On Off by Colleen McCullough Read Free Book Online Page A

Silverman.”
    He guessed her at the middle thirties, but she could have been younger; her expression was a little careworn. She wore a badly tailored coat and skirt that had seen better days, scuffed shoes, and no jewelry other than her wedding band. The wavy auburn hair was badly cut and held back with ugly bobby pins, her rather nice brown eyes were diminished by a pair of Coke-bottle-bottom glasses, and her face was free of makeup, neutrally pleasant.
    I wonder, asked Carmine of himself, what makes librarians look like librarians? Paper mites? Dust bunnies? Printer’s ink?
    “I wish I could help you more,” she said a little later, “but I really can’t ever remember seeing one of those bags. Nor have I ever visited the first floor, except for the elevator foyer.”
    “Who are your friends?” he asked.
    “Sonia Liebman in the O.R. No one else, really.”
    “Not Miss Dupre or Miss Vilich on your own floor?”
    “That pair?” she asked scornfully. “They’re too busy feuding to notice my existence.”
    Well, well, a useful item of information at last!
    Who next? Dupre, he decided, and knocked on her door. She had the southeast corner room, which meant windows on two sides, one looking over the city, the other looking south across the misty harbor. Now why hadn’t the Prof grabbed it? Or didn’t he trust himself not to waste time looking at a gorgeous view? Miss Dupre, who was definitely not gorgeous, also had enough steel, he judged, to resist what lay outside her windows.
    She rose from her desk to tower over him, something she clearly enjoyed doing. A dangerous hobby, madam. You too can be cut down to size. But you’re very clever, and very efficient, and very observant; they’re all there in your beautiful eyes.
    “What brought you to the Hug?” he asked, sitting down.
    “A green card. I used to be a deputy administrator in one of England’s regional health care areas. I had responsibility for all the research facilities in the area’s various hospitals and red-brick universities.”
    “Uh — red-brick universities?”
    “The ones they send the working-class students to — my sort. We don’t get into Oxford or Cambridge, which are not red brick, even when their new buildings are.”
    “What don’t you know about this place?” he asked.
    “Very little.”
    “How about brown paper dead animal bags?”
    “Your inexplicable fixation upon dead animal bags has been noticed by many more than me, but none of us have any idea what their significance may be, though I can guess. Why not tell me all the truth, Lieutenant?”
    “Just answer my questions, Miss Dupre.”
    “Then ask me one.”
    “Do you ever see the dead animal bags?”
    “Of course. As the business manager, I see everything. The consignment before the last one consisted of an inferior product, which led me to go into the matter exhaustively,” said Miss Dupre. “However, as a usual event I don’t see them at all, especially when occupied by a corpse.”
    “At what hour do Cecil Potter and Otis Green finish work?”
    “Three in the afternoon.”
    “Does everybody know that?”
    “Naturally. From time to time it leads to complaints from a researcher — they sometimes assume that the whole world exists to service their needs.” Her pale brows flew up. “My answer to them is to say that Mr. Potter and Mr. Green work animal care hours. The circadian rhythms of animals like attention within three or four hours after sunrise. Evenings matter less, provided they have been well serviced with food and clean premises.”
    “What other jobs does Otis do apart from animal care?”
    “Mr. Green’s day is largely taken up by his duties in the upstairs animal rooms; his other duties are not terribly demanding. He does the heavy lifting, maintenance of light fixtures, and the disposal of hazardous wastes. It might surprise you to know that female technicians ask Mr. Green to fetch them cylinders of gas. We used to let the girls move