Dr. Oliver. We’re dealing with memories forty-five years old. Isn’t it likely that people’s image of this feared, powerful commandant has been warped by time into something even more terrifying than he was?"
"That’s true," John said, on Joly’s side for once.
"Sure, but this guy was built along the lines of Ray Schaefer. Do you think even forty-five years could warp that build into an Aryan superman’s?"
"Yeah, but don’t forget about the fudging component, Doc," John contributed. "You said down in the cellar you weren’t sure about the height and weight, didn’t you?"
"I didn’t say I wasn’t sure, I said the indicators didn’t provide technically cogent data."
"Oh, the indicators didn’t provide…Well, that’s different. That’s a whole ’nother story. Excuse me."
Gideon sighed. "Okay, okay, you’re right. I can’t prove it, but my gut tells me this was a little guy, not a big one. Is that better?"
John hooked an elbow over the back of the seat and turned around, his dark eyes round. "I’m
right?
"
"In principle."
"Oh, in principle." He swung back around to the front and nodded sadly. "You had me shook up there for a minute. I thought I was just plain right."
If Joly found this exchange entertaining he didn’t show it. "Dr. Oliver, to speak frankly, it seems to me that you’re going out of your way to be obstructive—"
"Obstructive?" Gideon repeated, offended. "You asked me in to give my opinion, and that’s what I’ve given. If you’ve already made up your mind who that skeleton is, you don’t need—"
"No, no, I’m sorry," Joly said hurriedly. "I didn’t mean it that way. It simply occurred to me that with all the available information pointing to its being Kassel…Well, I find myself wondering if your
modus operandi
perhaps involves a certain skepticism, a need to quarrel with the obvious, to make the simple complex…"
"Every time," John said cheerfully. "That’s his MO, all right. That’s how he got to be the Skeleton Detective of America."
The look that Joly shot him made it icily clear that he knew when he was being put on and it didn’t amuse him. He exhaled smoke through his long nose and ground out his cigarette in the ashtray. "Perhaps we’ll learn more tomorrow," he said curtly. "I’m having the rest of the cellar excavated, of course."
"Of course," John said, and wisely held his peace.
Each with his own thoughts they said no more until Joly swung the blue Renault off the N137 at the St. Malo exit.
NINE
GIDEON was one of those people who could wake up at a set time without an alarm clock, but it was an instinct he never wholly trusted. As a result, he usually set an alarm before going to bed and generally wound up jerking awake ten minutes before it went off, thus allowing him to punch down the button and avoid being shaken out of his sleep by the alarm itself. Thus also losing him ten minutes’ additional sleep that he wanted dearly at the time. It was one of those little problems he had yet to get around to figuring out.
But he was surprised the next morning when the alarm went off while he was still asleep. He slammed the button down twice before he realized it was the telephone. Blindly, he reached for it, his heart racing. He didn’t like telephone calls in the middle of the night; that was the way he’d learned that Nora was dead. As he groped for the receiver he saw the time on the glowing clock dial and relaxed: ten after seven. Not the middle of the night at all.
Still, damn early.
He growled something into the telephone.
"Oh-oh, sounds like he hasn’t been fed yet. I didn’t wake you up, did I?"
"Julie?" He smiled and fell back against the pillows, closing his eyes again, letting her voice flow over him. "I love you."
He’d already called her twice in the five days he’d been in France. They’d talked and laughed for almost an hour each time, like a couple of kids with crushes. He hadn’t yet had the
"That’s true," John said, on Joly’s side for once.
"Sure, but this guy was built along the lines of Ray Schaefer. Do you think even forty-five years could warp that build into an Aryan superman’s?"
"Yeah, but don’t forget about the fudging component, Doc," John contributed. "You said down in the cellar you weren’t sure about the height and weight, didn’t you?"
"I didn’t say I wasn’t sure, I said the indicators didn’t provide technically cogent data."
"Oh, the indicators didn’t provide…Well, that’s different. That’s a whole ’nother story. Excuse me."
Gideon sighed. "Okay, okay, you’re right. I can’t prove it, but my gut tells me this was a little guy, not a big one. Is that better?"
John hooked an elbow over the back of the seat and turned around, his dark eyes round. "I’m
right?
"
"In principle."
"Oh, in principle." He swung back around to the front and nodded sadly. "You had me shook up there for a minute. I thought I was just plain right."
If Joly found this exchange entertaining he didn’t show it. "Dr. Oliver, to speak frankly, it seems to me that you’re going out of your way to be obstructive—"
"Obstructive?" Gideon repeated, offended. "You asked me in to give my opinion, and that’s what I’ve given. If you’ve already made up your mind who that skeleton is, you don’t need—"
"No, no, I’m sorry," Joly said hurriedly. "I didn’t mean it that way. It simply occurred to me that with all the available information pointing to its being Kassel…Well, I find myself wondering if your
modus operandi
perhaps involves a certain skepticism, a need to quarrel with the obvious, to make the simple complex…"
"Every time," John said cheerfully. "That’s his MO, all right. That’s how he got to be the Skeleton Detective of America."
The look that Joly shot him made it icily clear that he knew when he was being put on and it didn’t amuse him. He exhaled smoke through his long nose and ground out his cigarette in the ashtray. "Perhaps we’ll learn more tomorrow," he said curtly. "I’m having the rest of the cellar excavated, of course."
"Of course," John said, and wisely held his peace.
Each with his own thoughts they said no more until Joly swung the blue Renault off the N137 at the St. Malo exit.
NINE
GIDEON was one of those people who could wake up at a set time without an alarm clock, but it was an instinct he never wholly trusted. As a result, he usually set an alarm before going to bed and generally wound up jerking awake ten minutes before it went off, thus allowing him to punch down the button and avoid being shaken out of his sleep by the alarm itself. Thus also losing him ten minutes’ additional sleep that he wanted dearly at the time. It was one of those little problems he had yet to get around to figuring out.
But he was surprised the next morning when the alarm went off while he was still asleep. He slammed the button down twice before he realized it was the telephone. Blindly, he reached for it, his heart racing. He didn’t like telephone calls in the middle of the night; that was the way he’d learned that Nora was dead. As he groped for the receiver he saw the time on the glowing clock dial and relaxed: ten after seven. Not the middle of the night at all.
Still, damn early.
He growled something into the telephone.
"Oh-oh, sounds like he hasn’t been fed yet. I didn’t wake you up, did I?"
"Julie?" He smiled and fell back against the pillows, closing his eyes again, letting her voice flow over him. "I love you."
He’d already called her twice in the five days he’d been in France. They’d talked and laughed for almost an hour each time, like a couple of kids with crushes. He hadn’t yet had the
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