“I’ll ask her.” He turned, and turned back. “It’s lunch time. You’re joining us?”
I said I was.
There were only five of us at the table-Trella, Susan, Wyman, Roger, and Alan. Lois didn’t show, and Nora lunched from a tray in the library. When, afterward, Roger invited me up to his room, I thought the two hours before Jarrell arrived might as well be spent with him as with anyone. He won $2.43, and I deducted 92 cents and paid him $1.51. Wanting to save him the trouble of bringing up the Peach Fuzz project, I brought it up myself and told him the sixty bucks would be available that evening after dinner.
I was in the library with Nora when Jarrell returned, shortly after four o’clock. He breezed in, tossed his bag under a table, told Nora, “Get Clay,” and went to his desk. Apparently I wasn’t there. I sat and listened to his end of three phone conversations which I would have paid closer attention to if my name had been Alan Green. I did attend, with both ears, when I heard Nora, reporting on events during his absence, tell him that Jim Eber had called that morning.
His head jerked to her. “Called? Phoned?”
“No, he came. He got some papers he had left in his desk. He said that was what he came for. That was all. I looked at the papers; they were personal. Then he was with Susan in the studio; I don’t know whether it was by appointment or not. Mr. Green was there with them when he left.”
Evidently everybody knew everything around there. The fact that Eber had been there had been mentioned at the lunch table, but Nora hadn’t been present. Of course any of the others might have told her, including Steck.
Jarrell snapped at me, “You were with them?”
I nodded. “Only briefly. I was going to turn on the radio for the news, and opened the door and went in. Your daughter-in-law introduced me to him and that was about all. He said he was just going, and he went.”
He opened his mouth and closed it again. Questions he might have asked Archie Goodwin could not properly be asked Alan Green with the stenographer there. He turned to her. “What else did he want? Besides the papers?”
“Nothing. That was all, except that he thought you would be here and wanted to see you. That’s what he said.”
He licked his lips, shot me a glance, and turned back to her. “All right, hand me the mail.”
She got it from a drawer of her desk and took it to him. If you think it would have been natural for it to be on his desk waiting for him you’re quite right, but in that case it would have been exposed to the view of the new secretary, and that wouldn’t do. After sticking around a while longer I asked Jarrell if I was wanted, was told not until after dinner, and left them and went up to my room.
I can’t tell you the exact minute that Jarrell came dashing in, yelling at me, but I can come close. It was a quarter to six when I decided to shower and shave before going down to the lounge for cocktails, and my par for that operation when I’m not pressed is half an hour, and I was pulling on my pants when the door flew open and he was there yapping, “Come on!” Seeing me, he was off down the hall, yapping again. “Come on!” It seemed that the occasion was informal enough not to demand socks and shoes, so I merely got my shirttail in, and fastened my belt and closed my zipper en route. I could hear him bounding down the stairs, and made for them and on down, and turned the corner just as he reached the library door. As I came up he tried the knob and then stood and stared at it.
“It’s locked,” he said.
“Why not?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Horland’s phoned. He said the signal flashed and the screen showed the door opening and a blanket or rug coming in. He’s sending a man. There’s somebody in there. There must be.”
“Then open the door.”
“Horland’s said to wait till his man got here.”
“Nuts. I will.” Then I realized I couldn’t. My key, along with my other belongings, was up on the dresser. “Give me your key.”
He got out his key fold and handed it to me, and I picked one and stuck it in the slot. “It’s just possible,” I said, “that we’ll be rushed. Move over.” He did so. I got behind the jamb, turned the key and the knob, pushed on the door with my bare toes, and it swung open. Nothing happened. I said, “Stay here,” and stepped inside. Nothing and no one. I went and took a look, behind desks, around corners of cabinets and shelves, in the closet, and in the bathroom. I was going to call to him to come on in when the sound came of footsteps pounding down the corridor, and I reached the door in time to see the reinforcement arrive-a middle-aged athlete in a gray uniform. He wasn’t one that I knew. He was panting, and he had a gun in his hand.
“At ease,” I commanded. “False alarm. Apparently. What’s this about a blanket or a rug?”
“It’s not a false alarm,” Jarrell said. “I turned the switch on myself when I left, and the light didn’t flash when you opened the door. Someone went in and turned the switch off. What was it you saw?”
Horland’s didn’t answer. He was looking at the floor at our feet. “By God, that’s it,” he said. He pointed. “That’s it right there.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Jarrell blurted.
“That rug. That’s what came in. The signal flashed and I looked at the screen, and in came that rug, hanging straight down, that was all I could see. Then it was gone, and in about two seconds the screen was dead. You get it? Someone came in holding that rug in front of him, and went and turned the switch off, and when he came out he put the rug back here where he got it. That’s how I know he’s not still in there; if he was, the rug wouldn’t be here.” He sounded as pleased as if he had just done a job of brain work that would be hard to match.
Thinking a little pruning wouldn’t hurt him, I asked, “How do you know it was this
