The Ghost

on at the time the picture was taken.
    “You must have been lucky,” I said, “given you were at Yale in the late sixties, to avoid being drafted to Vietnam.”
    “You know the old saying: ‘if you had the dough, you didn’t have to go.’ I got a student deferment. Now,” he said, twirling in his chair and lifting his feet off the desk. He was suddenly much more businesslike. He picked up a pen and opened a notebook. “You were going to tell me where you got those pictures.”
    “Does the name Michael McAra mean anything to you?”
    “No. Should it?” He answered just a touch too quickly, I thought.
    “McAra was my predecessor on the Lang memoirs,” I said. “He was the one who ordered the pictures from England. He drove up here to see you nearly three weeks ago and died a few hours afterward.”
    “Drove up to see me ?” Emmett shook his head. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken. Where was he driving from?”
    “Martha’s Vineyard.”
    “Martha’s Vineyard! My dear fellow, nobody is on Martha’s Vineyard at this time of year.”
    He was teasing me again: anyone who had watched the news the previous day would have known where Lang had been staying.
    I said, “The vehicle McAra was driving had your address programmed into its navigation system.”
    “Well, I can’t think why that should be the case.” Emmett stroked his chin and seemed to weigh the matter carefully. “No, I really can’t. And even if it’s true, it certainly doesn’t prove he actually made the journey. How did he die?”
    “He drowned.”
    “I’m very sorry to hear it. I’ve never believed the myth that death by drowning is painless, have you? I’m sure it must be agonizing.”
    “The police never said anything to you about this?”
    “No. I’ve had no contact with the police whatsoever.”
    “Were you here that weekend? This would have been January the eleventh and twelfth.”
    Emmett sighed. “A less equable man than I would start to find your questions impertinent.” He came out from behind his desk and went over to the door. “Nancy!” he called. “Our visitor wishes to know where we were on the weekend of the eleventh and twelfth of January. Do we possess that information?” He stood holding the door open and gave me an unfriendly smile. When Mrs. Emmett appeared, he didn’t bother to introduce me. She was carrying a desk diary.
    “That was the Colorado weekend,” she said and showed the book to her husband.
    “Of course it was,” he said. “We were at the Aspen Institute.” He flourished the page at me. “‘Bipolar Relationships in a Multi-polar World.’”
    “Sounds fun.”
    “It was.” He closed the diary with a definitive snap. “I was the main speaker.”
    “You were there the whole weekend?”
    “I was,” said Mrs. Emmett. “I stayed for the skiing. Emmett flew back on Sunday, didn’t you, darling?”
    “So you could have seen McAra,” I said to him.
    “I could have, but I didn’t.”
    “Just to return to Cambridge—” I began.
    “No,” he said, holding up his hand. “Please. If you don’t mind, let’s not return to Cambridge. I’ve said all I have to say on the matter. Nancy?”
    She must have been twenty years his junior, and she jumped when he addressed her in a way no first wife ever would.
    “Emmett?”
    “Show our friend here out, would you?”
    As we shook hands, he said, “I am an avid reader of political memoirs. I shall be sure to get hold of Mr. Lang’s book when it appears.”
    “Perhaps he’ll send you a copy,” I said, “for old time’s sake.”
    “I doubt it very much,” he replied. “The gate will open automatically. Be sure to make a right at the bottom of the drive. If you turn left, the road will take you deeper into the woods and you’ll never be seen again.”

    MRS. EMMETT CLOSED THE door behind me before I’d even reached the bottom step. I could sense her husband watching me from the window of his study as I walked across the damp grass to the Ford. At the bottom of the drive, while I waited for the gate to open, the wind moved suddenly through the branches of the high trees on either side of me, laying a heavy lash of rainwater across the car. It startled me so much I felt the hairs on the back of my head stand out in tiny spikes.
    I pulled out into the empty road and headed back the way I had come. I felt slightly unnerved, as if I’d just descended a staircase in the darkness and missed the bottom few steps. My immediate