On Off (10 page)

“But — but — the minutes! I thought that if Miss Vilich was excluded, she could type up the minutes from tape.”

“No minutes,” said Carmine firmly. “I intend to be frank and detailed, which means nothing I say goes out of this room.”

“Understood,” said Roger Parson Junior abruptly. “Proceed, Lieutenant Delmonico.”

When he finished, the silence was so complete that a sudden sough of wind outside sounded like a roar; to a man they were ashen, trembling, open-mouthed. In all the times he had met M.M., Carmine had never seen the man thrown off balance, but in the wake of this report even his hair seemed to have lost its luster. Though perhaps only Dean Dowling, a psychiatrist famous for his interest in organic psychoses, fully understood the implications.

“It
can’t
be anyone at the Hug,” said Roger Parson Junior, dabbing at his lips with a napkin.

“That has yet to be established,” Carmine said. “We have no particular suspects, which means that all the members of the Hug are under suspicion. For that matter, we can’t rule out any persons in the Medical School.”

“Carmine, do you genuinely believe that at least ten of these missing girls have been
incinerated?”
asked M.M.

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“But you haven’t offered any real evidence of it.”

“No, I haven’t. It’s purely circumstantial, but it fits what we do know — that were it not for the vagaries of chance, Mercedes Alvarez would have been completely incinerated by last Wednesday.”

“It’s disgusting,” whispered Richard Spaight.

“It’s Schiller!” cried Roger Parson III. “He’s old enough to have been a Nazi.” He rounded on the Professor fiercely. “I
told
you not to hire Germans!”

Roger Parson Junior rapped the table sharply. “Young Roger, that is enough! Dr. Schiller is not old enough to have been a Nazi, and it is not the business of this Board to speculate. I insist that Professor Smith be supported, not upbraided.” His annoyance at his son’s outburst still in his eyes, he looked at Carmine. “Lieutenant Delmonico, I thank you very much for your candor, however unwelcome it may be, and I direct
all
of you to maintain silence on every aspect of this tragedy. Though,” he added rather pathetically, “I suppose we must expect that some of it at least will leak to the press?”

“That’s inevitable, Mr. Parson, sooner or later. This has become a statewide investigation. Those in the know are on the increase every day.”

“The FBI?” Henry Parson Junior asked.

“Not so far, sir. The line between a missing person and a kidnap victim is thin, but none of the families of these girls has ever received a ransom demand, and the matter remains at the moment confined to Connecticut. But rest assured, we will consult any agency that might be able to help,” said Carmine.

“Who is heading the investigation?” asked M.M.

“For want of someone better, sir, at present I am, but that could change. There are so many different police departments involved, you see.”

“Do you want the job, Carmine?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I shall call the Governor,” said M.M., positive of his power, and why not?

“Would it help if Parson Products offered a large reward?” asked Richard Spaight. “Half a million? A million?”

Carmine blanched. “No, Mr. Spaight, anything but! For one thing, it would focus press attention on the Hug, and for another, massive rewards only make the police’s task harder. They bring every cuckoo and zealot out of the woodwork, and while I can’t say a reward wouldn’t produce a good lead, the chances are so slight that following up thousands and thousands of reports would tax police reserves beyond endurance for the sake of a carload of nothing. If we continue to get nowhere, then maybe twenty-five thousand in reward money could be offered. Take my word for it, that’s plenty.”

“Then,” said Roger Parson Junior, getting up and heading for the coffee, “I suggest we adjourn until Lieutenant Delmonico can give us some new developments. Professor Smith, you and your people must give the Lieutenant complete co-operation.” He started to pour into a cup and stopped, aghast. “The coffee’s not made! I
need
a coffee!”

While the Prof fluttered about apologizing and explaining that Miss Vilich normally dealt with the coffee toward the end of the meeting, Carmine switched the several percolators on and bit into an apple Danish. M.M. was right. Delicious.

Thank you, M.M., said Carmine to himself. I have a virtual carte blanche, but I’m willing to bet my badge that the press will know everything before I leave this office. Once the public servants get in on the act, tongues are bound to wag. As for the Governor — multiple murders, especially of admirable citizens, add up to political odium.

To Silvestri he said, “I’ll visit every police department in the state personally to brief them, but for the moment I’m happy to keep the special task force to me, Patrick, Abe and Corey.”

“Stay away from me, you Nazi cur!” Dr. Maurice Finch shouted at Schiller when he came enquiring about a tissue sample.

“Yes, you are allowed to call me names,” Schiller retorted, gasping, “but I dare not retaliate, here among American Jews!”

“If I had my way, you’d be deported!” Finch said, snarling.

“You cannot blame a whole nation for the crimes of a few,” Schiller persisted, face white, fists clenched.

“Who says I can’t? You were
all
guilty!”

Charles Ponsonby broke it up, took Schiller by the arm and escorted him to his own domain.

“I have done nothing —
nothing!”
Schiller cried. “How do we know —
really
know! — that the body was cut up to be incinerated? It is gossip, wicked gossip! I have done nothing!”

“My dear Kurt, Maurie’s reaction is understandable,” Charles said. “He had cousins who went to the ovens at Auschwitz, so the very thought of incineration is — well, profoundly disturbing to him. I also understand that it isn’t easy to be on the receiving end of his emotions. The best thing you can do is keep out of his way until things die down. They will, they always do. For you’re quite correct — it’s just gossip. The police haven’t told us a thing. Keep your chin up, Kurt — be a
man!”
This last was said with an inflection that caused Schiller to put his head in his hands and weep bitterly.

