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I said, “One second,” and looked inquiringly at Maggie. She put down the phone and said, “All I get from Kalos is a busy signal. Mike’s phone rings, but he doesn’t answer. Mr. Quist had me call Security a few minutes ago. The man there said Kalos was all right, and that you and Virgilio had gone somewhere together.”

  I said, “Araujo’s checking out the cottages now. Calderon’s taken himself a drive into town. For the time being, everything’s under control.”

  Sharon walked in just in time to catch this. She had changed from dinner gown to tee-shirt and shorts, and there was transparently nothing under the tee-shirt. She took Quist’s hand and said to him, “You see? Now you can come inside and take your sleeping pills, can’t you?” Without giving him a chance to answer, she explained to me: “He was in the Jacuzzi when the power went off. And stayed off. And Maggie’s phone was all tied up. I had an awful time getting someone to help.”

  Quist said to her, “Please, dear”—he took a couple of deep breaths as if he had to pump up his lungs to get them working properly—“everything is not under control.” He glared at me. “All right, what the hell happened?”

  I described what had happened, omitting further mention of Calderon. Quist wasn’t buying that package. “You said our Mr. Calderon’s taken himself a drive into town. When did he leave? Precisely when?”

  “A few minutes before the power was cut off.”

  Quist leaned back in his chair. “Now, isn’t that interesting?”

  “It is. But I’ll put it to you the way I put it to Mr. Araujo. If Calderon is the one, would he aim a finger straight at himself? Mr. Araujo seems to think he would. I have my doubts.”

  Quist took his time evaluating this. He finally said, “Virgilio’s specialty is security, not your kind of work. So in this situation I’ll go along with you. Up to a point. Now, what about Mr. Daskalos, who doesn’t answer the phone. Is he still in your sights?”

  Before I could respond, Sharon protested: “But if Kalos is in meditation—” and Quist said in the voice of a kindly father to an idiot child, “He may not be, dear. Not necessarily.” He painfully shifted his legs. Then he focused on me again. “Well, what about Daskalos?”

  “If he’s the one, I can’t understand why. That doesn’t stop me from wondering about it.”

  “And where does that leave us? Any comments? Any advice?”

  “One comment. From the evidence tonight, our perpetrator can now be rated dangerous. One piece of advice. The same advice. Pack everybody out of here.”

  Quist looked at Sharon. Her lips compressed tightly and her face went stony. He gave her an almost imperceptible nod. Maggie, taking this in, seemed troubled. “Really, Andrew, it might be wise—” and he snapped at her, “Wait!” He thrust out that Roman senatorial jaw at me. “Tell me this, John. And no hedging. Do you think there’s any danger to Mrs. Quist if she remains here?”

  “Well, when you have someone with a loaded gun—”

  “God damn it, I asked a straightforward question. Do you believe in your professional capacity that this someone with a loaded gun represents a threat to Mrs. Quist? Yes or no?”

  “If you put it that way, no.”

  “All right. In that case, try to comprehend that this is our home, my wife’s and mine. And no one—no one on earth, Mr. Milano—is going to drive us out of it because he’s in a mood to do mischief. If I had my legs, no one would dare attempt that mischief. Well, this old cripple still has his moral legs. And a large helping of old-fashioned self-respect.” He had to fight for breath to wind up the lecture. “However you’re going about your job, Mr. Milano, bear that in mind.”

  He released his hand from Sharon’s, spun the chair around, and took off in high gear. Sharon hesitated, then went to the desk, leaned over it and spoke to Maggie in an undertone. She departed, carefully not looking in my direction. I said to Maggie, “What was that about?”

  “She asked me to give you a couple of letters I’ve been keeping locked up for her. They’re in my bedroom. Wait a minute.”

  The letters were in their envelopes, which were still tucked into the larger Watrous Associates envelopes I had used in returning them. I thrust them into my jacket pocket and asked, “Do you know what’s in them?”

  Maggie shrugged. “She wanted me to read them but I wouldn’t. But I think I have an idea what’s in them.”

