Mervyn produced a dollar bill. It vanished, and the bellhop departed. Five minutes later he was back. “His card is punched for last Friday night. He put in a full shift, from six to two a.m.”
“Thanks.”
So much for John Pilgrim.
Mervyn got to his feet and crossed the lobby, where he paused to consider a fresh possibility. No. Hardly reasonable.
He went on, and collided with a hurrying figure in a maroon uniform, who gripped his biceps so powerfully that Mervyn almost cried out.
In a suave voice John Pilgrim said, “Excuse me, sir,” and stepped around Mervyn and went on.
Chapter 10
Mervyn frowned over his TV dinner. On Friday evening last, John Thompson had or had not mowed the lawn and performed other domestic tasks way out in Enchanted Meadows; John Pilgrim had probably put in a full shift at the Claremont Hotel; John Viviano had occupied himself learning the basic elements of his profession; and John Boce had — at least claimed — a social engagement.
Mervyn considered each alibi carefully.
John Boce’s refusal to disclose the name of his date carried the least conviction.
The pattern of John Thompson’s secret domestic weekends was clear, but it remained to be seen whether or not he had followed the pattern the previous Friday.
The same could be said for John Pilgrim. The time card put him in the clear — if the other bellhop was telling the truth. Remembering Pilgrim’s grip on his arm, Mervyn had to consider the possibility of collusion.
As for John Viviano, by Malinski’s testimony he should by now be pursuing his darkroom studies.
Mervyn looked at his watch. Five minutes to eight. Almost exactly one week ago, Mary Hazelwood had left Apartment 12 to rendezvous with death. Mervyn shuddered.
He changed his shirt, put on a tie and a dark jacket and, switching off the lights, went to his door. Here he hesitated, slowly opening the door.
Nothing out of the ordinary. Mrs. Kelly’s apartment across the court up there was dark, as it should be. Neither Susie nor Harriet Brill seemed to be at home; ditto John Boce.
Mervyn moved out into the shadow under the balcony, hesitated again, then plunged across the court, his back tingling with vulnerability... He was almost surprised when he reached the street safely.
Half a block away he saw Harriet, evidently returning from a trip to the corner market. He quelled the impulse to jump into his car and leave.
Harriet waved gaily. “Good evening, good evening!”
“Hi, Harriet,” Mervyn said. “Any idea where John Boce has gone to?”
“No. Why, Mervyn?”
“He wanted to talk to me about the convertible.”
“You two and that car,” the psychologist said indulgently. “Just like a pair of quarreling children.”
“Say, Harriet, did John borrow your car Friday a week ago?”
Harriet’s eyes slitted. “Did John say he did?”
“He’s awfully mysterious about whom he was out with last Friday night.”
Harriet said cautiously, “John and I had a date that evening.”
“You used your car?”
“That must have been the night we saw Alexander Nevsky. One of the Eisenstein films. John and I both love Russian films. They’re so — so Russian.”
Ah, the hell with it, Mervyn thought. “Well, I’ll probably see John tomorrow. How’s Mrs. Kelly today?”
“Better.” Harriet took a nervous step. “Excuse me, Mervyn, my ice cream is melting.” She made hastily for her apartment.
Mervyn crossed the Bay Bridge and located the San Francisco Recreation Center, a large public building devoted to arts, crafts and hobbies. The ground floor was given over to impressive facilities for the processing and printing of film.
Mervyn spotted Viviano at once. The photographer stood beside a print drier, impatiently watching the slow, endless belt. He was wearing black slacks and a loose offbeat poplin jacket with blue and red stripes. He looked up, saw Mervyn’s eyes on him, and froze.
“What are you doing here, Viviano?” Mervyn called amiably. “Experimenting at the taxpayers’ expense?”
“Exactly,” snapped Viviano.
Mervyn looked around the room. Near the entrance to the darkroom stood a print washer. On the other side of the room there were tables with paper cutters, a press for mounting finished prints, and other devices. “What sort of work are you doing down here?”
“General photography,” said Viviano shortly. “Anything and everything. I’m refreshing my techniques.”
Prints began to fall from the drier into a tray. Viviano scooped them up, examined them closely. They looked to Mervyn like very ordinary views of an ancient hotel in the process of being wrecked.
“You shot those pictures last week?”
“Yes,” grunted Viviano. “On Monday morning. The film is Plus X. I used a Nikon F with a one-thirty-five telephoto.”
“Interesting,” said Mervyn mendaciously. “Er — do you have any other prints on hand — say, those you made last Friday night?”
John Viviano slapped the prints down on a table and swung about. “You’re still on that kick, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Mervyn admitted. How did those fiction detectives do it?
“Why? What difference is it to you where I was last Friday night?”
Mervyn could only answer miserably, “I told you. I want to find Mary Hazelwood.”
Viviano gesticulated fiercely. “Very well. Anything to end this persecution. I was here last Friday night. Look!”
He strode to a nearby table, opened a brief case, took out an 11×14 print. “See this? I worked three hours that night to prepare this print. It was a very difficult negative, and I was trying to produce the best possible result.”
Mervyn examined the photograph, a foreshortened view of a busy Chinatown street — Grant Avenue, by the street sign. Sunlight slanting down intersecting streets produced an effect of luminous overlapping washes of haze. The sidewalks were clogged with pedestrians, the street with cars.
It was, Mervyn was forced to admit, an excellent photograph. Still, what did it prove? Viviano might have printed the picture on some other occasion.
“You printed this last Friday?”
“Yes.”
“Was someone helping you? Or watching? In short, is there anyone who can substantiate the date?”
Viviano said with enormous dignity, “I don’t know. I refuse to discuss this any further, Gray. Excuse me.”
“Wait.” Mervyn felt ridiculous. “I’m merely trying to eliminate you, Viviano, so you won’t be involved.”
“We aren’t in a court of law,” the photographer snarled. “Besides, I’m not in the least interested.” He extracted new prints from the drier and pointedly turned his back.
Mervyn went over to the registration desk. A sharp-featured woman in a blue smock looked up with disapproval. “Yes?”
“Do you keep records of who works in the darkroom?”
The woman shook her head.
“Are you acquainted with Mr. John Viviano?”
“Certainly, he’s over there by the drier.”
“Was he here last Friday night?”
“I don’t remember, I’m sure.”
“Would anyone here know?”
“Why not ask Mr. Viviano?”
“I did. He’s not sure whether he was here Thursday or Friday.”
“Well, I can’t help you if he can’t.”
Mervyn went reluctantly back to the drier. Viviano, ignoring him, strode into the darkroom. Mervyn re-examined the photograph of Grant Avenue. A sidewalk clock showed the time, 3:17. If only there were some way to date the picture, thought Mervyn — a newspaper headline, for instance (he had once seen a movie like that). But no newspaper stands were visible.