Page 42 of Copper Script
“Yes,” Aaron said.“Please.I’m sorry it’s late.”
Wildsmith blinked.“Are you all right?”
“Not entirely.No.”
“Sit.I’d offer you tea but you look more like neat gin.”
“That—would be good, actually.Thanks.”
Wildsmith had a bottle of Gordon’s stashed.He poured two generous measures and handed Aaron a glass, and they took their usual seats, watching one another.
“So?”he said.
Aaron took a deep breath.“We got the results.The case, I mean.It’s been solved.”
“Oh.And?”
“It was an embezzlement case.The man who did it was number three.The one you named as the paper criminal, for the reasons you laid out.You got it exactly right.And you were right about number five too, he’s a gambler, and number eight, who does good works.You were spot on with all of it.”
“Oh,” Wildsmith said again.“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?So you owe me dinner.”
“Yes.Of course.”
Wildsmith narrowed his eyes.“You know, I was anticipating feeling triumphant at this moment.Or maybe vindicated, or just to have slightly impressed you, but instead you seem to be in the grip of despair.Is it really that bad I’m not a fraud?”
Aaron tried to make himself sound more enthusiastic.“No, of course it’s not.Congratulations.You’ve more than proved yourself.It still doesn’t make any sense that you can do this, but you quite clearly can.”
Wildsmith leaned back and steepled his hands, which was to say, he angled his right against the split hook.“You wanted to know if I was a liar, and you’ve proved to your own satisfaction that I’m not.So is this attitude of dismay because you no longer understand the world around you, or is it that you’ve run out of excuses not to trust me?”
It was a provocation Aaron didn’t have the energy to deal with.He did try, but what came out of his mouth was, “I don’t think I can trust anyone else.”
Wildsmith’s light eyes widened sharply.“Are you all right?”
“I— Just give me a moment, would you?Or, no, tell me something.When you make very specific assertions, as with my brother-in-law.You said that the rose bed was just an example, a lucky guess.”
“It was.”
“But with Paul’s indiscretion, you said you knew.That you saw it.”
“Not saw, felt.I had a very strong feeling.”
“How?Where does it come from?”
Wildsmith gestured helplessly.“I have absolutely no idea.I try to put myself in the writer’s shoes when I read hands, and sometimes I get quite vivid, definite impressions, and sometimes they’re very strong.I don’t know what gives me the clue, but I bet you have similar things in your field—policeman’s instinct, or hunches, or whatever you call them.I think it’s training oneself to note the tiny things that other people don’t pay attention to.”
“But you felt certain about Paul?That wasn’t a wild guess that happened to land?”
Wildsmith exhaled.“Anything I say is a guess, in the sense that I can’t know it to be true.But I didn’t pull it out of my—out of the blue and it’s not something I’ve ever said before.I had a very, very strong impression that he’d just fucked, and I really cannot tell you more.Why does it matter?”
“I just want a comparison,” Aaron said.“Because when you said number seven—you remember hand number seven?—was probably a killer, how sure were you about that?”
Wildsmith didn’t speak for a moment.Then he said, “Can I see it again?”
Aaron fished it out.Wildsmith looked at the paper in silence for what felt a painfully long time, and put it down.“I stand by it.There’s the sense that he’s superior, or untouchable, or above the normal run of humanity, and it goes with an absolute callousness.Sadistic, even.I’d be really astonished if he hasn’t killed.”
“We have had quite a large war,” Aaron observed, a last throw of the dice.
“No, it’s not that.Or at least, not just shooting at the other side.If it was in the war, it was killing unarmed prisoners, or civilians.He does things that are not allowed because it gives him pleasure, and because—well, why shouldn’t he?”
