“You might as well cut out the racket,” came from a speaker in the steel ceiling of the room. “Nobody can hear you but me.”
“But Mr. Graves, I thought . . . Dr. Fairchild told us . . . we were going to tell him about. . . .”
“You’re going to tell nobody nothing. You saw too much and know too much, that’s all.”
“Oh, that’s it!” Ryder’s mind reeled as some part of the actual significance of what he had seen struck home. “But listen! Jackie didn’t see anything—she had her eyes shut all the time—and doesn’t know anything. You don’t want to have the murder of such a girl as she is on your mind, I know. Let her go and she’ll never say a word—we’ll both swear to it—or you could. . . .”
“Why? Just because she’s got a face and a shape?” The fat man sneered. “No soap, Junior. She’s not that much of a. . . .” He broke off as Fairchild entered his office.
“Well, how about it? How bad is it?” Graves demanded.
“Not bad at all. Everything’s under control.”
“Listen, doctor!” Ryder pleaded. “Surely you don’t want to murder Jackie here in cold blood? I was just suggesting to Graves that he could get a therapist. . . .”
“Save your breath,” Fairchild ordered. “We have important things to think about. You two die.”
“But why?” Ryder cried. He could as yet perceive only a fraction of the tremendous truth. “I tell you, it’s. . . .”