Murder at the ABA by Isaac Asimov

Author:Isaac Asimov [Asimov, Isaac]
Format: epub
Published: 2010-05-22T00:24:19.087000+00:00

16

GWYNETH JONES 5:55 P.M.

The elevator took its time, but as it happened I was in no great hurry.

Since I couldn't believe (and didn't want to believe) that the murder depended on the triviality of the pens and my failure, and since it didn't seem to me to involve either Eunice or Roseann, the motive had to rest elsewhere—another unsuspected woman, the heroin, a homicidal maniac (no, would a homicidal maniac bother to arrange an accident?).

In search of that motive, it might serve to track down everything Giles had done from the time he left me nearly twenty-four hours earlier to the time of his death.

The elevator still wasn't coming. It was approaching dinnertime and people would be going up and down at an above-normal rate. Life went on. People were hungry.

I wasn't.

When I last saw Giles, he was leaving with Henrietta Corvass. If I began with her—

The elevator came to the floor, going down. It was full and there was a halfhearted squeezing backward to make room for me. I stepped in. I don't take up much room: I'll say that for me.

I gave the group in the elevator one sharp glance to see if I recognized anyone. I was in no mood to talk.

Luckily, there was no need to. With thousands at the convention, in any random group of a dozen or so I would know no one.

I turned to face the front. The others were all conventioneers. They all wore badges. I sighed and tried to be unobtrusive about taking mine off.

I got off at the fifth floor and found the interview room still open. It surprised me; I had assumed it would have closed at five and I had gone there only to make sure of that.

There was only one person inside, a young woman with straggly hair, unobtrusive breasts, and sneakers. Her legs were spraddled apart as she slouched back in her chair and looked thoughtfully at what I assumed were releases. She had a sheet of paper in the typewriter and would undoubtedly begin typing in a moment. I looked at her legs, but that was unrewarding, so I looked at her nameplate and that said, "Gwyneth Jones."

"Gwyneth!" I said to myself in disbelief.

I said it to myself just a touch too loudly, for the young woman assumed I was trying to attract her attention (which I meant to do in a moment), looked up, and said, "Yes?"

I said, "You wouldn't know where Henrietta was, would you?"

The girl looked at me thoughtfully and said, "Henrietta Corvass?"

I said, out of curiosity, "Is there another Henrietta around?"

"No. She's the only Henrietta here."

"Then why did you ask me?"

"We've got to be accurate."

"I'll start over. You wouldn't know where Henrietta Corvass was, would you?"

"As long as we're starting over, who are you?"

I fumbled for my badge and showed her and got a blank stare.

"I'm a writer," I explained. "Now what about Henrietta? Do you know where she is?"

And after all that, Gwyneth said, indifferently, "No."

I said, "Look, sweetheart, pretend it's an emergency.

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