A slender thread on which to base the campaign for nomination – and only a day before the Convention convened. He did not like it.
The telephone in Gam's living room rang.
"That's probably him," Gam said. "You want to talk to him? To be truthful, I'm afraid to take it off the hook."
"Let it ring," Johnny said. He agreed with Gam; it was just too damn unpleasant.
"But we can't evade him," Gam pointed out. "If he wants to get in touch with us; if it isn't the phone it's the newspaper. And yesterday I tried to use my electric typewriter… instead of the letter I intended to compose I got the same mishmash – I got a text from him."
Neither of them moved to take the phone, however. They let it ring on.
"Do you want an advance?" Gam asked. "Some cash?"
"I'd appreciate it," Johnny said. "Since today I quit my job with Archimedean."
Reaching into his coat for his wallet, Gam said, "I'll give you a check." He eyed Johnny. "You like her but you can't work with her; is that it?"
"That's it," Johnny said. He did not elaborate, and Gam did not press him any further. Gam was, if nothing else, gentlemanly. And Johnny appreciated it.
As the check changed hands the phone stopped ringing.
Was there a link between the two? Johnny wondered. Or was it just chance? No way to tell. Louis seemed to know everything… anyhow, this was what Louis had wanted; he had told both of them that.
"I guess we did the right thing," Gam said tartly. "Listen, Johnny. I hope you can get back on good terms with Kathy Egmont Sharp. For her sake; she needs help. Lots of it."
Johnny grunted.
"Now that you're not working for her, make one more try," Gam said. "Okay?"
"I'll think about it," Johnny said.
"She's a very sick girl, and she's got a lot of responsibility now. You know that, too. Whatever caused the rift between you – try to come to some kind of understanding before it's too late. That's the only proper way."
Johnny said nothing. But he knew, inside him, that Gam was right.
And yet – how did he do it? He didn't know how. How to you approach a psychotic person? he wondered. How do you repair such a deep rift? It was hard enough in regular situations… and this had so many overtones.
If nothing else, this had Louis mixed in it. And Kathy's feelings about Louis. Those would have to change. The blind adoration – that would have to cease.
"What does your wife think of her?" Gam asked.
Startled, he said, "Sarah Belle? She's never met Kathy." He added, "Why do you ask?"
Gam eyed him and said nothing.
"Damn odd question," Johnny said.
"Damn odd girl, that Kathy," Gam said. "Odder than you think, my friend. There's a lot you don't know." He did not elaborate.
To Claude St. Cyr, Phil Harvey said, "There's something I want to know. Something we must have the answer to, or we'll never get control of the voting stock of Wilhelmina. Where's the body?"
"We're looking," St. Cyr said patiently. "We're trying all of the mortuaries, one by one. But money's involved; undoubtedly someone's paying them to keep quiet, and if we want them to talk -"
"That girl," Harvey said, "is going on instructions from beyond the grave. Despite the fact that Louis is devolving… she still pays attention to him. It's – unnatural." He shook his head, repelled.
"I agree," St. Cyr said. "In fact, you expressed it perfectly. This morning when I was shaving I picked him up on the TV." He shuddered visibly. "I mean, it's coming at us from every side, now."
"Today," Harvey said, "is the first day of the Convention." He looked out of the window, at the cars and people. "Louis's attention will be tied up there, trying to swing the vote onto Alfonse Gam. That's where Johnny is, working for Gam – that was Louis's idea. Now perhaps we can operate with more success. Do you see? Maybe he's forgotten about Kathy; my God, he can't watch everything at once."
St. Cyr said quietly, "But Kathy is not at Archimedean now."
"Where is she, then? In Delaware? At Wilhelmina Securities? It ought to be easy to find her."
"She's sick," St. Cyr said. "In a hospital, Phil. She was admitted during the late evening, last night. For her drug addiction, I presume."
There was silence.
"You know a lot," Harvey said finally. "Where'd you learn this, anyhow?"
"From listening to the phone and the TV. But I don't know where the hospital is. It could even be off Earth, on Luna or on Mars, even back where she came from. I got the impression she's extremely ill. Johnny's abandoning her set her back greatly." He gazed at his employer somberly. "That's all I know, Phil."
"Do you think Johnny Barefoot knows where she is?"
"I doubt it."
Pondering, Harvey said, "I'll bet she tries to call him. I'll bet he either knows or will know, soon. If we only could manage to put a snoop-circuit on his phone… get his calls routed through here."
"But the phones," St. Cyr said wearily. "All it is now – just the gibberish. The interference from Louis." He wondered what became of Archimedean Enterprises if Kathy was declared unable to manage her affairs, if she was forcibly committed. Very complicated, depending on whether Earth law or -
Harvey was saying, "We can't find her and we can't find the body. And meanwhile the Convention's on, and they'll nominate that wretched Gam, that creature of Louis's. And next we know, he'll be President." He eyed St. Cyr with antagonism. "So far you haven't done me much good, Claude."
"We'll try all the hospitals. But there's tens of thousands of them. And if it isn't in this area it could be anywhere." He felt helpless. Around and around we go, he thought, and we get nowhere.
Well, we can keep monitoring the TV, he decided. That's some help.
"I'm going to the Convention," Harvey announced. "I'll see you later. If you should come up with something – which I doubt – you can get in touch with me there." He strode to the door, and a moment later St. Cyr found himself alone.
Doggone it, St. Cyr said to himself. What'll I do now? Maybe I ought to go to the Convention, too. But there was one more mortuary he wanted to check; his men had been there, but he also wanted to give it a try personally. It was just the sort that Louis would have liked, run by an unctuous individual named, revoltingly, Herbert Schoenheit von Vogelsang, which meant, in German, Herbert Beauty of the Bird's Song – a fitting name for a man who ran the Beloved Brethren Mortuary in downtown Los Angeles, with branches in Chicago and New York and Cleveland.
When he reached the mortuary, Claude St. Cyr demanded to see Schoenheit von Vogelsang personally. The place was doing a rush business; Resurrection Day was just around the corner and the petite bourgeoisie, who flocked in great numbers to just such ceremonies, were lined up waiting to retrieve their half-lifer relatives.
"Yes sir," Schoenheit von Vogelsang said, when at last he appeared at the counter in the mortuary's business office. "You asked to speak to me."
St. Cyr laid his business card down on the counter; the card still described him as legal consultant for Archimedean Enterprises. "I am Claude St. Cyr," he declared. "You may have heard of me."
Glancing at the card, Schoenheit von Vogelsang blanched and mumbled, "I give you my word, Mr. St. Cyr, we're trying, we're really trying. We've spent out of our own funds over a thousand dollars in trying to make contact with him; we've had high-gain equipment flown in from Japan where it was developed and made. And still no results." Tremulously, he backed away from the counter. "You can come and see for yourself. Frankly, I believe someone's doing it on purpose; a complete failure like this can't occur naturally, if you see what I mean."