Carnell said absently, “Yeah.”
Paul turned his attention back to Conklin. “Peter, when it happened, were there any women around?”
“Not to my knowledge. Oh, Karen was there, but she didn’t arrive until after it was over. Why?”
“I wondered who screamed.”
Conklin closed his eyes, going over the scene. “I didn’t hear a woman scream.”
“Someone did, though. I heard it. Just after the second shot.”
“I didn’t.”
Carnell stopped beside him. “Could there be anything in it?”
“We found no evidence of a woman in the house. Not in recent months, that is. But I’ll check with Gates and our driver.” Conklin was looking at Paul. “Can you tell me anything about the scream?”
“No. . . I don’t think so. It was just a scream. I don’t know where it came from.”
“How did you hear it?” Conklin asked suddenly.
“How?”
“With your ears, or otherwise?”
Paul stopped to consider that, quite surprised with the suggestion. “Well,” he said finally, “I don’t know. I was seeking that gun. I had the impression of a window and the muzzle of the thing, and I thought I saw a finger moving on the trigger. That’s when I warned you a second shot was coming. He got me then—it burned like sin. I thought that if I dropped my head and played dead, the gunman would quit. That’s when I heard the scream, but I don’t know how I heard it. And then I passed out, I guess.”
“It must have been a silent scream,” Conklin mused.
“Now hold up a minute; let’s follow this thing through,” Carnell persisted. “Let’s assume for the moment that a woman was hiding somewhere along that street. Or had been strolling along and ran into hiding when the trouble started. She would have to be a witness to the shooting to scream at the proper moment, wouldn’t she? Yes. Now let’s assume that it was what you call a silent scream, one which was emitted by the mind instead of the lips. So—Paul, it would be easy for you to hear that, wouldn’t it? We never had to speak to you unless we wished, eh?”
“That’s true. But I’d have to know the woman, the same as the people-I’ve met here. At least, I would have had to meet her once or twice and take some interest in her. I couldn’t work on strangers—that’s why we were going to see the embassy man.”
“Precisely! If you heard a woman scream mentally, it follows that you had previously met her. And if you did hear a woman scream at that place and at that time, she must have seen you shot. Do you see my line of supposition?”
“Yep. Finish it.”
Conklin interrupted. “It would suggest some female of Paul’s acquaintance was there on the spot.”
“That’s my point,” Carnell snapped. “Who?”
“He knows two. Emily and Karen.” Conklin turned to the patient. “Who else?”
Watching him, Paul said slowly, “My landlady and some old girl friends back home. The telephone girls downstairs. And there is the slight possibility that I can read some of the women who worked in the hotel downtown—I didn’t see much of them, but I remember a few faces.”
“That,” Carnell said emphatically, turning to Conklin, “is our next line of research.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“Why?” Carnell asked sharply. “Are you worried about Emily and Karen?”
“No—not really. I’m sure of Emily. And Karen was driving the tip-off car; we know where she was.” He looked up. “But you can’t be sure of Emily, as I am. You don’t know where she was. And so she’s under suspicion.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Carnell said in a kinder tone. “We’ll do it gently. I’ll put Karen on it.” He resumed pacing the floor. “Hell, I’m not worried about her. I know her like my own daughter. Well, almost. But what about these other women? The three downstairs? I’ll start a routine check back in Illinois, but I imagine we can rule out the landlady and the old flames. See where that leaves us?”
“Downstairs or the hotel.”
“Yeah.”
Paul broke in, “All this is only a supposition.”
“But a damned good one!” Carnell declared. “And what else can we do? We’re turning the city upside down now to find that rifleman. We’ve already started checking the eleven people who are wise to you—and let me tell you one thing! It’ll be rough on the man who can’t account for his whereabouts the evening before last.”
“Where were you?” Paul asked with a grin.
“In my office. Waiting for Peter’s report on what happened at the embassy.”
“I never did get to see the man coming in,” Paul said ruefully.
“But he saw you,” Carnell retorted. “The whole lot of you. Somebody down at State had to soothe his ruffled feelings. Had to convince him that gangsters and capitalists weren’t shooting it out on his front doorstep.” Carnell suddenly grinned. “I wonder what kind of report he sent home?”
“You don’t know?” Paul asked.
Carnell gave him a curious stare and did not answer.
“You know what I’d like to do?” Paul asked.
“What?”
“I’d like to meet the man who cracked the Japanese code during the war. I read about that. I’d like to know that man.”
“Why?”
“I’m curious about him. I’ve read some books on codes and ciphers, but I still don’t understand how it is done. I’d like to know how to do it. If I get my—my talent back again, I’d like to see some of those people.”
Carnell considered it. “We’ll see.”
