"To make him an offer for the Book of Witches."
"What!"
"Take it easy," advised Owens. "You don't own the thing."
The effort not to pounce left Kintyre rigid. He managed finally to say:
"I suppose that was what you wanted to see me about, to offer me the
same bribe Bruce wouldn't take."
"I see you've gotten a somewhat biased version." Owens' reply had the
blandness of conscious mastery. "Yes, it was to be a similar offer. Not
that I don't stand behind my contentions in the Borgia matter, but you
people in this academic cloudland don't realize that the rest of us
have a living to make. I have no time at present to dig into minutiae,
and anyhow there are more important things in life. What I asked
Lombardi was that he postpone the argument. Not perjure his precious
self, only wait a while. There were enough other things to be written
about, anent that book. He didn't have to raise the Borgia issue at
all. Maybe in five or ten years--"
"Since you brought up the Borgia issue, as you call it, in the first
place," said Kintyre harshly, "we in cloudland have no choice. If
there's a notorious error afoot, we've got to correct it. What the hell
do you think we get paid for?"
"Publicity," said Owens. "Ornament. A ritual bow in the direction of
yesterday." He took forth a silver case, opened it, fetched out a long
cigarette and tapped it on his thumbnail.
"You claim to be a realist," he said. "Then why don't you admit
the facts? This business of scholarship, verification, the painful
asymptotic approach to truth--it's dead. It went out with the society
of aristocrats. This is a proletarian age." He lit the cigarette. His
trained lecture-circuit voice rolled out, urbane, whimsical, with a
bare touch of sadness. "He who dances must pay the piper, but he who
pays the piper may call the tune. Since the bills today are all being
footed by slobs, what do you expect but the onward march of slobbery?
One day you'll be fired in the name of government economy. I'll hang on
a little longer, because I gauge the current level of oafishness and
make each succeeding book conform; but sooner or later it will be too
much trouble for the public even to read my swill. Then I'll settle
down to live on my investments, and perhaps I can even go back to a
little honest scholarship. But not now. First I must survive."
Kintyre said slowly, caught up in spite of himself: "Granted, this is
the century of the common mind. But what makes you think it will last,
even long enough for you to collect on those investments? This is also
the so-called atomic age."
Owens lifted his shoulders and let them fall again, gracefully. "How
do I know I won't be hit by a car tomorrow? One estimates the situation
and acts on probabilities."
Kintyre leaned forward. "The probabilities are all for the worst,"
he said. "Anyone who claims a roomful of people, all with grenades
and all hating each other, will keep on acting rationally forever, is
whistling past the graveyard of a dozen earlier civilizations. But I
do believe scholarship--rigorous thinking--will be a survival factor.
And afterward it will be one of the things which will make cultural
rebuilding worth while. So I won't quit trying. It isn't for nothing."
He stood up, not as tall as Owens, but broader and smoothly moving.
"Let me therefore have that manuscript back," he finished.
His enemy kept a half smile; but as he neared, Kintyre saw how cheeks
and forehead began to glisten. The pupils that stared at him widened
until they were two wells of dark.
"What are you talking about?" said Owens shrilly.
"You know bloody damn well what I mean. You took the Book of Witches.
Give it back and we'll say no more. Otherwise--"
Kintyre was almost upon the writer. Owens backed away, holding up his
cigarette like a futile sword. "Look here," he protested. "Look here,
now."
There came a rap on the door. Owens went limp with relief. "Come in!"
he yelled.
Kintyre realized bitterly how he had been snared. Owens had thrown
out words which he knew the other must stop to answer. It had gained
him a few seconds that might well make his victory; Kintyre took him
for a physical coward who would not have stood up long even to verbal
browbeating.
_Or did I actually intend to wring it from him with my hands?_ The
thought was so shocking that Kintyre stepped back.
Gerald Clayton entered, massive in gray, his narrow face wearing only a
routine smile. It became more nearly genuine when he saw Kintyre. "Why,
hello, there," he said. "What's going on?"
