Nightshade. Tom Henighan

for them to leave, preoccupied.

      They stepped into the corridor and she closed the door softly behind them. The elevator came at once but it was occupied by a couple of elegantly dressed older women, two men in dark suits, and a priest. The two men rode down in silence, but when they stepped out into the lobby, Sam said, “I found that very helpful. High-level interest from the States, thus McCarthy. Rivalry between the Lintons and Ballard. Linton’s interest in Ballard’s son, the Chen and Rizzo connections. Plus a mystery that she doesn’t seem quite ready to go into.”

      “The worst kind of suspect,” Paul growled. “She was upset, yes, but you feel she might be making it up as she goes along. She was a bit more guarded with Eddie. It was worthwhile doing a second interview.”

      “Maybe a third will be even better.”

      “I hope so. In my mind, Mrs. Linton is by no means clear of this — in fact, she seems deeply involved — and I take it you think likewise?”

      “Likewise,” Sam said. “And more than likewise.”

      They came out on the street and climbed into the waiting police car.

      Four

      Minutes later, they left the old city, drove through a maze of steeply sloping commercial streets, turned into the Boulevard René Lévesque, and pulled up before an anonymous three-storey glass palace that looked to Sam as if it should be in Minneapolis.

      A strange place, he thought, to talk about trees, genetics, and the environment, though swarms of corporate managers, research groups, government planners, academic bigwigs, Shriners, and God knows who else had no doubt enjoyed the building’s well-lit, streamlined ambiance, and its convenience to the heart of Vieux-Québec.

      “Don’t be surprised,” Paul told him. “We’ve posted guards everywhere, although there’s always security here — most clients, in fact, request it.”

      “Arbor Vitae requested it?”

      Paul nodded. “These days scientists, lab researchers in particular, like to have security. There are too many wacko types out there, or so they imagine.”

      He flashed his ID to the guards, one of whom greeted him by name, then led the way through the spacious lobby toward the inner corridors at the far end.

      “This conference wasn’t just a corporate thing,” Paul told him, as a stocky policeman approached them, in haste, from a basement stairway. “It was part of a bigger scientific gathering, so there were hundreds of lab types all over the place. In fact, some of them are still meeting, murder or no murder. You see —”

      The policeman interrupted. He saluted Paul, and rattled out his news, as Sam stood by and doped out the French.

      “Excuse me, Inspector, but there’s an unexpected development. Dr. Ballard has left the city. He took off for Ottawa this morning. His wife and son are waiting for you in room 335 just down this corridor.”

      Paul nodded his thanks to the policeman, then turned to Sam. “Smartass! Eddie told him to stick around, but I guess the message wasn’t strong enough. I ought to get the Ottawa police to call him in. I ought to put a tail on him.”

      “I wonder what’s going on.”

      “Some kind of corporate manoeuvring, probably. Maybe nothing to do with the murder itself. Mrs. Linton better be ready to do a boardroom tango. And that SOB better get back here in a hurry.”

      Paul knocked perfunctorily and stepped quickly into Room 335. A thin, grey-haired, distinguished-looking woman put down a magazine and stood up; she seemed displeased. A young man lying on a sofa stirred. The sofa was too short for him. He shifted a beer bottle from one hand to the other and swung his long legs around until his feet touched the floor.

      “The cops, Mom — unless looks deceive.”

      The ironic tone irritated Sam. The boy was very handsome, beautiful even, with a mop of thick blonde hair, dark blue eyes, and a face like a decadent angel.

      “Mrs. Ballard,” Paul said in his no-nonsense voice. “I’m Inspector Berthelet and this is Sam Montcalm, an Ottawa investigator. We’d like to talk to you — to your husband even more so. I understand he took off for Ottawa a little while ago?”

      “That’s right, Inspector. He’s coming back tonight. Is he under suspicion? You seem irritated. I’m sure he didn’t want to offend you.”

      “It’s not a question of offending me, Mrs. Ballard. We have some routines we like to follow. If witnesses disappear unexpectedly, it can make things difficult.”

      She nodded. “If I can help you in any way, I’d be glad to … My name is Meg.”

      She glanced at her son, who had put down the beer bottle and was tucking the end of his blue twill shirt into his khaki chinos. “Perhaps you want to wait for me outside, Simon.”

      “Could Simon hang around for a while?” Sam asked. “He might have something to put in the mix.”

      Meg Ballard shrugged her shoulders. Dressed in a dark grey sweater vest, a white silk shirt, and a long black denim skirt that emphasized her slender figure, she looked efficient and stylishly feminine at the same time. She had allowed her tiny gold-rimmed reading glasses to slip down on their chain, so that she regarded the two detectives with large, clear grey eyes, like some rare and distinguished bird. Sam was sure they ought not to trust her for a minute.

      Glancing at Simon, Sam noticed that he was beginning to look a little restless. Without dropping his smooth smile, the boy had begun to pace between the sofa and the door. He wiped imaginary sweat from off his forehead, and his thumbs and fingers moved as if he were playing with a deck of cards. His mother had wanted him out of there for a very good reason, Sam thought.

      Paul sat opposite Meg Ballard and asked her a few routine questions. Her answers were smooth and unhesitating. Yes, she was horrified by Charlie’s death; she and her husband had been friends of his for years. No, she had no idea who might have done it. Of course she remembered where she’d been at the time of the murder — asleep in her room at the Winthrop, and Bob had been there, too. No, she had no scientific training, but she was a gardener — she’d even written a couple of books on the subject, and she knew very well what deadly nightshade was.

      “You know Jane Linton quite well, don’t you?” Sam interrupted at one point. “How do you get on with her?”

      “Oh, God! Do I have to tell you? I’m sure she’s already had terrible things to say about Bob and me. I was so glad when Charlie decided to divorce her. He was a lovely man and deserved someone much better.”

      “That’s true!” Simon broke in. “Everyone loved Charlie. He’s been so good to me. A wonderful man — and he understood me so well. He was going to talk to Dad about this West Point thing, and he —”

      Meg Ballard’s voice cut in like an ice pick. “That’s all right, sweetie, the policemen don’t need a testimonial. They’ve both done their homework, I’m sure.” She gave Paul and Sam a wry smile. “It’s my husband’s wish that Simon attend West Point, as his grandfather did. Simon, quite understandably, has other ideas. Really, gentlemen, couldn’t my son be excused from this?”

      “Christ, Mother! You never trust me!”

      Simon flopped on the couch and put his hands over his eyes.

      Paul Berthelet stood up abruptly. “That’s all right, Mrs. Ballard. It’s natural that your son would be upset. You knew Dr. Linton very well, didn’t you, Simon?”

      “He was like a father to me.”

      Meg Ballard pressed her lips together. “Oh, for God’s sake.”

      “Did he ever speak about feeling threatened by anyone, Simon?” Sam put in.

      Simon jumped to his feet, stood still, and seemed to be searching his memory. After a few seconds he declared, “Charlie? No, he was