Dead as a Dinosaur (18 page)

“It did work,” Bill told her. “It was done that way.”

“You tested the labels?” Homer Preson asked. He still stood. His eyes were a little narrowed behind his glasses. “I suppose you must have.”

“The used labels were thrown out,” Bill said. “Dr. Steck got rid of them. The unused ones, which the Institute apparently picked up with the bones, hadn't been tampered with.”

“But, you don't really know, then?” Homer Preson said. “It is merely a theory—an ingenious theory. For one thing, Laura's right. He would have tasted the phenobarbital.”

“He apparently didn't,” Bill said. “It isn't merely theory. We tested the bones, you see—enough of them. Where the mucilage had been there were traces. Very faint, of course. But—enough. You can take it as proved, Mr. Preson.”

“I don't—” Laura Preson began, her voice sharp.

Her brother turned toward her and shook his head sharply. She looked at him for a moment. She did not finish her sentence.

“So you come to us again,” Preson said. “Well?”

“You're his family,” Bill told the neat, trim man; the wiry little woman. “You'll want to help. It is a new problem, of course.”

“Certainly we will help,” Preson said. “But I'm afraid I don't know how. I suppose you have a theory? One that will explain everything? The advertisements, Laura's experience? The fact that poor Orpheus put the advertisements in the papers himself? Or—do you think you can ignore all that?”

It had the effect of challenge. But it might be no more than precision, of speech and of thought. It did, certainly, sum things up.

“You're quite right, Homer,” Laura said, with approval. “What is your theory about all that, captain? Since you do know—have said you know—that Orpheus inserted the advertisements. Invented this—persecution.”

“I think now that your brother was impersonated,” Bill said. “I think the girl at the counter was wrong when she identified Dr. Preson.”

“She admits that?” Preson asked.

She had not admitted it when they had talked to her an hour or so before. She had barely admitted doubt. Say an impersonator had been the right size; say he had worn the funny-looking glasses. Could she be wrong then? She had not thought so. Of course, anybody could make a mistake. Of course, she had seen him only once. Yes, she had particularly noticed the trifocal glasses.

“She isn't as sure as she was,” Bill Weigand told the Presons. He hesitated for a second. “As a matter of fact, she's most sure about the glasses. Whoever put the advertisement in was wearing trifocals. I think we can be sure of that. Was about your brother's size, wore the kind of glasses he did.”

“Orpheus had a beard,” Laura pointed out. “Do you contend that somebody—one of us, I suppose?—put on a false beard? Really, captain!”

“Your brother had chin whiskers,” Bill told her. “Whoever put the advertisement in had a muffler up around his chin. It was a cold enough night to make that plausible. As for who it was—have I made any charges, Miss Preson?”

He was told that he might as well have made charges.

“No, Laura,” Preson said. “The captain is being very fair. But—I think he is wrong in his assumption. I think it was really Orpheus. Have you ever tried to see anything through trifocals, Captain Weigand?”

Bill shook his head.

“You can't see through them,” Homer Preson said. “A kind of distorted blur. Your impersonator would have been blind, captain. Completely blind.”

“Right,” Bill said. “And—that's what makes me pretty sure, Mr. Preson. I think he was. I think he knew before he went that he would be. I think that's why he had the advertisement typed out in advance.” Bill shook his head. “I should have thought of it sooner,” he said. “We should have thought of several things sooner.”

“Typed in advance?” Preson repeated.

“Somebody,” Bill said, “we assumed, at first, your brother himself, went to the
Times
, got a want-ad blank, took it to Dr. Preson's apartment downtown, typed out the advertisement, and took it back to the
Times
. It seemed like going the long way around. The normal thing would be to fill the blank out at the counter. But—the assumption was that your brother was eccentric, that it was a waste of time to look for logic. However, if it was someone impersonating your brother, wearing your brother's trifocals, it was quite logical. He didn't fill the blank out at the counter because he couldn't see to. He would have had to take the glasses off to write. But the whole purpose of trifocals is to provide a variety of foci, so that the eyes are adjusted to any need. The girl would have remembered—she was supposed to remember the whole incident, I think. If she didn't appreciate the discrepancy, still she would have remembered it. Eventually, somebody would have said, ‘Hey! What did he do that for?'”

