around. But you do
understand that my dealings with Professor Lovingwell are
confidential?
I told him that I understood and that I wanted to see
him anyway. We arranged an appointment for three. If worse came to
worst, I figured I could propose a trade: what I knew for what
Bidwell knew. I could temper it by not telling him that Lovingwell
had suspected his daughter of the theft; but, anyway you looked at
it, I would still be breaking my word to the Professor. Are you
looking for a document or a motive for suicide, Harry? I asked
myself. And the answer was, suicide or robbery, what choice did I
have? As long as Sarah Lovingwell refused to cooperate with me, I had
no legal justification for pursuing any inquiry. And she had made it
very clear that she wouldn’t cooperate. For a second I thought
about chucking it all, just phoning McMasters or the FBI and letting
them handle it. That would be the sane thing to do, I told myself. No
more people snubbing you, or following you, or shooting at you.
Especially shooting at you. I rubbed my arm through the bandage and
wondered again why anyone would have tried to kill me. Obviously it
had something to do with Lovingwell, because I wasn’t the sort who
had made a lot of bad enemies—sent killers up the river. So it was
either the Lovingwell matter or a terrible case of mistaken
identity.Unless someone had been watching the Lovingwell house on
Monday afternoon, the only time I’d been exposed was on Tuesday
morning when I ’d taken those pictures outside the Friends of
Nature Club. I didn’t think that anybody had been watching me while
I was busy with the Minox. But I could have been wrong. If I had
accidentally seen someone I wasn’t supposed to see, that might
explain why O’Hara and the black kid had been following me at noon.
It might also explain my three-gunned assailant. I’d intended to
show the photographs to Lovingwell on the off-chance that he might
recognize a face—someone who had recently been in his home or, mirabile dictu , at
Sloane. Now it seemed like the better part of something to show the
photographs to Sid McMasters and the FBI.
I showered and shaved while listening to a Rossini
overture and practically charged out the door at nine A.M. For a
second I thought my car had been stolen, until I saw it tucked like a
nettle in a Bible between a Buick and an outsized Caddie. I zipped
down to the Shutter Bug—a little hole in the wall on upper Vine,
hung like a delicatessen with all sorts of tasty items (Nikons,
Hasselblads, Leicas)—and picked up the pictures. Then drove
downtown to a sporting goods store on Elm.
I waited a second before getting out of the car.
After the Ripper case, my handgun permit had been suspended for
eighteen months—thc State Board suspends you automatically if
you’re involved in a killing. Since the fall of 1979, I’d had no
legal right to carry a weapon. In fact, I hadn’t even handled a gun
in several months, which had proved no hardship up until the night
before. I’d no intention of being caught defenseless again. But
before I break a law, I always like to think through the consequences
very thoroughly. So I waited in the Pinto and thought them through
again; and when my life didn’t seem any less valuable the second
time around than it had the first, I got out of the car and walked
into the store. An old coot in a cardigan sweater and baggy chinos
was giving the woman behind the front register a hard time.
"That’s where you’re wrong little girl,"
he said to her decisively.
"Take a calendar, John, for chrissake," one
of the salesmen called to him from the back of the store. "Give
him a calendar, Lois."
"What the hell do I need a calendar for"?"
John exploded. "I’m a happily married man. I don’t need no
new dates."
Lois, the register girl, laughed raucously.
I walked past the fishing tackle and camping
equipment to a long glass display case on the west side of the store.
The kid in charge of the gun display
understand that my dealings with Professor Lovingwell are
confidential?
I told him that I understood and that I wanted to see
him anyway. We arranged an appointment for three. If worse came to
worst, I figured I could propose a trade: what I knew for what
Bidwell knew. I could temper it by not telling him that Lovingwell
had suspected his daughter of the theft; but, anyway you looked at
it, I would still be breaking my word to the Professor. Are you
looking for a document or a motive for suicide, Harry? I asked
myself. And the answer was, suicide or robbery, what choice did I
have? As long as Sarah Lovingwell refused to cooperate with me, I had
no legal justification for pursuing any inquiry. And she had made it
very clear that she wouldn’t cooperate. For a second I thought
about chucking it all, just phoning McMasters or the FBI and letting
them handle it. That would be the sane thing to do, I told myself. No
more people snubbing you, or following you, or shooting at you.
Especially shooting at you. I rubbed my arm through the bandage and
wondered again why anyone would have tried to kill me. Obviously it
had something to do with Lovingwell, because I wasn’t the sort who
had made a lot of bad enemies—sent killers up the river. So it was
either the Lovingwell matter or a terrible case of mistaken
identity.Unless someone had been watching the Lovingwell house on
Monday afternoon, the only time I’d been exposed was on Tuesday
morning when I ’d taken those pictures outside the Friends of
Nature Club. I didn’t think that anybody had been watching me while
I was busy with the Minox. But I could have been wrong. If I had
accidentally seen someone I wasn’t supposed to see, that might
explain why O’Hara and the black kid had been following me at noon.
It might also explain my three-gunned assailant. I’d intended to
show the photographs to Lovingwell on the off-chance that he might
recognize a face—someone who had recently been in his home or, mirabile dictu , at
Sloane. Now it seemed like the better part of something to show the
photographs to Sid McMasters and the FBI.
I showered and shaved while listening to a Rossini
overture and practically charged out the door at nine A.M. For a
second I thought my car had been stolen, until I saw it tucked like a
nettle in a Bible between a Buick and an outsized Caddie. I zipped
down to the Shutter Bug—a little hole in the wall on upper Vine,
hung like a delicatessen with all sorts of tasty items (Nikons,
Hasselblads, Leicas)—and picked up the pictures. Then drove
downtown to a sporting goods store on Elm.
I waited a second before getting out of the car.
After the Ripper case, my handgun permit had been suspended for
eighteen months—thc State Board suspends you automatically if
you’re involved in a killing. Since the fall of 1979, I’d had no
legal right to carry a weapon. In fact, I hadn’t even handled a gun
in several months, which had proved no hardship up until the night
before. I’d no intention of being caught defenseless again. But
before I break a law, I always like to think through the consequences
very thoroughly. So I waited in the Pinto and thought them through
again; and when my life didn’t seem any less valuable the second
time around than it had the first, I got out of the car and walked
into the store. An old coot in a cardigan sweater and baggy chinos
was giving the woman behind the front register a hard time.
"That’s where you’re wrong little girl,"
he said to her decisively.
"Take a calendar, John, for chrissake," one
of the salesmen called to him from the back of the store. "Give
him a calendar, Lois."
"What the hell do I need a calendar for"?"
John exploded. "I’m a happily married man. I don’t need no
new dates."
Lois, the register girl, laughed raucously.
I walked past the fishing tackle and camping
equipment to a long glass display case on the west side of the store.
The kid in charge of the gun display
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