ushered in two waiters pushing a serving cart covered with a white
tablecloth and stacked with dishes. In the center of the living room,
the waiters raised hidden leaves on the cart, converting it into a round
table, and distributed chargers-plates-napkins-cups-saucers
glassware-flatware with the grace and speed of magicians manipulating
playing cards. Together they caused to appear a variety of serving
dishes from bottomless compartments under the table, until suddenly
breakfast appeared as if from thin air, scrambled eggs with red peppers,
bacon, sausages, kippers, toast, croissants, hot-house strawberries
accompanied by brown sugar and small pitchers of heavy cream, fresh
orange juice, and a silver-plated thermos-pot of coffee.
Waxhill complimented the waiters, thanked them, tipped them, and signed
for the bill, remaining in motion the whole time, so that he was
returning the room-service ticket and hotel pen to them as they were
crossing the threshold into the corridor.
When Waxhill closed the door and returned to the table, Oslett said,
“Harvard or Yale?”
“Yale. And you?”
“Princeton. Then Harvard.”
“In my case, Yale and then Oxford.”
“The President went to Oxford,” Oslett noted.
“Did he indeed,” Waxhill said, raising his eyebrows, pretending this was
news. “Well, Oxford endures, you know.”
Apparently having finished the final chapter of Planet of the
Gastrointestinal Parasites, Karl Clocker entered from the balcony, a
walking embarrassment as far as Oslett was concerned. Waxhill allowed
himself to be introduced to the Trekker, shook hands, and gave every
impression he was not choking on revulsion or hilarity.
They pulled up three straight-backed occasional chairs and sat down to
breakfast. Clocker didn’t take off his hat.
As they transferred food from the serving dishes to their plates,
Waxhill said, “Overnight, we’ve picked up a few interesting bits of
background on Martin Stillwater, the most important of which relates to
his oldest daughter’s hospitalization five years ago.”
“What was wrong with her?” Oslett asked.
“They didn’t have a clue at first. Based on the symptoms, they
suspected cancer. Charlotte that’s the daughter, she was four years old
at the time–was in rather desperate shape for a while, but it
eventually proved to be an unusual blood-chemistry imbalance, quite
treatable.”
“Good for her,” Oslett said, though he didn’t care whether the
Stillwater girl had lived or died.
“Yes, it was,” Waxhill said, “but at her lowest point, when the doctors
were edging toward a more terminal diagnosis, her father and mother
underwent bone-marrow aspiration. Extraction of bone marrow with a
special aspirating needle.”
“Sounds painful.”
“No doubt. Doctors required samples to determine which parent would be
the best donor in case a marrow transplant was required.
Charlotte’s marrow was producing little new blood, and indications were
that malignancy was inhibiting blood-cell formation.”
Oslett took a bite of the eggs. There was basil in them, and they were
marvelous. “I fail to see where Charlotte’s illness could have any
relationship to our current problem.”
After pausing for effect, Waxhill said, “She was hospitalized at
Cedars-Sinai in Los Angeles.”
Oslett froze with a second forkful of eggs halfway to his mouth.
“Five years ago,” Waxhill repeated for emphasis.
“What month?”
“December.”
“What day did Stillwater give the marrow sample?”
“The sixteenth. December sixteenth.”
“Damn. But we had a blood sample as well, a backup–”
“Stillwater also gave blood samples. One of them would have been
packaged with each marrow sample for lab work.”
Oslett conveyed the forkful of eggs to his mouth. He chewed, swallowed,
and said, “How could our people screw up like this?”
“We’ll probably never know. Anyway, the ‘how’ doesn’t matter as much as
the fact they did screw up, and we have to live with it.”
“So we never started where we thought we did.”
“Or with whom we thought we started,” Waxhill rephrased.
Clocker was eating like a horse without a feed bag. Oslett wanted to
throw a towel over the big man’s head to spare Waxhill the unpleasant
sight of such vigorous mastication. At least the Trekker had not yet
punctuated the conversation with inscrutable commentary.
“Exceptional kippers,” Waxhill said.
Oslett said, “I’ll have to try one.”
After sipping orange juice and patting his mouth with his napkin,
Waxhill said, “As to how your Alfie knew Stillwater existed and was able
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