Owens threw his opponent a look. _If you don't say anything about this,
I won't._ Kintyre held himself expressionless, waiting.
"Sit down, Mr. Clayton, do sit down." Owens gestured him to a chair. "I
appreciate your coming. I know your time is valuable."
The importer seated himself and took out a cigar. Owens hovered around
with his pocket flask; the drink was declined. Kintyre leaned against
the wall, arms folded, and strove for calm.
"I wasn't very busy," said Clayton. "Glad of a chance to get away, in
fact." He nodded at Kintyre and explained: "Something came up which
forces me to stay in Berkeley at least till tomorrow. But it involves
mostly waiting till I can see the person in question. So what did you
want, Jabez?"
Owens shot another glance at Kintyre, gathered himself, and said: "I
wondered if you'd be interested in selling the _Liber Veneficarum_?"
Clayton's mouth bent upward, creasing his lean cheeks. "Whatever for?"
he asked, almost merrily. "I'm a collector."
"Well." Owens sat down on the bed, more at ease now. "You're aware of
my argument with Bruce Lombardi. I admit it's possible I was cheated on
those letters--" _or commissioned the forgeries yourself_, reflected
Kintyre--"and if not, at least the case against me deserves careful
refutation. So I would like to have the manuscript, to study at my own
leisure."
"And never get around to publishing your findings?" asked Clayton. But
he said it in a twitting, inoffensive tone.
"It might take me a few years," said Owens doggedly. "I've other work
to do. However, I'm prepared to make a fair offer for the book. Or, if
you don't want to sell, I would like to borrow it for a year or two,
under suitable guarantees against loss."
Clayton rubbed his chin. "Seems to me that Bob has some rights in this
matter," he declared.
Kintyre stepped a pace forward. His voice snapped out: "The reason I
came here is that the manuscript was stolen from me."
"What?" Clayton shouted it, half rose, sat down again and puffed hard
at his cigar. "What happened?" he said roughly.
Kintyre related the morning. "It fits pretty well," he concluded.
"First he plans an attempt to bribe me, as he tried to bribe Bruce.
Did you know he offered Bruce five thousand dollars to withhold his
findings? I mention on the phone I'll be going out to lunch. Since he
doesn't really expect I'll bribe either, Owens hangs around. When he
sees me leave, he ducks up into my office. If the book isn't there, he
can always try the original scheme. But it's right on my desk, and I
apologize for my own carelessness. Owens takes it back here. Then, to
cover himself, he phones you with this offer to buy--as if he didn't
know it was gone!"
Kintyre finished in a growl: "That suitcase on the floor, already
packed, would hold a quarto volume very easily."
Clayton remained impassive.
The writer said with strained calm: "I ask you to witness this, sir.
I'm thinking of a suit for slander."
"That book is worth enough to make it theft grand larceny," said
Clayton.
"And what alibi does the good Professor Kintyre have?" flung Owens.
"Who but you has a motive for the book to disappear?" said Kintyre. "By
God--"
Owens got off the bed and retreated again. Kintyre strode up to him and
laid a hand about his wrist. He did not squeeze unduly hard, but Owens
opened his mouth to scream, face going paper colored. Kintyre dropped
the wrist as if it had turned incandescent. The reaction was unnatural
enough, to his mind, to jar him physically.
"That'll do!" rumbled Clayton. He stood up. His grizzled ruddy hair
made Kintyre think of a lion's mane, a fighting cock's comb; this man
had slugged his own way up from nothingness.
"That'll do," he repeated. "If we can't settle it between ourselves
like gentlemen, we'd better call the police."
Owens fumbled his way to the pocket flask, raised it and gulped. A
little blood returned to his skin. "I thought you were going to hit
me," he said in a tiny voice. "I never could--"
"Owens," said Clayton, "did you steal the book?" His tone fell like
iron.
"No." The writer put his flask down on the bureau. He remained standing
above it, leaning on his hands, looking back over a hunched shoulder.
"No, of course not."
"Mind if we look around to make sure?"
"I don't wish my baggage opened," said Owens. "You haven't the right."
