"Of course it is! As a matter of fact, we've got a photograph of the
dead baby, right after it was delivered. The doctor who attended Mrs.
Spencer took it without their knowledge, as a medical curiosity. He sold
it to us several years ago. We've never used it before, because we knew
that the Spencers would just deny it. Now that Walt's willing to
cooperate ..."
"Can I see the photo?"
"Why, certainly." He opened the top drawer and handed a glossy print
across the desk. Tom looked at it, and winced.
"Scales!" he said.
"Like a fish," Andrusco said sadly. "Pretty sad, isn't it?" He looked
out of the window and sighed cavernously. "It's a menacing world up
there...."
The rest of the day was wasted. Tom Blacker's mind wasn't functioning
right.
He told Livia about it at lunch.
Livia Cord continued eating, chewing delicately on her food without
flexing a muscle or wincing an eyebrow.
* * * * *
On the Third of April, the story of Sergeant Walter Spencer's first-born
monster broke in newspapers, magazines, and telecasts across the
country. It was a five-year-old story, but it carried too much
significance for the space-minded present to be ignored.
Two days later, Sergeant Spencer, 32, and his wife, Laura, 30, were
found dead of asphyxiation in their new home in Greenwich, Connecticut.
The cause of death was listed as suicide.
Tom Blacker didn't hear the news until a day after it happened. He was
in Washington, setting up a series of meetings with members of a House
group investigating space flight expenditures. When he returned by
'copter that evening, he found Police Commissioner Joe Stinson waiting
for him in Tom's own favorite chair.
The square, heavy-jowled face was strangely calm.
"Long time no see," he said mildly. "You've been a busy man lately, Mr.
Blacker."
"Hello, Mr. Stinson. Won't you come in?"
"I'm in," the commissioner shrugged. "Landlord let me wait here. It's
chilly outside. Do you want the preliminaries, or should we have the
main bout?"
"It's about Spencer, isn't it?" Tom built himself a long drink. "I heard
about it on the 'copter radio, flying in. Too bad. He was a nice guy; I
never met his wife."
"But you knew him, right? In fact, you and the sergeant did a lot of
business together?"
"Look, Mr. Stinson. You know what kind of job I'm trying to do. It's no
secret. Spencer's story happened to gear in nicely with our public
relations effort. And that's all."
"Maybe it is." The commissioner's eyes hardened. "Only some of us aren't
satisfied. Some of us are kinda restless about the coroner's verdict."
"What?"
"You heard me. It's fishy, you know? Nice young couple buys a new house,
then turns on the gas. Leave behind a couple of kids, too. Boys, nice
boys."
"I couldn't feel worse about it," Tom said glumly. "In a way, I can
almost feel responsible ..."
"How?"
"I dunno. They were perfectly willing to release that story about their
first-born. But maybe when they actually saw it in print, they couldn't
stand the spotlight--"
"And that's your theory?"
"Yes. But I hope I'm wrong, Mr. Stinson. For my own sake."
The commissioner drew a folded sheet of paper out of his pocket.
"Let me read you something. This hasn't been released to the press, and
maybe it won't be. Interested?"
"Of course."
"It's a letter. A letter that was never mailed. It's addressed to Tom
Blacker, care of Homelovers, Incorporated, 320 Fifth-Madison, New York."
"What?" Tom reached for it.
"Uh-uh. It was never mailed, so it's not your property. But I'll read it
to you." He slipped on a pair of bifocals.
_Dear Mr. Blacker. I've been trying to reach you all week, but
you've been out of town. Laura and I have just seen the first news
story about our baby, and we're just sick about it. Why didn't you
tell us about that photograph you were going to print? If we had
known about that, we never would have consented to doing what you
wanted. My wife never gave birth to that damned thing, and I don't
care who knows it. I've called Mr. Andrusco to tell him that we
don't want any part of this business any more. I'd send you back
every penny of the five thousand dollars, only we've already spent
half of it. I'm going to call the newspapers and tell them
everything ..._
The commissioner paused. "It goes on for another half page. But no use
reading any more. I'd like a reaction, Mr. Blacker. Got one handy?"
Tom was on his feet.