  “So do I. You know, she really shouldn’t be laying all of this on you. Dividing your loyalties between her and Quist.”

  “I manage to live with it.” She looked at me curiously. “You realize you could have wound up the party right now, didn’t you? Just by telling Andrew she was in danger. For whatever reason.”

  “No, he’s too smart to fall for whatever reason. He’d want a good logical reason, and I couldn’t offer any. If I tried to fake one, I’d be standing here right now mopping egg off my face.”

  “Uh-uh.” She shook her head. “Not you. Never.”

  “If that’s a compliment, thanks. But I suspect it isn’t. What’s on your mind, Maggie Riley?”

  “A large question mark. You know Sharon’s just about given up on Kalos, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you know that even if someone bombed this building, she’d want to keep the party going. Because if everyone was cleared out of here, you’d be on your way back to New York.”

  I said, “There we enter the realm of speculation. I’m going back Thursday anyhow. I don’t think one day—”

  “She does. She’s fighting for time to turn your no into a yes, and one day can make the difference. After all, as you pointed out, she does seem to have a way of getting what she wants.”

  “Usually. But where does the question mark come in?”

  “Right where you could have told Andrew she was in danger, and didn’t. If you had—and despite Andrew’s brave oratory—this place would have been emptied in one hour flat. So that question, Mr. Milano, is: Are you now on your way to changing that no into a yes? Because if you are, I’m the one who’ll be left here to deal with Andrew in his loss. And I’d like to get my foxhole dug before the event.”

  “Then put away your shovel, Private Riley. You won’t need it.”

  Maggie looked doubtful. “You mean that?”

  “I do. And as a favor, you might try to convince Sharon of it.”

  “Oh, no, Milano. Not me.”

  “All right, then do me a different favor. This Milano thing you’re addicted to. On first introduction I told you it was Johnny to my friends. Such as they are.”

  Maggie said in a flat voice, “Sorry. That’s Sharon’s word. I’d just as soon not infringe.”

  “Which is really a crock. I mean, this business of always putting Sharon between us. On second thought, is it Sharon? Or is it the shade of somebody named Donnie Maxwell? The guy who used to share your living arrangements. And worked on your book with you.”

  Maggie said accusingly, “She told you about him.”

  “Yes. With great admiration.”

  “And that’s where we drop that subject, Milano. Right here.”

  I said, “Look, there comes a time—” and the phone rang. I cursed Alexander Graham Bell and all his works as Maggie answered: “No. I don’t have to. He’s with me here.” She handed it to me. “It’s Virgilio. Sounds like more trouble.”

  Araujo said to me, “I’m at Cottage B. Next-door to Mr. Daskalos. I had to use this phone.”

  “Something’s happened to him?”

  “No, no. But there is a problem. Yours really. I’ll have a cart pick you up right away. I’ll be outside Mr. Daskalos’ place.”

  “I won’t need a cart. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  I put down the phone. Maggie looked sick. “My God,” she said. “Kalos.”

  “Easy does it, baby. He’s all right.”

  “You’re not just saying that?”

  “Take my word for it,” I said, “he’ll live to worship at least one more sunrise.”

 
I made it to the cottage in a series of wind sprints, and Araujo was waiting for me on the terrace. He motioned toward the door. “I explained to him about the blackout, the assault. And what happened? He acted as if I had come to rape him up his asshole. I had no right to interfere with God’s ways, he said. All very well, I told him, but there is the matter of his safety. Was I wrong in telling him that?”

  “No. Then what?”

  “He said his safety wasn’t my business. That what must happen will happen. Then he handed me this.”

  Araujo thrust the sheet of paper at me. The same heavy bond. The familiar typeface. But this time a message boiled down to the absolute minimum.

  Wednesday, January 25

  Tonight!

  I looked at my watch. “We’re ten minutes into Wednesday. When did he get this?”

  “He won’t say. He sits there. He won’t say anything now.”

  “Did he have any visitors today? Your man next-door keeps track of that, doesn’t he?”

