woodwork nicked. The morning was already warm and the front door stood open and sounds came out, jangle of telephones, stammer of two-finger typing, chitter of linotypes. He passed. He wanted the other door, the one with the KPIM logo on it.
He went in and climbed straight stairs into air-conditioned silence. The place smelled of newness and success. It glowed with clean light from fluorescent tubes masked by frosted glass. Underfoot the blue-green speckled carpeting was deep. The white walls and ceiling were cushiony with thick, fibrous plaster. Long rectangles of double plate glass looked into studios and control rooms where equipment glinted, records turned, shirt-sleeved men laughed without sound. Down the hall, somebody used a door. Thick and heavy, it sighed, closing.
In Hale McNeil's office floor-to-ceiling drapes, crisp blueand- green-striped, shut out the view of ugly Main Street. The furniture was burnished steel and saddle leather. On the white wall hung a big Peter Hurd painting. McNeil wore buckskin-colored corduroy on his big frame, pockets leather-edged, modified cowboy style, expensive. His face was tanned and rugged, his dark hair handsomely gray at the temples. Dark brows and lashes made his blue eyes startling. The eyes mocked Dave.
"Thorne tells me you don't think Fox is dead."
Dave gave a small amused shrug. "Neither does the student body of Pima High. None of them at your house?"
"Grown and gone," McNeil said. "But . . . I suppose at that age he'd have worn the fool button. Probably tacked the poster up in his room too."
"Which, of course, his mother would have loved."
McNeil's face hardened. "His mother and I were divorced when Tad was fifteen months old. The reason? She was a drunk and a tramp. Prettiest girl in the graduating class of Pima High School, June 1939." His mouth twisted. "A drunk and a tramp."
"Who raised the boy? You, by yourself?"
"My folks. They did their best. So did I. But . . . there's an old saying: Wash a dog, comb a dog, still a dog. I don't know what's become of him. Don't care."
"But you do know about Mayor Chalmers's kidnap plot?"
"All. And now you come along with something even wilder. Fox cracked up his car to make it look as if he'd been killed, and walked away from everything. Why?"
"I keep asking," Dave said. "Somebody will tell me."
"I hope so. Nothing would please me more than to have him back here." McNeil glanced at his watch, pushed a button on his desk. Music came into the room. Fox Olson's guitar, Fox Olson's voice. Another harmless, tuneful, mildly clever little Western. Probably Olson's own. McNeil let it play itself out, then, when an announcer began talking, switched off the speaker. "I can use all of that I can get. You'd know what I mean if you'd seen this place a year ago. Dingy, like downstairs. I mean, we were broadcasting, we were making a profit, but—"
"Why did you cancel it after the car crash?"
McNeil's eyes were steady on him. "You know the answer to that. It was a matter of taste."
"But the listeners didn't figure it that way."
"As far as they were concerned it was all a dark plot." McNeil laughed soundlessly and shook his head. "Funny as hell, you know. I mean, the old ladies hollering about a Fox Olson blackout on KPIM, the kids with their cheap TV-inspired kidnap plot, and now you. I mean, if you'd known Fox ... He was open and candid as a child. He had no more dark side to him than—than the sun."
"What about Mayor Chalmers?" Dave wondered. "Does he have a dark side?"
"Lloyd?" McNeil threw back his head and laughed. It took him a minute to straighten his face. "No, Mr. Brandstetter. I'm afraid not. Lloyd's all shoulders. All"—he thrust out his jaw and made his voice gruff—" 'Let's get the God damn job done!' The type that built the West. Lloyd could no more connive than he could hook doilies. Anyway, he never took Fox's funning against him seriously. I doubt if he even
He went in and climbed straight stairs into air-conditioned silence. The place smelled of newness and success. It glowed with clean light from fluorescent tubes masked by frosted glass. Underfoot the blue-green speckled carpeting was deep. The white walls and ceiling were cushiony with thick, fibrous plaster. Long rectangles of double plate glass looked into studios and control rooms where equipment glinted, records turned, shirt-sleeved men laughed without sound. Down the hall, somebody used a door. Thick and heavy, it sighed, closing.
In Hale McNeil's office floor-to-ceiling drapes, crisp blueand- green-striped, shut out the view of ugly Main Street. The furniture was burnished steel and saddle leather. On the white wall hung a big Peter Hurd painting. McNeil wore buckskin-colored corduroy on his big frame, pockets leather-edged, modified cowboy style, expensive. His face was tanned and rugged, his dark hair handsomely gray at the temples. Dark brows and lashes made his blue eyes startling. The eyes mocked Dave.
"Thorne tells me you don't think Fox is dead."
Dave gave a small amused shrug. "Neither does the student body of Pima High. None of them at your house?"
"Grown and gone," McNeil said. "But . . . I suppose at that age he'd have worn the fool button. Probably tacked the poster up in his room too."
"Which, of course, his mother would have loved."
McNeil's face hardened. "His mother and I were divorced when Tad was fifteen months old. The reason? She was a drunk and a tramp. Prettiest girl in the graduating class of Pima High School, June 1939." His mouth twisted. "A drunk and a tramp."
"Who raised the boy? You, by yourself?"
"My folks. They did their best. So did I. But . . . there's an old saying: Wash a dog, comb a dog, still a dog. I don't know what's become of him. Don't care."
"But you do know about Mayor Chalmers's kidnap plot?"
"All. And now you come along with something even wilder. Fox cracked up his car to make it look as if he'd been killed, and walked away from everything. Why?"
"I keep asking," Dave said. "Somebody will tell me."
"I hope so. Nothing would please me more than to have him back here." McNeil glanced at his watch, pushed a button on his desk. Music came into the room. Fox Olson's guitar, Fox Olson's voice. Another harmless, tuneful, mildly clever little Western. Probably Olson's own. McNeil let it play itself out, then, when an announcer began talking, switched off the speaker. "I can use all of that I can get. You'd know what I mean if you'd seen this place a year ago. Dingy, like downstairs. I mean, we were broadcasting, we were making a profit, but—"
"Why did you cancel it after the car crash?"
McNeil's eyes were steady on him. "You know the answer to that. It was a matter of taste."
"But the listeners didn't figure it that way."
"As far as they were concerned it was all a dark plot." McNeil laughed soundlessly and shook his head. "Funny as hell, you know. I mean, the old ladies hollering about a Fox Olson blackout on KPIM, the kids with their cheap TV-inspired kidnap plot, and now you. I mean, if you'd known Fox ... He was open and candid as a child. He had no more dark side to him than—than the sun."
"What about Mayor Chalmers?" Dave wondered. "Does he have a dark side?"
"Lloyd?" McNeil threw back his head and laughed. It took him a minute to straighten his face. "No, Mr. Brandstetter. I'm afraid not. Lloyd's all shoulders. All"—he thrust out his jaw and made his voice gruff—" 'Let's get the God damn job done!' The type that built the West. Lloyd could no more connive than he could hook doilies. Anyway, he never took Fox's funning against him seriously. I doubt if he even
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