The Touch of Treason (6 page)

“I don’t really want to answer that right now.”

“You realize,” Perry said, “that your lack of forthrightness can only cast suspicion on you?”

“Mr. Perry? You said that was your name, didn’t you? I’m hesitating only because I don’t wish to harm someone else needlessly.”

“What about Professor Fuller?”

“I loved him,” Melissa Troob said, a definitive pronouncement.

“As much as you love Mr. Melling?”

“You have no right to question my private life!”

Widmer saw the glance that passed between Perry and Randall. Randall must have briefed him on the phone. Widmer, in the dark, remembered Perry saying to him long ago,
You are making a contribution.
He despised being condescended to. They were using him like an actor who hadn’t read the play.

In the hallway, the door closed on Melissa Troob, Widmer said, “Do you suspect her?”

Jackson Perry looked at his old friend as if to calculate how much information he owed him. “I was trying to ascertain if she would make a good witness if the case came to trial.”

“And would she?”

“We’ll see,” Perry said, and strode into the next room, where Scott Melling faced the window, smoking his pipe. He turned to them, accepting the introductions, then said, “I apologize for all the smoke in the room. I’ll open the window.”

“Mr. Melling,” Perry said, “how did you arrive here last night?”

“I told Mr. Randall. My wife dropped me off because she needed the car.”

“How were you planning to get home?”

“I
assumed it would be a late evening and that I’d stay the night. I have quite a few times, as you may already know.”

“Mr. Melling,” Perry said, “how long did you know Professor Fuller?”

“Six years. No, seven really.”

“You teach at Columbia College?”

“The graduate faculties actually. Professor Fuller recommended me for the position.”

“Did Professor Fuller recommend Miss Troob to you?”

“What do you mean?”

Widmer recognized the controlled anger. It was a way of gaining time to think.

Perry said, “You didn’t sleep in your room last night, did you?”

“Is that a question or an answer? I don’t think it’s any of your damn business what consenting adults do.”

Perry stepped closer to Scott Melling. “Did Professor Fuller consent to his death?”

“It was a terrible accident!”

“Was it?”

Melling’s carefully groomed mustache quivered perceptibly. “What are you implying?”

Perry said, “Mr. Melling, you broke the law last night. You—”

“What law?”

“Adultery is illegal in this state.”

“My wife knows about my relationship to Miss Troob.”

“That doesn’t make it legal.”

“What the hell is going on? You’ve come all the way from Washington to bedroom-snoop?”

“Why do you think I’m here, Mr. Melling?”

“I thought to investigate the circumstances of Professor Fuller’s death.”

“You are one of those circumstances. A man who breaks one law with impunity can break several.”

“If you’re accusing me of anything, I want an attorney present.”

“There is an attorney present!” Perry snapped.

Widmer said, “I’m sure Mr. Melling was referring to his own attorney.”

Melling’s face, despite his efforts, had reddened. “I’d like to make a phone call.”

“To the Soviet legation?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’ve phoned them at least four times in the last three months.”

Widmer saw the delta of blood flushing into each of Melling’s cheeks. Melling, like his English forebears, probably considered visible anger a form of self-betrayal. Widmer saw Melling take a deep breath through his nostrils, his lips together.

It drained Widmer’s reservoir of pity to see a younger man not unlike himself confronted by rude incursions. What did Melling do to deserve this?

Widmer thought of the charred bathroom downstairs just as Melling finally spoke. To Perry he said, “Do you have a court order for tapping my calls?”

“I didn’t say we were tapping anything. We routinely check out calls made by Professor Fuller’s visitors.”

“But I’ve never called from here.”

“I
didn’t say you did.”

“You mean you tap my line at home?”

“You seem more concerned about our attempts to protect Professor Fuller than you’re concerned about his sudden death.”

“That’s not true. You’re twisting things.”

Widmer thought
He looks naked.

Perry whisked Randall and him out of the room. As soon as they were in the hallway, Perry’s harsh mask dropped. “I’m glad you’re hearing some of this firsthand, Ned. Those two are opposites. She’s soft on the surface, but controlled and credible when she speaks. He’s got social armor that’s full of cracks.”

Widmer said, “I need to know more.”

When they entered the third upstairs bedroom, Perry’s personality seemed to change completely.

“Ah, Mr. Porter,” he said, “I’m Jackson Perry. You’ve talked to my colleague, Mr. Randall? This is Archibald Widmer, a friend of the Fullers.”

The last phrase had the desired effect. Ed Porter seemed to relax when he shook hands with Widmer.

“Mr. Randall tells me that you’ve been a welcome house guest at the Fullers’ quite often,” Perry said.

“We seemed to get on,” Porter said. Widmer was taken by the young man’s casualness. Such a contrast to Melling’s stiff stand.

“Despite the age difference?” Perry asked.

“When you’re Professor Fuller’s age, it’s kind of hard to have older friends.”

Widmer, always appreciative of wit, restrained his temptation to laugh. The young man’s eyes glistened. Fuller was dead.

“Excuse me,” Porter said, and turning from them, blew his nose loudly into a handkerchief that he quickly buried in his pocket. When he turned to face them, the tears were gone.

“I hope you don’t mind my asking you a few more questions,” Perry said.

Porter sat down on the edge of the bed as if his legs had suddenly become untrustworthy.

“Are you all right?” Widmer asked.

“I’ll be all right.”

