"To continue," Mrs. Frost said. "Mr. Purcell, you were not at your Agency as your wife told us. At first we were puzzled, because we believed there was going to be mutual confidence between us. It seemed odd that a situation of this sort, with you dropping mysteriously out of sight, and these vague evasions and denials by your—"
"Now look here," Allen said. "You're not addressing a metazoon and a mammal; you're addressing a human being who's a citizen of the Morec society. Either you speak to me civilly or I leave now. I'm tired and I'd like to get some sleep. I'll leave it up to you."
Curtly, Mrs. Hoyt said: "He's quite right, Sue. Stop playing boss, and for heaven's sake get that righteous look off your face. Leave that to God."
"Perhaps you don't have confidence in me," Mrs. Frost answered, turning. "Should we settle that first?"
Sprawled out in his chair, Myron Mavis snickered. "Yes, I'd like this one better. Do settle it first, Sue."
Mrs. Frost became flustered. "Really, this whole thing is getting out of hand. Why don't I fix coffee?" She arose. "And there's a little brandy, if nobody feels it's contrary to public interest."
"We're sinking," Mavis said, grinning across at Allen. "Glub, glub. Under the waves of sin."
The tension ebbed and both Blake and Luddy began shuffling, conferring, murmuring. Luddy put on his hornrimmed glasses and two serious heads were bent over the contents of his briefcase. Mrs. Frost went to the hotplate and put on the coffee-maker. Still seated, Mrs. Hoyt regarded a spot on the floor and spoke to no one. As always, she wore heavy furs, dark stockings, and low-heeled shoes. Allen had a great deal of respect for her; he knew her for an adroit manipulator.
"You're related to Major Streiter," he said. "Isn't that what I've heard?"
Mrs. Hoyt favored him with a look. "Yes, Mr. Purcell. The Major was a progenitor on my father's side."
"Terrible about the statue," Blake put in. "Imagine an outbreak like that. It defies description."
Allen had forgotten about the statue. And the head. It was still in the closet, unless Janet had done something with it. No wonder she had gulped down bottles of pills: the head had been there with her, all during the week.
"They'll catch him," Luddy said, with vigor. "Or them. Personally it's my conviction that an organized gang is involved."
"There's something almost satanic in it," Sue Frost said. "Stealing the head, that way. Coming back a few days later and—right in front of the police—stealing it and taking it heaven knows where. I wonder if it'll ever turn up." She located cups and saucers.
When the coffee had been served, the discussion took up where it had left off. But moderation prevailed. Cooler heads were at work.
"Certainly there's no reason to quarrel," Mrs. Frost said. "I suppose I was upset. Honestly, Allen, look at the spot you put us in. Last Sunday—a week ago—I picked up the phone and called your apartment; I wanted to catch you with your wife so we could decide on our Juggle evening."
"I'm sorry," Allen murmured, scrutinizing the wall and mentally twiddling his thumbs. In some ways this was the worst part, the rhetoric of apology.
"Would you like to tell us what happened?" Mrs. Frost continued. Her savoir-faire had returned, and she smiled with her usual grace and charm. "Consider this a friendly inquiry. We're all your friends, even Mr. Luddy."
"What's the Blake-Moffet team doing here?" he asked. "I can't see how this concerns them. Maybe I'm being overly blunt, but this seems to be a matter between you and me and Mrs. Hoyt."
A pained exchange of glances informed him that there was more to it. As if the presence of Blake and Luddy hadn't said that already.
"Come on, Sue," Mrs. Hoyt rumbled in her gravelly voice. "When we couldn't get in touch with you," Mrs. Frost went on, "we had a conference and we decided to sit on it. After all, you're a grown man. But then Mr. Blake called us. T-M has done a great deal of business with Blake-Moffet over the years, and we all know one another. Mr. Blake showed us some disturbing material, and we—"
"What material?" Allen demanded. "Let's have a look at it." Blake answered. "It's here, Purcell. Don't get upset; all in due time." He tossed some papers over, and Allen caught them. While he examined them Mrs. Frost said:
"I'd like to ask you, Allen. As a personal friend. Never mind those papers; I'll tell you what it is. You haven't separated from your wife, have you? You haven't had a quarrel you'd rather keep quiet, something that's come up between you that means a more or less permanent altercation?"
"Is that what this is about?" He felt as if he had been dipped in sheer cold. It was one of those eternal blind alleys that Morec worriers got themselves into. Divorce, scandal, sex, other women—the whole confused gamut of marital difficulty.
"Naturally," Mrs. Hoyt said, "it would be incumbent on you to refuse the directorship under such circumstances. A man in such a high position of trust—well, you're familiar with the rest."
The papers in his hands danced in a jumble of words, phrases, dates and locations. He gave up and tossed them aside. "And Blake's got documentation on this?" They were after him, but they had got themselves onto a false lead. Luckily for him. "Let's hear it."
Blake cleared his throat and said: "Two weeks ago you worked alone at your Agency. At eight-thirty you locked up and left. You walked at random, entered a commissary, then returned to the Agency and took a ship."
"What then?" He wondered how far they had gone.
"Then you eluded pursuit. We, ah, weren't equipped to follow."
"I went to Hokkaido. Ask my block warden. I drank three glasses of wine, came home, fell on the front steps. It's all a matter of record; I was brought up and exonerated."
"So." Blake nodded. "Well, then. It's our contention that you met a woman; that you had met her before; that you have willingly and knowingly committed adultery with this woman."
"Thus collapses the juvenile system," Allen said bitterly. "Here ends empirical evidence. Back comes witch-burning. Hysterics and innuendo."
"You left your Agency," Blake continued, "on Tuesday of that week, to make a phone call from a public booth. It was a call you couldn't make in your office, for fear of being overheard."
"To this girl?" They were ingenious, at least. And they probably believed it. "What's the girl's name?'
"Grace Maldini," Blake said. "About twenty-four years old, standing five-foot-five, weighing about one twenty-five. Dark hair, dark skin, presumably of Italian extraction."
It was Gretchen, of course. Now he was really perplexed.
"On Thursday morning you were two hours late to work. You walked off and were lost along the commute lanes. You deliberately chose routes through the thickest traffic."
"Conjecture," Allen said. But it had been true; he was on his way to the Health Resort. Grace Maldini? What on earth was that about?"
"On Saturday morning of that week," Blake continued, "you did the same thing. You shook off anybody who might have been following you and met this girl at an unknown point. You did not return to your apartment that day. That night, a week ago yesterday, you boarded an inter-S ship in the company of the girl, who registered herself as Miss Grace Maldini. You registered under the name John Coates." When the ship reached Centaurus, you and the girl transferred to a second ship, and again you shook monitoring. You did not return to Earth during the entire week. It was within that period that your wife described you as ‘completing work at your Agency.' This evening, about thirty minutes ago, you stepped off an inter-S ship, dressed as you are now, entered a phone booth, and then came here."