“Here I am, Al.” Quigg, managing to appear thin and adolescent even when wearing a flying suit, detached himself from a group which was standing at a portable television transmitter. Werry gripped his arm and drew him into a private triad with Hasson.
“Victor,” he said quietly, “are you making unauthorised statements to the gentlemen of the press?”
Quigg glanced at Hasson, obviously wondering how he fitted into the picture. “You know me better than that, Al.”
“Okay. Did you tell anybody you saw Buck up at the hotel today?”
“Nobody “cept Henry. He was the only one I told.”
Are you sure it was Buck you saw?”
Quigg nodded vigorously, jiggling the magnifying visor of his flying helmet. “It was Buck, all right. I had a second look at him because he was all rigged up with panniers and he don’t usually like to load hisself down that way. He was taking something into the hotel.”
Werry made a clicking noise with his tongue. “But you didn’t try to find out what.”
“It’s his place, Al,” Quigg said reasonably. “I figured he was entitled.”
“You did right.” Werry gave the young policeman a sombre stare. “I want you to keep quiet about this till I say it’s all right to talk. Okay?”
“Sure, Al. By the way, nobody has contacted Lutze’s folks yet- do you want me to do it?”
Werry frowned. “Lutze? Lutze?”
“Yeah — the kid who got hisself blown up. Didn’t Henry tell you?”
“Is that Barry Lutze?”
“No such luck,” Quigg said. “This is his cousin Sammy. The family lives out Bettsville direction. They probably didn’t even know he was out of his own back yard tonight.”
“Probably not,” Werry agreed. “Call the station and get somebody down there to notify the Lutzes. I want you to stay here and…”
“Hey, Al!” One of the men at the television unit beckoned to Werry. “Come over and have a look at this, for God’s sake — old Henry’s trying to get into the hotel.”
Werry mouthed an obscenity and ran towards the group who were gathered around a television monitor. Hasson, beginning to feel bemused, hurried in his wake. The console of the television unit was illuminated with greenish light, but recessed into it were three wells of blackness which housed solid-image monitors. In the centre one was a small vivid projection which showed Henry Corzyn moving against a background of the hotel’s unevenly lit outer surface. The image was drifting slightly, due to the fact that it was coming from a camera held by a flier, but it clearly showed a window whose lattice bars had been cut away to make an aperture large enough to admit a man.
Hasson watched in fascination, trying to ignore the queasiness in his stomach, as Corzyn swooped towards the window. The policeman went in fast, came within field interference distance of the wall and immediately began to drop. Hasson pressed his knuckles to his lips. Corzyn made a grab for the window frame, managed to get a handhold and checked his fall.
“That’s his second shot at it,” somebody commented admiringly. “Who’d have thought old Henry had it in him?”
The miniaturised Corzyn clung to the frame for a moment, breathing heavily, and dragged himself through the opening into the interior of the building. A second later his head and shoulders reappeared and he waved his hand at the camera, grinning like a sports idol. Hasson tilted his head back and tried to see the actual event, but he could discern only a tiny star-like glimmering in the remote high darkness.
Werry raised his wrist communicator to his lips. “Henry, what do you think you’re doing? I sent you up there to look the place over — not to rupture yourself.”
“It’s all right. Al — I’m doing just fine.” Corzyn sounded breathless but triumphant. “This window I’m at is on the second floor, so I’m above the fire. It doesn’t seem like much of a fire, anyway — I might even be able to put it out.”
“That’s not your job.”
“Relax, Al. I’m going to have a quick look around and make sure the place is empty. I’ll have plenty of time to bail out if the fire gets worse. See you around!”
Werry lowered his wrist and stared accusingly at the man who had summoned him to the television unit. “This is your fault, Cec. Henry’s way too old and tubby to be making grandstand plays. He’d never have done it if you hadn’t been here.”
“He’ll be all right,” Cec replied carelessly. “We’ll give him an on-the-spot interview to himself when he comes down. Make his day for him.”
“You’re all heart.” Werry moved away from the group, taking Hasson with him, and looked up into the night sky where aerial spectators had begun to congregate, swarming like fireflies.
“Here they come,” he said. “The long-nosed rubbernecks — noted for their habit of gathering in large numbers at scenes of accidents, making loud honking noises and getting in everybody’s way. It looks like the whole city will be here in a couple of minutes.”
Hasson spoke in a low voice, choosing his words with the utmost care. “One citizen is notable by his absence.”
“That’s what I was thinking.” Werry scratched the back of his head, a gesture which made him look boyish and handsome in the uncertain light. “Rob, there’s no two ways about this, is there?”
Hasson shook his head, feeling a dreadful responsibility. “After the evidence you’ve heard, the very least you can do is talk to Morlacher.”
“I guess it had to come to this some day.” Werry glanced up at the hotel. “Things seem pretty quiet up there — I’ll go and have a word with Buck now.” He turned and walked away through the battery of golden headlight beams, casting multiple shadows on the broken ground.
Hasson stood and watched him depart, recounting to himself every one of his reasons for not getting involved, then he too walked towards the waiting police car.
eight
During the drive to the Morlacher house Al Werry produced the peaked and braided cap of his office — apparently it was a reserve he kept in the car for emergencies — and positioned it carefully on his head, leaning sideways to look at himself in the rear view mirror. It seemed to Hasson, watchful in the passenger seat, that he derived more reassurance from the resplendent headgear than from the pistol strapped to his side.
No other cars were visible when they emerged from the tunnel of shrubbery and crunched to a halt near the house’s panelled front door, but rays of light slanting from the tall windows showed the place was occupied. Hasson got out of the police cruiser with Werry and stood for a moment looking around him. The view from the low crest was exactly as he had seen it before — the Chinook Hotel was not even visible beyond the heaped embers of the city — but to his imagination the atmosphere was entirely different. He had a disturbing sense of being watched.
“Do you think they know we’re here?” he said.
“No doubt about it — Buck’s a great man for surveillance systems.” Werry went up the stone steps to the house, tugging, smoothing and adjusting his uniform in a manner which reminded Hasson of a peacock dressing its plumage. Hasson went with him, but hung back a little, suddenly aware that his own casual sweater and slacks could only detract from Werry’s ritual show of authority. Werry touched a bell push and waited for the door to open. Hasson smiled encouragingly, but Werry regarded him with the cool blank eyes of a stranger and remained that way until they heard the sound of a lock being operated. The door opened a short distance to reveal the wisp-bearded face of Starr Pridgeon. He looked at Werry and Hasson for a moment without speaking, maliciously amused.
“I want to talk to Buck,” Werry said.
“Buck doesn’t want to talk to you. Bye, Al.” Pridgeon closed the door, but Werry slid a gleaming boot forward and prevented it from nesting fully into the frame. The door opened again, and this time Pridgeon’s face was slack-jawed with resentment.