Dead Soldiers

by Crider, Bill

  “I’ll have to look at it some day,“ Partridge said trying to sound enthusiastic, but Burns could tell her heart wasn’t in it.

  That was too bad since the homepage really did look good. It provided a virtual tour of the department, with photos of each instructor in his or her office. Bunni was included as well, and there was a shot of Burns standing in front of his American literature class, waxing eloquent on some abstruse topic or other, probably the dates of spring break.

  “Miss Darling and Miss Nelson are learning fast, too,“ Burns went on. “Miss Darling didn’t even want the computer in her office, but when she found that quilting page—“

  Burns stopped. The not-so-tangy taste of shoe leather filled his mouth. The last thing he’d wanted to imply was that someone was using the computer for personal purposes.

  Dean Partridge, however, didn’t seem to have noticed the gaffe. She was looking vaguely at one of the O’Keefe prints. Burns looked too. He thought it was supposed to be a flower, but that wasn’t what it looked like to him. He wondered if he was becoming a clichéd sex-obsessed English teacher like the ones that populated certain kinds of genre fiction.

  He started guiltily. Maybe Partridge had brought him in here for some sort of bizarre Rorschach test.

  But the dean didn’t appear interested in his reactions to the print. For all the notice she was paying him, he might as well not have been in the room.

  “Is something wrong, Dean Partridge?“ he asked.

  “What? Wrong?“ She looked down at her unpainted fingernails. After a second or two she said, “Yes. You’re exactly right. There’s something wrong.“

  “Is there some problem in the English Department? Something you need to talk to me about?“

  “No, that’s not it. It’s . . . personal.“

  Oh, lord, Burns thought. It is about Boss Napier.

  “I hesitated to discuss this with you,“ Partridge said. “It’s not easy for me to talk about my personal life with—“

  Underlings, Burns thought.

  “—faculty members. At least on school time. Maybe we should continue this discussion later.“

  Discussion? Burns thought. They hadn’t discussed anything as far as he could tell.

  He said, “I’ve already taught my classes and held my regular office hours today. I think it would be all right if we discussed your, um, personal life.“

  Now why did I say that? He wondered. I don’t want to discuss her personal life at all. I want to get out of here.

  But he didn’t make a move to leave.

  Partridge said, “All right. I hope you’ll keep everything we say confidential.“

  “I certainly will,“ Burns promised. God, Boss Napier would beat me to a pulp with a battery cable if he knew. Why didn’t I just get up and go?

  “You’ve solved mysteries before, haven’t you. Dr. Burns?“

  Burns nodded, wondering where she was headed. What kind of mysteries could she have in her personal life? Maybe Boss Napier needed help on something and was too proud to ask Burns himself.

  “I’ve helped the police out a few times,“ he said. As you know very well.

  “Yes. R. M. speaks highly of you.“

  R. M.? So she was on a first-name basis with Boss Napier. Or a first-initial basis. Though Burns didn’t like it at all when Elaine referred to Napier that way, he thought it was perfectly appropriate when Dean Partridge did. Most satisfactory, to tell the truth. Burns began to relax again.

  “I’ll bet he does,“ Burns said, not believing a word of it. “What seems to be the problem?“

  “Someone has taken something that belongs to me,“ Partridge said.

  “Stolen, you mean?“

  “Yes, I suppose so. Stolen.“

  “Do you know who did it?“ Burns asked.

  “No. I have no idea.“

  “What was stolen?“

  Partridge looked at the painting again. “Toy soldiers,“ she said.

  Chapter Three

  “Toy soldiers?“ Burns said. “Why would anyone take toy soldiers?“

  “Well,“ Partridge said, “for one thing, they’re worth several thousand dollars.“

  Burns twisted uncomfortably in his chair. “I remember your telling me once that you got them from a man who made his own molds, but I had no idea they were so valuable.“

  “Those aren’t the ones that were taken. The ones I’m talking about are genuine collectors’ items, made by Britains just before the turn of the century. Britains made the best.“ She paused. “Actually, the soldiers themselves aren’t worth quite as much as I said, since whoever took them left the box.“

  Burns had no idea what she was talking about. “The box?“

  “Yes. It’s bright red, and it’s the original box. When children were given the sets as gifts, they usually threw away the box. That’s why having the box makes the soldiers so much more valuable.“

  Burns was having a hard time figuring out why a box was worth so much.

