Only one aspect of the picture seemed to suggest a possibility. Mervyn glanced around guiltily, then went through John Viviano’s brief case. There was no other copy of the print. In desperation, he rolled up the original, stuffed it in his pocket and hastily left. As he passed the registration desk, he met the eye of the woman in the blue smock. That glittering orb seemed to contain all the accusatory fires of the law. Half expecting to hear “Stop, thief!” he hurried out of the building. But there was no pursuit, and Mervyn decided that it had just been her natural expression.
The next morning, drinking coffee by his window, waiting for the mailman, who was late, Mervyn reconsidered his data in the light of late developments.
For the fateful Friday night, he now had corroboration from Harriet Brill that it was she John Boce had spent the evening with, at a movie. No wonder Boce hadn’t come clean! But he was out.
The John Thompson situation remained in the status quo ante. No corroboration yet; there was even reason to believe he lied.
Corroboration for John Viviano’s alibi that he had spent the evening in the Recreation Center’s darkroom: unsatisfactory. The photograph of the Chinatown street might have been developed at any time. There was only Viviano’s word.
John Pilgrim bellhopping at the Claremont Hotel on his regular shift, as attested by his time card: A good alibi — unless the other bellhop had been covering up for him at Pilgrim’s request.
Mervyn sighed. This was hard work.
He went to the phone, dialed Information and asked for the number of John Thompson, 1315 Bramble Way, Enchanted Meadows, Concord.
To Mervyn’s relief it was Thompson’s wife who answered; had it been the librarian, he would have hung up.
He identified himself and suffered Mrs. Thompson’s pleasantries until he found a place to cut in. “Mrs. Thompson,” he said in a confidential tone, “I’m going to ask you what may seem like a strange question, but believe me it has a perfectly simple explanation that really has nothing to do with John.” And that, he thought desperately, is as stupid a line as I’ve ever heard of! “Did your husband spend last weekend with you?”
“Last weekend? With me?” Mrs. Thompson was silent, and Mervyn thought she was going to blast. But she was only thinking. “Why, no.”
Mervyn sighed in spite of his exultancy. Mrs. Thompson was so transparently naïve. What nastinesses detective work took one into!
“Then John wasn’t home last weekend?”
“Oh, but he was,” Mrs. Thompson said. “I’m the one who wasn’t home. Poor John had to batch, but then he’s used to that.”
Mervyn gritted his teeth, holding on to himself by main strength of character. It was just too damn, damn difficult! “When did you leave, Mrs. Thompson?”
“Friday, as soon as John got home. I took the children up to Sacramento to see my sister Eunice. I hated to miss the weekend with John, but Eunice was leaving for Oklahoma and it was the last chance I’d have to see her for a long time. But, Mr. Gray, why do you ask?”
After all, she was a woman.
“Sort of private joke,” Mervyn said, trying to chuckle. “It’s really a kind of game we play here at the university — it’s much too involved to explain over the phone.” (Or anywhere else, he thought.)
“Would you like to talk to John? He’s setting out redwood stakes for grapevines. He says we’re going to make our own wine. Imagine!”
“Oh, no, don’t bother him,” Mervyn said quickly. “In fact, part of the game is that he’s not even supposed to know I called. By the way, I don’t suppose you phoned home Friday night from Sacramento?”
“No...” Mrs. Thompson’s tone suddenly turned thoughtful. “Mr. Gray, this game or whatever it is you’re playing—”
That’s done it, Mervyn thought despairingly. “Excuse me, Mrs. Thompson, somebody’s at my door. I really must hang up. ’Bye!”
“Bye,” Mrs. Thompson answered in the same thoughtful way.
Mervyn returned to his post at the window. All right, he had done it clumsily. But he had found out something, and wasn’t that the proof of whatever-it-was? — pudding? The fact was, John Thompson had been home alone from early Friday evening the previous weekend. (He took time off to wonder why Thompson’s little girl had said her father had not mown the grass that weekend. Of course! When she and her sister and mother got back from Sacramento she saw that the grass was uncut! That was getting somewhere!) John Thompson, you dog, Mervyn thought, your alibi stinks.
And there came the mailman, hurrying along like the White Rabbit.
Mervyn went out to meet him, and he came back with a batch of letters and circulars. But he was interested only in the cheap white envelope.
He sat down at the kitchen table, fascinated. His name, his address... He slit the end of the envelope slowly, slowly withdrew the folded sheet of paper, quickly unfolded it.
Mervyn sat looking at the fourth word for five minutes, his heart trying to climb out of his throat. Damn “John”! And all his works! What in God’s good name have I ever done, Mervyn thought, to deserve this calculated campaign to turn me into a gibbering ape?
He considered again going to the police, telling everything. “Confess!” Mervyn’s stomach flopped like a frantic salmon. It was unthinkable.
Pack up and leave? But sooner or later the police would begin an investigation of Mary’s disappearance, and anyone who had lit out would automatically become their-prize suspect.
No, there was nothing to do but continue his one-man John-hunt. He reread the letter, and this time it infuriated him.
He snatched the telephone and called the home of Richard Takahashi. Mrs. Takahashi told him that her husband was at work. So Mervyn phoned the university observatory. After a short delay, he heard Dick Takahashi’s calm voice.
“Dick, this is Mervyn Gray.”
“Hi, Merv. How’s tricks?”
“Tricky. Say, Dick, I’ve got a problem that’s up your alley. Do you have a few minutes?”
“Sure. What is it?”
“I’ve got to show it to you. What room are you working in?”
“Room one twelve.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
Mervyn set out on foot. He felt in the mood for a good fast walk.
Approaching the university, he passed an art-film theater. Sure enough, there on the marquee were the words EISENSTEIN’S ALEXANDER NEVSKY. Further verification of John Boce’s alibi. Mervyn walked on. But then he stopped, frowning. That was an awfully long run for a revival. Even for culture-conscious Berkeley. Over a week. Was it possible that...? He crossed the street to the box office. It was closed, but the schedule of the month’s attractions was on display.
Alexander Nevsky: June 17 to June 22.
Today was therefore the last day. The first showing had been on the seventeenth — last Monday. John Boce and Harriet Brill had not seen Alexander Nevsky the previous Friday night, after all. Harriet had given Boce a false alibi!
Mervyn hurried on to the observatory, a comfortable, shabby old frame building smelling of floor oil and varnish. In Room 112 he found Richard Takahashi, a compact young man with an uncompromising butch haircut and black horn rims.
“You sounded all hopped up,” Takahashi said. “What gives?”
Mervin took out the photograph he had filched from John Viviano and laid it down on the desk. “Look at this photograph, Dick. What do you make of it?”