paled again.
?This fellow's here about that unidentified stiff case you were on,? Brower said. Little things like mistaken identities for corpses or men coming back from the dead did not interest him. They were not logical thoughts; there was no use pursuing them. He turned back to his papers and began snuffling them assiduously.
?I'm Detective Clinton,? the hawk man said.
?Victor Salsbury,? Victor said, accepting the bony hand.
The detective's color drained completely, and he ceased trying to maintain his cool. ?This way, please.? He led Salsbury back to his office, waited for him to enter, followed, and closed the door behind them. He directed Salsbury to a chair, sat in his own comfortable swivel model behind his desk. ?What can I do for you?? he asked.
Victor could think of a dozen snappy rejoinders, but realized it was not the time or place for humor. ?I read the paper last night? saw that piece about the body identified as me.?
He was quiet a moment, then smiled. ?I'm sure there is a mistake, Mr. Salsbury. The names may be the same, but the body was identified correctly.?
?There are not likely to be two Victor L. Salsburys in a city this size-both artists. Besides, you recognized me out there.?
?There is a resemblance,? he said. ?We found some pictures at the Salsbury residence. You match pretty well.?
?Did the corpse??
?Somewhat. It was, you have to realize? decomposed.?
?Why did you link the corpse to the name Salsbury??
?Your landlady-? He flushed. ?
?Pritchard,? Victor said, startling himself that he knew it.
Clinton was startled too. ?Yes. She reported that you had gone out for an evening and had been gone ten days. You were four days overdue on your rent. She was afraid something had happened. She reported you missing.?
?Identification on the body?? Victor asked.
?None. Except a note pinned to its shirt. It was inside a plastic window from a wallet and didn't get too wet.?
?The note said-??
?'I'm creative, but they won't let me be. V.'?
?Not even signed with a full name??
?No. But it fits. Victor Salsbury was a commercial artist trying to work creatively but unable to build a reputation.?
?But I am Salsbury, and I left home for ten days with a batch of work which I sold in New York.?
Detective Clinton leaned forward in his chair. ?But the dental charts matched,? he said. ?There had never been a record of Salsbury's fingerprints, but he had had regular dental care.?
?Dr. Broderick,? Victor said.
Clinton looked even more unsettled. ?We checked Broderick's records with x-rays of the corpse. Perfect match, almost.?
?Almost??
?Dental records never tell everything. His childhood dentist was someone other than Broderick. In compiling his records of Salsbury's teeth, Broderick could easily have overlooked something which showed up in more thorough crime-lab x-rays.?
?I assure you I am Victor Salsbury.?
Clinton shook his head, determined. ?It would be extremely coincidental to find two people whose dental records matched that closely. They are almost as distinctive as fingerprints. The corpse was Salsbury.?
Victor gathered courage, cleared his throat. ?X-ray my teeth right now. Compare them with the others.?
Clinton was reluctant, but there was little else he could do. This Salsbury looked like
They went to the labs where a gray-haired man named Maurie took the x-rays, compared them. This Victor Salsbury's dental charts were almost a duplicate of Dr. Broderick's files.
Upstairs, Clinton shook Victor's hand, looking very depressed at the prospect of re-opening the investigation, and said, ?Sorry to cause you all this trouble, Mr. Sals-bury. But the resemblance was amazing in so many ways. I wonder who in the hell he'll turn out to be??
Victor shook Clinton's hand and left the station. He could have told the detective who the corpse was, even though the man would never discover it on his own. The corpse, most definitely, was Victor Salsbury.
For a while, he sat in the car, wondering if his secret masters, whoever had hypno-programmed him to kill Harold Jacobi, had also killed the real Victor Salsbury to solidify his cover. But that seemed illogical, for there was the fact of the suicide note and the overdose of barbituates Salsbury had taken before throwing himself in the river in his melodramatic method of ending it all. Somehow, Victor's masters had known that would happen, had known the real Salsbury's death would be unclear enough to allow for the imposition of an imposter.
But how did they know? They must have known far in advance of the suicide, for they had fed the real Salsbury's past into him like applesauce on a spoon.
And why did he look like Victor Salsbury? Enormous coincidence? He thought not.
What did he think?
He didn't know. His mind was a caldron of doubt, boiling, spouting streamers of steam downwards into his body.
He went to the apartment Salsbury had rented in the upstairs of Marjorie Dill's house. It was a place of slanted ceilings and dark paneled walls. Mrs. Dill, a spry thread of a woman with hair the color and texture of steel wool, followed him everywhere, alternately shocked, frightened, apologetic, and scornful. Yes, she had sold his things. Yes, maybe she had moved a bit quickly. However, there was the back rent. And he was supposed to be dead. She was so sorry. But that was rude of him, leaving without word, making no arrangements about the rent.
He found three cartons of papers she had not thrown out, Mrs. Dill said they had a great many drawings which she thought she might have framed and sold. After all, he had no relatives. Parents dead. There had not been anyone to contact to claim the corpse. Of course she was sorry she had acted so swiftly. He didn't think she was being mercenary, did he?
He loaded the drawings in the car and cautioned Intrepid not to bother them. He had to move the dog in the front seat on the passengers side and pack the boxes in the luggage area. He drove off with Mrs. Dill looking after him, somewhat depressed that all those saleable drawings had slipped through her fingers, but happy that he had not thought to ask for the excess money she had obtained through the sale of his furniture and drafting equipment.
He had lunch in a cluttered, noisy restaurant that, despite its lack of decor and atmosphere, served an appetizing meal. Later, confronted with Intrepid's sad, drooping face, he bought a can of chicken meat dog food and fed him too.
At ten minutes of five, he called the advertising agency he-or the real Salsbury-had worked for, and talked to Mel Heimer, his boss. He listened to the ranting and raving about his ten-day disappearance, then informed them he did not want the job back. He listened to Heimer's face fall three inches, then hung up.
He felt no pleasure, particularly. It saddened him a little to know that telling Heimer off was probably the one thing the real Salsbury wanted to do more than anything else in the world.
There was one more errand he wished to make, and that required him to drive across the city to an art store his phony memory assured him he had visited many times before. As he drove, he listened to Intrepid appraise the passing cars. The little ones were usually worth a stare that turned him around in his seat. The good models drew an easy, low snuffle. When a Cadillac or Corvette went by, the hound bounced in his seat and whuffed at them. He was actually a pretty fair judge of quality; except that he saved his best reactions for beaten up pick-ups and little noisy motorbikes.
