seeing it written here.
I tossed the papers aside and dug into the litter until I located Reese’s telephone. It seemed to be intact. I called his home. His manservant informed me that Mr. Fuller had not been in all night, that he was still not in, and that he, the servant, had no idea of the master’s whereabouts.
I relayed this information to Jodi and called my office. The boss answered the phone himself. I said, “Seen little Emily?”
“No, and I want her!” he snapped at me. “There’s work to do here.”
I said, “The cops can’t find her either.” Before he could demand an explanation of that, I asked, “How’s Tom this morning?”
“No change.” He sounded less unhappy. “But no worse. These comas sometimes last a while. If the patient doesn’t begin to get worse, there’s a good deal of hope.”
I said, “You have a guard on Tom still?” When he left, he had made arrangements for a twenty-four hour guard to be posted in Tom’s room.
“Naturally.” He was so pleased that Tom had not worsened that he jumped right down my throat. “And where in the patented hell have you been?”
I said stiffly, “Working.”
“On whom?” he asked crudely.
I said, “It’ll all be in my report. And speaking of reports, why would anyone want Tom’s badly enough to kill for it?”
“Nonsense,” he said briskly. “I have the carbon copy right here. There’s nothing in it but routine.”
I gawped into the phone, feeling like seven and a half kinds of jackass. The carbon copy! When any of us made out a report, he made three copies, filing two in the office. With being chased and finding Fenney’s body and getting to know Jodi, the carbons had completely slipped my sometimes not too agile mind.
I said, “I’ll be down to pick up the copy.” And, to salvage a little of my ego, I added, “Meanwhile, figure out what ‘Zwahili’ means.”
Before he could answer, I hung up. I said to Jodi, “Let’s go.”
When we were in the car heading for the office, I told her about the carbon copies. She said, “But surely Emily would have known that there were copies in the office.”
I said, “Hell, yes! And she’d have tipped Ridley off to that effect, wouldn’t she?” And now Ilona chasing me for the report made no sense at all. It made less sense than did Ilona ripping my clothes.
Jodi said, “How is Tom, Peter?”
“No worse,” I said. I didn’t want to talk; I wanted to think. Jodi was bright enough to be quiet and leave me to it. I was wasting my time. When we reached the office, I still had no answers.
The boss was waiting, a carbon of the report on his desk. I gave it to Jodi and planted her in the outer office. I left her reading through it.
The boss looked as if he’d been studying. He had an encyclopedia open to the “Z’s,” and a file of newspapers spread out. Before he could ask questions, I told him what had been happening to me. He got a fine belly laugh out of my clothes being ripped. I let him enjoy himself.
Then I said, “Now about this Zwahili business.”
He looked down at the encyclopedia. “Zwahili,” he read, “population 31,342, cit, capital Southeast Africa. A member of the British Commonwealth of nations.” He skipped a few lines. “Monetary unit is the Southeast African pound, often referred to as the Zwahili pound for the city where the government bank is located.” He stabbed a finger at one of the newspapers. “Said pound is now worth close to three dollars due to the discovery of uranium deposits about three years ago. They will be exploited soon with British and American capital.”
I said, “Thanks for the geography and economics lesson.”
He said, “Where’s your memory? Two years ago this summer, two hundred thousand pounds in Zwahili bank notes were stolen from a London banknote printer.”
My memory was there. It had just needed activating. I didn’t have to look at the newspapers on his desk to recall that robbery. The Southeast
I tossed the papers aside and dug into the litter until I located Reese’s telephone. It seemed to be intact. I called his home. His manservant informed me that Mr. Fuller had not been in all night, that he was still not in, and that he, the servant, had no idea of the master’s whereabouts.
I relayed this information to Jodi and called my office. The boss answered the phone himself. I said, “Seen little Emily?”
“No, and I want her!” he snapped at me. “There’s work to do here.”
I said, “The cops can’t find her either.” Before he could demand an explanation of that, I asked, “How’s Tom this morning?”
“No change.” He sounded less unhappy. “But no worse. These comas sometimes last a while. If the patient doesn’t begin to get worse, there’s a good deal of hope.”
I said, “You have a guard on Tom still?” When he left, he had made arrangements for a twenty-four hour guard to be posted in Tom’s room.
“Naturally.” He was so pleased that Tom had not worsened that he jumped right down my throat. “And where in the patented hell have you been?”
I said stiffly, “Working.”
“On whom?” he asked crudely.
I said, “It’ll all be in my report. And speaking of reports, why would anyone want Tom’s badly enough to kill for it?”
“Nonsense,” he said briskly. “I have the carbon copy right here. There’s nothing in it but routine.”
I gawped into the phone, feeling like seven and a half kinds of jackass. The carbon copy! When any of us made out a report, he made three copies, filing two in the office. With being chased and finding Fenney’s body and getting to know Jodi, the carbons had completely slipped my sometimes not too agile mind.
I said, “I’ll be down to pick up the copy.” And, to salvage a little of my ego, I added, “Meanwhile, figure out what ‘Zwahili’ means.”
Before he could answer, I hung up. I said to Jodi, “Let’s go.”
When we were in the car heading for the office, I told her about the carbon copies. She said, “But surely Emily would have known that there were copies in the office.”
I said, “Hell, yes! And she’d have tipped Ridley off to that effect, wouldn’t she?” And now Ilona chasing me for the report made no sense at all. It made less sense than did Ilona ripping my clothes.
Jodi said, “How is Tom, Peter?”
“No worse,” I said. I didn’t want to talk; I wanted to think. Jodi was bright enough to be quiet and leave me to it. I was wasting my time. When we reached the office, I still had no answers.
The boss was waiting, a carbon of the report on his desk. I gave it to Jodi and planted her in the outer office. I left her reading through it.
The boss looked as if he’d been studying. He had an encyclopedia open to the “Z’s,” and a file of newspapers spread out. Before he could ask questions, I told him what had been happening to me. He got a fine belly laugh out of my clothes being ripped. I let him enjoy himself.
Then I said, “Now about this Zwahili business.”
He looked down at the encyclopedia. “Zwahili,” he read, “population 31,342, cit, capital Southeast Africa. A member of the British Commonwealth of nations.” He skipped a few lines. “Monetary unit is the Southeast African pound, often referred to as the Zwahili pound for the city where the government bank is located.” He stabbed a finger at one of the newspapers. “Said pound is now worth close to three dollars due to the discovery of uranium deposits about three years ago. They will be exploited soon with British and American capital.”
I said, “Thanks for the geography and economics lesson.”
He said, “Where’s your memory? Two years ago this summer, two hundred thousand pounds in Zwahili bank notes were stolen from a London banknote printer.”
My memory was there. It had just needed activating. I didn’t have to look at the newspapers on his desk to recall that robbery. The Southeast
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