“He couldn't have seen to do anything,” Homer Preson said. “Not enough to get around.”

“He didn't have far to go,” Bill said. “He didn't need to see much. He could have walked in a straight line from the door to the counter; he would have seen enough to avoid running into anybody. The girl would have been a blur, but that was all right. He didn't need to recognize her; he needed to be recognized. He could have had a large enough bill ready in his pocket; put the change in his pocket without counting. As soon as he got back to the door, he could have taken the glasses off.”

Homer Preson hesitated. Then he said he supposed it would have been possible.

“Right,” Bill said. “Now—do you know whether your brother had more than one pair of glasses? Of glasses with trifocal lenses?”

“I'm afraid we don't—” Homer Preson said and his sister's sharper voice cut through his sentence. “Oh yes,” she said. “At his office. In his—” Then she stopped. The two looked at each other and neither, Bill Weigand thought, was pleased with the other.

“At least—” Laura began, and again a sentence was broken in two. “Oh yes,” Preson said. “I believe he did have, come to think of it.” Then he said, “Sorry. I'd forgotten for the moment. Laura's right, of course.”

“Anyone there could have used them,” Laura Preson said, and she spoke quickly. “Dr. Steck. Dr. Agee. Anyone. If it is really true that someone was pretending to be Orpheus.”

“Right,” Bill Weigand said. “However—” He paused, giving either of them a chance.

“It could hardly have been Dr. Steck,” Homer Preson said, after a moment. “He is physically very unlike Orpheus.”

“Agee isn't,” Laura Preson said. She paused. “However,” she said, “I do not believe in this impersonation. Not for a moment. For one thing, what would have been the purpose?”

Bill gave either of them another chance, but neither took it.

“To make it appear that your brother was insane,” he told them. “To make us think he was insanely persecuting himself.”

“Still—why?” Preson asked.

There could, Bill told them, be a good many possible reasons. He gave them one—to make it appear that Dr. Orpheus Preson was no longer competent to act as curator of Fossil Mammals at the Broadly Institute. He gave them another—to invalidate in advance something that Dr. Preson might have planned to say, or someone might have feared he was planning to say. He gave them a third—to invalidate something Dr. Preson had already said or done.

“By the last,” Homer Preson said, “I take it you mean his will, captain? The will we have, admittedly, decided to contest on the grounds you mention?”

“Right,” Bill Weigand said. “I do mean that.” He waited a moment. “Well?” he said.

“Nonsense!” Laura Preson said, with emphasis.

But her brother shook his head. He said they must be fair. He said he could see a certain logic in the theory. He had the appearance of a man impartially weighing an abstraction. But then he shook his head.

“I am sure you see the flaw, captain,” he said. “A flaw much more fatal to the theory than any denials we could make. Of course, we do deny any such—stratagem. But—” He paused, and now it occurred to Bill Weigand that it was he who was being given a chance.

“Go on,” Bill said.

“Orpheus was killed,” Homer Preson said. “That is the flaw. You assume we want Orpheus's money. As things are, we will have to go to court to get it, and the outcome is, of course, uncertain. Assume we are unscrupulous, if you like. But do not assume we are fools, captain. I assure you, we are not. You follow me?”

He was an instructor propounding a syllogism.

“Go on,” Bill suggested.

“We wish to get hold of Orpheus's money,” Homer said. “We wish, naturally, to do this with a minimum of risk. We decide to make it appear that he is insane. We are successful in this, to a point. Now, as I see it, we have two courses. We can threaten Orpheus with sanity proceedings unless he changes his will or we can actually seek to have him committed and be put in charge of his affairs as, I think it is called, a committee of the body. In either case, we get control of the money. In either case, either by threat or action, we can make sure that he does not, before we can get our hands on it, give all his money to the Institute. None of this is true, of course. You—”

“Right,” Bill said. “I understand your position, Mr. Preson. Go on.”

