They were looking nervous now. There had been that little burst of activity after a long pause (even the chandelier seemed to be swinging slowly to rest), and now the—call it the stillness—was more than they could stand. I felt it, too: that building up of tension. Whoever it was, was getting tired of little things.
A horrible jangling welled out of Burgeon's guitar case; it sounded like a bull banjo with the heaves. Ned jumped, dropped his cigarette holder, got the case open and I guess put his hand on the strings; the noise stopped. That eliminated him ... or did it?
Take it another way. What would the guy have to be like who would waste a marvel like this on schoolboy pranks at a Medusa Christmas party? Not Jibless, I thought—he abominates practical jokers. Bierce didn't seem to be the type, either, although you could never tell; the damnedest wry stories get hatched occasionally in that lean ecclesiastic skull. Duchamp was too staid (but was I sure?); MacKean was an enigma. Gamble? Just maybe. Burgeon? Jones? It could be either, I thought, but I wasn't satisfied.
I glanced at Ray again, and mentally crossed him off for the second or third time. Ray's an honorable man, within his own complicated set of rules; he might mislead me, with pleasure, but he wouldn't give me the lie direct.
But I had the feeling that the answer was square in front of me, and I was blind to it.
The meeting was just now getting around to the idea that somebody present was responsible for all the nonsense. This shows you the trouble with committees.
A shocking idea hit me abruptly; I grabbed Ray by the coatsleeve. "Ray, this cockeyed weather—I just remembered. Suppose it's local."
His eyes widened; he nodded reluctantly. Then he stiffened and snapped his fingers at somebody squatting just below us—the invisible fan, Harry Somebody. I hadn't even noticed him there, but it's Ray's business to know everything and keep track of everybody—that's why he's up on his hill.
The fan came over. Ray handed him something. "Here is some change, Harry—run out and call up the weather bureau. Find out whether this freak weather is local or not, and if it is, just where the boundaries are. Got that?"
Harry nodded and went out. He was back only a couple of minutes later. "I got the Weather Bureau all right. They say it's local—just Manhattan and Queens!"