Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 101, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 610 & 611, March 1993

The Spy with the Icicle Eye by Edward D. Hoch

The breakup of the Soviet Union spawned much discussion amongst mystery writers, publishers, and editors as to what would become of spy fiction. But to answer that question, we must ask what has become of spies, as Mr. Hoch does in this latest Rand adventure...

Staring through the frosted windowpane at the snow outside, Rand could not remember a worse winter storm in all the years since he and Leila moved to Reading. It would have been a perfect day to remain at home by the fireplace. Leila was on her winter break from lecturing at the university, and she’d been urging him all morning to cancel his appointment in London.

“It’s letting up now,” he told her, examining the leaden sky. “The forecast is good for the rest of the day.”

“But why do you need to see this foolish little man at some computer place, for God’s sake?”

“Because he’s paying me,” Rand answered with a sigh. “The Cold War is over and there’s not much work for a retired cryptoanalyst.”

“You were much more than that, Jeffrey.” She liked to remind him of his days as Director of Concealed Communications for British Intelligence. Perhaps she felt it was good for his ego.

“In any event, it’s off to London on the eleven-ten. That should get me to Paddington Station in plenty of time to meet Sillabus for lunch at his club.” He kissed her quickly on the cheek. “Home for dinner or I’ll call.”

The railway journey took only twenty-two minutes, and even with the blowing snow they were on time. It was a short walk from Paddington to the club. Leila and Rand had met Harold Sillabus at a publisher’s party back in November, and he’d forgotten the man until he phoned. He wrote instruction books for computers and computer programs, and he wanted to hire Rand for a little job, he said.

Sillabus greeted him in the lobby of the club and led the way to a spacious dining room. “Terrible weather,” he muttered, “but I don’t have to tell you that. Someone told me that Londoners hate January and February, with these thick white skies and dreary days.”

“The snow is almost a relief,” Rand agreed. “At least it brightens things up a bit.”

Sillabus was not a Londoner and neither was Rand, born in Paris of British parents, though both men had spent many years there. They talked for a few minutes about the city before the short man cleared his throat to indicate it was time for business. A waiter arrived, as if on cue, to take their order.

“You see,” Sillabus began, “I do these books on computer programs. I guess you know all about that with your government experience. I hear that the entire science of cryptography is now computerized.”

“I’ve been retired more than fifteen years,” Rand murmured. “Things change.”

“Could you solve a computer-generated cipher?” he asked.

“It’s not my specialty. Sometimes they take years to crack.”

“This has nothing to do with espionage. I suppose it’s more in the nature of a game. You’re probably aware that some books, especially reference works like dictionaries, have actually been transferred to disks so they can be read off a computer screen. More recently, a few classics and even modern novels have appeared on disks. I believe there’s an illustrated version of Alice in Wonderland, and even one of these new techno-thrillers, complete with diagrams.”

“I guess I haven’t kept up with the newest technology in publishing,” Rand admitted. “I’m just getting used to audio books.”

“Well, a British novelist named Garson Wolfe has published — if that’s the word for it — a new fantasy novel available only on computer disk. He’s selling it for one thousand pounds per disk, and to add to the enjoyment, if that’s the word for it, the novel can only be read once. The disk is programmed to encipher itself after a single viewing, or if someone tries to copy it.”

“You want me to decipher it?”

“Yes, or tell me how to do it. A little booklet with the secret would sell quite well to computer addicts and fantasy fans.”

Rand thought about it. “You’re willing to pay for this?”

“The price of a disk. One thousand pounds if you can bring me the key to the cipher this week.”

“With a bit of luck I’ll do better than that.” The waiter arrived with their food. “Do you have one of these disks back at your office?”

“Yes. I purposely haven’t played it yet so you could see how the enciphering takes place.”

It was a short walk back to Sillabus’s office after lunch. The wind had let up a bit but there were still flurries in the air. They’d just reached the entrance to the small office building when the short man seemed to see someone he knew standing by the corner. “Just a moment, will you, Rand? I need a word with that chap.”