Kintyre, with a measure of control restored to him, said: "We could
prefer charges and have the police look."
"Go ahead," said Owens more firmly. "I'll sue you for every nickel
you've got. I'd enjoy that."
"I don't like trouble," said Clayton. "If you have the book, return it.
We'll say you--borrowed it--nobody else ever has to hear a word."
Owens whirled around. "That's a reflection on my integrity!" he shouted.
"If you really are innocent," said Clayton in a patient way, "I should
think you'd want your integrity confirmed."
Owens studied them for a moment.
"All right," he said. "I don't blame you, Mr. Clayton. Your reaction is
very understandable. But this character--Mr. Clayton, in case I decide
to sue him, and I probably will, remember exactly what happened today.
Now go ahead and search."
The importer squatted by the suitcase. It didn't take him long to go
through the neatly packed clothing. There was no book.
10
"Somewhere else," mumbled Kintyre. "Under the bed."
"Stand aside," said Clayton.
He went to work, peering, poking, moving about the room and its bath
like a professional. He found places to check which Kintyre would not
have thought of in a week's hunt; and yet the broad ropy-veined hands,
which had once wielded a shovel, made little disarrangement.
Owens sat down, poured himself another drink, and sipped as if it were
victory he tasted. Kintyre stood by the window sill, wrestling himself
toward calm. He had not yet fully achieved it when Clayton said: "Not
in here."
"Well," murmured Owens.
Clayton puffed blue smoke, sat down on the bed, and gave them both a
quizzical glance. "I suppose an apology is in order," he said.
Owens waved his cigarette. "Look," he replied, giving it the complete
treatment, "I've cooled off a bit myself. I can see how you were
overwrought, Professor, from the death of your friend--and, to be sure,
the loss of a valuable relic entrusted to you." Kintyre held his mouth
stiff. "If you'll take this as a lesson, I for my part am willing to
forget it."
"You might thank the man, Bob," added Clayton lightly.
Kintyre grunted. What could you say?
"It's worth while reviewing the facts, though," went on Clayton. "Maybe
between us we can figure who did swipe it."
"No students around," said Owens.
"True. But anybody could have lounged outside till Bob left and then
walked up into his office, without much risk of being seen. Right?"
Kintyre nodded. His neck ached with tension.
"Okay." Clayton blew a smoke ring. "I guess we can rule out an ordinary
thief. He wouldn't pick a college building. How about other people with
offices there?"
Kintyre stirred. "Now, wait," he began.
Clayton waved him back. "Take it easy, Bob. Just for the record, is
anybody but you working in that place between sessions?"
"Well, some," he forced himself to say. "It's a sizable department. And
then the clerical staff, and janitors. But for God's sake!"
"Their own office doors wouldn't be locked, though?"
"Hm? No, I suppose not. At least, a number wouldn't be. Even if they
weren't in today, there'd be nothing to steal."
"Except manuscripts." Owens had been seated, listening with a tolerant
smile. Now he said in a cool voice, "Not to follow the recent bad
example of accusations, but what _is_ your alibi, Kintyre?"
"No motive!"
"Oh? I daresay there are other wealthy collectors besides Mr. Clayton.
With your contacts, you could have learned who they are. Mind you, I
don't charge you with anything, but--"
"Cut it out," interrupted Clayton. It was so cold a phrase that they
both turned startled faces to him.
He got up. "This farce has gone on long enough," he said. "Jabez, give
me my book."
"What?" Owens leaned away. Clayton walked toward him. Owens lifted a
fending arm.
"I don't feel like hunting through a lot of rooms for it," said
Clayton. "Which did you leave it in?"
"But--but--but--"
"Do I have to spell it out? It's plain to see, either you or Bob took
the thing. Who the hell else is there? I credit Bob with brains enough
to steal it more neatly. Like setting an 'accidental' fire he could
tell me burned it. You had to work fast, though. Play by ear. You
grabbed it exactly as Bob thought. Only you realized he'd come back in
a few minutes and go howling on your trail. What better way to throw
him off it than to let him make a fool of himself before me--me, the
owner, who's really got a right to blow his stack?"