  “It’s the same with any collectible toy,“ Partridge said. “Let’s say you have a Rifleman gun, a toy modeled on the one used on that Chuck Connors TV show.“

  “I’ve heard of that show,“ Burns said. “It was a little before my time, though.“

  “I’m talking about a principle here, not a TV show. The Rifleman gun is going to be worth two to three times as much to a collector if it’s in the original box. Did you ever collect anything?“

  “Baseball cards,“ Burns said. “When I was a kid.“

  “Do you still have them?“

  “I don’t think so. They were in a shoebox under my bed. My mother probably tossed them out when I went to college.“

  “That’s too bad. Some of the older cards are quite valuable. And if you had the original wrappers, well, you’d really have something. I wasn’t a card collector myself, but I assume that nearly everyone threw the wrappers away as soon as the gum was unwrapped.“

  “We threw the gum away, too.“

  He remembered the sickly sweet smell of the pink gum, often coated with some powdery substance that he could never identify. The gum was rectangular, like the cards, hard, and brittle as glass. Burns and his friends used to throw it on the sidewalk to see it shatter.

  “The gum wouldn’t be worth much, I’m afraid,“ Partridge said, “even if you’d kept it.“

  “Probably not,“ Burns agreed. “It wasn’t worth much even as chewing gum. But let’s get back to those soldiers.“

  “They were Civil War figures. Very colorful, very nicely done, as you can imagine from their value.“

  “Where did you keep them?“

  “They were in the cabinet in my den, along with some other things.“

  Burns had been in Partridge’s house only once, and he was thinking that he hadn’t been as observant as he should have.

  “What other things?“

  “Just some other collectible items. A Malibu Barbie, some Star Wars figures, a 3-D movie magazine, and Elvis’s Christmas album. The cabinet wasn’t locked. I suppose it should have been.“

  It was too late to worry about that now, Burns thought. He said, “But only the soldiers were taken?“

  “That’s right.“

  Burns didn’t like the way things were going at all, and he certainly didn’t want to ask his next question. He did it anyway.

  “Have you told the . . . police?“

  Dean Partridge looked over Burns’s head, probably at another of the O’Keefe prints, thinking things over, though Burns wasn’t sure what there was to think about.

  Finally she said, “I haven’t talked to the police.“

  Burns had been afraid she was going to say that. She probably suspected Boss Napier of the theft. He was the logical person, if you looked at it in the right way. He liked toy soldiers, too, and maybe even a chief of police wasn’t immune to temptation.

  “You really should talk to the police,“ Burns said. “They’re professionals. They know how to deal with this
kind of thing.“

  “There’s a problem,“ Partridge told him.

  Yeah, Burns thought, and its name is Boss Napier.

  He couldn’t say that, however, so he asked, “What’s the problem?“

  “The problem is the circumstances. The soldiers were stolen during a party at my house.“

  Burns’s feelings were hurt. He hadn’t been invited to any party at the dean’s house.

  “What party?“

  “Last weekend. The party for our honor students. I invited them to my house to meet the members of our board and receive their congratulations.“

  “Oh,“ Burns said. “That party.“

  At a recent faculty meeting, Partridge had announced her intention of honoring HGC’s top students. The football players got letter jackets, she had said, so why not do something for the scholars? A tea at the dean’s house. It wasn’t a letter jacket, but it was something.

  “You can see the problem,“ Partridge said. “If word gets out that something was taken from my house, the students will get the blame. That would result in some very unfavorable publicity.“

  Everyone in the administration at HGC seemed concerned about bad publicity, not that Burns blamed them. There had been an unseemly number of problems at the school recently, and while everything had worked out for the best in the end, there had been some touchy moments.

  “You don’t think a student is guilty?“ Burns asked.

  “That’s always possible. But I’d rather not think so. For that matter, I’d rather not think that anyone is guilty.“

  “Someone has to be, if the soldiers are missing.“

  Partridge nodded. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I was hoping that you could look into things. I know that you can be discreet.“

  Burns was getting the picture now, but he decided to make sure.

  “I don’t know that I can do anything, but what if I do find out who took the soldiers? What then?“

  “I thought you might be able to persuade him or her to return them. I wouldn’t press charges. I just want to get the pieces back as quietly as possible.“

  Burns didn’t want to look into anything or try to persuade anyone. But he couldn’t come up with any good reason to refuse. He tried hard to think of one.

  Seeing his hesitation, Partridge said, “It wouldn’t have to interfere with your teaching or your other duties on campus. It would be very low-key.“

  Burns knew that he was going to be sorry, but he said, “All right. I’ll do it. Do you have a list of the people who attended the party?“

  “Melva has printed one out for you. She’ll give it to you when you leave.“

  “How many names are on it?“ Burns asked, a little depressed that Partridge had been so sure of him.

