that the book was The First Circle, by Alexander Solzhenitsyn. Not the one about Indians. I went back to the rim of the bank and said, 'I met a woman who could tell you all about red men, especially the tribes west of the Mississippi River. Incidentally, she gave Gil Haight's alibi two good legs and a coat of feathers.'
'Meaning?'
'Forget him.'
He slid his feet around under eight inches of fast water, moved them right and left and out and back, feeling for a good spot, got upright, and faced the bank. Knowing how easy it was to take a tumble walking those loose rocks of all sizes, not only in the fast water where you couldn't see them but even on the dry bank where you could, I made it five to one that he would go down. But he didn't. He made it to a big flat slab of granite halfway up the bank, where he had left his shoes and socks, sat, and said, 'Report.'
'When you're up here out of danger.'
'I can't put my socks on until the sun dries and warms my feet.'
'You should have brought a towel.' I sat, on the lip of the bank. 'Verbatim?'
'If you still have the knack.'
I reported. First the brief exchanges with the Haights, including Gil's signed statement, which I read, and then Bessie Boughton. I was a little rusty on word-for-word recall, having had no practice since June, and it was a pleasure to get back into the swing of it. By the time I got to the tar and feathers it was coming as smooth as a tape recorder, though the conditions were unprecedented. I had never before reported with him sitting on a slab of granite barefooted, wiggling his toes.
'So,' I said, 'if we get a replacement for Harvey it won't be Gilbert Haight. She has covered him good to half past four. It's possible, better than possible, that she tells it like it was-I beg your pardon, as it was-but even if she's a damn liar she's a good one, and any jury would take it hook, line, and feathers. But that's not the point because no jury will ever hear it. The point is Jessup. You said he's an ass, but is he a double-breasted ass?'
'No.'
'Then we forget Gil.'
'Confound it, yes.'
He reached for his socks and shoes, put them on, kept a hand on the granite slab while he got erect with a solid footing, and came on up. I didn't offer a hand because he wouldn't have taken it, and anyway the more exercise he got the better. As he rolled his pants and sleeves down I got the cuff links from my pocket, and of course I had to put them in; he couldn't very well show at the cabin with his cuffs flapping. Not him. Then he went to the rock and got his vest and put it on, and his coat, sat, and said, 'What is a real Montana trout deal?'
'That's a good question,' I said, 'and I'm sorry you asked it.' I went and sat on the other rock. 'It depends on who's cooking it, and when and where. The first real Montana trout deal-that is, the first one cooked by a paleface-was probably at the time of the Lewis and Clark Expedition, fried on a campfire in a rusty pan in buffalo grease, with salt if they had any left. Since then there have been hundreds of versions, depending on what was handy. There's an old-timer in a hardware store in Timberburg who says that for the real thing you rub bacon grease on a piece of brown wrapping paper, wrap it around the trout, with the head and tail on and plenty of salt and pepper, and put it in the oven of a camp stove as hot as you can get it. The time depends on the size of the trout. Mrs Greve got her version from an uncle of hers who was probably inspired by what he had left at the tail end of a packing-in trip. She has changed two details: she uses aluminum foil instead of wrapping paper, and the oven of her electric range instead of a camp stove. It's very simple. Put a thin slice of ham about three inches wide on a piece of foil, sprinkle some brown sugar on it and a few little scraps of onion, and a few drops of Worcestershire sauce. Lay the trout on it, scraped and gutted but with the head and tail on, and salt it. Repeat the brown sugar and onion and Worcestershire, wrap the foil around it close, and put it in a hot oven. If some of the trout are eight or nine inches and others are fourteen or so, the timing is a problem. Serve them in the foil.'
He did not scowl or growl but merely said, 'It could be edible.'
I nodded. 'Yeah, I have noticed. You haven't said a single thing, even to me, about the feed, even the griddle cakes from a mass-produced mix or the stuff from the freezer. Obviously you gave yourself your word of honour, probably on your way to the airport, that you would take the insults to your palate without a murmur. I can hear you telling Fritz about it when we get back, assuming we do. I hope they get plenty of trout. What is your honest opinion of the canned consommй?'
I thought it would do him good to get it off his chest, but evidently he didn't. He said, 'You can't go to St. Louis. You're needed here.'
'Sure. To crack alibis.'
'Pfui. Have you any comments about last evening?'
'None to add to the one I made on the way back, and the one you made. I still like both of them. I like the way Farnham told you about the mortgage. It could have a bearing. Then the way Sam Peacock tried to slide past that morning when Brodell went for a look at Berry Creek. You had to interrupt him twice, and when you asked if Brodell had mentioned meeting anyone he tugged at his neck rag and said you asked a lot of questions. If Brodell was alive I'd like to ask him about that Thursday morning.'
'Yes. Would Mr Peacock be available if we went there now?'
'Saturday afternoon, I doubt it.'
'Will he be at that gathering at Mr Stepanian's place this evening?'
'He always is.'
'Then we'll see him there.'
'We? You're going?'
'Yes.'
My brows didn't go up; I was too impressed. I just stared.