Rand watched with interest as he approached a tall man who wore a fur-collared leather coat of a sort not often seen in London. Surely he was from one of the Eastern European countries, or at least his coat was. The two men spoke for only a moment, then Harold Sillabus seemed to wave his arms in disgust and walk away.

“Who was that?” Rand asked.

“Someone who thinks the Cold War is still being fought.” He led the way toward the door.

“One thing I almost forgot. Is there a camera store near here, or any sort of place where I might purchase a Polaroid camera?”

“I have one in the office, specially fitted to take pictures of a television or computer screen, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Rand smiled. “That’s it exactly.”

Once inside the Sillabus office, Rand saw that it was far from being a million-pound business. A pretty, dark-haired woman was slitting envelopes with a slim letter opener, and seemed to be the only employee. She turned as they entered and Sillabus introduced her. “Janice Casey, this is Mr. Rand. He’s going to help us with the Garson Wolfe disk. Miss Casey is my business associate.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Rand.” She shook his hand firmly. To Sillabus she reported, “That man Pryzic was here again looking for you.”

“I ran into him outside. The fellow is a fool or an idiot.”

Rand glanced at the shelves as they spoke, taking in the slender paperback volumes in something called the Sillabus Softwear Series. He took down a volume titled Windows, glanced through it, and put it back, aware of how little he understood about the latest developments in computer software. It was a constantly changing field, and with no day-to-day involvement he’d fallen behind. Still, he believed he knew enough to help Harold Sillabus with his problem.

“This is the disk,” the little man said, returning to his side. “I’ll insert it in the computer. Will this camera serve your purpose?”

“It should.”

Rand watched as the screen lit up with pleasant green type announcing The Wizard of Zo, a novel on disk by Garson Wolfe. He picked up the camera with its tapered, boxy frame that fit over the screen and focused it, then snapped the picture. Sillabus let the disk run on for some time while Rand photographed the screen, then went back to the beginning.

“You’ll see what I mean.”

The screen now showed the title and author as a jumble of letters without even spaces between them. Rand started photographing again. “I was hoping for something simpler,” he admitted. “This appears to be a progressive mathematical formula of some sort. It’ll take another computer to come up with the proper relationship between cipher and plaintext.”

“Can you do it?”

“I know someone who can.” Rand glanced at his watch. It was still snowing outside and he hated the thought of another trip into London the following day. “Maybe I can get back to you this afternoon, but I can’t promise that. I’ll either be back before five or I’ll phone you.”

“Very good, Mr. Rand. I’m in your hands.”

Rand gathered up the Polaroid photos. He put on his coat and said goodbye to Janice Casey on his way out. Then he hailed a taxi for his old office overlooking the Thames.

It was Rand’s first visit to Concealed Communications in nearly a year, and he was distressed at the number of empty desks. “We’ve been cutting back, like everyone else,” Parkinson explained, having met him at the elevator and escorted him in. “I certainly didn’t expect to see you turn up today, Rand, in all this snow.”

There was no love lost between the two of them. Rand had never approved of the manner in which Parkinson’s predecessor, his old friend Hastings, had been removed from his post. Now, having to ask Parkinson for a favor, he felt naturally reticent. But Parkinson too was ill at ease, and after Rand explained the nature of the problem he seemed relieved it was nothing more.

“We have a high-capacity computer that’s standing idle this very minute,” he assured Rand. “Follow me.”

The young woman operator was fast and efficient, and seemed thankful for any task to pass the time. Her name was Rose and she spoke to Rand as she typed in the necessary information. “I’ll wager it was a whole lot busier in your day, Mr. Rand.”

“It was indeed. This whole section was given over to just the Middle East. But there are no sides fighting for control anymore.”

Parkinson stood by, perhaps making certain that Rand didn’t wander around too much. “You’re assigning each letter a numerical designation from one to twenty-six?” he asked at one point.

