"Mrs. Song," he said, attempting to look a bit less stern than normal, "please be at ease. I merely want you to tell me again about your experience with the telephone repairman the morning of Mr. Yi's death."
She looked down at her hands. "I told you everything I know."
"Yes, you did, and I appreciate that. Please go over it again for me, if you would be so kind. Perhaps you will remember something that slipped your mind before." He opened his notebook and read from the first interview. "Just start where you met him at the door."
"He said he was Mr. Han, from the telephone system." She rubbed her hands nervously.
"And how was he dressed?"
"A dark blue jacket, gray trousers, a blue cap."
"Anything else you remember about him?"
She looked thoughtful, then nodded. "Oh, yes. He wore black gloves. Work gloves, I think."
"Did he carry tools?"
"Yes, he had something attached to his belt with tools stuck in it. And he had some sort of telephone-looking device hanging from his belt."
"Did you get a look at his truck?"
"Oh, yes. It was the same kind of telephone truck you see on the streets."
And it was one of the oldest gimmicks in the business, thought the Captain. But the man named Hwang, if it was really him, had been more resourceful than most. Exhaustive questioning of telephone supervisors and employees had determined the so-called Mr. Han was not a repairman as he claimed. But no truck had been reported missing. He had evidently stolen the truck and returned it promptly before anyone realized it had been taken. The black gloves, of course, had left no telltale prints.
"Now let's go over what he did after he identified himself." Yun watched her closely.
"He said there had been some trouble with the lines in the area and he wanted to check ours. I saw him go around the house to where the telephone line comes down from the pole."
When she paused, he prompted her. "Could you see what he did there?"
She shook her head slowly, gave him a brief glance, then looked back at her hands. "No. I went back to my work in the kitchen."
Yun checked his notes. "I believe you said he came to the kitchen door after that."
"Yes, he asked for a drink of water."
"And you gave it to him?"
"Yes."
Yun knew that would be no help. A Korean would offer or receive a cup with both hands. "And then what did he do?"
"He said he had lost his pen, asked if I had one he could borrow. Then he began to talk about Mr. Yi. Said he had heard a lot about him, that he was a great man. Asked if he was one of those businessmen who worked late every night. I told him—"
"Just a moment, Mrs. Song." She was passing up the crucial point. "Did you give him a pen?"
She looked up at Captain Yun, confusion on her face. "Of course. I had no reason—"
"Yes, yes, I understand," said Yun, closing the note pad. He leaned forward for emphasis. "I want you to think very carefully before you answer. When you held out the pen to him, which hand did he take it with?"
She bowed her head again, eyes closed, and rested her fingertips against her temples. Yun knew she was trying to picture it in her mind, just as it had happened that day nearly a month ago. She moved her right hand out, as if holding the pen. After a long moment, she looked up, a deep frown on her face. "I… I don't know." She shook her head. "Maybe… no, I just can't remember. It isn't something I would notice."
Yun took a deep breath, trying to cover the deflation he felt. It had been his best chance to link Hwang Sang-sol to the murder. Highly circumstantial, to be sure, but enough to justify digging deeper into the assassin's movements.
The disappointment in his face seemed to distress Mrs. Song, then she blurted, "Mr. Kim, the caretaker, he came through the kitchen while I was talking to the man. Maybe he would remember."
Yun knitted his brow, quickly flipping back to his notes. "You made no mention of Mr. Kim when we talked before."
She averted her eyes. "I forgot. I'm sorry."
Yun looked across at Mr. Yi's widow, who had been listening in silence. "Is Mr. Kim around?"
"Yes, my son will go find him."
When the caretaker arrived a few minutes later, he bowed to Captain Yun and squatted down opposite him. He was a raw-boned man of the soil, and it showed in the brown smudges that discolored his traditional baggy pants, which were tied at the ankles. He clearly was not comfortable facing anyone in plain clothes identified as a police officer.
Yun made no attempt to allay the caretaker's fears. A policeman was expected to be intimidating in both appearance and demeanor. It helped that he had found no joy, up to this moment, in the progress of his interrogation. He recounted Mrs. Song's story about the telephone repairman, moving to the point where she related that Mr. Kim had been passing through the kitchen.
"Do you recall Mrs. Song handing the repairman a pen?" Yun asked.
Mr. Kim rubbed a hand over his unshaven face, creating a sound like sandpaper on the rough side of a piece of leather. "Yes, I was there."
"I know you were there," Yun said. "But did you see her hand over the pen?"
Mr. Kim nodded.
"Think very carefully. Did he take it with his left hand, or his right?"
"Left," said Mr. Kim without hesitation.
Now it was Yun's turn to register consternation. "Why are you so certain it was his left hand?"
Mr. Kim smiled. "Because I am left-handed. I rarely find another left-handed person."
Yun was elated. He carefully controlled his feelings, however, as he wrapped up the interview hastily and left the Yi house. He would go back to the case of the hotel owner murdered in March and try to determine if anyone resembling Hwang had been seen at that time. It would mean slow, painful, laborious questioning, but that was one advantage, maybe the only one, to having a task force. Manpower was not a problem. The critical fact to determine, if it got that far, was who had hired Hwang?
Chapter 11
It was late afternoon when Burke arrived outside his hotel. A bright autumn sun beamed down on him, but the blustery wind made the square across the way sound like a shooting gallery, colorful nylon banners attached to the lamp posts snapping and cracking constantly. He settled down in his room with the phone book to make a few preliminary checks before his meeting the following morning at the Korean-American Education Foundation. The Better Business Bureau reported receiving no complaints. As far as the governmental agency that registered organizations involved in charitable solicitations was concerned, everything appeared in order.
Troubled by a growing concern about Lori, he called home before heading out for dinner. Dr. Chloe Brackin had laid down the law after examining her following their return from vacation. She warned that Lori was overextending herself. She ordered her to work no more than half a day and stay off her feet as much as possible. With only two months to go, the godmother cautioned against taking any chances.
"How was your day?" Burke asked when she came on the line.
"Uneventful. You'd think I was an invalid the way they treat me at the office."
"Good," Burke said. "When I leave for Korea, you ought to let Marilee run the show and just stay at home."
A tall, statuesque woman as crusty and cool as an ice sculpture, Marilee Breckinridge managed the Clipper Cruise & Travel office on Pennsylvania Avenue. She would take charge of the business while Lori was out having her babies.
"I'm all right," she said. "Just a little tired after two weeks on the run in Budapest."
"I know, you're Superwoman," he said, a slight irritation in his voice. "Never spent a day in the hospital." Several months earlier, when a flu bug had sidelined her for a couple of days, she had informed him that no illness had ever managed to put her in a hospital bed.