Absentmindedly rubbing his bald head, Earle moved the glass methodically across the pictures. A surprising number of cardplayers and hotel workers were to be seen in the background and the two officers pointed to those of main interest: Haines Froelick, Vassily Ivanovich, Molly Baldwin, and, of course Ted Flythe. He admitted knowing none of them.
"Who are those geeks?" he asked, pointing to a view of the Bontemps Room Sunday afternoon.
The photographer had taken it in an attempt to get Flythe's profile without her target noticing, so Flythe was well to the right of the picture. On the left, Madame Ronay seemed to be instructing the remaining busboys and Mr. George,t he head steward. Every face was in sharp detail.
Sigrid explained who they were.
Earle's pale blue eyes gazed vacantly into her face. "This George guy. He works for her?"
"They all do. It's her hotel," Knight said impatiently. "Do you recognize them? Have you seen this George before?"
Another pause.
"Nah.
Before they started the rainy drive back to town, Sigrid telephoned headquarters and left a message for Eberstadt or Peters to start checking Mr. George's background.
28
SIGRID had never before realized how many reflective surfaces she passed every day, nor how often she saw herself subliminally. Not just mirrors, but windows, glass partitions, doors, polished vinyl or metal. Each time came as a fresh shock. She rather liked her new haircut, the way it looked and felt, but those unexpected reminders of it were disconcerting. Even more, she wished her co-workers didn't feel compelled to stare and comment. It was bad enough feeling the silent looks that followed her through the halls when they returned to headquarters Tuesday afternoon. Things were no better in what should have been the sanctuary of her office.
Alan Knight was beginning to act as if he had cut her hair himself; and when Elaine Albee came in to report that Jill Gill thought no one had followed Pernell Johnson through the staff door
Sunday, Sigrid cut through her startled compliments and crisply asked if anyone could alibi Ivanovich between ten-forty-five and eleven o'clock.
"Not yet. Lieutenant. Everybody went home Sunday night and I'm having trouble locating some of the witnesses."
"Wouldn't it be simplest to ask Ivanovich himself and go from there? Or is it too complicated?"
"You're better than those knives they sell on late-night television," Knight scolded when Albee escaped. "You can slice through steel easy as butter."
"Since you have all the data on Ivanovich, why don't you go help lighten her task?" Sigrid asked irritably.
"All she wanted to do was make nice about your hair."
"Then let me reciprocate," Sigrid said sardonically. "Albee asked me about your wife yesterday morning."
Alan Knight perked up. "She did? What did you tell her?"
"I said I thought you two were separated."
He got up and ambled toward the
Sigrid worked undisturbed for another half hour until Jim Lowry tapped on her open door. He'd spent the previous afternoon up in Harlem talking to Pernell Johnson's aunt, a tougher interview than usual. Quincy Johnson had been devastated.
"They're taking his body back to Florida today," said Lowry. "That's what the grandmother wants. You know. Lieutenant, every time a kid gets killed, his family will tell you what a Boy Scout he was; and then later his friends and neighbors will tell you what he was really like. This time it sounds true. Everybody says he was hard-working and clean-no drugs, not even beer or cigarettes-church on Sunday, respectful of his aunt. I'd stake my career that if Pernell Johnson knew something about that bomb, he didn't even know he knew it."
"So that he might have made and oor. "Now that was real sisterly of you," he drawled.
innocent remark that panicked the killer?"
"Something like that."
For a moment, Sigrid was silent, remembering the slender youth in his white linen pants and short green jacket. "I spoke to him, you know. On Saturday. He told me about putting out the fire and about his duties that night. I wish I'd pushed him more."
Sigrid glanced up and saw that Lowry was looking at her oddly. Quickly she said, "What did the desk clerk and bellman say about Baldwin 's story? Can they confirm it?"
"Not really. They think she came downstairs sometime after Madame Ronay showed up looking for her and that she did go down the hall that leads to her office, but they don't know if she stayed there. No one noticed when she left again."
"Too bad."
"What about you? Anything new on Fred Hamilton?"
"According to Victor Earle, he OD'd in France in the spring of seventy-one." "Merde!"
"My sentiments, too."
Lowry stood to go and there was indecision, on his good-natured face. "Did you do something to your hair. Lieutenant? It looks different."
"I had it cut."
"Looks nice."
"Thanks. Was there something else, Lowry?"
"Well, I was wondering if you'd seen Albee. She's not at her desk and-"
"She's out checking on Ivanovich's movements Sunday morning," Sigrid answered guiltily, and was relieved when a uniformed officer from Communications stuck her head in the door and said, "Lieutenant Harald? This just came in for you."
Lowry started to leave; but as Sigrid scanned the telex, she called him back and handed it to him. According to the Michigan branch of a certain religious denomination which presently held all the records of Carlyle Union College from its founding in 1883 till its closing in 1979, the only Theodore Flythe ever to graduate from dear old CUC was an Alfred Theodore Flythe, Class of 1907.
"Funny, he doesn't look that old," said Lowry. Î
"Want to go talk to him about it?"
"Sure."
"And now that we know he's not Fred Hamilton, you might ask him where he was between 10:41 and 10:55 on Sunday morning. One thing more, Lowry. It doesn't look as if Flythe was one of the Red Snow terrorists; but just the same, take somebody with you. Eberstadt maybe. Or Peters. Whoever killed Pernell Johnson was quick with his hands."
"You don't suppose Albee's coming back soon?"
"I doubt it," Sigrid said, and hoped he wouldn't notice that Lieutenant Knight seemed to be missing as well.
Her wristwatch showed well past four now and she'd promised to meet Nauman at Piers Leyden's art exhibit before six. Normally she'd have gone straight from work, but today… her hand touched the back of her neck and that strange lightness returned, almost as if the cutting of her hair had also cut away some of her inhibitions.
She thought of a certain claret-coloredd ress Anne had brought her from London last fall. Nauman had never seen her in red.
She was halfway down the hall before she remembered and went back for the little pink plastic bag of cosmetics,
Daylight was fading as Sigrid stepped from the cab a few doors off Fifth Avenue. The small elevator that conveyed clients to the third-floor gallery was lined with smoky gold-threaded mirrors and she gave her reflection a final worried inspection.
The purplish-red dress was simply cut, with a softly flared skirt and long full sleeves that nicely concealed her bandaged arm. It was topped with a short paisley-embroidered tabard of rich jewel tones, and she'd found a small black patent leather shoulder bag with skinny straps to match her shoes.