Rand nodded. “And then starting over if necessary. There have to be numbers for a math formula to work.”

The head of Double-C snorted. “All this for a stupid game!”

“There!” Rose announced. “Message entered in plaintext and cipher. The computer can work through the math quite quickly.”

She was right, of course. In less than fifteen minutes Rand had the answer he sought. It involved squares and square roots of numbers translated back into letters. A stupid cipher, really, but adequate for its limited purpose.

“You owe us one, Rand,” Parkinson said, turning away.

Just then the phone on Rose’s desk buzzed. Even the sound of the telephones was different from what it had been in Rand’s day. She took the message and said to Parkinson, “Your secretary has the Pryzic file.”

He seemed to frown at her mention of a name in front of Rand, even if he had once been in charge of the department. “Fine,” he said, and turned to leave. “I’ll walk you to the elevator, Rand.”

“That’s good of you.”

It was not until he was out on the street, heading across Westminster Bridge, that he remembered where he’d heard the name Pryzic before.

Though he returned to Harold Sillabus’s office well before five, Rand found the door locked and the place seemingly deserted. He could hardly slip the results of his computer work under the door, so it meant another trip into London after all. He decided it would be a long time before he got himself involved in anything like this again.

He left the building and was searching for a taxi back to Paddington Station when he heard someone call his name. “Mr. Rand, please! A moment!”

It was the man Sillabus had called Pryzic, still in his fur-collared leather coat, bearing down on Rand from the corner. Close up, his face was like chiseled granite, with lips that pulled back threateningly from red gums and bad teeth. His left eye seemed oddly cold as he stared at Rand and said, “I saw you speaking with Sillabus earlier. Are you a friend of his?”

“Only an acquaintance. How do you know my name?”

“Your work is well known, even famous, in certain circles.” The eye seemed to bore into him as the leather-clad man spoke.

“My work? I’ve been retired more than fifteen years.”

“Nonetheless—”

“Have you been here long? Did you see Mr. Sillabus go out?”

“No, I did not see him. Come talk with me. I have something to tell you about Sillabus.”

The idea of talking to this stranger did not appeal to Rand. “I have a train to catch.”

“There is a pub around the corner. We can talk there.”

“I—”

The granite face allowed itself a slight smile. “There is nothing to fear. We are in London, no?”

The pub was a place called Seasons, and it was more of an upscale tavern than a traditional pub. Wooden wall plaques carried stanzas about each season by English poets, and the barmaids wore appropriate costumes. For winter they had white fur trim. Pryzic, as he had finally introduced himself, ordered a German beer and Rand joined him.

“You are doing work for Sillabus?” he asked as he slipped off his leather coat. Underneath he wore a brown tunic that could have been part of a uniform.

“Just a single job, and that’s about over. I was looking for him now, but the office is closed.”

“It is almost five.” His hands were long and tapered, constantly in motion as he spoke. “I too work for him, but he no longer pays me and now refuses to speak with me.”

Rand remembered Sillabus’s words: Someone who thinks the Cold War is still being fought. He studied the man across the table without reaching any firm conclusion. “What was it you wanted to tell me?” Rand asked after the beer arrived.

“Do not trust Sillabus. He works for both sides.”

“A double agent?”

“Correct.”

“You think the Russians are paying him?”

“Without a doubt.”

“But the Soviet Union no longer exists,” Rand argued.

Pryzic took on a sly expression. “Do not be deceived. Would the two of us, from opposite sides of the fence, be meeting like this if the war were over? I would be back on my farm in the Urals, and you would be at home in Reading — not walking the streets of London in the snow.”

Rand had to chuckle at the man’s logic. “I suppose you’ve got a point there.”

Pryzic glanced at his watch. “If Sillabus closed the office early he should have reached his apartment by now. Pardon me while I use the telephone.”

