” Garrod broke the connection, lit a cigarette and smoked it slowly as he analysed his situation. He had two reasons for wanting to remain in Augusta. The first and most important was that Jane was likely to be here for some time yet; the second was that he had become involved in a mystery and hated to walk away from it. If he could bully Pobjoy into letting him in on the real investigation he could satisfy his curiosity, stay with Jane, and at the same time have a perfect excuse to give to Esth…Garrod gnawed his lower lip. He did not need to explain or justify anything to Esther. Ever again, Never, ever again.
“Now, Mr. Garrod,” Pobjoy said, lowering his bulk into an armchair. “What is all this?”
Garrod noted the other man’s return to the formal mode of address, and he smiled. “I’m tired of playing games, that’s all.”
“I don’t get it. What sort of games?”
“The sort in which you use my name and reputation to make the public think there’s useful evidence in the ashes of Wescott’s car—when all the time you and I both know there isn’t any.”
Pobjoy looked up at him over steepled fingers. “You can’t prove that.”
“I’m a trusting sort of person,” Garrod said patiently. “It’s easy to bluff me—once. I don’t need to prove what I say. All I have to do is put you in the position of needing to prove what you say. And that’s what I’m about to do.” “Who’s been talking to you?”
“You underestimate me, Pobjoy. Politicians are known to tell damn stupid lies when they get into tight corners, but they’re accepted only by a public which is ignorant of the facts. I’m not a member of the public, in this instance, and I had a front row seat during your whole pantomime.
“Now tell me—who killed Senator Wescott?”