Pity Him Afterwards

“Easiest thing in the world, if I’m press liaison. Just allow me to sit on the information ten minutes. That’s all I need to get my call in, and have Transworld first with it on the wire.”

“Is that legal?”

“Sure. It’s only unethical, but it’s legal. And how’s it going to get back to you? I’m the one sits on the information. You gave it to me to pass on, and I held it ten minutes. All I ask is you don’t notice how long I take to spread the word. Okay?”

Sondgard thought it over. It was certainly fair, a favor for a favor. And this red-haired man was the first reporter to arrive. And it would be a relief to know someone else was handling the reporter angle.

He nodded. “Okay,” he said. “And, what’s your name?”

“Oh, didn’t your officer tell you? I gave him my card. It’s Harry Edwards.”

“Harry Edwards. All right, fine. The producer’s name is Bob Haldemann. He’ll be out in just a second. You can talk with him in his office over at the theater.”

“Thanks.”

Sondgard stepped back inside, and said to Haldemann, “He’s all yours. Name’s Harry Edwards.”

“Right. Oh, Eric, about that thing in the kitchen — ‘Bobby did it’ — do I talk about that?”

“Yes, I think so. A simple description of the facts, and that’s it. Oh, that reminds me, something I forgot. I’ll go back out with you.”

The two men went out onto the porch, and Sondgard performed the introductions, then said, “The reason you’re talking to Bob is because he’s one of the people we’ve completely eliminated from suspicion. His time is totally accounted for.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Edwards. He grinned. “I don’t know as how I’d feel right, going into that empty theater with one of your live suspects.”

“You have no worries.”

Sondgard went back inside. “Larry, come here a second.”

Temple came over, looking more and more pale and bushed.

Sondgard said, “I’d like you to stick around just a little longer. When the reporter’s done with Bob Haldemann, he’ll want to talk to you about the second killing. Give him any facts he wants to know, but nothing about the investigation, right?”

“Sure, Dr. Sondgard.”

“You’d better sit down some place till he’s ready for you. You look ready to drop.”

“I’m okay.”

“I know you are. Mike, come on along with me.”

“Where we going?”

“To search the rooms. We’re going to take this place apart, piece by piece.”

“What are we looking for?”

“I don’t know. What would a madman have in his room? Paper dolls he’s cut out? A Napoleon hat? Maybe he writes notes to himself, too.”

“All right, we can try it.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Sondgard took two steps up the stairs, and then said, “Oh, damn! I forgot. The doors are all locked. Hold on a second.” He hurried back outside, and saw Haldemann and Edwards just going into the theater. He shouted, and they waited while he trotted across the gravel to them. He said, “Bob, have you got a general key? One for all the interior doors?”

Edwards said, “You’re making a search? What are you looking for?”

“Not yet,” Sondgard told him. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep my side of the bargain. Have you, Bob?”

“Yes, sure. In the office. Come on.”

They went into the theater, and Haldemann produced a skeleton key from his desk drawer. Sondgard brought it back to the house and he and Mike went upstairs to start searching. Larry Temple was sitting on the bottom stair, his eyes half closed.

After Sondgard/Chax left the room, they all started talking at once, all of them except the madman. He sat slumped in a folding chair, chewing on the inside of his cheek, trying to think.

He had a lot to think about. Sondgard/Chax was closing in on him. Sondgard/Chax was attacking him from everywhere, was giving him too many things to guard against at once.

The search. That was something to think about. He pictured his room upstairs, trying to see if there was anything in it that would help Sondgard/Chax.

Not the furniture. None of that was his, it all came with the room, it was all there when he’d moved in the day before yesterday.

Not the clothing or the suitcase. All of that belonged to the driver he’d killed; none of it could be traced back to Robert Ellington.

And what else was there in the room? Nothing.

Yes, one more thing. His copy of the play they should be rehearsing, with his speeches underlined. But that couldn’t be of any help either.

There was the clothing he’d worn last night. The shoes were still wet, for instance. But they were on the floor in the closet, and he had fresh dry shoes on now, and there was no reason to expect Sondgard/Chax to pick those shoes up. He would just open the closet and look in and see clothing hanging from the bar, and shoes on the floor, and that would be all. No reason to touch the shoes at all.

And even if he did, what of it? His shoes were wet. He could think of a story to cover that. He had— He had—