“Very well,” Preson said. “Why do we kill him? We invite an investigation which is likely to disclose our plan. If you are right, investigation
has
disclosed the plan—not ours, I assure you. We are forced to contest a will, with no assurance of success. We run the risk of being caught, which means we risk our lives. We—”

He was very logical, Bill thought—very precise. He was also very assured.

Bill Weigand nodded to show he heard.

“You say ‘we,'” he said. “You regard the family—I assume you mean you and your sister, and your son and daughter as well—as a unit? Does your son live here?”

He had a room there, yes. He also had his own apartment downtown.

“So actually,” Bill pointed out, “you can't speak for him, can you, Mr. Preson? Be certain he thinks as you do?”

There was a moment of hesitation before Preson, with a slight shrug, admitted he could not. But the shrug dismissed the point as academic. “I am in my son's confidence, I am certain,” Preson added. “His position in all this is obviously identical with mine. With my sister's.”

“Is he planning to get married?” Bill asked. Preson hesitated for a moment.

“I do not see what bearing that has,” he said. “However, I believe there is a young woman—a Miss Albrenza. A very charming young woman, I believe. From a very old California family. I do not, however, know what she and my son plan.” He smiled faintly. “I am not in Wayne's confidence to that extent,” he said. “If you feel that such matters are germane, you will have to talk to my son himself.”

Probably they were not germane, Bill admitted. He would, of course, want to talk to Wayne Preson. He was sorry that Wayne was not there; that Emily Preson'was not there. He appreciated the co-operation of Mr. Preson, of his sister.

“I assure you,” Preson told him, “that we have nothing to hide.”

“This is all nonsense,” Laura Preson said. “You're wasting time, young man. All this fiddle-faddle about plots!”

“Please, Laura,” Homer Preson said.

“Fiddle-faddle,” Laura repeated. “Will you please be careful?” This last was to Sergeant Mullins who had, absently, picked up another dog. “Sorry,” Mullins said, and put the dog down.

“Mr. Preson,” Bill said. “I take it you have tried your brother's glasses at some time?”

“Tried his glasses?” Preson repeated.

“You spoke of not being able to see through them. Of a distorted blur.”

Behind Preson's own glasses, the eyes flickered for an instant.

“Oh yes,” Preson said. “I did say that. I remember now. However, I merely made an assumption. An obvious assumption, I should think.”

“You never tried his glasses?”

“Certainly not,” Preson said. “Why should I?”

“Curiosity,” Bill told him. “However—”

“At least,” Preson said, “I cannot recall that I ever put on Orpheus's glasses, for any purpose.”

“Right,” Bill said. “It's of no importance. One more question. Isn't it true you felt that your brother was spending too much on Institute projects?”

“Certainly not,” Preson said. “At least, we felt that it was his own business. It was no concern of ours.”

“Right,” Bill said again. “Well—thanks. You've been patient. Will you ask your son, and your daughter, to get in touch with me? Say, some time tomorrow?”

“Certainly,” Preson said. “I'm sorry we don't—that they both had engagements this evening.”

He moved toward the door and Bill and Mullins moved with him. He let them out, and Laura Preson stood in the living-room door. She was, Bill thought, very pleased that they were going. She was, he thought, impatient for them to finish going. Preson closed the door after them.

Mullins started across the porch, but Bill Weigand touched his arm and Mullins stopped, turned, listened too.

“Why on earth you—” they heard Preson say, and his voice was not modulated as it had been; his voice rasped. He did not finish the sentence. “You know they're not—” he said. But he moved away as he spoke; moved, the eavesdroppers assumed, back into the living room. Then Laura Preson spoke, and her voice carried.

“I thought you'd had sense enough to see to that,” she said. Then Preson's heavier voice made a sound without words and, although his sister answered him, what she said was inaudible. Bill Weigand's fingers, resting on Mullins's arm, gave directions. They went, as quietly as they could, to the waiting car. Bill drove it around the nearest corner, turned to face the way they had come, and parked. He spoke briefly, and got out.