“Series?” Sheklov echoed, and caught himself, realising that the term stood for “security execs.”
“But this is crazyl” Lora burst out. “Helll You can’t just cave in! What about-?” With a snap of her fingers. “Heyl My fatherl He has lots of pulll He’ll get ’em off
your backs. Just let me get to a phone and tell him what’s to be done.”
She was so agitated, she was reaching for the doorhandle.
But Danty had completely ignored the interruption. He was looking solely at Magda.
“Well?” he said. “I’m sorry, you know-more sorry that I can say. Not that that does any good.”
“No.” Magda stirred, as though from a period of deep meditation, and helped herself to another cigarette. “No, it doesn’t do any good. All right, the avalanche has begun. I guess I half-expected it. You’re in charge.”
The door-bell sounded. Turpin, glad of the interruption, rose from his chair with alacrity.
“Sit downl” Mrs. Gleewood rasped. “You don’t have to answer the doorl What do you keep Estelle for?”
“It’s Estelle’s evening off,” Turpin said with satisfaction. “Sunday, remember? Also Peter is out, Lora is out, and Sophie is drunk. You said so yourself. So unless you propose to go and answer-?”
She glowered at him and then stared firmly at the TV again.
He went to the panel by the door of the living-room where the intercom was, and pressed the answer button to activate the mike.
“Yes, who is it?”
“Is that Mr. Turpin personally?” a cold, strange voice inquired.
“Ah yesl” Butterflies began to perform in Turpin’s belly.
“My name is Thorpe, Eric Thorpe. Security force. May I see you for a moment?”
Oh, Christ . . .
But habit made him impervious, on the surface, to even shocks like that one. He said, “Surelyl” In a tone as cheerful as though he really were pleased to be distracted from the company of his mother-in-law. “I’ll be with you in just a second.”
Crossing the hall, ignoring the call Mrs. Gleewood hurled after him-wanting to be told who the visitor was-he reviewed a hundred possibilities in ten seconds, and found that he liked none of them. Pray that his hints to Clarke, out at the reserved area, had borne fruit . . .
He checked, through the spy remotes, that there was indeed no one but this single man in the elevator, and opened the door on a security stop.
“I’d like to see your redbook, if you don’t-” he began, but Thorpe had anticipated the request and was already holding it up so it could be read through the narow gap. Yes, he was who be said he was, and moreover he held the rank of substantive warden.
“Come in,” Turpin muttered. “We’ll use my den-it’s bug-free.”
He led the way; offered a drink-refused-and a cigarette, which was accepted. Sat down, and to his dismay found he bad to put his hands together to atop them shaking.
“Well, what can I do for you?” he said. His voice at least sounded under control. “I guess it’s about this affair at the reserved area, bin?”
“Indirectly.” Thorpe was a pale man, with deep-set eyes surrounded by dark rings, as though he lived on far too little sleep and had done so for years. Like all SF executives, he wore unremarkable and inexpensive clothes: tonight, in dark green. “I believe you talked for some while with one of my brother officers, didn’t you?”
“Morton Clarke?”
.,Yes..
“Well, I imagine we must have talked, on and off, over a period of-let’s see-three hours. Why?”
“About . . . T”
“Well, the alarming discovery that had been made,” Turpin said. “And the implications. Wasn’t that obvious?”
Thorpe looked down at his involuntary host’s hands, as though scrutinising them for signs of anxiety. He said, in a matter-of-fact tone, “Of course. And I believe you are slightly acquainted with a young black named Danty Ward?”
What the hell is this leading up tot
Turpin said as levelly as he could, “Acquainted would be an exaggeration. I met him last night, because my daughter invited him to our party, and one can hardly refuse his own daughter’s guests admission. Why? Has he done something?”