Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 101, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 610 & 611, March 1993

“Just a single job, and that’s about over. I was looking for him now, but the office is closed.”

“It is almost five.” His hands were long and tapered, constantly in motion as he spoke. “I too work for him, but he no longer pays me and now refuses to speak with me.”

Rand remembered Sillabus’s words: Someone who thinks the Cold War is still being fought. He studied the man across the table without reaching any firm conclusion. “What was it you wanted to tell me?” Rand asked after the beer arrived.

“Do not trust Sillabus. He works for both sides.”

“A double agent?”

“Correct.”

“You think the Russians are paying him?”

“Without a doubt.”

“But the Soviet Union no longer exists,” Rand argued.

Pryzic took on a sly expression. “Do not be deceived. Would the two of us, from opposite sides of the fence, be meeting like this if the war were over? I would be back on my farm in the Urals, and you would be at home in Reading — not walking the streets of London in the snow.”

Rand had to chuckle at the man’s logic. “I suppose you’ve got a point there.”

Pryzic glanced at his watch. “If Sillabus closed the office early he should have reached his apartment by now. Pardon me while I use the telephone.”

Rand doubted the little man would welcome a call from Pryzic, but it was not for him to say. Certainly he needed to make his escape as soon as he finished the beer. He knew now that he’d been foolish to accompany this man in the first place.

As the minutes passed without Pryzic’s return, Rand stood up to read the nearest of the seasonal wall plaques:

Old Winter

Let him push at the door, in the chimney roar,

And rattle the windowpane;

Let him in at us spy with his icicle eye,

But he shall not entrance gain.

— Thomas Noel (1799–1861)

The words reminded him of Pryzic’s own eye with its icy gaze. Then he heard the man’s voice behind him and whirled around, feeling somehow guilty. “Do you like the poem? A fitting Cold War message, don’t you think? Almost as eloquent as Churchill.”

“I suppose so,” Rand agreed, resuming his seat. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.” He noticed the beads of moisture on Pryzic’s tunic. “Did you reach Sillabus?”

“No. Their phone was out of order here so I ran next door. But it did no good. No one answers at his apartment.”

“Is it still snowing out?”

“Just a bit.”

Rand downed the rest of his beer. “I really do have to catch that train.”

Pryzic seemed disappointed. “I had imagined a long, rich conversation about the years of the Cold War.”

“Perhaps some other time. You have given me your message about Sillabus and I’ll be on my guard. Thank you for the beer.”

Outside it was already dark. He phoned Leila to say he’d catch the six o’clock train home.

In the morning, Rand awakened to find that the previous day’s snow was already turning to slush as the temperature edged toward forty. “It’s good to see the sun, if only briefly,” he told Leila.

He was brushing his teeth when she came to tell him that Parkinson was on the phone from London. “What does he want after all this time?”

“I don’t know. I saw him briefly yesterday. He did me a favor with that Sillabus business.” Rand went into his library and picked up the extension phone. “Yes, Parkinson?”

The voice at the other end spoke without preliminaries. “You mentioned the name Harold Sillabus yesterday.”

“He hired me to work on that business I brought you.”

“Sillabus was found dead a half-hour ago. We just received word.”

“Dead?”

“In his office. His assistant found him when she arrived for work shortly after eight o’clock. He’d been murdered.”

Rand’s mind was reeling. “I went back yesterday afternoon but he wasn’t there.”

“This Miss Casey who found the body says he sent her home at four-thirty because of the snow. Looks as if he was killed shortly after that, before you arrived. Somewhere before five?”

Rand took a deep breath. “What’s your interest in all this?”

“Nothing special. I just thought you’d want to know.”

“Come on, Parkinson. Scotland Yard doesn’t phone you within a half-hour with news of every body they find. You had someone watching that office, didn’t you? There was something about a Pryzic file—”

“What does Pryzic mean to you?”

“Nothing. I never heard the name until yesterday. But we had a beer together when I returned to Sillabus’s place and found the office locked. I’m surprised your people didn’t report that.”

“They did.”

“I see.”

“I think we should talk, Rand. Will you be in London today?”

“No. One trip a week is more than enough.”

Parkinson grunted. “I’ll get back to you.”

“One thing more, before you hang up. How was Sillabus killed?”

“Stabbed through the left eye. Don’t know with what. The weapon seems to have melted away.”

After he’d hung up, Leila called out from the kitchen where she was preparing breakfast. “What did he want? Did he offer you your old job back?”