Too Many Murders(117)

“Open it, Mr. Smith,” Carmine said.

Smith obeyed, smiling sourly; he wasn’t worried.

It held $10,000 in cash, some securities and shares, and three locks of flaxen hair, two tied with blue ribbon, one pink.

“My children’s hair,” Smith said. “Have you done that?”

“No,” Carmine said. “Why keep them in here?”

“In case of burglary or simple vandalism. The art doesn’t really matter, but my children do.”

“They’re all away, aren’t they?”

“Yes. I miss them, but one cannot impede the progress of one’s children for the sake of having them nearby,” Smith said a little sadly.

“Whereabouts are they?”

“Anna is in Africa—Peace Corps. Her mother worries about her constantly. She’s already infected with malaria.”

“Yeah, it’s a slapdash program,” Carmine said. “They never really prepare these kids for what’s in store. And the boys?”

“Peter is in Iran—he’s a petroleum geologist. Stephen is a marine biologist attached to Woods Hole. At present he’s somewhere in the Red Sea.”

The safe closed, they moved on. The bedrooms underwent scrutiny—Smith and his wife still slept together—and they moved to the top floor.

“Mostly junk,” Smith said, “but Natalie likes everything kept tidy, so it’s not difficult to search.” He was relaxed and more affable than at the beginning of his home’s inspection; it was hard to sustain outrage when its object was so patently indifferent to it.

“You have no live-in servants?” Carmine asked.

“No. We like our privacy as much as the next one.”

“What’s this?” Carmine asked, looking at a tightly sealed door. He pushed it, but it refused to open.

“My darkroom,” Smith said curtly, and produced a key.

“You mean yours is the eye behind all those great photographs in the family room and the television den?”

“Yes. Also the little movie theater upon occasion. Natalie calls me Cecil B. de Smith.”

Carmine chuckled dutifully and entered the best-equipped darkroom he had ever seen. There was nothing it didn’t have, and everything was automated. Even Myron didn’t have facilities like these—though why should he, owning a studio? Philip Smith could take a set of blueprints all the way down to a microdot if he felt so inclined. But was he so inclined? There was one way to find out.

“Given the nature of this case, Mr. Smith, I’m afraid I’m going to have to impound the contents of your darkroom,” he said without apology. “That includes all your film, developed and undeveloped, these books on photography, your photographic paper and cameras. It will all be returned to you later.”

The tension in the big facility was palpable; at long last he had gotten under Philip Smith’s skin. But why?

“Close your ears,” he said, and blew the whistle on a cord around his neck. “Clean cases, guys,” he said to the cops who rapidly appeared. “Everything has to be packed as if it were made of tissue paper, and handle every item as little as humanly possible—around the edges if you can. I want nothing dislodged or smeared, from a print to a fly speck. Malloy and Carter, you stay here while the others go for boxes and cases.”

“I’m going to lose pictures I would treasure,” Smith said.

“Not necessarily, Mr. Smith. Anything undeveloped will be processed in our own darkrooms, and we’ll try to keep your unused film unspoiled. What’s on the roof?” he asked, already on his way through the door.

Smith was seething, but clearly felt it was better to stick with Carmine than protect his darkroom. “Nothing!” he snapped.

“That’s as may be, but the paint on the midsection of these steps looks well worn.” Carmine climbed them and pushed at an angled door that opened sideways.

He emerged onto a large, flat roof faced with asphalt, and stood staring at what from the ground had seemed to be a cupola. In the days when a building of this kind was what wealthy people aspired to, it would have contained a water tank; gravity feed would have enabled water to be piped throughout the house, a rare luxury. Above the cupola was a thin, whippy antenna he hadn’t noticed from the ground, and in its straight side, hidden by the roof parapet, sat a door.

“What’s this?” Carmine asked, walking across.

“My ham radio setup,” Smith said. “No doubt, thinking me Ulysses, you’ll want to impound its contents too?”

“Yes, I will,” Carmine said cheerfully, waiting as Smith opened the door with another key. “State of the art,” he said inside, gazing about. “You could talk to Moscow from here.”