The chief usher appeared in the door way to announce the newspaper men.
Carlos dropped his cigarette stub in an ashtray, threw back his shoulders, and took up his stance in front of the fireplace. Now he was another person. Gone was the anxious, harassed public relations man, fussing over a tricky press release that had to repress more than it released. Now he was the embodiment of sangre azul, which always sounds so much more romantic than blue blood.
The tawny marble of the chimney piece threw his dark good looks into high relief. The sense of failure he had expressed a only a moment ago might never have existed. He seemed serenely assured that he could command the respect of a press corps that made a cult of irreverence. And if anybody can, he will, thought Tash.
The reporters fanned out until they formed a semicircle around him.
“Good evening,” he said. “Most of you know Miss Perkins. She has a written statement for you.”
Tash went through the crowd, handing out Xeroxed sheets. When she reached the other side of the room, she was amazed to see Bill Brewer.
“Once a reporter always a reporter?”
“I get tired of sitting at a desk all day every day,” he answered. “Besides, I wanted to see you. Like it here?”
“Never a dull moment.”
“But you don’t smile when you say that.”
“I don’t feel like smiling tonight. This disappearance is frightening.”
“Any idea what’s behind it?”
“None whatever.”
“How about dinner with me when this is over?”
“Thanks, but I’m needed here tonight.”
“Tomorrow?”
“I’d like that. Bill, who are all these men? I don’t recognize half of them.”
“Some of the Washington press corps came down for this.”
“Why?”
“You ask why, and you a newspaper woman? Playfair is news. Just in the last few days there have been four big stories about him on the front page of every paper. He’s abolished the death penalty. He’s trying to end a strike that could to lead to riots in the barrio or war in the Caribbean. He’s announced his candidacy for a second term as governor, and now his wife has disappeared. If he survives all this, he’ll be President in a few years, and we all know it. That fellow trying to catch Miranda’s eye now is the top Washington man for The New York Times.”
“Yes?” said Carlos.
“Is there any truth in the rumor that Mrs. Playfair has disappeared before and returned without explanation?”
“No truth whatsoever.”
The simple honesty in Carlos’ voice and expression would have convinced Tash that he was telling the truth if she had not happened to know that he was lying.
Apparently, he did convince the Times man, but a woman reporter was more suspicious.
“Is Mrs. Playfair subject to attacks of amnesia?”
“No.”
“Could she be visiting a friend unofficially?”
“That’s a nasty one,” whispered Bill. “Might as well ask right out if she has a lover.”
“No.” Carlos still managed to keep his voice detached and remote.
“Is she subject to dizzy spells or allergies?”
Bill translated sotto voce: “Does she get drunk?”
“No.”
Now it was the turn of a little man in the back of the room. “Christian Science Monitor,” muttered Bill.
To those in front where Tash was standing, the little man was invisible, just a disembodied voice floating over the heads of taller men.
“What happened to the canary?”
Carlos almost cracked, then made a supreme effort: “I beg your pardon, I don’t understand you.”
“The last time I was in this room there was a canary in a big wicker cage. It belonged to Mrs. Playfair and it was called Blondel. Where is it now?”
“Mrs. Playfair has had the bird moved to her sitting room upstairs. And now, if there are no further questions, the Governor has a word to say to you.”
“I’ll see if he’s ready,” said Tash.
The hall was empty. She found Jeremy and Hilary in the communications room. He rose.
“Time for me?”
“Yes. Any news?”
“Nothing.”
He had himself under control, but there were lines in his face that Tash had never seen there before.
The bright lights of the Florida Room did not spare him as he stood beside Carlos and smiled at one or two of the reporters whom he knew well.
“I decided to hold this press conference instead of merely announcing Mrs. Playfair’s disappearance, because I wanted to ask you personally for your help. You have many sources of information, and perhaps some that are not available to me or the police. I shall welcome with gratitude anything you can do or suggest to help me find my wife.”
He fielded one or two questions with the ease of long practice. There was nothing even resembling cross-examination. The sympathy of the crowd had been with him from the moment he entered the room.
He does have mana, thought Tash. His mere physical presence is winning them over now as all Carlos’ urbanity and address could not do.
As the last reporter filed out, Hilary came in.
“The police want to talk to all of us again,” she said. “What are we going to tell them?”
“The truth,” said Carlos. “The whole truth.”
Jeremy looked up sharply. “Without holding anything back?”
“Holding things back now will just make it harder if we have to tell everything in the end, as we undoubtedly shall.”
“But what about Vivian? Do you think telling the police everything is best for her?”
“Don’t you?”
“While you’re making up your minds, I’m going to ring for sandwiches and drinks and coffee,” said Hilary.
The others protested that they were neither hungry nor thirsty, yet, when the picnic supper arrived, they all began to sip and nibble.
Suddenly, Jeremy broke away from Carlos.
“All right. You’ve convinced me. The police shall be told everything now, warts and all. Find Wilkes and ask him to step over here.”
Carlos left the room, shutting the door quietly this time.
“Would you like Tash and me to leave?” asked Hilary.
“No.” Jeremy smiled. “I have no secrets from Tash or you.”
There was a tap on one of the French windows. Tash parted the