Rand doubted the little man would welcome a call from Pryzic, but it was not for him to say. Certainly he needed to make his escape as soon as he finished the beer. He knew now that he’d been foolish to accompany this man in the first place.

As the minutes passed without Pryzic’s return, Rand stood up to read the nearest of the seasonal wall plaques:

The words reminded him of Pryzic’s own eye with its icy gaze. Then he heard the man’s voice behind him and whirled around, feeling somehow guilty. “Do you like the poem? A fitting Cold War message, don’t you think? Almost as eloquent as Churchill.”

“I suppose so,” Rand agreed, resuming his seat. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.” He noticed the beads of moisture on Pryzic’s tunic. “Did you reach Sillabus?”

“No. Their phone was out of order here so I ran next door. But it did no good. No one answers at his apartment.”

“Is it still snowing out?”

“Just a bit.”

Rand downed the rest of his beer. “I really do have to catch that train.”

Pryzic seemed disappointed. “I had imagined a long, rich conversation about the years of the Cold War.”

“Perhaps some other time. You have given me your message about Sillabus and I’ll be on my guard. Thank you for the beer.”

Outside it was already dark. He phoned Leila to say he’d catch the six o’clock train home.

In the morning, Rand awakened to find that the previous day’s snow was already turning to slush as the temperature edged toward forty. “It’s good to see the sun, if only briefly,” he told Leila.

He was brushing his teeth when she came to tell him that Parkinson was on the phone from London. “What does he want after all this time?”

“I don’t know. I saw him briefly yesterday. He did me a favor with that Sillabus business.” Rand went into his library and picked up the extension phone. “Yes, Parkinson?”

The voice at the other end spoke without preliminaries. “You mentioned the name Harold Sillabus yesterday.”

“He hired me to work on that business I brought you.”

“Sillabus was found dead a half-hour ago. We just received word.”

“Dead?”

“In his office. His assistant found him when she arrived for work shortly after eight o’clock. He’d been murdered.”

Rand’s mind was reeling. “I went back yesterday afternoon but he wasn’t there.”

“This Miss Casey who found the body says he sent her home at four-thirty because of the snow. Looks as if he was killed shortly after that, before you arrived. Somewhere before five?”

Rand took a deep breath. “What’s your interest in all this?”

“Nothing special. I just thought you’d want to know.”

“Come on, Parkinson. Scotland Yard doesn’t phone you within a half-hour with news of every body they find. You had someone watching that office, didn’t you? There was something about a Pryzic file—”

“What does Pryzic mean to you?”

“Nothing. I never heard the name until yesterday. But we had a beer together when I returned to Sillabus’s place and found the office locked. I’m surprised your people didn’t report that.”

“They did.”

“I see.”

“I think we should talk, Rand. Will you be in London today?”

“No. One trip a week is more than enough.”

Parkinson grunted. “I’ll get back to you.”

“One thing more, before you hang up. How was Sillabus killed?”

“Stabbed through the left eye. Don’t know with what. The weapon seems to have melted away.”

After he’d hung up, Leila called out from the kitchen where she was preparing breakfast. “What did he want? Did he offer you your old job back?”

“No chance of that,” he replied, though he knew she was joking. He told her about Sillabus’s death.

“What does it mean?”

“That I’m out one thousand pounds.”

She thought about that as she squeezed the orange juice and set a glass in front of him. “You said this disk was something an author wrote?”

“A fantasy novelist named Garson Wolfe. I’m not familiar with his work.”

“Perhaps he’d be willing to pay for the work you’ve done in deciphering the disk.”

“I don’t want to blackmail the man, Leila! I can’t very well go to him and say that if he pays me a thousand pounds, I won’t make it public.”

“Of course not! In fact, I suppose you’d have to give it to him. But it might turn into something. Maybe he’ll hire you to work out a cipher for his next book on disk.”

“I hope not,” Rand replied with a grin. But her idea of contacting Garson Wolfe wasn’t a bad one. After breakfast he tried to find the man’s name in the London telephone directories without success. Then he called the company that had put out the novel on disk, but he was told firmly to write a letter and they would forward it.

