“Iris.”
I snap my fingers. “That’s it.”
“Do you mind if we sit down?”
“Yes, I do, rather. Stack of work sitting on my desk. Dictation to type up, telephone messages to deliver.”
He cracks the smallest smile. “Now I know you’re just pulling my leg. Have a seat, Miss Macallister, and I’ll do the same. The sooner we finish this conversation, the sooner you can get back to your secretarial duties.”
I suppose I realize I’ve met my match, when it comes to stubbornness of character. And really, I’m not offended. After all, we want our FBI men to be tough, stubborn, unrelenting sons of bitches, don’t we? At least when they’re not after us.
I take the chair he gallantly pulls out for me and wait for him to take the seat opposite. Drag an ashtray from the center of the table and make myself comfortable with it.
“I hope you don’t mind if I study your face,” I say. “It’s an occupational habit.”
“Not much to study. I’ve been told I’m no picture portrait.”
“That’s true. You look as if somebody carved you from a tree with a blunt axe. But beauty isn’t everything when it comes to photographs. If you’ve been in this business long enough, why, beauty’s sort of boring. Like Tolstoy. Beautiful people are all alike, but the ugly . . .”
“Now, that’s an interesting observation, coming from a beautiful woman.”
“Pshaw.” I tap a little ash into the tray. “I thought you intended to move things along?”
“As you like. You don’t mind if I take notes, do you?” He pulls a small leather notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket.
“Be my guest. I do take shorthand, if you need a break or something.”
“That would be against protocol, I’m afraid. You say you last saw your sister in June of 1940?”
“That’s correct.”
“And since then you haven’t spoken at all? Letters, telegrams?”
“Not a word.”
He set down his pen. “You don’t have any idea of her whereabouts, from June of 1940 until November of 1948? What she was doing? Husband and children and any of that?”
“Of course I do. Our aunt kept me filled in, from time to time.”
“That would be Mrs. Charles Schuyler, wouldn’t it?”
“My stars, you have done your homework, haven’t you? We know her as Aunt Vivian, of course.”
“I’m glad to hear it. So Mrs. Schuyler represents your only source of information on Mrs. Digby’s whereabouts—”
“And our brother, Harry. I believe he dropped in on them, from time to time, at whatever diplomatic post they’d been sent to.”
He casts me a sharp look, as if there’s some hidden meaning in this. “Until November of 1948, of course, when Mrs. Digby and her family vanished from their flat in London.”
“That’s right. I read all about it in the papers.”
“Just the papers?”
“Well, it was a sensational case, wasn’t it? Once the press got their hands on it. No signs of struggle or burglary or anything like that. They just packed their suitcases and left, and nobody’s heard from them since. Isn’t that right, Mr. Fox?”
“Not necessarily. Don’t you think Mrs. Digby might have tried to find some way to send word to those she loves?”
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t believe I fall inside that category, I’m afraid. All I’ve heard is what’s been reported in the press. One outlandish theory after another.”
“And do you have an opinion on any of them, Miss Macallister?”
“They all seem a little farfetched to me.” I tap some ash into the brass ashtray. “I’m sure you’d know much more about that kind of thing than I do. What do you think? I’m dying to know. Was Digby really a spy for the Soviets? Were they killed, or did they defect?”
If he’s shocked, he doesn’t show it. He doesn’t even blink. “I don’t deal in speculation, Miss Macallister. I deal only in facts.”
I lean a little closer. “Come on, now. I promise I won’t spill the beans to the papers or anything. She is my sister, after all.”
You must understand that my heart’s beating like a dynamo. I hope he’s not the kind of fellow who looks at your neck to determine your pulse. I think I manage to keep the cigarette from shaking between my fingers, but it’s a question of mind over matter, believe me—of a self-control honed over years spent sitting across from men at desks and restaurant tables and boardrooms like this one. I raise the cigarette to my lips and stare inquisitively at the dent between Mr. Fox’s thick, straight eyebrows while I wait for him to speak. That’s harder than it sounds, by the way. Most human beings would rather swallow a live goldfish than a lump of silence.