Stranger in a Strange Land

Jubal breathed a silent malediction against all elder gods in any way involved in contriving the follies of the human race, then said aloud, “All right, all right, if you must, then let’s try to get some logic into it. Do you plan to hire professionals? Say a private detective firm that specializes in missing persons?”

She looked unhappy. “I suppose that’s the way to go about it. Uh, I’ve never hired a detective. Are they expensive?”

“Quite.”

Jill gulped. “Do you suppose they would let me arrange to pay, uh, in monthly installments? Or something?”

“Cash at the stairs is their usual way. Quit looking so grim, child; I brought that up to dispose of it. I’ve already hired the best in the business to try to find Ben—so there is no need for you to hock your future to hire the second best.”

“You didn’t tell me!”

“No need to tell you.”

“But—Jubal, what did they find out?”

“Nothing,” he said shortly. “Nothing worth reporting, so there was no need to put you any further down in the dumps by telling you.” Jubal scowled. “When you showed up here, I thought you were unnecessarily nervy about Ben—I figured the same as his assistant, that fellow Kilgallen, that Ben had gone yipping off on some new trail… and would check in when he had the story wrapped up. Ben does that sort of stunt—it’s his profession.” He sighed. “But now I don’t think so. That knothead Kilgallen—he really does have a statprint message on file, apparently from Ben, telling Kilgallen that Ben would be away a few days; my man not only saw it but sneaked a photograph and checked. No fake—the message was sent.”

Jill looked puzzled. “I wonder why Ben didn’t send me a statprint at the same time? It isn’t like him—Ben’s very thoughtful.”

Jubal repressed a groan. “Use your head, Gillian. Just because a package says ‘Cigarettes’ on the outside does not prove that the package contains cigarettes. You got here last Friday; the code groups on that statprint message show that it was filed from Philadelphia-Paoli Station Landing Flat, to be exact—just after ten thirty the morning before—10.34 AM. Thursday. It was transmitted a couple of minutes after it was filed and was received at once, because Ben’s office has its own statprinter. All right, now you tell me why Ben sent a printed message to his own office—during working hours—instead of telephoning?”

“Why, I don’t think he would, ordinarily. At least I wouldn’t. The telephone is the normal—”

“But you aren’t Ben. I can think of half a dozen reasons, for a man in Ben’s business. To avoid garbles. To insure a printed record in the files of I.T.&T. for legal purposes. To send a delayed message. All sorts of reasons. Kilgallen saw nothing odd about it—and the simple fact that Ben, or the syndicate he sells to, goes to the expense of maintaining a private statprinter in his office shows that Ben uses it regularly.

“However,” Jubal went on, “the snoops I hired are a suspicious lot; that message placed Ben at Paoli flat at ten thirty-four on Thursday—so one of them went there. Jill, that message was not sent from there.”

“But—”

“One moment. The message was filed from there but did not originate there. Messages are either handed over the counter or telephoned. If one is handed over the counter, the customer can have it typed or he can ask for facsimile transmission of his handwriting and signature… but if it is filed by telephone, it has to be typed by the filing office before it can be photographed.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Doesn’t that suggest anything, Jill?”

“Uh… Jubal, I’m so worried that I’m not thinking straight. What should it suggest?”

“Quit the breast-beating; it wouldn’t have suggested anything to me, either. But the pro who was working for me is a very sneaky character; he arrived at Paoli with a convincing statprint made from the photograph that was taken under Kilgallen’s nose—and with business cards and credentials that made it appear that he himself was ‘Osbert Kilgallen,’ the addressee. Then, with his fatherly manner and sincere face, he hornswoggled a young lady employee of I.T.&T. into telling him things which, under the privacy amendment to the Constitution, she should have divulged only under court order—very sad. Anyhow, she did remember receiving that message for file and processing. Ordinarily she wouldn’t remember one message out of hundreds—they go in her ears and out her fingertips and are gone, save for the filed microprint. But, luckily, this young lady is one of Ben’s faithful fans; she reads his ‘Crow’s Nest’ column every night—a hideous vice.” Jubal blinked his eyes thoughtfully at the horizon. “Front!”

Anne appeared, dripping. “Remind me,” Jubal said to her, “to write a popular article on the compulsive reading of news. The theme will be that most neuroses and some psychoses can be traced to the unnecessary and unhealthy habit of daily wallowing in the troubles and sins of five billion strangers. The title is ‘Gossip Unlimited’—no, make that ‘Gossip Gone Wild.’”

“Boss, you’re getting morbid.”