The week wound on to its end, closed, and a new one began. The officious doctor continued to pop in and out twice a day, removing bandages, peering and probing, humming to himself just above the level of audibility, finally replacing the bandages and departing. Paul remained in bed; the cook brought in his meals; each of the telephone girls looked in briefly with a word as her shift ended. Conklin spent the greater part of each day in Paul’s room, chatting with him or sometimes reading aloud, or at other times doing nothing more than sitting at the window staring into space. There were six fresh yellow roses daily. Karen dropped in a few times, but didn’t stay long, pleading that she was extremely busy. Once she exchanged glances with Conklin, and he was miserable for hours. The strange new thing that seemed to have happened to her after the shooting episode was still there, carefully hidden in her voice and manner, but there nevertheless. After several days Conklin caught it and glanced at Paul to see if he was aware. Paul winked at him, but said nothing. Carnell came in once or twice, quite glum.
Conklin reported the progress (or lack of it) they were making on the various lines of inquiry. The reports weren’t really necessary; Paul had already followed each of them to its ultimate end and knew that none of the women under suspicion was actually involved, but he continued to play his game and let Conklin make the verbal reports. Those women living in Washington were not on the street that night, and Carnell would eventually discover that to his complete satisfaction. So far as he could discern, the women back in Illinois had never left the state. But one question remained unanswered in his prying mind: Who had screamed?
The shooting had awakened him to the peril.
If some one of those eleven men hated him that much, hated him to a degree he was willing to murder him, it was far past time to take protective steps. The nearness to death, the awful closeness of that bullet to his brain seemed adequate cover for this deception. He would continue the spell of blankness for the moment, to allow his peculiar talent slowly to “return.” This first time, rooted as it was in genuine-seeming circumstances, would set the pattern for future relapses. And perhaps in time he could convince them it was gone altogether. What would they do then?
Lying abed, he had sought the eleven too and found nothing rewarding. Conklin had been at his side and knew absolutely nothing of the gunman. Captain Evans had long ago been transferred to an outpost in the Pacific. Carnell had been downtow
n waiting in his office, and Slater had been in San Francisco in charge of a detail of men. The F.B.I. agent, Palmer, was out of town; his two superiors who knew of Paul continued their grumbling over losing him, but knew nothing of the shooting until late at night, when someone at State routed them out of their beds. The White House had temporarily been moved to Key West during a short vacation; while the unctuous major who ran liaison had been somewhere en route between Washington and Florida. Of the eleven, only Doctors Roy and Grennell remained, and they were the uncomfortable targets at the moment. Paul knew, if Carnell did not, that they too were innocent. That would be established shortly.
Who screamed?
And who set the rifleman on him?
Eleven men knew him and eleven men had been accounted for. Eleven minds hadn’t been read, but their actions and locations had been accounted for. In time, in good time, he expected to pry deeply into every remaining one of those eleven minds not already scanned. That would come, and he was content to wait.
But who screamed?
Carnell announced one day, after Slater returned from the coast, that renovation plans for the Maryland place were being dusted off. They were waiting only to see if Paul recovered his abilities. Carnell was quite pleased with the plans. It was a magnificent old place, he said, a big Maryland mansion surrounded with acres of lawn and woods. A wonderful growth of timber—beautiful trees, setting off a beautiful estate. It had come down from Colonial times. The building was a three-story affair with tall, graceful columns, and was completely modernized. They had used it during the war. The house would be done over for them, with bulletproof glass in the windows and a high stone wall around the estate. Complete privacy. The new plans called for a cable and wireless room so they would have their own direct connections with all the world; there would be a movie theater, a swimming pool, a gymnasium. It would be as much fun as a picnic. If Paul recovered.
He did not say the ants would be missing. The estate would first be swept clean with a security broom, and the ants would be eliminated.
They had large plans, Slater and he. Once again the place would become a training center, of a kind of training the world had never before known. Conklin was to be only the first of many men and women who would be sent out over the world, reporting back to Paul all that they saw and heard. The new agents would come to the Maryland center and spend weeks there, undergoing rigorous training. They would be taught a new code and instructed to report by cable or wireless direct to the estate. Meanwhile, Paul would study each of them, get to know them, and thus follow them wherever they went. The new code and the cable connections were really a cover; Paul would always know in advance the information they had unearthed, and their actual filing of messages would be a blind, designed to keep the truth from them and others. They were not to learn Paul’s secret, but continue to believe that the coded messages were getting the information back. Dozens, scores of agents could be trained and dispatched. The ultimate number depended only on Paul’s ability to handle them. If he recovered.
Paul instantly saw the opportunity of a second relapse. Take on, say, a dozen men, two dozen, and the overload would bring him down again. And with about the third collapse—finis. Get out of this mess.
Paul was out of bed and sitting in a chair reading Roy’s Studies when Karen came in. He had been getting up for short periods of time over the past few days, and now he felt strong enough to spend an afternoon in the chair.
“Hi,” he called. “Why stop to knock?”
“I try to be polite always.” She sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at him. “How are you, chick? You seem healthy.”
“I am healthy. Want proof?”
“Not right now, thank you. Ask again later on.”
Paul grinned. “Don’t think I won’t.”
“I know you will.” She matched his grin. “I can remember your grandfather. Now there was a wild one!”
“Grandpappy hasn’t been doing much lately. They caught him teaching the Indians how to brew their own rot-gut and put him away for a while.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. He was such a nice, harmless old man.”
