“They’ll pass. It started out with a burnt dinner and being late for a show, that’s all. Stupid thing. I thought it was her when the phone rang. I guess I’ll have to do my apologizing tomorrow. The hangover should make me sound exceptionally repentant. What’re you drinking?”
“I don’t really … Oh, what the hell! Whatever you’ve got there.”
“A drop of soda in a sea of Scotch.”
“Make it the other way around,” I said, moving on into the living room and settling in a big, soft, tilled chair.
Moments later Hal came in, handed me a tall glass from which I took a healthy slug, sat down across from me, tasted his own, then said, “Have you committed any especially monstrous acts lately?”
I shook my head.
“Always the victim, never the victor. What have you heard?”
“Nothing, really. It’s all been implication and inference. People have been asking me a lot about you but not telling me much.”
“People? Who?”
“Well, your adviser Dennis Wexroth was one-“
“What did be want?”
“More information about your individual project in Australia.”
“Like, for instance?”
“Like where. He wanted to know exactly where you were digging around.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That I didn’t know, which was reasonably true. This was over the phone. Then he stopped by in person, and he had a man along with him-a Mister Nadler. The guy had an I.D. card saying he was an employee of the State Department. He acted as if they were concerned about the possibility of your removing artifacts from over there and creating an incident.”
I said something vulgar.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought, too,” he said. “He pressed me to rack my memory for anything you might have said concerning your itinerary. I was tempted to misremember, say, Tasmania. Got scared, though. Didn’t know what they could do. So I just kept insisting you hadn’t told me anything of your plans.”
“Good. When did this happen?”
“Oh, you’d been gone for over a week. I’d gotten your postcard from Tokyo.”
“I see. That’s it, then?”
“Hell, no. That was just the beginning.”
I took another big swallow.
“Nadler was back the next day, asking whether I’d remembered anything else. He’d already given me a number to call if I did, or if I heard from you. So I was irritated. I said no and got rid of him. Then he came around again this morning to impress on me that it was to your benefit if I cooperated, that you might be in trouble and that I could help you by being honest. By the time they had learned of your difficulties at the Sydney Opera House, he said, you’d disappeared into the desert. What happened at the Sydney Opera House anyway?”
“Later, later. Get on with it. Or is that all?”
“No, no. I got irritated again, told him NO again and that was all so far as he was concerned. But there were other inquiries. I received at least half a dozen phone calls from people who claimed they just had to get in touch with you, that it was very important. None of them would say why, though. Or give me anything that could be used to trace them.”
“What do you mean? Did you try tracing them?”
“No, but the detective did.”
“Detective?”
“I was just getting to that part. This place has been broken into and ransacked on three separate occasions during the past two weeks. Naturally, I called the cops. I didn’t see any connection with the calls, but after the third time the detective wanted me to tell him about anything unusual that had happened recently. So I mentioned that strange people kept calling and asking for a friend who was out of town. Several of them had left numbers, and he thought it was worth looking into. I talked with him yesterday, though, and he said nothing had turned up. All of them were from semipublic phones.”
“Was anything stolen?”
“No. That bothered him, too.”
“I see,” I said, sipping slowly. “Has anyone approached you directly with unusual questions not involving me? Specifically, about that stone of Byler’s?”
“No. But you might be interested in knowing that his lab was broken into while you were away. No one could really tell whether anything was missing. Getting back to your other question, though, while nobody approached me about the stone, someone seemed to be getting near for some purpose or other. Maybe it was tied in with the entry and searching here. I don’t know. But for several days it seemed that I was being followed about. I didn’t pay much attention at first. Actually, it wasn’t until things started happening that I thought of him. The same man, not especially obtrusive, but always around-somewhere. Never came near enough for me to get a good look. At first I thought I was just being neurotic. Later, of course, he came to mind. Too late, though. He disappeared after the police started paying attention to me and to this building.”