"I don't believe it!" His fist thudded into his palm. "The letter's a
fake!"
"That's easy to prove, Mr. Blacker."
"But the picture was genuine! Don't you see that? Sure, we paid Spencer
something for his cooperation. But the picture was the real thing, taken
by his family doctor. You've heard what the medical authorities said
about it."
Stinson said nothing. Then he got up slowly and walked to the door.
"Maybe so. But you're missing the point I want to make, Mr. Blacker.
This letter was dated the same day as the Spencer suicides. Does it
sound to you like the kind of thing a man would put in a suicide note?
Think it over."
Tom looked at the door the commissioner closed behind him.
"No," he said aloud. "It doesn't."
* * * * *
Tom didn't go to the Homelovers building the next morning. He proceeded
directly to the Lunt Theatre, where Homer Bradshaw was putting _Be It
Ever So Humble_ into rehearsal.
He was in no mood for the theatre, but the appointment had been made too
long before. When he came through the doors of the theatre, Homer leaped
halfway up the aisle to greet him, and pounded his back like a long-lost
pal. Actually, he had met the producer only twice before.
"Great to have you here, Tom!" he said enthusiastically. "Great! We've
just been putting things together. Got some red-hot numbers we had
written specially for us. Wait 'til you hear 'em!" He waved towards the
two shirtsleeved men hovering around the on-stage piano. "You know
Julie, don't you? And Milt Steiner? Great team! Great team!"
They took seats in the sixth row while Homer raved about the forthcoming
production that was going to cost Homelovers, Incorporated some hundred
thousand dollars. A dozen shapely girls in shorts and leotards were
kicking their heels lackadaisically in the background, and a stout man
with a wild checkered suit was wandering around the stage with an unlit
cigar in his hand, begging the stagehands for a match.
"Hey, fellas!" Homer Bradshaw called to the men at the piano. "Run
through that _Gypsy_ number for Mr. Blacker, huh?"
They came to life like animated dolls. The tallest of the pair stepped
in front of the stage while the other thumped the piano keys. The tall
one sang in a loud nasal voice, with an abundance of gestures.
"_Gypsy!
Gypsy!
Why do you have to be a gypsy?
Life could be so ipsy-pipsy
Staying home and getting tipsy
Safe on Earth with me!_"
He swung into the second chorus while Tom Blacker kept his face from
showing his true opinion of the specialty number. The next offering
didn't change his viewpoint. It was a ballad. A blonde girl in clinging
black shorts sang it feelingly.
"_There's a beautiful Earth tonight
With a beautiful mellow light
Shining on my spaceman in the moon.
Why did he leave me?
Only to grieve me?
Spaceman, come home to me soon ..._"
"Did you like it? Did you like it?" Homer Bradshaw said eagerly.
"It'll do fine," Tom Blacker said, with his teeth clenched.
* * * * *
When he left the theatre, Tom visiphoned the office to tell Livia that
he was taking the rest of the day off. But he found that Livia herself
was spending the day in her two-room apartment downtown. He hung up, and
decided that he had to talk to her about Stinson's visit. He hopped a
cab, and gave him Livia's address.
John Andrusco answered the door.
"Well! Thought you were at the office, Tom?"
He found himself glaring at the lean-jawed executive. What was Andrusco
doing here?
"I've been over at the theatre," Tom explained. "Watching that musical
we're spending all that dough on." He stepped inside. "I might say the
same about you, Mr. Andrusco."
"Me? Oh, I just came to talk over some business with Livia. Poor kid's
not feeling so hot, you know."
"No, I didn't." He dropped his hat familiarly on the contour couch, with
almost too much deliberation. "Livia in bed?"
"No." The girl appeared at the door of the bedroom, wrapping a
powder-blue negligee around her. "What brings you here, Tom?"
"I--I wanted to talk something over with you. Now that you're here, Mr.
Andrusco, we can _all_ talk it over."
"What's that?" Andrusco made himself at home at the bar.
"It's about Walt Spencer. I had a visitor last night, the police
commissioner. He showed me a letter that Spencer had written just before
he--before he died. It was addressed to me, only Spencer had never
mailed it."