Icy Clutches

'Shirley Yount,” Elliott replied promptly.

'And just why would Shirley Yount want to do that, sir?'

'Don't patronize me, Inspector,” Fisk snapped.

'Sorry,” John said amiably. “Why do you think she took it? And I'm not an inspector.'

'Because she was afraid of what was in it, naturally. She's afraid my uncle told the truth about her unspeakable sister. And he did. Oh, he certainly did.'

'Her sister was Jocelyn Yount? Steven's fiancee?'

John knew more than he was telling Fisk; he just liked to hear things more than once. Gideon had already told him about the angry exchange he'd walked in on between Fisk and Shirley Yount the day before.

'Yes, and she was like a stone around his neck. Steve deserved better than her. He was a brilliant student.” Behind his beard, pale lips stretched in a catty smile. “Which Tremaine realized only too well. Steve did all the work, and the great Tremaine did all the publishing—with no credit, of course. That's all in the journal too. Oh, yes. With verification. You should have seen Tremaine's face—'

'What's this got to do with Shirley Yount, Dr. Fisk?'

Fisk bridled at being interrupted. “I was about to tell you before you got me off the track. Her sister was a tart. Can I be any plainer than that?'

'Did you know Jocelyn Yount yourself, Doctor?'

'Well, no, I didn't actually know her. But it's all in the journal.'

'And you think Shirley stole it to protect the memory of her sister?'

Fisk turned to Gideon with a little moue of exasperation. At least, Gideon thought it was a moue. “Didn't I just say that?'

'I suppose you did,” John said with a quiet smile. “How would she know what was in the journal?'

'Everyone knew. I told them about it yesterday afternoon. It came up during the meeting.'

'If they knew about it, and if they were with you in the dining room this morning—they were, weren't they...?'

'Yes,' Fisk said with an imploring look heavenward. “My God, how many times do I have to repeat this? I wish you'd write it down if you can't remember.'

'Then how do you know it was Shirley?” John said in the same calm voice. “Why not one of the others?'

Gideon marveled at his equanimity. John did not have a quick temper, exactly, but neither was he the most restrained of men, at least not in the many heated, arm-waving discussions he had had with Gideon over the years. This was business, though, and that clearly made it different. Besides, John had spent over an hour with Dr. Wu that morning; Elliott Fisk was child's play in comparison.

All the same, Gideon thought, if it were me I would have kicked the guy by now.

'It was Shirley Yount,” Fisk maintained. “Now are you going to do something about it, or are we going to sit here talking about it all day?'

'We'll do something about it, sir. I appreciate your telling me about it. I'll be in touch.'

Fisk looked at Gideon again. “I gather I'm being dismissed.'

John laughed good-naturedly and opened the door for him, then came back and picked up the last of the chicken pieces.

'John,” Gideon said. “I think you're actually mellowing.'

'That's the way they teach us to do it at the academy.” He gnawed contentedly at the wing bone, searching out and finding the last resistant scraps of meat with his teeth. He was sitting on the base of his spine, with his feet back up on the other chair. “But inside I'm a mass of seething tensions.'

'I can see that. It's terrifying.” Gideon finished the last of the salmon, slid the plate away, and popped up the lid on his coffee. “Do you think someone really stole his journal?'

'Someone, yeah. Maybe even Shirley, But not to protect her sister's memory. “I can't see that. Why should she care what Steve Fisk wrote in his journal all that time ago?” With the nail of a pinky he went after a shred of chicken between his lower incisors. “Why should anyone, for that matter?'

'I don't know. I'm betting it's got something to do with the murder, though.'

'Could be. Whoever killed Tremaine—'

'Not that murder; the one in 1960.'

'How do you come up with that?'

'Well, think about it: Yesterday we figure out that someone was murdered on that glacier—'

'You figure out. It makes me nervous when you get modest.'

'—and inside of a few hours the only remaining person who was there gets strangled, and his description of it disappears. Then this morning the only other contemporaneous account of the survey that we know about disappears too. It can't be coincidence. There has to be a relationship.” The Law of Interconnected Monkey Business, his old professor and friend Abe Goldstein called it.

'Maybe, maybe not. Twenty-nine years is a long time ago. Maybe Tremaine got killed for some reason we don't know anything about; he didn't seem to have any problem ticking people off. And maybe Fisk's journal got ripped off for a completely different reason. Let's keep our options open.” He broke his donut in two and examined the interior, evidently finding it to his satisfaction.