Chapter Eleven
Carlisle came visiting later in the day, bringing with him the Interpol report on the European bomb experts. He quietly entered Bill's private room, and watched the agent before making himself known. Bill was lying in bed with a tray table in front of him, and he was grumbling protests about having to fill in his newspaper crossword puzzle squares writing with his left hand. Bill had a penchant for talking to himself when he was alone, which Carlisle hadn't known, but wasn't wholly surprised to learn. Just another oddity in an odd man.
"Geez," Bill griped, slowly moving the pencil, "no coordination, who'd think an 'a' would be so complicated…"
Carlisle was faced with conflicting emotions which made him frankly uncomfortable. He believed he really didn't like Maxwell, but seeing him there, stoically wounded, looking like some ad for hospital supplies, Carlisle felt a rush of compassion, sympathy, and respect, which was a revelation to him. When he stopped and encompassed all of Maxwell's personality, it irritated him to acknowledge that he wasn't really that a bad guy. He was dedicated and devoted, hard-working, successful in his cases, experienced and knowledgeable, friendly, and he had—Carlisle hated to admit it—an admirable sense of humor. If Maxwell wasn't so remarkably unorthodox, and if he cut his sideburns, and buttoned his top shirt button and wore his tie tightly, and wasn't so mysterious, and wasn't always hiding something, and a wise-ass, Carlisle wouldn't have such a big problem with him. His wife had asked Carlisle if perhaps he was jealous of Bill's 98 kill rate, never having himself attained such a percentage, but that was so patently outlandish, Carlisle hadn't even deigned to answer.
However, the fact was that whatever Carlisle felt about Bill--his successes, and his sideburns--Carlisle had been truly concerned to learn he had almost been killed. He was one of Carlisle's agents. He was Carlisle's responsibility. Carlisle took that very seriously.
"Hello, Bill," he asked.
Bill, wearing his little granny reading glasses, looked over at Carlisle. He took his glasses off, and scratched the top of his head. "Hello, Carlisle. Miss me already?"
"Hardly. How are you doing?"
Bill waved his left arm at his injuries. "Oh, this is nothing. A few scrapes and bruises."
Carlisle had learned of the seriousness of Bill's injuries through contacting his physician. He figured Maxwell would describe having a severed limb as "a nasty paper cut".
Carlisle did not like hospitals and did not like his agents being in them. He got down to business to expedite his departure. "Bill, Interpol confirmed your…hunch…that Culdero was a leading bomb expert in Europe." Carlisle knew it wasn't a hunch, that Bill could not have pieced together the case as far as he had on his own, but once again, Bill's secret machinations seemed to be working. "He was active for nearly twenty years. They also believe he planted bombs in South America, Indonesia and so forth."
"Well, he's now in L.A., and I think he's got bigger plans than simply killing a few businessmen."
"That may be. And, since you're going to be out for at least a week, I've decided to turn the case over to Simpson and Mathews as this has some real urgency to it."
Bill grew frantic. "No! You can't do that, boss! I've got my informers out, gathering information. I'm still on top of things. Give me another day to prove it to you, before you take me off the case. At least till Monday. Come on. You owe me that. A couple more days."
Carlisle cringed inside, realizing Bill was right about his having the justification to continue the case if he could. Fair was fair. Carlisle couldn't deny it but he could still be suspicious.
"What informers?" he asked.
Maxwell shrugged. "Every good agent has some, uh, outside the agency help."
"I never did," Carlisle said, snobby in his air of superiority and authority.
Bill changed tactics to become an obedient brown noser, an act he no doubt figured Carlisle saw through, but that had, anyway, at times, worked. "That was because you were such a high flyer on your own. Didn't need to rely on snitches."
No luck this time.
"Can it, Bill. I haven't taken my anti-nausea pills today. Is Ralph the civilian going to help? I heard you called for him after the bombing. Was he in the apartment with you?"
"Ralph? Ralph who?" Bill blinked.
Carlisle felt his blood pressure spouting upwards like Old Faithful. "Ralph Hinkley. Your best friend."
"Oh, that Ralph. No, he wasn't there. I'm sure the police report confirmed no one else was in the apartment."
Carlisle noticed the smarmy smile, but it was true. No one else had been found in the apartment. "But, you called out his name several times."
Bill tapped the back of his head. "Got my noggin sliced, diced and pureed, Carlisle. It's all a blur. I don't remember calling out for anyone." He looked at his boss with his head tilted and the most innocent brown Bambi eyes.
He was lying. Carlisle would have bet his watch on it. But, he couldn't prove it. He could never prove anything against Bill.
"You've got till Monday, Bill. Monday morning. And your information better be good. I mean, very good. Terrific. The best. Oscar winning. Or, you're off the case."
Then came the supreme confidence, the tour de force of Maxwell The Enigma. "No problem, Carlisle. You'll have it." He picked up his puzzle again and asked, "Say, you don't happen to know a five letter word for 'speaks pompously', do you?"
"Don't push it, Billy." Carlisle left, slightly fuming, liking conversations with Maxwell much better when he was the clear winner. Maxwell, on the other hand, pleased Carlisle had visited him on a Saturday, pleased with the Interpol report, pleased he had another day, pleased that his secrets were driving Carlisle crazy, and pleased that Ralph was happy to help, couldn't have been more satisfied with their interaction.
"Orate," he left-handedly chicken scratched into the squares.