Leila had gone off to meet a visiting professor at the university, and Rand was alone when the door chimes sounded. He peered out the front window and saw a black limousine pulled up in the slush out front. He sighed and went to the door. No one had ever been able to convince Parkinson that spies don’t drive around in flashy cars.

“Come in,” he said, throwing open the door.

Parkinson entered a bit hesitantly. “Sorry to bother you at home like this, Rand, but I felt we should talk further.”

“What about?”

“This man Pryzic. Why did you meet with him and what did you talk about?”

“He approached me as I was coming out of Sillabus’s office building. He called me by name and I’ll admit that stopped me. I saw him earlier talking with Sillabus.”

“What did Sillabus say about him?”

“He implied he was living in the past, still fighting the Cold War.”

“Indeed!”

Parkinson had removed his coat and settled in. Rand reluctantly brought him a cup of coffee. “Now it’s your turn to tell me about Pryzic. After all, you’re the one with the file on him.”

“He was an agent for the former East German government — one of the best, I’m told. He acted as a courier for top-secret messages and plans, and we never once caught him with anything. Perhaps after you do that sort of thing long enough it becomes the only life you know. The Berlin Wall came down, but Pryzic kept working. The Soviet Union collapsed and split apart, but Pryzic kept working. As near as we can tell, he’s spent the past year or so delivering imaginary messages to people who don’t exist, from people who no longer care.”

“He doesn’t seem crazy, except for the look in his eyes. His left eye seems as frozen as an icicle.”

“That’s a glass eye. Pryzic lost his as a young man, wiring bombs for terrorists. A small charge went off too soon.”

“He’s had quite a life.”

“We’d like to send him back to Germany and tell them to keep him, but even now we can’t prove he’s done anything wrong.”

“Pin the Sillabus killing on him and he’s out of your hair forever.”

“Do you think he did it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was he out of your sight at all?”

“He ran next door to make a phone call, trying to reach Sillabus. But the man was probably already dead by that time.”

“The body was in that office all night. Scotland Yard can’t be too precise about the time of death.”

“Tell me something else. I’d like to contact Garson Wolfe, the author of that disk novel I brought you yesterday. Can you get me his address?”

“Scotland Yard has it. They’ll be questioning him as a possible suspect.”

“Suspect?”

“It may be that he heard about Sillabus’s plan to publish the computer program he used to encipher his novel. It would have been a blow to his pride, if not his pocketbook. Men have killed for less.”

“I hadn’t thought of that. I’d like to see him.”

“He works at home, lives in Slough. I can get the address and drive you over right now.”

It was obvious Parkinson was trying to involve him in the case and he wondered why. The death of a man like Sillabus could hardly be a matter of concern to British Intelligence. As for Pryzic’s involvement, he was living in the past, wasn’t he?

“Do you know who killed Sillabus? Was it our side?”

Parkinson smiled. “There are no sides anymore, Rand. You said so yourself.”

Garson Wolfe lived on a quiet residential street in Slough. The house was neat but modest, and a woman Rand took to be his wife answered the door. He’d persuaded Parkinson to wait in the car down the street so he could speak to the man alone. Now, to this woman, he said, “It’s very important that I see Garson Wolfe, if he’s at home.”

“He’s writing. I don’t know if I can disturb him.”

“Tell him it’s about Harold Sillabus.”

She returned in a moment with a tall, slender man behind her. “I’m Garson Wolfe,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“My name is Rand. I believe we have a mutual acquaintance — Harold Sillabus.”

“What about him?” Wolfe asked cautiously.

“He’s dead. He was murdered in his London office yesterday afternoon. Did you know about that?”

The writer frowned and shook his head. “I hardly knew the man, and I was never in his office. Look here, are you the police or something?”

“No. I was helping him solve the cipher you’re using on your computer disk — The Wizard of Zo.”

