indifferent to my little fling with Frank Montini.”
“He knew about it?”
“Oh, yes. It amused him.” Her tone was bitter. “I really have nothing more to say to you Mr. Webster. None of this interests me anymore.”
Her friend had appeared quietly in the doorway.
“Just one more question,” I said. “If you felt Montini was innocent, that meant that your husband’s murderer was out there roaming around freely. Weren’t you afraid?”
Behind the glimmer of a smile, I sensed her growing uneasiness.
“No,” she said, “and now I must ask you to leave.” Her friend inched slowly in her direction. I realized that I had used up the little time that had been given to me. I took a business card from my wallet and proffered it.
“Just in case something comes up and you want to contact me.”
She shrugged, gave me a cold appraisal, but took the card. I moved somewhat reluctantly towards the door. As she was about to close it behind me, she said, “tell Gina to come and see me, if she wants to. I have no interest in answering your questions, Mr. Webster, but I would be willing to talk to her. I guess I owe her that.”
I smiled, “I’ll tell her to call you tomorrow.”
“No. Tell her to make it next Monday if she’s still here. I have to go out of town for the rest of the week.”
I stopped off at a restaurant where I ordered a half liter of wine and a smoked meat platter. My physician would not have approved. He wanted to get my cholesterol level back closer to normal.
Back at the house, I checked the answering machine. But the only call was from Gina. Her tone was mildly critical. She asked me to call her in the morning. She had, she announced, decided to go out to a movie with her new found friend. Tuesday, I guessed, was a slow night in the strip joints.
I was hoping for a return call from our stringer in Washington. I sat down at my desk and added what I could remember of my conversation with Naomi Bronson to the notes I had already made of the earlier meetings. I was about to give up and go to bed when the call came through from Washington.
When we had got through the preliminaries I explained what I wanted. Did either agency have a file on Professor Bull’s activities and did Professor Monaghan’s name appear in them? For good measure I threw in all the other names of those who had appeared in the photo Gina had given me. I did not expect there to be files on them, but most of them were Americans and had been vocally against the Vietnam War. Their names might be in a file somewhere. Then I told him that he could phone Mel Vogel if he wanted to confirm my request and get clearance for any special expenditures.
“Okay,” Jim Haylocke said, “but I want to be sure I can protect my sources. My contacts should be able to give me a good idea if there’s anything worth our looking into. But if you have to use anything out of here prematurely, I’d appreciate it if you would check with me before it appears in print.” He spoke with a slow drawl. Southern? Or just Washingtonian? I had no idea. But I found it disarmingly friendly.
“Sure,” I said, “anyway, I don’t plan to write anything until I’ve got something definitive.”
“If it ends up having an American angle maybe I should write that part of it out of here.”
I knew that the life of a freelance correspondent wasn’t easy. And I knew that the paper was thinking of dropping him as a way of trimming the budget. I wanted him to have a vested interest in the story. “Sure. No problem. It’ll probably ensure more space for the story. Make it seem even more important to local readers.”
He chuckled. “Okay. Good. I’ll get on to it.”
What I had said was only too true. Most Canadian newspapers were filled with American bylines. It was, of course, a way of saving money since American bylines were syndicated and cost considerably less than using own own reporters. But it also met a public need. Most Canadians,
“He knew about it?”
“Oh, yes. It amused him.” Her tone was bitter. “I really have nothing more to say to you Mr. Webster. None of this interests me anymore.”
Her friend had appeared quietly in the doorway.
“Just one more question,” I said. “If you felt Montini was innocent, that meant that your husband’s murderer was out there roaming around freely. Weren’t you afraid?”
Behind the glimmer of a smile, I sensed her growing uneasiness.
“No,” she said, “and now I must ask you to leave.” Her friend inched slowly in her direction. I realized that I had used up the little time that had been given to me. I took a business card from my wallet and proffered it.
“Just in case something comes up and you want to contact me.”
She shrugged, gave me a cold appraisal, but took the card. I moved somewhat reluctantly towards the door. As she was about to close it behind me, she said, “tell Gina to come and see me, if she wants to. I have no interest in answering your questions, Mr. Webster, but I would be willing to talk to her. I guess I owe her that.”
I smiled, “I’ll tell her to call you tomorrow.”
“No. Tell her to make it next Monday if she’s still here. I have to go out of town for the rest of the week.”
I stopped off at a restaurant where I ordered a half liter of wine and a smoked meat platter. My physician would not have approved. He wanted to get my cholesterol level back closer to normal.
Back at the house, I checked the answering machine. But the only call was from Gina. Her tone was mildly critical. She asked me to call her in the morning. She had, she announced, decided to go out to a movie with her new found friend. Tuesday, I guessed, was a slow night in the strip joints.
I was hoping for a return call from our stringer in Washington. I sat down at my desk and added what I could remember of my conversation with Naomi Bronson to the notes I had already made of the earlier meetings. I was about to give up and go to bed when the call came through from Washington.
When we had got through the preliminaries I explained what I wanted. Did either agency have a file on Professor Bull’s activities and did Professor Monaghan’s name appear in them? For good measure I threw in all the other names of those who had appeared in the photo Gina had given me. I did not expect there to be files on them, but most of them were Americans and had been vocally against the Vietnam War. Their names might be in a file somewhere. Then I told him that he could phone Mel Vogel if he wanted to confirm my request and get clearance for any special expenditures.
“Okay,” Jim Haylocke said, “but I want to be sure I can protect my sources. My contacts should be able to give me a good idea if there’s anything worth our looking into. But if you have to use anything out of here prematurely, I’d appreciate it if you would check with me before it appears in print.” He spoke with a slow drawl. Southern? Or just Washingtonian? I had no idea. But I found it disarmingly friendly.
“Sure,” I said, “anyway, I don’t plan to write anything until I’ve got something definitive.”
“If it ends up having an American angle maybe I should write that part of it out of here.”
I knew that the life of a freelance correspondent wasn’t easy. And I knew that the paper was thinking of dropping him as a way of trimming the budget. I wanted him to have a vested interest in the story. “Sure. No problem. It’ll probably ensure more space for the story. Make it seem even more important to local readers.”
He chuckled. “Okay. Good. I’ll get on to it.”
What I had said was only too true. Most Canadian newspapers were filled with American bylines. It was, of course, a way of saving money since American bylines were syndicated and cost considerably less than using own own reporters. But it also met a public need. Most Canadians,
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