That was the beautiful thing about Friend. He never 74
panicked. And he always had answers and orders immediately.
"First, you will find out everything about the way your two workers died. Then you will head north on your boat until you are outside Kennebunkport, Maine. And you will wait there."
"We aren't going to get those two now?"
"We are going to follow directions, Bradford."
"Yes, Friend," said Bradford Wakefield HI.
The reports from his newspaper on the black men's deaths weakened Bradford's stomach even more. He was so upset, he had to drink enriched baby formula and mush.
The two men found in the refuse cart could not have been killed by human means, the coroner said. The killings were just too precise for human hands. The large one was strangled, and while that required inhuman strength, it was not nearly so much as the strength that would have been required just to hold the big one in place for strangling.
The conclusion—he had been killed with something that worked like an extra-strong forklift and baling machine.
The smaller one was killed with a blow so precise, it would make a surgeon jealous. No human killer could have been that accurate.
The conclusion—death by forces unknown.
Bradford Wakefield had been anchored off the coast of Maine for two days when a small fishing trawler approached his yacht.
A man barely over five feet tall came aboard the yacht. He wore a three-piece summer suit and wire-rimmed glasses, and he did not smile. He did not offer his right hand to shake, either.
His name was Merton, and he did not give his last name. He spoke in a British accent and seemed to know everything there was to know about Bradford Wakefield III, his physical health and, more importantly, some of his relationship with Friend.
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"You know Friend?" asked Wakefield. "Yes, I do."
Merton seemed to be able to sit on the frail wooden deck chair with hardly any pressure. For a moment, Bradford thought he was entertaining a robot. Passing Merton's chair to go to the railing, Wakefield touched the Englishman. But the flesh was warm and human. No robot.
Merton smiled inwardly. People often did that to him. They would sense a lack of human response and then try to touch him, It did not bother him on occasions like this, but it did bother him in his personal life. His son had once said to him, "Are you my natural father, sir?"
"Yes, I am," Merton had said. "Why did you ask?" "Because, sir, I have read in biology that during copulation, people emit sounds of joy and secrete bodily fluids." "That is correct."
"I cannot imagine you, sir, doing those things." "Quite," said Merton, trying to remember the time he had copulated with his wife, Lady Wissex. He tried to remember if he perspired. He didn't think he had. But one didn't think about those things at a time like that.
Instead, Lord Wissex had thought about completing his orgasm and removing himself from Lady Wissex. When he found out she had indeed conceived, he sent her a little silver garden bucket with a note reading: "Good show. You've done your duty and I've done mine. We'll never have to go through that again."
His son also said to him once, "I wonder, sir, how you have been so able to restore our family fortune. From what I have studied of our history, your father left you almost penniless." "I do work, boy." "What work, sir?"
"The sort of work our family did to earn its title." "But, sir," the boy said, "that was murdering Catholics for King Henry."
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"Quite," said Merton.
"You kill Catholics, sir?" asked the boy incredulously. "For the government?"
"Of course not. These are modern times. We don't practice that sort of religious prejudice anymore. And we're not bloody civil servants, no matter what others may think. Someone has found me who appreciates skill at the highest level. Not British, but he's a decent enough sort."
"Is it possible to be not British, but decent, sir?" his son asked.
"I think so. Never met the chap, but I think he has the soul of royalty. Actually, he sounds American," said Lord Wissex.
So Merton Lord Wissex this day found himself on an American's yacht off the Maine coast, with the American upset by the Briton's cool nature. The American, of course, did not know Merton was of the peerage. It really wouldn't matter anyhow. Merton Lord Wissex did not intend to know the chap long.
"Is that all the information you have about how you lost your two operatives?" Merton asked.
"All? You've taken four pages of notes," said Wakefield.
"Quite so. I wonder if I might trouble you for a spot of tea."
"Of course," said Bradford.
Wakefield decided that he hated this man, and it took him a moment to figure out why. This man called Merton actually was condescending to him. How could anyone condescend to a Wakefield? It was for a Wake- .. field to condescend.
The tea came with one of the stewards.
"You're not having tea," said the Briton.
" 'Course I'm having tea," said Bradford. "I always have tea. I have the best teas in the world available to me. Better than Britain."
"How nice," said Merton.
"I take it you have known Friend long?" Wakefield asked.
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"That depends on what one considers long."
"I consider an hour long if one has to be with someone who is condescending," said Bradford. "You know, I gave you an awful lot of information. I don't see how you can call it inadequate."
"Hmmmm," said Merton.
"Name one question I didn't answer."
"How were your people killed?"
"I told you," said Wakefield.
"No, you didn't. You just described in detail the result. But we have no idea what killed them. Or how."
"Those two phony scientists."