“No,” Jim Hunter said steadily, after a pause. “I will make no incriminating statements, I can assure you.”
“Very well, let us proceed.”
Carmine led him through the murders of John Hall, Thomas Tarleton Tinkerman and Edith Tinkerman with every deduction and enlightenment their work had unearthed; police skill should have surprised him, but if it did, he gave no indication of it. He simply listened as if hearing a diverting, entertaining story about someone he didn’t know.
At the end of it amber eyes locked with green, an exchange of glances between two equals. Jim Hunter was a genius and Carmine Delmonico was not, but on this battlefield the advantages of Jim’s superior intellect were cancelled out by Carmine’s experience and doggedness.
“I know you committed these murders, Dr. Hunter,” Carmine said steadily, “but I don’t have physical evidence to back that knowledge. Therefore on the surface it looks like you’ve gotten away with three counts of murder — John Hall, Thomas Tinkerman and his wife, Edith. All three were committed to safeguard the success of a book you have written, entitled A Helical God. Your wife, Dr. Millicent Hunter, made your poison as a legitimate part of her research, and you stole the considerable amount left over. Investigations indicate that Dr. Millicent Hunter is not involved in your plots and schemes. Like Mrs. Tinkerman her role is that of a vector.”
“Your prejudice is remarkable,” Jim Hunter said.
“Elucidate, Doctor,” said Carmine, maintaining his calm.
“If I am considered the author of these crimes, how do I figure any larger in your suspicions than my wife? As publication of my book benefits my wife as much as it does me, the motive you impute to me is just as valid for my wife. Millie and I are an identical number, you can’t separate us by a plus here and a minus there.” The eyes mocked. “Is this Jim Hunter being clever, or Jim Hunter pointing out that if he’s guilty, so is his wife? Or maybe this is Jim Hunter showing you the error of your ways, pointing out to you that if his wife is innocent, so too might he be innocent.”
The three detectives listened impassively; beneath their united front, they writhed. Jim Hunter was giving them a preview of his defense were he to be arrested and charged: Millie, he would allege, was an accessory, and just as guilty.
“I fail to see how Dr. Millicent Hunter can be implicated in the murder of Edith Tinkerman,” Delia said. “She was teaching a class from eight on the morning of Mrs. Tinkerman’s death, with ten witnesses to confirm it. No tetrodotoxin was employed, and thus far we have failed to locate the weapon.”
“Listen to yourself, Sergeant!” Hunter exclaimed. “To my listening ears, the word that stands out is ‘failed’— and yes, you have failed. You searched our apartment, my laboratory and my wife’s laboratory, but could find no evidence either of us is implicated.” He made a sweeping gesture with one huge hand. “I am tired of this inquisition, and I resent it! Either charge me with some crime, or allow me to leave.”
Abe switched the tape recorder off. “Thank you, Doctor. You’re quite free to leave.”
“That was interesting,” said Carmine after Jim Hunter had departed radiating an air of victory.
“I didn’t think he’d counter with Millie,” Abe said.
“It’s superficially brilliant,” Delia said, “but actually anything but clever. He’s thrown down the gauntlet — charge him with the murders, and he’ll implicate Millie. If nothing else, it indicates that you, Abe and the Commissioner have been right about her all along — she’s as innocent as a babe.”
“We didn’t throw the fear of Hell into him,” Abe said.
“That’s impossible, but he does know he’s skating on thin ice. Hunter has the God complex, like a lot of guys whose job or brain or talents put them way up in the stratosphere,” Carmine said. “He adores to be adored. Millie is his high priestess, a role the years have cemented, but even she can be sacrificed if it becomes necessary. If it’s done nothing else, this interview has demonstrated that Millie isn’t privy to all of Hunter’s heart, and far from privy to the greater part of his mind. Jim Hunter owns himself whole and entire.”
Abe looked bewildered. “You know, they call me the master of secret compartments,” he said, “but that man is composed of secret compartments — and in layers, yet. He’s as cold as an Alaskan winter.”
“I’m upstairs to Silvestri,” said Carmine.
Carmine’s report didn’t improve Silvestri’s mood. “We’re beaten,” he said.