“Gossip,” said Ponsonby to himself as he returned to his lab, “is like garlic. A good servant, a bad master.”

Finch wasn’t the only one who used Schiller as his butt for frustrations. Sonia Liebman ostentatiously withdrew from his vicinity whenever she encountered him; Hilda Silverman suddenly mislaid his journals and articles; Marvin, Betty and Hank lost his samples and inked swastikas on the rats whose brains would go to pathology.

Finally Schiller went to the Prof to tender his resignation, only to have it refused.

“I can’t possibly accept it, Kurt,” said Smith, whose hair seemed to grow whiter every day. “We’re under police observation, we can’t change staff. Besides, if you left now, it would be in a cloud of suspicion. Grit your teeth and get through this, just like the rest of us.”

When she returned to her own office she found Desdemona Dupre there, but not waiting where anyone else would have. That English bitch was unashamedly scanning the contents of Tamara’s cluttered desk!

“Have you seen my wages sheet, Vilich?”

The corner of a highly confidential handwritten communication was poking out from under a sheaf of rough-draft dictation she had transcribed from the Prof; Tamara leaped to shove Desdemona away.

“Don’t you dare look through my papers, Dupre!”

“I was simply fascinated by the chaos you work in,” Desdemona drawled. “No wonder you couldn’t administer this place. You couldn’t organize a booze-up in a brewery.”

“Why don’t you go fuck yourself? One thing for sure, you’re too ugly to get a man to fuck you!”

Up went Desdemona’s rather invisible brows. “There are worse fates than to die wondering,” she said, smiling, “but luckily some men like scaling Mount Everest.” Her eyes followed Tamara’s red-varnished nails as their hands shuffled the papers, tucked the vital sheet out of sight. “A love letter?” she asked.

“Fuck off! Your wages aren’t here!”

Desdemona departed, still smiling; through the open door she could hear the distant ringing of her phone.

“Miss Dupre,” she said, sitting down.

“Oh, good, glad to know you’re in to work,” said the voice of her other bête noire.

“I am always in to work, Lieutenant Delmonico,” she said very curtly. “To what do I owe this honor?”

“How about having dinner with me one evening?”

The request came as a shock, but Desdemona didn’t make the mistake of thinking that he was paying her a compliment. So the Lord High Executioner was desperate, was he?

“That depends,” she said warily.

“On what?”

“How many strings are attached, Lieutenant.”

“Well, while you’re trying to count them, how about you call me Carmine and I call you Desdemona?”

“First names are for friends, and I regard your invitation more in the light of an inquisition.”

“Does that mean I can call you Desdemona?”

“May, not can.”

“Great! Uh — dinner, Desdemona?”

She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, remembering his impressive air of calm authority. “Very well, dinner.”

“When?”

“Tonight if you’re free,
Carmine.”

“Great. What kind of food do you like?”

“Ordinary old Shanghai Chinese.”

“Fine by me. I’ll pick you up at your house at seven.”

Of course the bastard knew everybody’s home address! “No, thank you. I prefer to meet you at the venue. Which is?”

“The Blue Pheasant on Cedar Street. Know it?”

“Oh, yes. I’ll meet you there at seven.”

He hung up without further ado, leaving Desdemona to deal with a query from Dr. Charles Ponsonby, standing in her doorway; only once she was rid of him could she plot and plan not a seduction but a fencing match. Oh, yes indeed, a little thrust and parry with the verbal rapier would be welcome! How she missed that aspect of life! Here in Holloman she was in exile, banking her lavish salary as fast as she could to get out of this vast and alien country, return to her homeland, pick up the threads of a stimulating social life. Money wasn’t everything, but until you had some, life of any sort was depressing. Desdemona wanted a small flat at Strand-on-the-Green overlooking the Thames, several consultancies at private health clinics, and all of London as her backyard. Admittedly London was as unknown to her as Holloman had been, but Holloman was an exile and London was the hub of the universe. Five years down, five more years to go; then it would be goodbye to the Hug and America. A super reference to get herself those consultancies, a plump bank account. That was all she wanted or needed from America. You can take the English out of England, she thought, but you can’t take England out of the English.

She always walked to and from work, a form of exercise that suited her hiking soul. Though this activity appalled some of her colleagues, Desdemona didn’t think herself imperiled because her route led right through the Hollow. Her height, her athletic stride, her air of confidence and her lack of a pocketbook rendered her an unlikely victim of any kind. Besides, after five years, she knew every face she encountered, and received none but friendly waves in answer to her own.

The oak leaves were already falling; by the time Desdemona turned on to Twentieth Street to walk the block to Sycamore, she shuffled through piles of them because the council trucks hadn’t been this way yet. Ah, there he was! The Siamese who always hung out on top of a post to say hello as she passed; she stopped to pay homage. Behind her, footsteps shuffled for a fraction of a second after hers had ceased. It was that made her turn in surprise, a tiny hackle prickling. Oh, surely not after five years! But there was no one in sight unless he lurked behind a nearby oak. She went on, ears tuned, and stopped again twenty feet farther on. The rustle of dead leaves behind her stopped too, half a second too late. A faint sweat broke out on her brow, but she continued as if she had noticed nothing, turned onto Sycamore, and astonished herself by racing the last block to her three-family house.

Ridiculous, Desdemona Dupre! How silly of you. It was the wind, it was a rat, a bird, some small creature you didn’t see.

When she climbed the thirty-two stairs to her third-floor apartment she was breathing harder than either the run or the steps warranted. Involuntarily her eyes went to her work basket, but it was undisturbed. Her embroidery lay exactly where it ought to be.