just as much envy, spite, deceit, connivery, and backbiting as in Hackensack politics. The upper echelons of scientific research are just as snaky a pit. The competition for private and federal funding is ruthless. Research scientists rush to publication, sometimes on the strength of palsied evidence. There’s no substitute for being first. Either you’re a discoverer, and your name goes into textbooks, or you’re a plodding replicator, and the Nobel Committee couldn’t care less.
So the chances were good that the author of “Thorndecker kills.” was a jealous rival or disgruntled aide who felt he wasn’t getting sufficient credit. I had seen it happen before: anonymous letters, slanderous rumors slyly spread, even sabotage and deliberate falsification of test results.
And the accusation—“Thorndecker kills.”—wasn’t all that shocking. All research biologists kill—everything from paramecia to chimpanzees. That’s what the job requires. If the note had said: “Thorndecker murders,” my hackles might have twitched a bit more. But all I did was slide the letter into an envelope addressed to Donner & Stern, along with a personal note to Nate Stern requesting a make on the typewriter used. I added the phone number of the Coburn Inn, and asked him to call when he had identified the machine. I doubted the information would have any effect on the Thorndecker inquiry.
That was my second mistake of that miserable day. The first was getting out of bed.
I waited and waited and waited for the rackety elevator, watching the brass dial move like it was lubricated with Elmer’s Glue-All. When the open cage finally came wheezing down from the top (sixth) floor, the operator turned out to be a wizened colored gentleman one year younger than God. He was wearing a shiny, black alpaca jacket and a little skullcap something like a yarmulke. He was sitting on a wooden kitchen stool. He stopped the elevator five inches below floor level, creaked open the gate slowly. I stepped down and in.
“Close,” I said, “but no cigar. How’s life treating you this bright, sparkling morning?”
“It’s hard but it’s fair,” he said, closing the gate and shoving the lever forward. “You checking out?”
“I just checked in.”
“I thought you was one of those drummers the storm drove in.”
“Not me,” I said. I’m here for a few days. Or maybe a few weeks.”
“Glad to hear it,” he said. “We can use all the customers we gets. My name’s Sam. Sam Livingston.”
“Sam’s my name, too,” I said. “Sam Todd. Glad to meet you, Sam.”
“Likewise, Sam,” he said.
We shook hands solemnly. About this time we were inching past the second floor.
“We’ll get there,” he said encouragingly. “I hop bells and hump bags and gets you room service, if you want. Like a jug late at night. A sandwich. I can provide.”
“That’s good to know,” I said. “What hours do you work?”
“All hours,” he said. “I live here. I got me a nice little place in the basement.”
“Where were you last night when I needed you?”
“Hustling drinks in the saloon, I reckon.”
“You busy, Sam?” I asked. “Many guests?”
“You,” he said, “and half a dozen permanents. It’s not our season.”
“When is your season?”
He showed me a keyboard of strong, yellow teeth.
“We ain’t got a season,” he said.
We both laughed, and I looked down into the lobby as we slowly descended.
The floor was a checkerboard of greasy black and white tiles. There were a few small oriental rugs, so tatty the brown backing showed through. The couches and club chairs had once been sleek leather; now they were crackled, cushions lumped with loose springs. Alongside some of the chairs were round rubber mats with ancient brass cuspidors that had been planted with plastic ferns.
Fat wooden pillars, painted to imitate marble, rose from floor to vaulted ceiling. There was ornate iron grillwork around the elevator shaft and
So the chances were good that the author of “Thorndecker kills.” was a jealous rival or disgruntled aide who felt he wasn’t getting sufficient credit. I had seen it happen before: anonymous letters, slanderous rumors slyly spread, even sabotage and deliberate falsification of test results.
And the accusation—“Thorndecker kills.”—wasn’t all that shocking. All research biologists kill—everything from paramecia to chimpanzees. That’s what the job requires. If the note had said: “Thorndecker murders,” my hackles might have twitched a bit more. But all I did was slide the letter into an envelope addressed to Donner & Stern, along with a personal note to Nate Stern requesting a make on the typewriter used. I added the phone number of the Coburn Inn, and asked him to call when he had identified the machine. I doubted the information would have any effect on the Thorndecker inquiry.
That was my second mistake of that miserable day. The first was getting out of bed.
I waited and waited and waited for the rackety elevator, watching the brass dial move like it was lubricated with Elmer’s Glue-All. When the open cage finally came wheezing down from the top (sixth) floor, the operator turned out to be a wizened colored gentleman one year younger than God. He was wearing a shiny, black alpaca jacket and a little skullcap something like a yarmulke. He was sitting on a wooden kitchen stool. He stopped the elevator five inches below floor level, creaked open the gate slowly. I stepped down and in.
“Close,” I said, “but no cigar. How’s life treating you this bright, sparkling morning?”
“It’s hard but it’s fair,” he said, closing the gate and shoving the lever forward. “You checking out?”
“I just checked in.”
“I thought you was one of those drummers the storm drove in.”
“Not me,” I said. I’m here for a few days. Or maybe a few weeks.”
“Glad to hear it,” he said. “We can use all the customers we gets. My name’s Sam. Sam Livingston.”
“Sam’s my name, too,” I said. “Sam Todd. Glad to meet you, Sam.”
“Likewise, Sam,” he said.
We shook hands solemnly. About this time we were inching past the second floor.
“We’ll get there,” he said encouragingly. “I hop bells and hump bags and gets you room service, if you want. Like a jug late at night. A sandwich. I can provide.”
“That’s good to know,” I said. “What hours do you work?”
“All hours,” he said. “I live here. I got me a nice little place in the basement.”
“Where were you last night when I needed you?”
“Hustling drinks in the saloon, I reckon.”
“You busy, Sam?” I asked. “Many guests?”
“You,” he said, “and half a dozen permanents. It’s not our season.”
“When is your season?”
He showed me a keyboard of strong, yellow teeth.
“We ain’t got a season,” he said.
We both laughed, and I looked down into the lobby as we slowly descended.
The floor was a checkerboard of greasy black and white tiles. There were a few small oriental rugs, so tatty the brown backing showed through. The couches and club chairs had once been sleek leather; now they were crackled, cushions lumped with loose springs. Alongside some of the chairs were round rubber mats with ancient brass cuspidors that had been planted with plastic ferns.
Fat wooden pillars, painted to imitate marble, rose from floor to vaulted ceiling. There was ornate iron grillwork around the elevator shaft and
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