He gave Rand a fresh look. “I’d heard about his plan. He tried to obtain information from me, claiming it would help sales of my disk, but I wouldn’t cooperate. I suppose there’s no law against his solving it himself and publishing the results, but I wasn’t very happy about it.”

“Have the police questioned you yet?”

“Of course not! Why should they?”

“I think you’ll be hearing from them soon,” Rand said.

He left Wolfe and returned to the car where Parkinson waited. “What did you learn?”

“The police haven’t questioned him yet,” Rand said as Parkinson pulled away from the curb. “He only knew Sillabus slightly. The man approached him for help with the cipher, apparently, but Wolfe turned him down.”

“I’m driving into London to look at the murder scene next,” Parkinson said. “Want to come along and take the train back?”

“Why not? I seem to be involved in this whether I like it or not.”

The police technicians and investigators had already departed from the scene by the time Parkinson’s limousine pulled up in front of the familiar building. Parkinson had phoned ahead and established that Janice Casey, the dead man’s assistant, would still be there to let them in.

When they entered she seemed surprised to see Rand. “He said you were retired from this business,” she told him.

“Who said that? Sillabus?”

She nodded. Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying. “That’s why he hired you for the deciphering.”

Rand had barely noticed her on his previous visit to the office. Now this pretty, dark-haired woman in her thirties seemed almost like Sillabus’s successor. She wasn’t straightening up the office but seemed instead to be getting out letters and handling incoming mail, using her index finger to slit open the flap of a manila envelope.

“You seem to be trying to carry on the business,” Rand commented.

“Why shouldn’t I? My own money is in it. One-third of this is mine! I can’t afford to lose that, whatever happens to his share.”

“Does he have a wife?”

“Separated for years. I don’t know if they ever got officially divorced or not. She lives somewhere in France.”

Parkinson sifted through the papers on the desk, ignoring her annoyed expression. “What was his connection with the man named Pryzic?”

“Heaven knows! The man was haunting him lately. He’d wait on the corner and try to intercept us as we left. Harold had an old pair of binoculars in his desk and he took to looking out the window at the corners and the doorways to see if he was lurking there. I think the man is mad.”

Rand carefully opened one of the desk drawers and then another. He saw the battered, worn binoculars and took them to the window. The left lens was out of position and he had to straighten it as best he could before he could use them. But this day there was no sign of Pryzic, or his icy stare. If he knew about the murder, of course, there was no reason for him to come looking for Sillabus anymore. Rand returned the binoculars to the drawer.

“What time did you leave last night?” Parkinson asked her.

“I already answered all these questions for the police. Must I go through it again? Harold sent me home at four-thirty because the snow was getting worse. I usually work from eight to five with an hour for lunch, although both of us were quite flexible.”

“You intend to keep up the business?”

“I said so, didn’t I? The Sillabus Softwear Series has a large following. If his estate is willing to sell, perhaps I can own the entire company someday.”

As they were leaving, a bit later, Rand remarked, “She doesn’t seem to be mourning his death too much.”

“Maybe she killed him for his share of the business.”

But Rand doubted it. “This is the age of instant gratification, Parkinson. People don’t commit murder for a possible profit ten years down the road.”

“What about Garson Wolfe?”

Rand shrugged. “Your real interest isn’t this murder. It’s Pryzic. What do you suspect him of doing?”

“The same thing he was doing for the Soviet Union. Carrying plans, microfilm, computer chips. Some of them can be worth a fortune to unscrupulous European firms.”

“Is this what the former spies like Pryzic are doing these days?”

Parkinson nodded. “What else is there, between wars?”

Rand took the train back home to Reading. The death of Harold Sillabus didn’t really concern him, nor did Parkinson’s interest in the ex-spy Pryzic. For all any of them knew, Sillabus might have been stabbed through the eye by a thief trying to steal a typewriter.

