Tash had to admit she hadn’t.
“Was anything else taken besides your wallet?”
She opened her lips to say: Yes, there was a letter.
How could she drag the Governor’s wife into the police investigation of a petty crime? Especially when the Governor’s wife had already denied that such a letter ever existed?
She shook her head.
The detective was studying the Band-Aid on her forehead. “Cut all right now?”
“It’s healing.”
“Any other injuries?”
“A few bruises from falling.”
“If he’d really beaten you up, we would have refunded the thirty-nine dollars you lost. State law. As it is, you can probably take it as a loss on your income tax return. Ask your accountant.”
As Tash went down the corridor, a male voice floated after her from the still open doorway: “Now, as I was saying about the Orioles . . .”
She took a taxi to the parking lot where she had left her car last night and then drove to the bank. There she found another established routine that made crime seem commonplace, almost cosy and domesticated.
“That missing blank check is nothing to worry about. Just go through your check book and write the initial letter of your surname in front of the serial number on each check. Then, if a check of yours should come through without that letter, we’ll know at once that it’s a forgery, and we’ll notify the police.”
By the time she got to the newspaper office, she was feeling that mixture of relief and recovery that we call convalescence.
Bill Brewer threw down a bail-point pen and pushed a lock of hair out of his eyes.
“Glad to see you’re all in one piece.”
“What did you expect?”
“The AP story last night said you’d been knocked down with bruises and contusions—whatever contusions are. I called the police, and they said you were okay, so I didn’t call you. Sleep well?”
“Like a top.” She took her typescript out of its envelope and laid it on the desk. “There’s the Playfair story, the printable part.” She pulled the roll of tape out of her pocket. “And there’s the part we can’t print.”
“What on earth . . .?”
“I suggest you read the script first.”
He glanced through it and sighed. “Pretty bland. Tape any better?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Why can’t we use it?”
“If you listen to it, you’ll understand.”
“Put it on my machine.”
Once more Bill assumed his favorite listening posture, leaning back in his swivel chair, hands clasped behind his neck, eyes half-closed.
Vivian Playfair’s voice came through—clear, colorless, child-like: Will you do me a great kindness and mail this letter for me when you leave?
And Tash’s own answer: Why, of course.
“Don’t they have mail collection at Leafy Way?” said Bill.
“Wait,” said Tash. “More coming.”
Suddenly Bill sat up. “I’ll be damned! He is going to run for a second term.”
“But we can’t quote him. There’s something else coming in a minute. Listen.”
Again, it was Vivian’s voice, clear in the silence: Letter? I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.
As the sound ended, the tape cut loose from its moorings and flapped like a pennant in the breeze.
Bill shut off the machine.
“I suppose she thought your microphone was not sensitive enough to pick up her whisper.”
“It wasn’t a whisper,” said Tash. “It was the next tone just above a whisper.”
“Suggesting she knows the sibilance of a whisper can attract as much attention as a shout in a quiet room.”
“Don’t most people know that?”
“Only people with some experience of intrigue.”
“I haven’t told anyone else. Was that right?”
“Right and necessary. Even though you’ve got the tape to prove it happened, we won’t use the story for two reasons. Betraying a confidence never does a newspaper any good in the long run, and we are supporting Playfair’s candidacy. We don’t want to hurt him through her or any other way. Who was the letter addressed to? Or didn’t you notice?”
“I didn’t really notice, but one thing happened to catch my eye. It was addressed to a Dr.—not a Mr. or Mrs. or Ms.”
“When did you mail it?”
“I didn’t have time to mail it before the pickpocket took it.”
“What?”
“Didn’t I tell you that the pickpocket took it?”
“No, you did not. Did you tell the police that?”
“No, I didn’t. You see, I liked Mrs. Playfair, and I was afraid of getting her into trouble. Of course it must be just coincidence that a pickpocket should take something I had belonging to someone else.”
“Coincidence?” Bill repeated the word as if it were unfamiliar. “I wonder.”
“You can’t think my pocket was picked just to get Vivian Playfair’s letter? And that my wallet was stolen just to make me think it was an ordinary theft?”
“Why not?”
“Bill, are you serious?”
“Some people are surprised at the amount of scandal that gets into newspapers. I’m always surprised at the amount of scandal that doesn’t get into newspapers. For every story we print, there are a dozen we can’t or won’t print. I think this is one of them. So let’s send this silly script over to Leafy Way by messenger for Mrs. Playfair’s okay and use it in the Sunday magazine and forget everything else about it.”
When Tash went to bed that night, she did not get to sleep for a long time. False dawn was leaching darkness out of the sky when her eyes finally closed.
The telephone woke her.
She opened her eyes to bright sunshine and a blue sky. The hands of the clock pointed to twelve noon.
She rolled over to the edge of the bed and scooped the telephone from the bedside table.
This would be Bill Brewer asking if she had any idea how much longer they would have to wait for an okay on the Playfair story.
“Hello?”
“Miss Perkins?” She could not place the resonant, baritone voice at once, but it identified itself quickly. “This is Carlos de Miranda.”
“Oh . . .”
“The Governor is pleased with your treatment of the interview with Mrs. Playfair. So is she.”
“I’m glad. Are there any changes?”
“No, it can be printed as it is, but . . . something else has
