Death on Deadline - Robert Goldsborough Page 0,67

turned to me, his face asking the question.

“Hilton Head Island,” I supplied.

“South Carolina,” Saul added. “Top-drawer place, from what I hear.”

“I hope you can see it for yourself. And as soon as your schedule permits, I’d like you to visit Miss Barwell there. I need one fact: did Harriet Haverhill reveal to her, either verbally or in writing, that she intended to name her nephew publisher of the Gazette? Any further details would of course be a bonus for us.”

Saul nodded. “I can leave first thing tomorrow.”

“Satisfactory. Archie will give you expense money and the woman’s address down there. And you’ll need directions.”

“Not necessary,” Saul said. “Just get me a street number. I assume you want me to be back tomorrow night?”

“That’s not imperative,” Wolfe replied, grimacing, “although you should report by telephone.” I knew the reason for his negative reaction. He didn’t want to insist that Saul do all that traveling in a single day—it was bad enough that he would have to ride in four airplanes and a rental car over a two-day stretch. To Wolfe, four plane rides is more than anyone should be required to take in a lifetime. Saul, who knows Wolfe almost as well as I do, said he would play the return trip by ear, but that he’d definitely check in tomorrow.

And in case you’re wondering why Wolfe didn’t just pick up the phone and call Ann Barwell rather than spending hundreds of dollars to send an operative to see her, you should know this: he has telephones on his desk, in his bedroom, and in the kitchen, so he clearly accepts them as a necessary tool. But he doesn’t much like them, and he uses them in his work only when face-to-face contact is impractical or impossible. He would no more ask questions relative to a case on the telephone than I would chase down a suspect without my Marley in its shoulder holster. “Facial expressions, twitches, hand movements—all those things you like to refer to as body language—are integral to the interrogation process,” he once told me. “Remove the opportunity to witness those reactions and you become a sailor without compass, stars, or sextant.”

With our meeting ended, I opened the safe and peeled off a grand in used fifties and twenties, handing them to Saul and saying I’d get Ann Barwell’s address for him. “Have a wonderful trip,” I said at the door, “and be careful how you drive when you get there. You know what they say about those Southern cops.”

He smirked, gave me a thumbs-up, and walked out, taking the steps two at a time. I closed the door and watched through the one-way panel as he strode down the sidewalk, thinking how I’d be jealous of his little jaunt south if I didn’t know that Lily and I would be spending a week in the Virgin Islands in less than a month.

After Wolfe ascended to the plant rooms, I called Lon, who wasn’t wild about letting me have Ann

Barwell’s address in South Carolina. I assured him that she wouldn’t be harassed or abused, and promised that if she reported any ill-treatment I would hand him all my winnings from the next five poker games. That drew a horselaugh, given my overall record at our Thursday-night sessions. He relented, though, and after putting me on hold for a few seconds came back with the information, which I relayed to Saul. “I’m on the first flight to Atlanta tomorrow,” he told me. “You should be hearing from me sometime in the afternoon.” I wished him well and repeated my warning about Southern police.

The rest of the day wasn’t worth mentioning, other than an argument Wolfe and I had at dinner over whether college athletes should be paid. I said they should, that it would end the sham, while Wolfe held out for tougher policing of regulations. I scored myself the winner, because I don’t believe it’s possible to ever return big-time college sports to a truly amateur level.

On Thursday morning, I was on edge, mainly because nothing was happening. After he came down from the plant rooms at eleven, Wolfe seemed totally unconcerned about anything as mundane as murder and clients, choosing to divide his time among the London Times crossword puzzle, Webster’s Unabridged, and a fresh book, Revolution in Science, by J. Bernard Cohen. I’m sure I was getting on his nerves, and I know he was getting on mine, so at eleven-forty I got up noisily from my