“Captain—” It was Grady, calling out to him, above the voices.
“Yeh?” Surcher turned to him.
“Attomey-General’s been on the line again. Wants you to call him back right away."
Surcher nodded. He had expected this.
“Any message?”
“I think they're sending an army down.”
Grady was a fairly young man, not long assigned to the Investigating Branch. He was excited, even though he was trying to hide it. To him, this was war, and platoons brought victory. No doubt of it. Surcher, gazing at him, before going toward a phone, knew that in time he would learn.
“No helicopters, I hope,” he said to him, picking up a phone. Grady grinned. He had a sense of humor. He admired his chief.
Tiger wasn’t feeling too bad. It was lunchtime, or nearly so. He had taught a Civics class, among other things, talked to Looby Loo, that true blue, on the phone, quite a little while, that honey-bunch, his only one, and he had just come back from quite the harrowing little session in the Conference Room with Proffer, the Area Superintendent, Burgess Totsi, practically the whole School Board, Rever-ened Brook, that peach of a theologian, officials of the P.-T.A., assorted and varied sundry others—and Surcher. Tiger stopped. Surcher. He shook his head, slowly. The barrage that guy had to face was murderous, they just couldn’t believe he was doing his best, or in fact if he even knew what he was doing—that had come out, from at least two of them. Tiger admired him. He had handled it beautifully. He was a man to watch, alright, no doubt about it. Tiger admired him, unqualifiedly. If ever a man was up against it, and knew how to handle himself, there he was it Without a doubt of it. But what had really uplifted Tiger, so to speak, was the decision taken then and there to (1) keep the school open, and (2) go on with the game. It was something they had all more or less agreed on, after a while, thanks in no small part to Surcher’s efforts, not to mention his own effective advocacy of both matters. The only problem now might be the parents. At the meeting tomorrow, Tiger would put all he had into it. He was impressed however with the massive turnout today and so he had hopes they wouldn’t be too much of a problem—if any. After all, despite everything, the parents of Sawyers-Yiile were interested in the education of their children, not the cessation of it, and were, on the whole, rational. Well they knew how meaningless it was, statistically, to worry unduly about the possible dispatch of one of their loved ones by the fiend, whoever he might be. Besides, State Troopers would be everywhere, and certainly no young maid was going to be allowed out at night—until the situa-lion was settled. And it would be settled. So Tiger, all in all, didn’t feel too bad—though he was in mourning. Nothing could help that. It had gone on all morning. It was a process as inevitable as the sun rising. Or setting. The moon waxing. Waning. That was life. Name it. It was the case. Place it. There, without a sound, soundlessly, converged all the forces. Without a doubt, a part of him hovered low. There was Alice Patmore.
“Hi—”
In that frock, that bosom friend of poor Jill’s looked fetching. It was a pretty pastel shade, close-fitting, and could almost pass as a mini. With her blond hair—worn in the latest and cutest style, what a style—it was perfect. Tiger grinned at her warmly. Right on time, the honey.
“What’s new, Pretty?”
He knew she liked that, almost as much as he liked
saying it. In fact. She sat down.
“Are they going to close the school?” Came the query, right off the bat, as he admired her lipstick. He wanted to ask her what shade that was. And he would.
“No,” he said.
She sighed, “That’s good.”
Who could sigh like that?
“I like your lipstick.” He said.
“Do you?” She was as coy as they came. No doubt of it. He loved it.
“What shade is it?” He asked. “What do they call it?”
She smiled. She had perfect teeth.
"Coral Wonder."
“No wonder.”
“A cool number.”
Tiger grinned, and she was smiling. Her position on the curve was—Tuckwell. The last name of the teacher due from England next term popped into his head, suddenly. Without warning. He toyed with it. She would have one of those nice British accents. He loved that accent—on the fair sex. The young fair sex. At any rate. It had something. He always thought of English maids as friendly, fresh, in love with life—and that sweet accent. His favorite accent of all of course was American. Except southern. He thought of him. Old Cornpone. He smiled.
“How’s everything?” He asked Alice.
“Oh—alright—” she answered.
Tiger nodded.
“Tiger—” She halted, He gazed at her hazel eyes. Intriguing color. In it, were all colors. He loved them. He waited. “Those little pills—” She paused. He waited. Here we go again. “They can’t hurt me—can they?” She murmured.
“No,” he told her, “Not if you take them as directed—” He reassured her, quietly. She sighed, reassured once more. Until next time. She had this quirk. Tiger sat there, gazing at her. She certainly thrived on reassurance. It would be o.k. now. He knew. He loved those eyes.
“Aren’t they wonderful,” she murmured.
“I think so,” he told her.
“Just like you’re wonderful,” she murmured. He loved blond hair. He thought of Jill’s blond hair. He had loved it It was slightly different from Alice’s. There was nothing like blond hair. Or red. Or brunet. That was true of hair. There was this subtle and intriguing shade of difference between heads of hair. The hair on their heads. No two blond-haired maids for instance had identical hair, he mused, anywhere in the world. He knew. What color was Miss Tuckwell’s?
“Where were we?” He asked her.
“Oh—” she said, and she spoke softly, “On the couch.”
He grinned. There was a memory. But it wasn’t what he asked her.
“I meant the project.”
She was looking at him, and pouting.
“Was it the one with all the drawings?”
He said, “We did that one.”
“I finished it?”
“Sure, you finished it”
“Can’t we sit on the couch?”
This was the other side of her coyness, and no ignoring it. He gazed at her form, outlined invitingly under her frock. It was true of all coyness, as he had gleaned, through experience.
“Then—” she said, very softly, “You could tell me how I made out—” She stopped.
He gazed at her. He would do that. There was nothing like comfort. Above all, she was for comfort. He got up, opened the filing cabinet, and pulled out her folder. He
Pretty Maids All in a Row 389 the same footing as any of you directly working on the case—I mean, as far as access, within reason of course, to information is concerned. You’ve got to use your judgment there, naturally, on certain things, I know, I know just at the present moment you won’t be able to tell him everything—but within these limits, you see what I mean, tell him what he wants to know, let him circulate—” He paused. “Got that?’’ Surcher grabbed it. “Later on,’’ the man went on, “when it’s all over, you can fill in the gaps for him.” He stopped.
“Do we get a cut of the royalties?” Surcher asked, full of fun.
There was a long pause, and then, another surprise: a burst of hearty laughter. There was a sense of humor, Surcher noted, forlorn.
“Who knows! Wait and see!” he next heard, finally. And then, again serious vein, “O.K. Is everything all clear? Do you have any questions?”
“Alright then. Don’t be surprised to see me around there —tomorrow—next day—when is that Carverton game? —Though by then, I hope, everything will be O.K.”