“He’s probably broken out by this time. I haven’t heard from him for months—mail’s a bit slow, you know.”
“Yes.” Karen leaned back on the bed, laughing at him. “You’ve recovered. May as well pay the doctor bill and send him packing.” She displayed a slim and inviting appearance.
“What’s with you?” he wanted to know.
“Work,” she answered, “work, work, work. Mr. Slater and Mr. Carnell are slave drivers. Lucky you, lolling around in bed.”
Paul rubbed the back of his neck and said, “Sure.” He gazed at her ankles and then lifted his eyes to her face. “I know a little bit about Emily. Peter was quite worried. Did it come out all right?”
Karen frowned. “I—I’m not supposed to talk about such things. Even to people I know as well as you.”
“All right. Do you remember the day you were here and he had the miseries? Give me your opinion on something. Do you think his miseries are over?”
She burst into laughter. “Yes, you persistent man. I think his miseries were quite groundless.”
“Glad to hear it. I like Peter and Emily, like them very much. Now he’ll be fit to live with again.” He had a new thought. “Say, are you staying awhile this time?”
She moved her head. “Perhaps an hour or so.”
“Fine! Open that closet door.” He pointed behind him. Karen obediently arose from the bed and went to the closet, opened it to reveal the liquor rack.
“Oh, now,” she exclaimed, “does the doctor allow this?”
“If he doesn’t, he should. He’s been helping himself for the past two weeks. Trot it out.”
“Well, maybe just a little one . . .”
She stayed well over an hour, and once expressed the wish that his room were equipped with a radio and that he were on his feet again. He promised both the next time she should visit him. Karen said she thought she would be free the coming weekend, and Paul snapped her up on it. He even offered to sing, now, if she would dance for him. “Can you sing?” she asked.
“Well . . .”
“Never mind. That’s answer enough. Forget it.” And humming aloud, she did a few steps about the floor. He applauded and asked for more. She declined, saying she preferred to wait until he could join her. And thus they passed the hour, and more.
When at last she had to go, she bent down quickly and kissed his lips. “That’s for the other day,” she said.
“I wish I had thrown you a handful,” he complained, reaching for her. Karen moved back out of the way.
“Silly! I really must go now.” She paused in the doorway and smiled at him. “Do you want anything?”
Paul winked at her. “But I can’t have it. So just ask Peter to come up, will you?”
“See you this weekend. ’Bye.” And she was gone.
Conklin came through the open door a few moments later. “A cloud,” he said, pointing downward. “A pink, fluffy cloud, and she was floating along in the middle of it. What’s on your mind, Don Juan?”
“Karen’s in love with me.”
“I’ve known that for days. Did she just get around to telling you?”
“No, she didn’t tell me. Not out loud. But she told me.”
“You were blind not to see it before. Hey—wait a minute!” He stared at Paul. “You read it?”
“Yep.”
Conklin turned and jumped down the stairs for the telephone.
XII.
The first real touch of spring had come and the windows were open, not yet covered by screens. The cook’s carefully tended plants were budding in the yard, and early birds had been making noises for weeks, impatiently awaiting the warmer weather. Peter Conklin stood in the middle of Paul’s room, looking around at all the small familiar objects, picking out his favorite chair. His darting eyes finally came to rest on Paul.
“Well,
so long.” He held out his hand, displaying an awkwardness that was new to him. “I don’t know what to say, except that it has been fun.”
Paul grasped the hand and squeezed it. “Take care, Peter. And be careful of all the Spaniards in all the streets. You know . . .?”
“I know and I will. Very careful.” He hesitated, searching the other’s face. “I don’t suppose you’ve changed your mind? About our meeting again?”
“No, I’m sorry. Slater hasn’t changed his mind, and I see nothing whatever. It just isn’t there.”
“That’s what I thought. And all along I’ve been hoping you were wrong. Damn—what a lousy place to go! That’s the trouble with this job. Emily threw a scene.”
“Tough on her, all right.” Paul nodded, and suddenly smiled at him. “If it’s any comfort to you, just remember that you can talk to me all the time. Any time, day or night, I don’t care. I can’t answer, but don’t let that stop you. And Peter—don’t move your lips. People will think you’re touched.”
“Won’t they, though! I’m glad I was in on the beginning of this. Of you. Else I would suspect I was touched.” He made a last careful survey of the room. “Well, the car’s waiting for me. I’m going directly to the station and taking a train for Newark. It looks like this is the end of four years.” He hesitated once again, glancing at Paul, and it was obvious what was on his mind. Paul waited for it to be spoken.
“Do you remember what you asked me several weeks ago, Paul? About doing a favor without mentioning it downtown?”
“I remember.”
“Well—I’m going directly to the train. I’m not going back to the office.”
Paul let his gaze drift across the room, examining the wallpaper. Then he snapped back to the waiting man. “I was hoping you’d do it, Peter. It won’t involve you in any trouble if you’re careful. When your plane touches down at Shannon, I’d like for you to make a few inquiries for me. Nose around below the surface and see what you can find out about a man. I think he’s in Ireland somewhere.”
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