you can tell me that, Thomas,” said Defoe.
I sat startledly erect, shocked by the significance of the words. I said hotly, “Damn it, Mr. Defoe, you know I had nothing to do with this! I’ve been all over the whole thing with you and I thought you were on my side! Just because I said a lot of crazy things after Marianna died doesn’t mean I’m anti-Company—and it certainly doesn’t mean I’d commit murder. If you think that, then why the devil did you put me in cadet school?”
Defoe merely raised his hand by bending the wrist slightly; it was enough to stop me, though. “Gently, Thomas. I don’t think you did it—that much should be obvious. And I put you in cadet school because I had work for you.”
“But you said I knew something I was holding back.”
Defoe waggled the hand reprovingly. “I said you might be able to tell me who killed Hammond. And so you might—but not yet. I count heavily on you for help in this area, Thomas. There are two urgent tasks to be done. Hammond’s death—” he paused and shrugged, and the shrug was all of Hammond’s epitaph—“is only an incident in a larger pattern; we need to work out the pattern itself.”
He glanced again at the typed list Susan had handed him. “I find that I can stay in the Naples area for only a short time; the two tasks must be done before I leave. I shall handle one myself. The other I intend to delegate to you.
“First we have the unfortunate situation in regard to the state of public morale. Unfortunate? Perhaps I should say disgraceful. There is quite obviously a nucleus of troublemakers at work, Thomas, and Gogarty has not had the wit to find them and take the appropriate steps. Someone else must. Second, this Zorchi is an unnecessary annoyance. I do not propose to let the Company be annoyed, Thomas. Which assignment would you prefer?”
I said hesitantly, “I don’t know if Mr. Gogarty would like me to—”
“Gogarty is an ass! If he had not blundered incessantly since he took over the district, I should not have had to drop important work to come here.”
I thought for a second. Digging out an undercover ring of troublemakers didn’t sound particularly easy. On the other hand, I had already tried my luck with Zorchi.
“Perhaps you’d better try Zorchi,” I said.
“Try?” Defoe allowed himself to look surprised. “As you wish. I think you will learn something from watching me handle it, Thomas. Shall we join Signore Zorchi now?”
“He’s here?”
Defoe said impatiently, “Of course, Thomas. Come along.”
*
Zorchi’s secretary was there, too. He was in a small anteroom, sitting on a hard wooden chair; as we passed him, I saw the hostility in his eyes. He didn’t say a word.
Beyond him, in an examination room, was Zorchi, slim, naked and hideous, sitting on the edge of a surgical cot and trying not to look ill at ease. He had been shaved from head to knee stumps. Esthetically, at least, it had been a mistake. I never saw such a collection of skin eruptions on a human.
He burst out, faster than my language-school Italian could follow, in a stream of argument and abuse. Defoe listened icily for a moment, then shut him up in Italian as good as his own, “Answer questions; otherwise keep quiet. I will not warn you again.”
I don’t know if even Defoe could have stopped Zorchi under normal conditions. But there is something about being naked in the presence of fully dressed opponents that saps the will; and I guessed, too, that the shaving had made Zorchi feel nakeder than ever before in his life. I could see why he’d worn a beard and I wished he still had it.
“Dr. Lawton,” said Defoe, “have you completed your examination of the insured?”
A youngish medical officer of the Company said, “Yes, sir. I have the slides and reports right here; they just came up from the laboratory.” He handed a stapled collection of photographic prints and papers to Defoe, who took his own good time to examine them while the rest of us stood and waited.
Defoe finally put the papers down and nodded. “In a word, this bears out our previous discussion.”
Lawton nodded. “If you will observe his legs, you will see that the skin healing is complete; already a blastema has formed and—”
“I know,” Defoe said impatiently. “Signore Zorchi, I regret to say that I have bad news for you.”
Zorchi waved his hand defiantly. “You are the bad news.”
Defoe ignored him. “You have a grave systemic imbalance. There is great danger of serious ill effects.”
“To what?” snarled Zorchi. “The Company’s bank account?”
“No, Zorchi. To your life.” Defoe shook his head. “There are indications of malignancy.”
“Malignancy?” Zorchi looked startled. “What kind? Do you mean cancer?”
“Exactly.” Defoe patted his papers. “You see, Zorchi, healthy human flesh does not grow like a salamander’s tail.”
The phone rang; impeccable in everything, Defoe waited while Dr. Lawton nervously answered it. Lawton said a few short words, listened for a moment and hung up, looking worried.
He said: “The crowd outside is getting rather large. That was the expeditercaptain from the main gate. He says—”
“I presume he has standing orders,” Defoe said. “We need not concern ourselves with that, need we?”
“Well—” The doctor looked unhappy.
“Now, Zorchi,” Defoe went on, dismissing Lawton utterly, “do you enjoy life?” “I despise it!” Zorchi spat to emphasize how much.
“But you cling to it. You would not like to die, would you? Worse still, you would not care to live indefinitely with carcinoma eating you piece by piece.” Zorchi just glowered suspiciously.
“Perhaps we can cure you, however,” Defoe went on reflectively. “It is by no means certain. I don’t want to raise false hopes. But there is the possibility—”
“The possibility that you will cure me of collecting on my policies, eh?” Zorchi demanded belligerently. “You are crazy, Defoe. Never!”
Defoe looked at him for a thoughtful moment. To Lawton, he said: “Have you this man’s claim warranty? It has the usual application for medical treatment, I presume?” He nodded as Lawton confirmed it. “You see, Mr. Zorchi? As a matter of routine, no claim can be paid unless the policyholder submits to our medical care. You signed the usual form, so—”
“One moment! You people never put me through this before! Did you change the contract on me?”
“No, Signore Zorchi. The same contract, but this time we will enforce it. I think I should warn you of something, though.”
He riffled through the papers and found a photographic print to show Zorchi. “This picture isn’t you, Signore. It is a picture of a newt. The doctor will explain it to you.”
The