  “Until the blackout, no visitors.”

  “During the blackout?”

  Araujo lowered his head to his chest as he weighed this, making four chins out of two. “No. For someone to have been in the service building pulling those switches, and at the same time to be here delivering this—”

  “All right, who brings Daskalos’ meals to him here?”

  “You know him. Pablo.”

  “Well, is there any chance at all that Pablo—?” and Araujo shook his head with granite assurance. “None. Pablo is my nephew. A little free in his ways, but a good boy. Not one to play dangerous tricks on his Uncle Virgilio.”

  I held up the paper. “So assuming that no one delivered this today and that it didn’t fly here by itself—”

  “I know, I know. Shit.” Araujo spat in a high arc over the flowering hedge fencing in the terrace. “So we have the possibility that Mr. Daskalos writes these notes to himself. And we have the possibility that Mr. Calderon caused the blackout. Talk about pieces of a puzzle not fitting together, how about those two?”

  “Maybe Daskalos can help with the carpentry.” I put a hand on the doorknob. “Is it open?”

  “Always. He insists on that.”

  The door led directly into a living room which was much more Holiday Inn than the Plaza. There was a low fire in the fireplace, a straightback chair facing it. Daskalos in sweater and slacks sat at attention in the chair, hands on knees, eyes fixed on the layer of glowing coals behind the fire screen.

  I asked Araujo: “Where’s the phone here?” and Daskalos, without turning his head, said, “I did not give you the freedom of this house, John Milano.”

  “In that case I’ll have to borrow it.” I looked at Araujo, who seemed acutely uncomfortable with this byplay. “Well?”

  He waved. “There’s a phone in the bedroom. An extension in the kitchen.”

  “One of them’s off the hook. Let’s go see.”

  The bedroom phone was in order, the kitchen phone was dangling from its wall box. I replaced it and asked Araujo for Miss Riley’s number. She answered immediately, apparently expecting the worst. I soothingly told her that all was well, slid around the question of what Araujo wanted me for, and asked her to leave a wake-up call for me in the morning. Or, better yet, how about doing the waking up herself. But not for sunrise Adoration. About, say, eight-thirty.

  She said, “Sorry. I’ll be leaving for the museum then. I have a nine-o’clock appointment there with Andrew’s lawyer.”

  “Then how about my going along? It may be my only chance to see the collection.” I allowed her a long silence, then said, “And I have a question to ask about your book. That should be the place to ask it.”

  “Well”—she still wasn’t ecstatic about the idea—“all right. I’ll have someone bring you a breakfast tray at eight.”

  I hung up the phone. Talking about trays, there was one full of dirty dishes on the work table below the phone. Also a bowl of fruit, another of salad ingredients, and a couple of large bottles of oil and vinegar. Evidence that even messiahs facing the moment of reincarnation can have lusty appetites. Araujo helped himself to some grapes, popping them into his mouth as I looked around. When I pushed open the outside door I saw that the back of the building was only a few yards from the edge of the bluff overlooking the beach. I could make out steps set into the sandy slope and lines of whiteness in the distance—waves breaking on the shore—and very little more than that.

  We went back to the living room. I stood between Daskalos and the fireplace, forcing him to contemplate the neat crease in my J. Press slacks. Araujo respectfully hovered at a distance.

  I said to Daskalos, “In my church, suicide is a mortal sin. Any opinions on that?”

  No answer.

  I said, “You’ll observe I’m sticking to theology, teacher. No zodiac, no Tarot, just high-minded theology. Or is it too high-minded for you?”

  This brought him out of his catatonic state. “Self-destruction is a sin, John Milano. Only God can give life. Only God may end it.”

  “So if one connives at his own death, teacher, isn’t he guilty of that sin?”

  Daskalos raised his face to mine, indications on it of a malignant temper heating up. “You are like the serpent, John Milano. A corrupter. But the woman you tried to corrupt resisted you because of the strength I gave her. That is why you challenge me now, isn’t it? Because when you would have barred her way to The Path—”

  Araujo was taking this in with open-mouthed fascination. I said sharply, “Oh, knock it off, Daskalos,” cutting him down in midflight. I gave Araujo a hand signal. “Let’s go. We’re wasting time here.”

