The Comedy is Finished

“Of course not.”

“To what end, Peter?”

“We start building now toward the next effort. Credibility is all we can hope to emerge with from this episode. Which reminds me; I’ll want you to help me make one more tape, to leave with the body.”

Liz said, “Why send Mark away? I thought he was...the one to do this sort of thing.”

Suddenly angry, or nervous, Ginger said, “Don’t talk about these things in front of me.”

Ignoring Liz, Peter turned toward Ginger his coldest smile. “It’s too late for you not to know, Ginger,” he said. “Haven’t you accepted that yet? It’s too late.”

31

There was a kind of dormitory upstairs in the Police Headquarters Annex, where they permitted Lynsey to get a couple hours’ sleep, on a narrow cot under a rough wool blanket. Policewoman Austin, the songwriter, woke her with a conspiratorial wink and grin at 7:30; she made what repairs she could in the ladies’ room, and went downstairs to find Mike Wiskiel sitting in moody exhaustion at his desk, drinking a plastic glass of pale orange juice. Her own, when he poured a glass for her, was less pale; it must have come from a different container. “Ms. Rayne,” Wiskiel said, as he handed her the glass, “you look like hell.”

“Good. I wouldn’t want to feel this way and not show it. Has anything happened?”

“We’re creeping forward, in our fashion. Jock’s men have started interviewing hi-fi equipment places. The New York police Telexed; they’ve checked all likely hotels in their area and Merville isn’t there.”

“You think he’s here.”

“I hope he’s here. I want to sit down with him and have a good long talk.” He drank some of his orange juice. “Let’s see; what else? Oh. Washington’s decision on the new tape. We’re to ignore it.”

Lynsey stared in astonishment. “Ignore it? For Heaven’s sake, why?”

“Well, that isn’t Koo Davis’ ear. Also, it isn’t a voice we’ve heard before. Also, Davis’ voice isn’t on that tape. Also, the tape itself is a different kind. It all adds up to the reasonable possibility that the tape is a hoax.”

“But that was an ear, a human ear! What kind of hoax would—”

Wiskiel shrugged elaborately, spreading his hands. “The decision came from Washington,” he said. “I’m just passing it on. The assumption is, if it is a hoax we’re better off not confusing the actual kidnappers by responding to it. And if it isn’t a hoax, our silence may push them to make contact some other way.”

“By really cutting off his ear.”

“Let’s hope not.” Looking at his watch, he said, “It’s eight o’clock. Can you call now?”

“He won’t be there yet, but I’ll leave a message.”

She phoned, got a sleepy-sounding receptionist, and left her name and number: “Please tell him it’s urgent, and I’d appreciate it if he’d call me first thing.”

Eight o’clock. Less than four hours to go.

It was five past nine—two hours, fifty-five minutes to go—when Hunningdale finally called back. “How are you, dear?” he said. His voice was a light calm baritone; an excellent tool for negotiation.

“Upset,” Lynsey told him. “You know I handle Koo Davis.”

“Oh, do you? Of course, I’d forgotten. Wait a minute—does this have to do with the FBI visit I had yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“Lynsey,” the voice said, calm and comfortable but also with warning in it, “I’ve known Ginger Merville for years and years. He may be a little flaky, but he wouldn’t kidnap anybody.”

“He knows some strange people, though,” Lynsey said. “Doesn’t he?”

“We all know strange people, dear. For all I know, I’m strange people myself.”

“The FBI just wants to talk with him, that’s all.”

“Lynsey, are you suggesting I change my story from yesterday’s version, call myself a liar? On the phone?”

No, this couldn’t be done on the phone, Lynsey could see that. She said, “I’ll come to your office. Could you see me this morning?”

“There’s really no point in it, dear. And my schedule is absolutely jammed. By the time I get there—”

“Where are you now?”

“I’m calling from the car.”

“Where are you?”

“Where?” A little pause, and then he said, “Pasadena Freeway. Why? Do you want to hitch a ride?”

“Yes. What’s your route from there?”

“This really is a waste of time, Lynsey.”

“Chuck,” she said, “they’re going to kill him. Maybe it is a waste of time, but I’ve got to do something.”

He sighed, then said, “Very well. I take the Harbor and the Santa Monica to Overland, then up to Century City.”

“How far are you from the Hollywood Freeway now?”

“With this traffic? At least twenty minutes.”

“I’ll meet you there,” she said. “Just after the change from the Pasadena to the Harbor. At the end of that ramp there. You know the place?”

“Far too well.”

“What’s your car?”

“A gray Bentley, license O CHUCK. But, Lynsey?”

“Yes?”

“If you’re not there, I can’t wait, you know.”

“I’ll be there,” she promised. Then she hung up and turned to Wiskiel, saying, “Can you get me there in twenty minutes?”

“The Harbor Freeway from here? We’d better take a car with a gumdrop.”

“Gumdrop?”

They were already walking out of the office. Making a circular motion over his head with one hand, Wiskiel said, “Flashing light.”

“Oh. Gumdrop.”

It was Lynsey’s first trip in a fast-moving police car, with siren wailing and gumdrop flashing, and she found the experience invigorating; as though the simple fact of such forceful forward motion was itself accomplishing something. A uniformed policeman drove, with Mike Wiskiel trailing in his own car. They ran down the Hollywood Freeway, mostly on the right shoulder, past the sluggish heavy southbound morning traffic, and reached the interchange with the Harbor Freeway with time to spare. They stopped at the appointed place, and Lynsey said, “Thank you.”

“My pleasure, ma’am.”

Lynsey got out of the police car, and it spurted away. Mike Wiskiel stopped his Buick beside her and leaned over to call out the open passenger window, “I’ll trail you.”

“Okay, fine. But don’t let him know it. I don’t think he’ll talk if he thinks the police are hanging around.”

“I’ll stay well back,” he promised. Then he waved and drove off.

Lynsey waited five minutes, while several passing drivers made comments or suggestions, all of which she ignored. Then at last the gray Bentley nosed out of the slow-moving lanes of traffic, yellow letters on the royal blue background of its license plate reading O CHUCK. A good-looking red-haired girl in a pale blue jacket was driving, with a large man indistinct in back. Lynsey opened the rear door and slid into a fusty closed compartment rich with the aromas of coffee and cigar. Chuck Hunningdale, a large stout man in a well-tailored pearl gray suit with white shirt, rose-pink tie and pink chrysanthemum in his buttonhole, was on the phone. He smiled and nodded at Lynsey, gesturing with the hand holding the cigar for her to take the fur-covered seat beside him, and went on with his