Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 17, No. 4, April 1972

“Now, wait a minute, Orin. There’s a special watchman right outside the room where the records themselves are kept, and even he doesn’t have a key to the rooms or the filing cabinets.”

“Okay, but let’s say our man comes along this passage. He’d be out of sight of the watchman until the last minute. He could hit the watchman with something and—”

“And even assuming he got all those locks open, the moment the watchman woke up and identified him, he’d be hunted by every policeman in the country. And treason’s still a capital offense, I believe.”

“What if he wore a mask?”

“What if! What if!” Doherty relit his pipe and peered through the smoke at Orin. “If the thing is really bothering you, just keep the perimeter guards under observation until they actually leave The Center.”

“Yeah, I think I’ll suggest that to the commanding officer.” Orin spun about and faced the plump doctor. “Now, what about Lanier?”

“I’ve no official diagnosis yet, but just between us tin soldiers, he’s as sane as you or me. Except after hearing you talk, I’m not so sure about you.” With a sly grin, Doherty peered from under bushy brows at Orin. “By the way, Lanier’s canary really is dead, you know,” he said offhandedly.

“Oh? How did you find that out?”

“Lanier mentioned he’d buried it in the back yard. I sent a couple of men out to his rooming house, and they dug up the corpse. Its neck had been broken.”

“Sounds like you’re doing my job for me,” said Orin, grinning.

“All in the line of duty. We’ve got the bird’s body and the picture of Pershing. At least we know those two things aren’t imaginary. I strongly suspect, Orin-me-boy, that I’ll be forced to give that man a clean bill of health.”

“He’ll still have to be let go unless we can explain those incidents logically.”

“Have you thought of trying the polygraph?”

“The lie detector? What good would that do? If Augustine’s lying, he’s an automatic security risk. And if not, the things that happened are so suspicious that he’d still be thrown out. What’s the difference?” Orin asked diffidently.

“We might get some insight as to what’s on his mind. Orin, you learned to operate the polygraph during security training. You know it isn’t perfect. That’s why it’s not acceptable as evidence.”

“Except here at The Center,” answered Orin. “If anybody’s polygraph chart doesn’t stay within reasonable limits, he’s out. It may not be fair, but security is maintained.”

“All right, but we both know the lie detector can’t peer into anybody’s brain to see if he’s lying. All the machine does is measure bodily responses. A pressure cuff measures blood pressure and pulse. A tube around the chest gets the dope on respiration depth and frequency, and electrodes on the fingers tell how much the subject is perspiring. All these are automatically graphed on a chart.”

“Right out of the textbook, Tim. Then the subject is given neutral questions or words — ‘cat’ or ‘dog’ or something like that to test his usual reactions. Only when Augustine heard the word ‘canary’, his graph would go right off the paper because of what happened to — Holy Saint Jude Thaddeus!”

“Orin, you’re as white as a sheet. Are you all right? Do you want me to get you something?”

“Just the phone.” Orin grabbed at the instrument, index finger stabbing at the dial. “Sergeant Jennings, I want Mr. Lanier brought to my office right away,” he barked into the mouthpiece. “On the double!” He slammed the receiver back into its cradle.

“I take it you’re onto something,” said Doherty calmly. “Or are you just trying for a coronary right here in your office?”

“Oh,” muttered Orin, his lips pulled back tight against his teeth. “That clever son-of-a... This is one for the books, all right, and it might have worked if Augustine had just kept quiet like any ordinary person. But instead, he came to me. Bless his conscientious heart, he came to me!”

“I think I’ll stay,” said Doherty. “I’ve nothing but two cases of blistered feet this morning, anyway. And you’d better be making some sense out of this mishmash, or I’ve got another room waiting for you, right next to Lanier’s.”

Three minutes later, Augustine Lanier slowly shuffled into Orin’s office and nodded nervously to the two men. Orin offered him a chair.

“Augustine,” Orin said when the old man was seated, “I think I’ve got some good news for you. I think I know the meaning of the things that happened to you.”

“All of them, sir?” asked Augustine softly.

“Every blasted one. Listen. A few moments ago, I described to Colonel Doherty here, how one of the perimeter guards might possibly enter the records area and take material out.”

“Really, Mr. Watkins? That’s where I work — or where I used to work. I thought it was quite closely guarded.”

“No, not only would it be possible for someone to get in, but I think somebody’s actually planning to do it. And there are places in the world where the information in those records would be worth a bundle.”