Clayton stood over Owens with the big fists on his hips, beating him
about the head with words. "You left it in one of those empty offices,
or maybe in the can. They won't lock the main entrance till five
o'clock or so, I guess. You could have picked the thing up again at
your convenience, when Bob had gone off with his tail between his legs.
It was fun while it lasted, Jabez, but now suppose you tell me where
that book is."
"I didn't!" screamed Owens.
"I don't want to press charges," said Clayton. "Tell me, and we'll call
it quits. Otherwise we can all wait right here for the police."
Owens began to shake. Kintyre looked away, feeling a little sick
himself. "All right," said Clayton and picked up the phone.
"No," whimpered Owens. "Don't."
"Well?" Clayton paused, one finger in a dial hole.
Owens got out a room number. "Under the desk," he added, and lowered
his face into his hands.
"Can we check that from here?" asked Clayton.
Kintyre nodded, took the phone and called the department. He asked one
of the girls to look, feeding her a story about having lent the volume
out. Then he held the line and waited.
"Well," said Clayton. He drew on his cigar, relaxed visibly, and
laughed. "Maybe I ought to set up as a private eye. Know any
hard-boiled blondes?"
"Nice work," said Kintyre inadequately. "Good Lord, if that book really
had been lost!"
"It wouldn't have been your fault," said Clayton. "Forget it."
Kintyre looked down at a shuddering back. "It seems to be my turn now,
Owens," he said. "No hard feelings. _Va' tu con Dio._"
"No," said Clayton. "I'm afraid not."
Kintyre stared up again, into the narrow face and the deeply ridged
eyes. "I thought," he said, "I thought you wouldn't--"
"Prefer charges? Not about a lousy manuscript. My time's worth too
much. But Bruce Lombardi was murdered, remember?"
Owens lifted a seared countenance and gasped: "No, you can spare me
that much, can't you?"
"I hope so," said Clayton impersonally. "But the fact remains, Bruce
was a threat to a fat piece of Hollywood cash."
"He was going to expose the Borgia fraud publicly, as well as in
specialized journals," said Kintyre, not wanting to.
"That made it even more urgent," said Clayton. "If Bruce should die and
the book disappear, I don't know who'd stand to benefit more than you."
Owens emitted a little moaning noise and shriveled back into the mask
of his hands. "You see?" said Clayton.
"Wait," protested Kintyre. "I can't really believe he--"
"I'm open to proof," said Clayton.
Kintyre fell silent.
After a while the girl's voice said in the phone: "I found it, Dr.
Kintyre. Right where you told me."
"Thanks a lot," he answered automatically. "Would you put it in the
safe?" He nodded and hung up.
"Good," said Clayton. He spoke slowly and carefully to Owens' bent
head: "We'll leave now. You stay around Berkeley for a while. I'm going
to have to call your motive to the attention of the police, so if you
left there'd probably be a warrant for you by tonight. But I won't say
anything about your peccadillo this afternoon. And if you're innocent,
I recommend that you start scrounging around for witnesses to where you
were all weekend."
* * * * *
"Whoof!" said Kintyre when he was in the lobby. "I wouldn't like to go
through that again."
"Nor I," said Clayton. "Let's have something wet."
They went into the coffee shop and ordered. Kintyre said: "Owens didn't
do the murder. I doubt if he's capable of killing his own flies."
"Himself," said Clayton shortly. "He could have hired a torpedo. He's
got money enough. Not that killers come fabulously expensive."
Almost, Kintyre told him of last night. He stopped with the words at
his teeth. After this hour's performance, it seemed too probable that
Clayton would insist on telling the San Francisco authorities about
Larkin, on the instant, and the consequences to Guido (and thereby to
Guido's parents and Corinna) go hang.
_As far as that goes, I suppose I've made myself an accessory after the
fact or something._
They remained in a companionable silence until the coffee had arrived.
It was refreshing to know an unfrantic businessman; but then, Clayton
had acquired a lot of European traits.