For the first time Macklin grinned, in his characteristic, almost boyish way. It was the kind of grin which could have charmed a bird down out of the trees, and it dispelled both Eaton's puzzlement and Hansen's anger.
"Go ahead, Tim," Eaton said. "Disagree with me as much as you want to. And if there are gaps in what you suspect, don't let it trouble you."
"There are plenty of gaps," Hansen said. "Frankly, I'm a little ashamed of myself. But I was thinking of Mr. Gerstle, of the great danger he may be in, and I felt it might be wise for me to pretend to go along with the psychopathic—Oh, heck, I seem to be making it worse!"
"Not at all," Eaton said, reassuringly. "Things get around, even when they're told to me in strict confidence. I'm not speaking sarcastically, believe me, or actually blaming myself. Only a fool would claim he can always keep every part of a confidence. A few stray bits of information often slip out subconsciously."
"Well," Hansen said, a little more at his ease. "Gerstle had dug up something pretty sensational and was going to run it, but Miss Lathrup said no. She was really putting her foot down about it."
"I see," Eaton said. "Did Gerstle show you what he was going to publish?"
Hansen shook his head. "I just know, in a general way, what kind of hydrogen bomb it was. No names, nothing specific. He wouldn't show me the signed statements he'd managed to assemble. But I do know this—it would have made that Jelke, cafe-society, party-girl scandal of ten or twelve years ago look like a pin-money racket."
"Was it wholly cafe society?" Eaton asked.
"No—it took in TV, and Hollywood. There were big producers involved."
"But it was a girls-for-sale racket, wasn't it?" Macklin asked, bluntly.