But that night Rand’s dreams were bothered by the figure of the mysterious Pryzic, moving silently through the blinding snow — though there’d been only a few flurries flying when they met. Flurries that had stuck to the German’s tunic when he ran outside.

In his dream the figure came closer, until Rand could clearly see the icicle growing from the very center of his eye. Could tears freeze? They were salty, and the salt would keep them from freezing, wouldn’t it? His mind churned as the nightmare intensified.

He woke suddenly, remembering the dream and the eye.

In the morning he phoned Parkinson at his unlisted number. “Two questions — do you still have people watching Pryzic?”

“Of course, but I don’t know for how much longer. Last night he just hung around that bar, Seasons, where you drank with him.”

He’s waiting, Rand thought. “Second question — have you seen the autopsy report on Harold Sillabus?”

“Of course not! We’re hardly Scotland Yard. We don’t see autopsy reports except in highly unusual circumstances.”

“Get a copy of this one and call me back. I especially want to know if any ocular tissue or fluid was found in the wound.”

“What?”

“Get back to me,” Rand said and hung up.

It was an hour later when the phone rang. Rand scooped it up and heard Parkinson say, “Not a thing there. I spoke to the pathologist myself and he thought it very odd, considering the location of the wound. They’re doing a more detailed examination.”

“I’m coming in on the next train,” Rand decided. “Have someone meet me at Paddington Station.”

By a little after one, he’d joined Parkinson at the office. “What’s it all about, Rand?” the younger man asked.

“Can you tell me where Pryzic is right now?”

“At Seasons enjoying a pint.”

“Alone?”

“Alone. Garson Wolfe showed up at the Sillabus office about an hour ago, and he’s taken the Casey woman there for lunch. But they have a booth around the back, nowhere near Pryzic at the bar.”

Rand glanced at his watch, calculating the time it would take to reach Seasons. “Come on, Parkinson. I hope we’re not too late.”

“Too late for what? I’m not going anywhere unless you tell me what you’re up to.”

“Remember the binoculars at Sillabus’s office yesterday? He used them to look out the window in search of Pryzic. But I found that the left lens wasn’t in its proper position. No one could have used a pair of binoculars like that — except a one-eyed person.”

“What? What are you saying? Pryzic’s the man with one eye, not Sillabus!”

“Pryzic’s artificial eye is more noticeable simply because it was less skillfully made. The autopsy report confirmed what I already suspected. Sillabus was not stabbed through his left eye, because he didn’t have a left eye. He was stabbed through the empty socket after the eye was removed.”

“Rand, what are you saying? Two men with artificial eyes?”

“Of course. All those years of the Cold War, Sillabus managed to pass secrets to Pryzic without detection, even while under surveillance. Their trick was as simple as it was bizarre. They exchanged their artificial eyes.”

When they reached Seasons, Pryzic was still seated at the bar, wearing a tunic much like the one he’d been wearing two days earlier. Parkinson nodded slightly toward two middle-aged women at a nearby table — obviously today’s minders assigned to Pryzic — and then continued on to the rear room of the establishment. Janice Casey was just paying the bill at their booth. Across from her, Garson Wolfe seemed startled to see Rand again.

“Well,” he said, turning his gaze to Janice Casey. “Is this something you arranged?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you tell the police I’d threatened you?”

“I’m not police,” Rand told him. “I know nothing about any threats. Maybe I should.”

“He said he’d sue me if I went ahead with the Sillabus booklet on his softwear cipher.” She handed the payment to their waitress and waved her away. “You’ll have to excuse us now. I must get back to the office.”

Rand moved to her side, not certain what to do. Behind him, Wolfe was growing more disturbed. He’d seen Parkinson now, and was certain something was wrong.

As the four of them moved through the dining room and past the bar, Rand felt as if everything was coming together too quickly. The middle-aged women were leaving their table, Garson Wolfe was turning to stare at them—

And suddenly Janice Casey stepped to the bar and offered the barmaid a five-pound note. “Could you break this for me, please?”

