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“It is hard to believe,” Wilde agreed. “But when we have eliminated the impossible, are we not committed to believing the improbable? Unless, of course, you think that I did this to poor Gabriel and have come to gloat over his fate?” Charlotte had to look away when he said that, and could only hope that she was not blushing too fiercely.
“I can assure you,” Wilde continued, still looking at Charlotte with arched eyebrows, “that although I disliked the man as heartily as he disliked me, I did not dislike him as much as that— and if I had for some peculiar reason decided to murder him, I certainly would not have revisited the scene of my crime in this reckless fashion. A showman I might be, a madman never.” A posturing ape, Charlotte thought, yet again. “Why should the murderer take the trouble to summon you to the scene of his crime?” she demanded. “We would probably have shown all this material to you anyway, given that Walter Czastka’s in the Hawaiian islands and that I couldn’t get through to him by phone. Why would the murderer send you a message?” “I’m deeply offended by the fact that your first choice of expert witness was Walter Czastka,” Wilde murmured infuriatingly, “but I suppose that I must forgive you. He has, after all, made so much more money than I have.” “Dr. Wilde—,” Hal cut in—and was promptly cut off.
“Yes, of course,” said Oscar Wilde. “This is a very serious matter—a murder investigation and a potential biohazard. I’m sorry. At the risk of a
“By virtue of his demonic artistry,” Wilde replied. “I hesitate to accuse a man of a serious crime on the basis of a purely aesthetic judgment, but on due reflection, I believe that I do recognize his style.” “That’s ridiculous,” Hal Watson said petulantly. “If the murderer had wanted to identify himself, all he had to do was call us or leave a signed message. How would he know that you would recognize his work—and why, if he knew it, would he want you to do it?” “Those are interesting questions,” admitted Oscar, “to which I have as yet no answers. Nevertheless, I can only suppose that I was sent an invitation to this mysterious event in order that I might play a part in its unraveling. I can see no other possibility—unless, of course, I am mistaken in my judgment, in which case I might have been summoned in order to lay down a false trail. I repeat, however, that I ca
Oscar Wilde opened his arms wide in a gesture of exaggerated helplessness. “I ca
Charlotte remembered something Regina Chai had said: “The card that came with the yellow flowers might have given him a clue, if he’d bothered to read it, but he didn’t.” “I fear,” Wilde continued with a
Wilde shook his head. “My name was a jest naively bestowed upon me by my parents. I was happy to use it in those days because it sounded like a pseudonym—a double bluff encouraged by the delight I took in aping the ma
“If the murderer wished to be identified,” Hal Watson said, “why didn’t he simply leave his own name on the screens in King’s apartment, with an explanation of his motive?” “Why did he not simply shoot Gabriel King with a revolver?” countered the geneticist. “Why has he gone to the effort of designing and making this fabulous plant? There is something very strange going on here, no matter how much you might wish that it were simpler than it seems. We must accept the facts of the matter and do our best to see the significance within them.” Charlotte noticed Michael Lowenthal nodding his head slightly, presumably in mute agreement. She wished, belatedly, that she had had the patience to stand by, as Lowenthal had done, and watch the farce unfold while wearing an expression of keen concentration. Unlike Hal and herself, Lowenthal had not yet contrived to make a fool of himself by dueling verbally with Oscar Wilde.