but after hanging up I went back to my chair. If I went out, sure as hell Koven would get his nerve up in my absence, and by the time I got back he would have lost it again and have to start over. I explained the situation to my stomach, and it made a polite sound of protest, but I was the boss. I was glancing at my watch again and seeing 1:42 when the door opened and Mrs. Koven was with me.
When I stood, her serious gray eyes beneath the wide smooth brow were level with the knot in my fourinhand. She said her husband had told her that I was staying for a conference at a later hour. I confirmed it. She said I ought to have something to eat. I agreed that it was not a bad notion.
'Won't you,' she invited, 'come down and have a sandwich with us? We don't do any cooking, we even have our breakfast sent in, but there are some sandwiches.'
'I don't want to be rude,' I told her, 'but are they in the room with the monkey?'
'Oh, no.' She stayed serious. 'Wouldn't that be awful? Downstairs in the workroom.' She touched my arm. 'Come on, do.'
I went downstairs with her.
132
rA large room at the rear on the ground floor the other four suspects were seated around a plain wooden table, dealing with the sandwiches. The room was a mess--drawing tables under fluorescent lights, open shelves crammed with papers, cans of all sizes, and miscellaneous objects, chairs scattered around, other shelves with books and portfolios, and tables with more stacks of papers. Messy as it was to the eye, it was even messier to the ear, for two radios were going full blast.
Marcelle Koven and I joined them at the lunch table, and I perked up at once. There was a basket of French bread and pumpernickel, paper platters piled with slices of ham, smoked turkey, sturgeon, and hot corned beef, a big slab of butter, mustard and other accessories, bottles of milk, a pot of steaming coffee, and a one-pound jar of fresh caviar. Seeing Pete Jordan spooning caviar onto a piece of bread crust, I got what he meant about liking to eat.
'Help yourself!' Pat Lowell yelled into my ear.
I reached for the bread with one hand and the corned beef with the other and yelled back, 'Why doesn't someone turn them down or even off?'
She took a sip of coffee from a paper cup and shook her head. 'One's By Hildebrand's and one's Pete Jordan's! They like different programs when they're working! They have to go for volume!'
It was a hell of a din, but the corned beef was wonderful and the bread must have been from Rusterman's, nor was there anything wrong with the turkey and sturgeon. Since the radio duel precluded table talk, I used my eyes for diversion and was impressed by Adrian Getz, whom Koven called the Squirt. He would break off a rectangle of bread crust, place a rectangle of sturgeon on it, arrange a mound of caviar on top, and pop it in. When it was down he would take three sips of coffee and then start over. He was doing that when
J33
Mrs. Koven and I arrived and he was still doing it when I was full and reaching for another paper napkin.
Eventually, though, he stopped. He pushed back his chair, left it, went over to a sink at the wall, held his fingers under the faucet, and dried them with his handkerchief. Then he trotted over to a radio and turned it off, and to the other one and turned that off. Then he trotted back to us and spoke apologetically.
'That was uncivil, I know.'
No one contradicted him.
'It was only,' he went on, 'that I wanted to ask Mr. Goodwin something before going up for my nap.' His eyes settled on me. 'Did you know when you opened that window that sudden cold drafts are dangerous for tropical monkeys?'
His tone was more than mild, it was wistful. But something about him--I didn't know what and didn't ask for time out to go into it--got my goat.
'Sure,' I said cheerfully. 'I was trying it out.'
'That was thoughtless,' he said, not complaining, just giving his modest opinion, and turned and trotted out of the room.
There was a strained silence. Pat Lowell reached for the pot to pour some coffee.
'Goodwin, God help you,' Pete Jordan muttered.
'Why? Does he sting?'
'Don't ask me why, but watch your step. I think he's a kobold.' He tossed his paper napkin onto the table. 'Want to see an artist create? Come and look.' He marched to one of the radios and turned it on, then to a drawing table and sat.
'I'll clean up,' Pat Lowell offered.
Byram Hildebrand, who had not squeaked once that I heard, went and turned on the other radio before he took his place at another drawing table.
Mrs. Koven left us. I helped Pat Lowell clear up the lunch table, but all that did was pass time, since both radios were going and I rely mostly on talk to develop an acquaintance in the early stages. Then she left, and I strolled over to watch the artists. So far nothing had occurred to change my
J34
opinion of Dazzle Dan, but I had to admire the way they did him. Working from rough sketches which all looked alike to me, they turned out the finished product in three colors so fast I could barely keep up, walking back and forth. The only interruptions for a long stretch were when Hildebrand jumped up to go and turn his radio louder, and a minute later Pete Jordan did likewise. I sat down and concentrated on the experiment of listening to two stations at once, but after a while my brain started to curdle and I got out of there.
A door toward the front of the lower hall was standing open, and I looked in and stepped inside when I saw
