The man’s laughter was infectious and Logan found himself smiling. He was suddenly reluctant to change the mood. “Actually, I’m here to talk to you about a former resident of that particular council house.”
“Oh? And who might that be?”
“Willard Strachey.”
Immediately, the smile fell away from Albright’s face. “Oh,” he said again, in a distinctly subdued tone of voice. “Terrible bit of business.”
“Yes, it was.”
“He was a good one. Not like some, mind you, who treat me and my mates like groundskeepers and won’t give us the time of day. He was always polite, Dr. Strachey was. Always had a kind word.”
“I’ve been asked by the board to look into the circumstances of his death.”
“Right. Terrible bit of business,” Albright repeated, then leaned forward conspiratorially. “How much do you know?”
“About?”
“About his manner of death.”
Logan hesitated. “Just about everything.”
Albright nodded. Then he whispered: “It was me as found his…” He fell silent and pointed to his own head. “Trimming the verge at the time, I was, down near the East Wing, banking the soil and adding some plant food.” He grimaced, reliving the moment. “Been told to keep my mouth shut about it.”
“I think that’s a very good idea. Morale’s low enough as it is.” Logan paused a moment. “Up until recently, how would you characterize Dr. Strachey’s frame of mind?”
“Beg pardon?”
“What was he like? Withdrawn, contemplative, friendly, moody?”
Albright considered this a moment. “Do you know the expression ‘Snug as a bug in a rug’?”
“Of course.”
“Well, that was Dr. Strachey. Don’t think I’ve ever seen a man better fitted for his line of work — or more suited temperamentally, like.”
This jibed so closely with what others had said that Logan decided that in the future he’d stop asking the question. “I’d like to talk to you about the West Wing, if I may.”
Albright looked at him curiously. “The West Wing? What about it?”
“Well, can you tell me its history? Why has it been closed down for so long?” During Logan’s own tenure at Lux, the subject of the West Wing had rarely come up; it was almost as if it had never existed.
“Can’t say as I know for sure. It was in pretty constant use through the sixties and seventies — that’s when I came on staff, in 1978. But by that time the Fellows were starting to complain.”
“Why?”
“Well, it was just getting…down at the heels, like. Offices and labs were small and cramped — not to mention very confusing to get around, what with no central connecting corridor. And when the East Wing renovation was completed in 1976, and everyone saw how much nicer the quarters were over there, they started asking for transfers. The staff was smaller then, and the main structure and the East Wing could accommodate just about everyone. So the West Wing fell into disuse. It was shut up completely in 1984.”
“Why?”
“There just didn’t seem any reason to keep only a handful of blokes working in there. Waste of electricity. Besides, it was overdue for a lot of repair. The heating and plumbing systems were out of date. And so they just closed it up.”
“Until recently,” Logan said.
Albright nodded. “What with the new Fellows and research associates, I guess they needed more room.”
“And they assigned Dr. Strachey to oversee the redesign.”
“Yes. Along with Miss Flood.”
“The architect.” Logan had spent a few hours the night before going over Strachey’s memos, charts, and blueprints for the redesign, and the name Flood Associates had appeared again and again. “And were your men going to take on the actual reconstruction?”
“Oh, no. They’d handle the finishing work, the plumbing and painting and HVAC. But this was to be a big job, a first-class job. You need professional builders for that — and specialists, as well.”
“Specialists?”
“For stonework and the like. Dr. Strachey had some pretty grand designs for the place.”
“But you were involved yourself, I assume?”
“Primarily in terms of arranging the construction schedule with the general contractor.”
“Did Strachey seem to enjoy the work?”
“Funny you should ask that,” Albright said. “I’d have thought he’d have disliked it. Being torn away from his beloved equations and whatnot. And at first he did seem to be on the fence about things. But from what I could see, he grew more and more fascinated with the work. The design work, mind you — he wasn’t interested in knocking down walls or putting up Sheetrock. But the look of the place — now, that was something else. See, the West Wing is sort of like an old luxury liner. There’s beauty under the rust — you just have to know how to look for it. And Dr. Strachey knew how to do that. He had a thing for architecture, he had.”
“Was construction ready to get under way?”
“Under way?” Albright laughed. “The demolition’s been going on for over a month.”
“Did he hire the workmen himself?”
“That he did.”
“I see.” Logan thought for a moment. “It all seems pretty quiet at the moment. I suppose they’ve stopped temporarily because of the tragedy. And of course they’ll need to find someone to take Strachey’s place.”
“Oh, they’ve stopped, right enough. But it’s not because of Dr. Strachey’s death.”
Logan looked at the site manager. “Excuse me?”
“A few days before he died, Dr. Strachey put a stop to the work himself.”
“He did?”
“He did and all. Sent the workers packing.”
“Did he give a reason?”
“Something about problems with structural integrity.”
Logan frowned. “But I thought the West Wing was sound.”
“I’m no engineer. But I’d lay odds that it is.”
A pause. “Could I talk to some of these workers?”
“Doubt you could find them. They were paid off, all scattered to the four winds now.”
“Really? You mean, after all the work of assembling them, they were just dismissed?”
“Yes.”
Odd. “Was Strachey planning to hire a structural engineer to inspect the wing?”
“Can’t say. I’d imagine so.”
Logan thought back to the paperwork he’d gone through the night before. He’d seen nothing referring to this sudden development.
“This general contractor you mentioned. How can I contact him?”
Albright thought a moment. “He worked out of Westerly. Let’s see…Rideout. Bill Rideout. He probably has most of the working files.”
“I’ll get in touch with him.” Logan paused thoughtfully. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Albright,” he said after a moment. “You’ve been most helpful.”
“I’ll see you out.” And — hoisting himself off the edge of his desk — Albright opened the door and led the way down the metal staircase.
11
It was eleven o’clock on his third evening at the think tank when Logan — duffel slung over one shoulder, rolled blueprints and plans and printed schedules under his other arm — walked down the main first-floor corridor of Lux. It was a weeknight, the dining room had closed its doors well over an hour before, and there were no scheduled lectures in the plush-chaired, velvet-bedecked Delaveaux Auditorium that evening. As a result, the associates and Fellows had — true to form — all retired to their various rooms for the night. Save the occasional passing maid or member of the cleaning staff, Logan had Lux’s public areas to himself.