The Right Jack

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.

There hadn't been time to do her nails, but she'd followed Ida's instructions exactly on the makeup and come away with a new respect for women like

Madame Ronay and Commander Dixon. It had taken her four tries before she got the eyeliner on straight. Under the fluorescent light in her bathroom, it had looked a little exaggerated, but Ida was right: in this subdued lighting, her eyes did look deeper and more interesting.

The elevator came to a stop and a small empty spot of stage fright settled in Sigrid's diaphragm. As the doors opened, she took a deep breath and stepped out into a babble of voices.

"Still no answer, huh, kid?" asked Eberstadt as Jim Lowry came back to the car parked in front of Flythe's apartment after trying Elaine Albee's telephone number again.

"We didn't actually have a date," said Lowry. "I said something this morning about a movie, but nothing definite."

He settled back in the seat disconsolately. They had missed Flythe at his office and it was beginning to look as if the Graphic Games rep had his own plans for the evening.

"Let's give him another twenty minutes and then, call it a day," suggested Eberstadt, rummaging in the bottom of the bag which had held their greasy cheeseburgers for the last stray french fry. His kids were teenagers, his wife on half a dozen church committees, so he was in no hurry to get home; but he remembered how it used to be.

Even as he spoke, they saw Ted Flythe swing down from a city bus on the corner and head toward them, jingling his door keys.

They got out of the car. "Mr. Flythe? NYPD. About the Maintenon case."

"Yeah?" He stood with his key ring dangling from his index finger. "I remember you guys. What's happening?"

"We wondered if we could ask you a few more questions."

"Sure. Come on up."

Flythe's apartment was not all that different from his, thought Jim Lowry, looking around. A little bigger maybe, a little neater, but definitely the space inhabited by a man living without a woman. He'd never quite understood why a woman's apartment differed froma man's. It was the same sort of furniture, the same rugs on the floor, and sometimes the same stacks of newspapers and magazines and dirty dishes piled just as high; and yet there was always something. Lamps maybe? Light always seemed softer in a woman's place.

"How about a beer?" asked Ffythe from the kitchen.

"Sure," said Eberstadt.

"Nothing for me, thanks," said Lowry, prowling the living room restlessly. Should he call Lainey again? It wasn't like her not to leave a message.

"So, gentlemen," said Flythe as he opened their beers. "What would you like to know?"

"More routine," said Eberstadt, co-opting the most comfortable chair in the room. There were no coasters on the end table, so he used a magazine for his beer can. "Just getting the loose ends straight. This was your first tournament with Graphic Games?"

"Right." Flythe blotted the foam from his neat Vandyke beard and repeated what he'd told them before: how long he'd been with Graphic Games, a bit ofh is previous history. He seemed almost as relaxed.as Matt Eberstadt.

Jim Lowry was still roaming the room and he paused before a framed diploma over the stereo. " Carlyle Union College," he read, then peered closer at the faded ink. "June 1967."

"You were probably just entering grade school," said Flythe. "You sure I can't get you a drink?"

"No, thanks. We were wondering about Sunday morning."

"What about it?"

"Did you know the kid that was killed? Pernell Johnson?"

"Not by name. I'd seen him ground all weekend though."

"Talk to him much?"

Flythe shook his head. "No need to. Miss Baldwin and the room steward-What's his name? George? They kept that side of the tournament running smoothly. I'll say that for the Maintenon. Graphic Games got its money's worth. Lucienne Ronay runs a class operation. Those fancy ballrooms."

"We heard you liked the bedroom, too," said Eberstadt, with a slow winkt hat was a visual nudge.

Flythe gave an airy man-of-the-world wave of his hand. "No point letting opportunity knock and not get up to answer," he grinned.

"The last time anyone seems to have seen Johnson alive was about the middle of the break on Sunday morning," said Lo wry. "About 10:41. Did you run into him after the break began?"

"Nope, can't say that I did." Flythe drained his glass and looked at Eberstadt's. "Ready for another suds?"

"No, thanks. Let me get this straight, now. When you left the tournament, you went out the back exit, right?"

"Right. There's an elevator behind the one in the lobby and I took it up to my room. Had to change my shirt because of one of those ditsy kids. I didn't even know she was there. I turned around right after the break started and she had one of those goddamned permanent markers in her hand-getting ready to make someone a new name tag she said-and put a black line three inches long right across the front of a new forty-five-dollar shirt. And don't think that didn't go on the expense account I turned in yesterday."

"Did the girl go up with you?" asked Eberstadt, with an insinuating smile. "Help you find a fresh shirt or something?"

"Naw. I didn't have time for a long hunt." He laughed.

"So in fact," said Lowry, "you were away from the Bontemps Room from, shall we say, 10:25 to 10:55? With no one to confirm your movements?"

"Hey, wait a minute! What the hell are you playing at?"

"Oh, we're not playing, Mr. Flythe. Pernell Johnson was killed sometime between 10:41 and eleven o'clock A.M. and you can't seem to prove where you were."

"Jesus H. Christ!" groaned Flythe. "I'll show you the goddamn shirt!"

Lowry followed him to the bedroom, his hand inconspicuously close to the gun under his jacket. But Flythe rummaged through a basket of dirty laundry and came up with a crumpled shirt. It did indeed have a long black ink stain across the front.

"You think I'd lie about a dumb thing like this?"

"I don't know," said Eberstadt from the doorway, where he stood with the framed diploma in his big hands. "You lied about a dumb thing like a college, why not murder?"

"What the bloody hell-?"

"Knock it off, Flythe," said Lo wry impatiently. "Alfred Theodore Flythe

– the real Alfred Theodore Flythe

– graduated in 1907. If you look closely, you can see where you changed the zero to a six. You never went to Carlyle. Why did you lie about it?"

Ted Flythe sank down on his unmade bed and put a pillow over his head. They heard a steady string of muffled heartfelt curses, and they waited till he started repeating himself.

"Who's Alfred Theodore Flythe?" asked Eberstadt.

Flythe sat up. "Me. And my grandfather. I was named for him. Look, you gotta understand: every job you go into today, doesn't matter how sharp you are, how much chutzpah you've got, the first thing they want to know is, have you got yourc ollege degree? You think it takes a college education to handle a bloody cribbage tournament? So I tell 'em I graduated from this little college that went bankrupt in the seventies, show 'em the old sheepskin, and I'm in. They're never going to look it up. They don't really care. They're just checking off boxes on their questionaire."

The went back into the living room. Eberstadt accepted another beer and they turned Flythe inside out, but got nothing further out of him. He insisted that he'd never seen John Sutton before that first chance encounter last Wednesday and that the only place he'd gone during the Sunday morning break was straight upstairs to his room for a fresh shirt and back down again.

It was only seven o'clock when they gave up. Lowry borrowed Flythe's phone and rang Elaine Albee's apartment again.

Still no answer.