فصل 7

CHAPTER 7

“Your friend Miggs is dead,” Crawford said. “Did you tell me everything, Starling?” Crawford’s tired face was as sensitive to signals as the dished ruff of an owl, and as free of mercy.

“How?” She felt numb and she had to handle it.

“Swallowed his tongue sometime before daylight. Lecter suggested it to him, Chilton thinks. The overnight orderly heard Lecter talking softly to Miggs. Lecter knew a lot about Miggs. He talked to him for a little while, but the overnight couldn’t hear what Lecter said. Miggs was crying for a while, and then he stopped. Did you tell me everything, Starling?” “Yes sir. Between the report and my memo, there’s everything, almost verbatim.” “Chilton called up to complain about you.…” Crawford waited, and seemed pleased when she wouldn’t ask. “I told him I found your behavior satisfactory. Chilton’s trying to forestall a civil rights investigation.” “Will there be one?”

“Sure, if Miggs’ family wants it. Civil Rights Division will do probably eight thousand this year. They’ll be glad to add Miggs to the list.” Crawford studied her. “You okay?” “I don’t know how to feel about it.”

“You don’t have to feel any particular way about it. Lecter did it to amuse himself. He knows they can’t really touch him for it, so why not? Chilton takes his books and his toilet seat for a while is all, and he doesn’t get any Jell-O.” Crawford laced his fingers over his stomach and compared his thumbs. “Lecter asked you about me, didn’t he?” “He asked if you were busy. I said yes.” “That’s all? You didn’t leave out anything personal because I wouldn’t want to see it?” “No. He said you were a Stoic, but I put that in.” “Yes, you did. Nothing else?”

“No, I didn’t leave anything out. You don’t think I traded some kind of gossip, and that’s why he talked to me.” “No.”

“I don’t know anything personal about you, and if I did I wouldn’t discuss it. If you’ve got a problem believing that, let’s get it straight now.” “I’m satisfied. Next item.”

“You thought something, or—”

“Proceed to the next item, Starling.”

“Lecter’s hint about Raspail’s car is a dead end. It was mashed into a cube four months ago in Number Nine Ditch, Arkansas, and sold for recycling. Maybe if I go back in and talk to him, he’ll tell me more.” “You’ve exhausted the lead?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you think the car Raspail drove was his only car?” “It was the only one registered, he was single, I assumed—” “Aha, hold it.” Crawford’s forefinger pointed to some principle invisible in the air between them. “You assumed. You assumed, Starling. Look here.” Crawford wrote assume on a legal pad. Several of Starling’s instructors had picked this up from Crawford and used it, but Starling didn’t reveal that she’d seen it before.

Crawford began to underline. “If you assume when I send you on a job, Starling, you can make an ass out of u and me both.” He leaned back, pleased. “Raspail collected cars, did you know that?” “No, does the estate still have them?” “I don’t know. Do you think you could manage to find out?” “Yes, I can.”

“Where would you start?”

“His executor.”

“A lawyer in Baltimore, a Chinese, I seem to remember,” Crawford said.

“Everett Yow,” Starling said. “He’s in the Baltimore phone book.” “Have you given any thought to the question of a warrant to search Raspail’s car?” Sometimes Crawford’s tone reminded Starling of the know-it-all caterpillar in Lewis Carroll.

Starling didn’t dare give it back, much. “Since Raspail is deceased and not suspected of anything, if we have permission of his executor to search the car, then it is a valid search, and the fruit admissible evidence in other matters at law,” she recited.

“Precisely,” Crawford said. “Tell you what: I’ll advise the Baltimore field office you’ll be up there. Saturday, Starling, on your own time. Go feel the fruit, if there is any.” Crawford made a small, successful effort not to look after her as she left. From his wastebasket he lifted in the fork of his fingers a wad of heavy mauve notepaper. He spread it on his desk. It was about his wife and it said, in an engaging hand: O wrangling schools, that search what fire Shall burn this world, had none the wit Unto this knowledge to aspire

That this her fever might be it?

I’m so sorry about Bella, Jack.

Hannibal Lecter