  On the terrace, he said to me, “What was he talking about? You looked ready to go for his throat.”

  “Hardly. And he was only talking the same nonsense he handed me this morning. In the morning I’m fresh, I can take it. But I am definitely not in the mood for that kind of crap at this late hour.”

  “Yes. Of course. But you’re supposed to keep him under close surveillance tomorrow night. Tonight, that is. To be with him right here. The way he talked, I don’t see how—”

  “We’ll worry about it when the time comes.” I said.

  It was Holly Lee who, in pajamas primly buttoned up to the neckline, answered my knock at the door of Cottage C.

  She was alone, she said. After spending time in Sid’s apartment watching Lou and Sid work on the script she had walked back here and gone straight to bed. As far as she knew, they were still at the script.

  In the living room, she sprawled in an armchair, legs stretched out exposing long, bony feet. On the sole of one foot was a tarry-looking oval, the size of a quarter. On the heel was an identical discoloration. Araujo, I took note, seemed much interested in these stigmata as I brought Holly Lee up to date on events. Between the fitful yawns of one just awakened she expressed polite surprise at news of any blackout and polite concern about the assault on the security man. Neither the yawns, the surprise nor the concern seemed altogether convincing.

  Araujo did considerable throat clearing, then said to her: “So you slept through the blackout.”

  “Mmm. It would be easy to sleep through, wouldn’t it?”

  “Of course. But at any time since you got back here were you outside on the beach?”

  She turned wide, innocent eyes on him. “There’s not much to see out there this time of night, is there?”

  “No. That’s true.” He gave me a look which indicated that he was itching to get something off his chest.

  He finally had a chance to do it outside. “She was lying. She was on the beach only a little while ago.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Those stains on her foot. There was an oil spill from some boat yesterday, and there are drops of it all along the sand. Walk there in the dark, and you’ll sure as hell come up with spots like that. No question she was lying.”

  I said, “She’d have had time enough to make it to Daskalos
and back without trouble either. But what about your man in the boathouse? Wouldn’t there be a risk of being seen by him?”

  “In this darkness? Almost none.” He said something in firecracker Spanish, then shook his head ruefully. “In translation that means I should have taken early retirement. What a night. First Mr. Calderon, then Mr. Daskalos, now her. And what comes next?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Rountree,” I said.

  But only Mrs. Rountree was at home. After the bridge game, Belle said, she had come back to the cottage while Scottie had joined Sid and Lou at their labors on the script. Early in the blackout she had tried to get Riley on the phone, but that line was always busy. So she had called Sid’s apartment and spoken to her husband. They were sitting it out, he had told her. She supposed they were now back at work. “And what the hell was going on? Blackouts in New York were a way of life, but down here—”

  I cut into this: “When you phoned your husband who answered?”

  “He did.”

  “He took a call on Kightlinger’s phone?”

  Belle said testily, “If Sid and Lou were sitting over the script, why not?”

  “You said you called during the blackout. You mean they were sitting over the script in the dark?”

  For a moment she was off balance. She quickly righted herself. “Well, he could have been the one near the phone. What’s up, Sam? There’s more here than meets the eye, isn’t there?”

  “Yes. That blackout was pulled off deliberately. And somebody coldcocked a guard to get at those switches.”

  “My God.” She seemed to be trying on different expressions. “And you don’t know who it is?”

  “No.”

  “Well, obviously it wasn’t me. And if Scottie and Sid and Lou were keeping each other company …” This trailed off. Her eyes narrowed. “That look on your finely etched features, Sam. You’re not thinking, are you, that I’m just handing around cheap alibis?”

  “Are you?”

  “No, I am not. But remember what I told you about somebody having a good silent laugh at the way you’re playing gadfly with the wrong horses? Take it from me, he’s having that laugh right now.”