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

“No chance of that,” he replied, though he knew she was joking. He told her about Sillabus’s death.

“What does it mean?”

“That I’m out one thousand pounds.”

She thought about that as she squeezed the orange juice and set a glass in front of him. “You said this disk was something an author wrote?”

“A fantasy novelist named Garson Wolfe. I’m not familiar with his work.”

“Perhaps he’d be willing to pay for the work you’ve done in deciphering the disk.”

“I don’t want to blackmail the man, Leila! I can’t very well go to him and say that if he pays me a thousand pounds, I won’t make it public.”

“Of course not! In fact, I suppose you’d have to give it to him. But it might turn into something. Maybe he’ll hire you to work out a cipher for his next book on disk.”

“I hope not,” Rand replied with a grin. But her idea of contacting Garson Wolfe wasn’t a bad one. After breakfast he tried to find the man’s name in the London telephone directories without success. Then he called the company that had put out the novel on disk, but he was told firmly to write a letter and they would forward it.

Leila had gone off to meet a visiting professor at the university, and Rand was alone when the door chimes sounded. He peered out the front window and saw a black limousine pulled up in the slush out front. He sighed and went to the door. No one had ever been able to convince Parkinson that spies don’t drive around in flashy cars.

“Come in,” he said, throwing open the door.

Parkinson entered a bit hesitantly. “Sorry to bother you at home like this, Rand, but I felt we should talk further.”

“What about?”

“This man Pryzic. Why did you meet with him and what did you talk about?”

“He approached me as I was coming out of Sillabus’s office building. He called me by name and I’ll admit that stopped me. I saw him earlier talking with Sillabus.”

“What did Sillabus say about him?”

“He implied he was living in the past, still fighting the Cold War.”

“Indeed!”

Parkinson had removed his coat and settled in. Rand reluctantly brought him a cup of coffee. “Now it’s your turn to tell me about Pryzic. After all, you’re the one with the file on him.”

“He was an agent for the former East German government — one of the best, I’m told. He acted as a courier for top-secret messages and plans, and we never once caught him with anything. Perhaps after you do that sort of thing long enough it becomes the only life you know. The Berlin Wall came down, but Pryzic kept working. The Soviet Union collapsed and split apart, but Pryzic kept working. As near as we can tell, he’s spent the past year or so delivering imaginary messages to people who don’t exist, from people who no longer care.”

“He doesn’t seem crazy, except for the look in his eyes. His left eye seems as frozen as an icicle.”

“That’s a glass eye. Pryzic lost his as a young man, wiring bombs for terrorists. A small charge went off too soon.”

“He’s had quite a life.”

“We’d like to send him back to Germany and tell them to keep him, but even now we can’t prove he’s done anything wrong.”

“Pin the Sillabus killing on him and he’s out of your hair forever.”

“Do you think he did it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was he out of your sight at all?”

“He ran next door to make a phone call, trying to reach Sillabus. But the man was probably already dead by that time.”

“The body was in that office all night. Scotland Yard can’t be too precise about the time of death.”

“Tell me something else. I’d like to contact Garson Wolfe, the author of that disk novel I brought you yesterday. Can you get me his address?”

“Scotland Yard has it. They’ll be questioning him as a possible suspect.”

“Suspect?”

“It may be that he heard about Sillabus’s plan to publish the computer program he used to encipher his novel. It would have been a blow to his pride, if not his pocketbook. Men have killed for less.”

“I hadn’t thought of that. I’d like to see him.”

“He works at home, lives in Slough. I can get the address and drive you over right now.”

It was obvious Parkinson was trying to involve him in the case and he wondered why. The death of a man like Sillabus could hardly be a matter of concern to British Intelligence. As for Pryzic’s involvement, he was living in the past, wasn’t he?

“Do you know who killed Sillabus? Was it our side?”

Parkinson smiled. “There are no sides anymore, Rand. You said so yourself.”

Garson Wolfe lived on a quiet residential street in Slough. The house was neat but modest, and a woman Rand took to be his wife answered the door. He’d persuaded Parkinson to wait in the car down the street so he could speak to the man alone. Now, to this woman, he said, “It’s very important that I see Garson Wolfe, if he’s at home.”

“He’s writing. I don’t know if I can disturb him.”

“Tell him it’s about Harold Sillabus.”

She returned in a moment with a tall, slender man behind her. “I’m Garson Wolfe,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“My name is Rand. I believe we have a mutual acquaintance — Harold Sillabus.”

“What about him?” Wolfe asked cautiously.