report, may it please you to know I’ve been contacted by atypical means—over the telephone for cripes sake—by a party previously unbeknownst to me, to whom I am apparently beknownst. I mean, he knew my name. How did he get my number? I don’t even know my number. He said, “Travis T. Sivart?” And I said, “Okay.” And he said, “We have much to discuss,” or something of that bodeful ilk. He wants me to meet him at the cafe of one of our finer civic institutions. Maybe Hoffmann’s behind it. Maybe it’s a trap. One can hope, right? Thus concludes my report for the day. I’m off to the Municipal Museum.
Once he had read the report twice, Unwin handed it to Emily. She read it and asked, “Could the telephone call have had something to do with The Oldest Murdered Man?”
Unwin ought to have guessed that she would be familiar with Sivart’s cases, but to hear his own title spoken aloud by someone he had only just met—someone not even a clerk—caused him to shudder. Emily seemed to take this as discouragement and lowered her eyes.
Still, he had to consider the possibility that Emily was correct, that the telephone call did have something to do with the ancient cadaver in the museum, with the case consigned to the archives thirteen years ago. He thought of the note to Lamech he had found in the dumbwaiter: Let sleeping corpses lie. What if the Miss P. who had offered that advice meant that corpse, that file?
It did not matter. All Unwin had to do was find Detective Sivart, and now he knew where Sivart had gone. He picked up his new badge and rubbed its face with his sleeve. In the burnished Agency eye he could see his own distorted reflection. Charles Unwin, Detective. Who had inscribed those words? He took the clerk’s badge from his jacket pocket (no gleaming frontispiece there, only a worn, typewritten card) and replaced it with the detective’s. That, at least, would help him if he encountered Screed again. And the gun? The gun went with his old badge into the desk drawer. The gun he would not need.
Emily followed him to the outer office. He took his coat, hat, and umbrella from the rack, waving off her assistance.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“I’m off to the Municipal Museum,” he said, but the situation seemed to call for some words of encouragement, so he adapted something he had seen in Agency newspaper advertisements. “We have a good team here, and the truth is our business.”
Emily said, “But we haven’t rehearsed and codified any secret signals, for use in times of duress.”
He glanced at his watch. “I’ll let you choose something, if you think it’s necessary.”
“You want me to come up with something right now?”
“It was your idea, Emily.”
She closed her eyes again, as though better to see her own thoughts. “All right, how about this? When one of us says, ‘The devil’s in the details,’ the other must say, ‘And doubly in the bubbly.’ ”
“Yes, that will do nicely.”
Still she squinted behind those enormous lenses, out of worry or irritation or both. Unwin would have to find something for her to do, an assignment. The phonograph record in his briefcase was a Sivart file of some kind and could be of some use to him in his search. He said, “I have a job for you, Emily. I want you to find a phonograph player. The Agency must have one somewhere.”
He did not wait to see if this was enough to placate her, and turned to go. His hand froze on the doorknob, however, at the sound of movement on the other side of the door. A shadow loomed in the window, but no knock came. An eavesdropper. Or worse: they had already found Lamech’s body and come to question him.
Unwin cautioned his assistant with a nod and set his briefcase down. The interloper was tapping the glass now, very lightly, as though to send a secret signal of his own. Unwin raised his umbrella saberwise over his head and threw the door open.
The man on the other side toppled
Once he had read the report twice, Unwin handed it to Emily. She read it and asked, “Could the telephone call have had something to do with The Oldest Murdered Man?”
Unwin ought to have guessed that she would be familiar with Sivart’s cases, but to hear his own title spoken aloud by someone he had only just met—someone not even a clerk—caused him to shudder. Emily seemed to take this as discouragement and lowered her eyes.
Still, he had to consider the possibility that Emily was correct, that the telephone call did have something to do with the ancient cadaver in the museum, with the case consigned to the archives thirteen years ago. He thought of the note to Lamech he had found in the dumbwaiter: Let sleeping corpses lie. What if the Miss P. who had offered that advice meant that corpse, that file?
It did not matter. All Unwin had to do was find Detective Sivart, and now he knew where Sivart had gone. He picked up his new badge and rubbed its face with his sleeve. In the burnished Agency eye he could see his own distorted reflection. Charles Unwin, Detective. Who had inscribed those words? He took the clerk’s badge from his jacket pocket (no gleaming frontispiece there, only a worn, typewritten card) and replaced it with the detective’s. That, at least, would help him if he encountered Screed again. And the gun? The gun went with his old badge into the desk drawer. The gun he would not need.
Emily followed him to the outer office. He took his coat, hat, and umbrella from the rack, waving off her assistance.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“I’m off to the Municipal Museum,” he said, but the situation seemed to call for some words of encouragement, so he adapted something he had seen in Agency newspaper advertisements. “We have a good team here, and the truth is our business.”
Emily said, “But we haven’t rehearsed and codified any secret signals, for use in times of duress.”
He glanced at his watch. “I’ll let you choose something, if you think it’s necessary.”
“You want me to come up with something right now?”
“It was your idea, Emily.”
She closed her eyes again, as though better to see her own thoughts. “All right, how about this? When one of us says, ‘The devil’s in the details,’ the other must say, ‘And doubly in the bubbly.’ ”
“Yes, that will do nicely.”
Still she squinted behind those enormous lenses, out of worry or irritation or both. Unwin would have to find something for her to do, an assignment. The phonograph record in his briefcase was a Sivart file of some kind and could be of some use to him in his search. He said, “I have a job for you, Emily. I want you to find a phonograph player. The Agency must have one somewhere.”
He did not wait to see if this was enough to placate her, and turned to go. His hand froze on the doorknob, however, at the sound of movement on the other side of the door. A shadow loomed in the window, but no knock came. An eavesdropper. Or worse: they had already found Lamech’s body and come to question him.
Unwin cautioned his assistant with a nod and set his briefcase down. The interloper was tapping the glass now, very lightly, as though to send a secret signal of his own. Unwin raised his umbrella saberwise over his head and threw the door open.
The man on the other side toppled
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