“Yes, certainly.”

Janice Casey stood beside Pryzic while she waited for her change, but they didn’t speak. He lifted his glass and drained it as she accepted the five one-pound coins and turned away.

Rand moved quickly, catching Pryzic’s hand as it slid along the edge of the bar. In the doorway, Janice Casey saw what was happening and bolted into the street. “Get her, Parkinson!” Rand shouted.

His hands were busy with Pryzic, loosening his grip on the small wrapped object that had been stuck to the underside of the bar. He tore away the cloth and held it in the palm of his hand.

“That’s an eyeball!” Garson Wolfe said with a gasp.

Later, back at Parkinson’s office overlooking the Thames, he and Rand sat examining the intricate workmanship of the artificial eye. It had taken them some minutes to even find the place where it unscrewed into two sections.

“Hollow,” Parkinson said. “And the threads are perfectly machined.”

Inside the hollow eye was a tiny padded compartment, just large enough for a bit of microfilm, or for the microchip it now held. “What do you think?” Rand asked.

“I’d guess it’s one of the most advanced designs, from Britain or America. The right country, the right company, might pay a million pounds for it. So Sillabus and Pryzic were still in business after all.”

“For industrial espionage? Well, Pryzic certainly was. But I suspect Sillabus didn’t want to deal with him any longer. That was why the German took to hanging around on the corner and at Seasons. Sillabus must have known there were a thousand ways he could smuggle something as small as a computer chip out of the country. He didn’t need Pryzic’s eye to do it. His own eye would have served just as well, and it looked more real. With security relaxed, there was no—”

“Then Pryzic killed him for it?”

“No, no! That was Janice Casey, his assistant and junior partner. You see, it was obvious at once that Pryzic couldn’t be the murderer.”

“How do you come to that conclusion?” Parkinson asked, showing his familiar displeasure at Rand’s feats of reasoning.

“Because Sillabus’s artificial eye was removed and he was stabbed through the eye socket to hide the fact. If Pryzic had killed him, he would have stabbed him elsewhere and exchanged glass eyes, as I believe they had so many times in the past. Sillabus could have been buried with Pryzic’s eye without anyone being the wiser. The killer stabbed him there because there was no glass eye to substitute.”

“All right. But maybe Wolfe killed him, or someone else. Why the woman?”

“She said Sillabus sent her home at four-thirty because it was snowing hard, but that was the time I met Pryzic and had a drink with him only a block away. It was hardly snowing at all then. Pryzic ran next door in his tunic and returned with only a few flakes on him. Also there was a slim letter opener that Janice Casey was using the first time I visited the office. I didn’t see it when we went back yesterday. She was opening a manila envelope with her index finger. That opener could well have been the murder weapon.”

“That’s speculation,” Parkinson grumbled.

“But what really convicts her is that we caught her passing Sillabus’s glass eye to Pryzic. He must have phoned her after the killing and they worked out a deal. While it was simple for Sillabus to travel abroad with the eye in place and escape detection, it would have been much harder for her if she was searched by customs. Better to sell the eye to Pryzic and let him take it out. You can see how skillfully it’s machined. Even a customs agent who knew about Pryzic’s eye arid examined it might miss the fact that it unscrewed. Today she had the eye with her at Seasons, and when she asked for change she merely stuck it under the bar next to Pryzic. I assume money arrangements had already been made. When we walked in there today and I saw Janice Casey paying the bill, that implied she chose the place rather than Wolfe. Having him along was a convenient cover for her.”

When Janice Casey finally told her story, it was somewhat different. She claimed that Sillabus had removed his eye to insert the valuable new microchip, obtained from one of his shady contacts in the computer world. When he stepped away from his desk for a moment she’d picked it up. He flew into a rage, thinking she was stealing it, and attacked her. She’d stabbed him with the letter opener in self-defense.

By the time he learned of this statement, Rand’s interests had shifted elsewhere. It was a new season, and all the icicles had melted.