Perry said, “Mr. Randall says you were Professor Fuller’s favorite acolyte.”

“He used that word?”

“Student, friend, the term isn’t important.”

“We worked the vineyard together. That is, he led, and I helped wherever I could.”

“Were you involved in the manuscript he was writing?”

“Oh no,” Ed Porter said. “I told Mr. Randall nobody got near that. By the ‘vineyard’ I meant Professor Fuller’s work in general.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Sure. Most people in polisci—political science—aren’t very scientific. They just line up events to fit the pattern of their prejudices. Professor Fuller was a genius at studying track records and political moves for the purpose of trying to predict the likely course of future actions by the same people.”

“Is that important?” Perry asked.

Widmer thought
It is impolite to pretend ignorance.
He corrected himself. Perry wasn’t carrying on a conversation. He was digging.

“Fuller was worth an army,” Porter said.

“You ran down naked?” Perry asked.

Widmer had to admire Perry’s arrogance, relaxing the young man, fortifying his ego, and then the flash of an unexpected question.

“What do you mean?” was all Porter could bring himself to say.

“This morning,” Perry said. “You ran down without any clothes on is what I mean.”

“The screaming was awful. I didn’t take time to throw something on.”

“You wanted to see if you’d been successful?”

In the silence, Widmer heard an old clock in the corner registering the seconds until Porter, his voice uneven, his eyes brimming again, said, “What are you talking about, sir?”

“You know damn well what I mean. Didn’t you try to open the door of his study while the rescue squad was taking him out to the ambulance?”

“You’re crazy!”

“You’re the crazy one, Porter. A signal went up on the board. It’s a two-sided key that only works with the right side up. How did you expect to get the manuscript? The safe is locked.”

“I don’t know what you people are talking about,” Ed Porter said. “I loved the old man. He was my teacher. I worshiped him.”

Perry leaned over him. “What does that mean?”

“I
was closer to him than…”

“Than who?” Perry pressed. The kid seemed suddenly frightened. “Than who?”

“My father.”

“Who is your father?” Perry asked, as if he already knew the answer.

“I’d rather he were left out of this,” Porter said, smearing the tears out of his eyes with the back of his right hand.

“You brought him up. What’s his first name? Where does he live?”

“Connecticut. I haven’t seen him in three years.”

“His first name?”

“Malcolm.”

“Malcolm Porter?”

Air escaped from the young man’s lungs. “Malcolm Sturbridge.”

“
The
Malcolm Sturbridge?”

Porter nodded.

“Are you his stepson?” Perry asked.

“What’s he got to do with any of this?”

“You have a different name.”

“I use my mother’s name.”

“What’s your father’s phone number?”

“I don’t remember. It’s unlisted.” He hesitated only a second. “Of course that won’t keep you people from getting it. Can I go now?”

“You stay put like the others. In this room.”

“Can I talk to Mrs. Fuller?” Ed Porter asked.

“If you want to say anything, say it to us,” Perry said, ushering the others out before him and closing the door.

One of Randall’s men was standing at the head of the stairs. “The police are on the phone from the hospital. A detective named Cooper. He’s ordered an autopsy.”

“No autopsy. Tell him it was an accident.”

“I did. He says an accident is an accident when it’s proven to be an accident. He’s coming over here. He’s damn mad we didn’t call in the locals four hours ago. He says we’re obstructing justice.”

“Jesus, one of those.”

They were surprised to find Leona Fuller sitting alone in the living room. Randall went over to talk to her quietly. Widmer could see her shaking her head.

Leona Fuller addressed all of them. “I want to know what’s going on?”

Randall deferred to Perry. Perry said, “We’re investigating the causes of the accident. We believe—”

Mrs. Fuller cut him short. “I feel sorry for Randall. He went to so much trouble for so long to avoid something like this.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “I just wish they hadn’t used such a horrible means.”

Widmer said, “Who is they?”

All three of them looked at him. Widmer felt a fool.

*

As soon as Leona Fuller had retired, to her bedroom in the back, Widmer said to Perry, “I can’t be her spokesman unless I have some better inkling of what’s going on.”

“Understandable,” Perry said. They huddled around the end of the coffee table.

“What happens to the manuscript that Fuller was working on?” Widmer asked.

“It will be turned over to the national security adviser personally before the close of business today.”

“As the attorney for the estate,” Widmer said hesitantly, “I have to ask, will the manuscript be copyrighted in Fuller’s name?”

“That manuscript will never be sent to the copyright office for registration.”

“Mrs. Fuller has the right—”

For a second Perry seemed to lose his patience. “Fuller was an employee-for-hire under the terms of his contract. At the moment of his death he ceased to be an employee. The work belongs to the government.”

Perry saw the shocked expression on Widmer’s face. “I’m sorry, Ned,” he continued. “That sounds raw. This thing is getting to me, too. I’m sure Fuller’s widow will be taken care of discreetly, to supplement her insurance, of course.”

“That’s very kind.”

“One of the better uses of taxpayers’ money.”

Widmer preferred the expected smile. Then he said, “All the complex security came to nothing.”

“I wouldn’t be that pessimistic, Ned. We’ll have what he did so far. Someone else will continue the work.”

“What if the manuscript had been copied somehow for the Soviets without your ever knowing it?”

Perry looked at Randall. They were getting beyond the need to know. But they did need the confidence of people who helped out, like Widmer, even in minor ways.