  Partridge didn’t meet his eyes. “About one hundred.“

  “One hundred?“ Burns said. “You’re kidding.“

  “I’m afraid not.“

  “But that’s impossible. I can’t go around questioning a hundred people. It would take forever.“

  “I might be able to help you narrow it down some,“ Partridge said.

  She punched a button on her intercom and asked Melva to bring in the list. Melva opened the door, walked past Burns and laid the list on Partridge’s desk.

  “Thank you, Melva,“ Partridge said, and Melva departed without a word. Burns thought that she probably hadn’t been invited to the party, either.

  Partridge looked over the list and said, “I was wrong. There are only eighty-six names here.“

  “That’s close enough to a hundred for me,“ Burns said. “Could I have a look at it?“

  Partridge handed the list across the desk. Burns struggled with the chair and finally managed to rise to a half-standing position and reach for the list. As he fell back into the chair, he scanned the list rapidly. Boss Napier’s name wasn’t there, and Burns sighed with relief. Things were bad, but not as bad as he had feared. At least Napier wasn’t a suspect.

  “How are you going to narrow things down?“ Burns asked.

  “Many of the guests never went into the house,“ Partridge said. “It was a yard party.“

  Burns was skeptical. “A yard party?“

  “Yes. I rented a tent. It was quite nice.“

  “What about Billy?“

  “He wasn’t a problem,“ Partridge said.

  Burns found that hard to believe. Billy was Partridge’s pet goat, or as she preferred to call him, her animal companion. He lived in a little shed in the yard, though Burns had never seen him inside it. Most of the time, he was standing on top of it.

  Billy wasn’t exactly friendly, as Burns had good reason to know, and there was no fence around the shed, either. As far as Burns was concerned, any guests in the yard were taking their lives in their hands.

  “I rented a little fence,“ Partridge said. “I didn’t know you could do that, but you can. Billy was quite happy to watch the goings-on.“

  Burns didn’t believe Billy was happy, and he didn’t believe the part about the “little fence.“ Billy would never have been deterred by a little fence. Not that it made any difference. What Burns wanted to know was how many people could be marked off the list. He handed it to Partridge and asked her to see what she could do.

  “I’ll give you a call when I’m finished,“ she said.

  Burns hoped that would be a long time, but he saw the list again much sooner than he had expected. It was the very next day.

  Right after Burns found out about the murder.

  Chapter Four

  Boss Napier was waiting when Burns came back to his office after his American literature class the next day.

  “Nice cozy little place you got here, Burns,“ Napier said when Burns came through the door. “Got you a computer, a view, even some birds on the window ledge.“

  Burns looked out the windows. Pigeons whirred and cooed and stalked around the ledges. There was something else there too, a coating that resulted from the presence of the birds. What the place needed was a good rainstorm, Burns thought, but that wouldn’t help the ceiling, which was darkly stained from generations of pigeon droppings in the attic.

  Napier didn’t seem concerned with the stain just over his head. He was sitting in Burns’s chair, his feet propped up on the desk. The feet were enclosed in low-heeled black cowboy boots that went with the western-cut gray suit Napier was wearing. The police chief even had on a ten-gallon hat.

  “Don’t tell me,“ Burns said. “Hollywood has called. You’re going to be the new John Wayne.“

  Napier swung his feet off the desk and set them on the floor. Then he leaned forward and rested his forearms on the desk.

  “You always did think you were funny, Burns,“ he said. “But you were wrong.“

  “Probably. Mind if I sit down?“

  “Why not? It’s your office.“

  Bunni was in class, so Burns took her chair at the computer desk. He put his American lit text and grade book on the mouse pad beside the computer and looked at Napier.

  “I don’t suppose this is a social call,“ he said.

  “Can’t put anything past you college guys, can I?“ Napier said. He looked at the literature book. “Who’ve you been talking about today.“

  “Edgar Allan Poe.“

  “The House of Usher? That kind of stuff?“

  Burns nodded, admitting that he’d been talking about that kind of stuff.

  “I read that one once,“ Napier said. “But I didn’t get it. I mean, here’s this guy who goes to visit an old pal that he knew when they were kids, but he never even knew the old pal had a twin sister. I’ll bet you knew if your pals had twin sisters didn’t you, Burns?“

  “I don’t think any of them did,“ Burns said.

  “Well, if they did, you’d have known it. How big was this House of Usher, anyhow?“

  Burns had never given that aspect of the house much thought. “I don’t really know.“

  “It would have to be pretty big
, right? It had that basement or whatever. Dungeon, maybe. Lots of rooms in a house like that, probably.“

  “I’m sure you’re right.“

  “Take a lot of people to run a place that size. As I remember the story, there’s some old servant that lets the guy in when he gets there.“

  Burns acknowledged that there was a servant.

  “So what happened to him?“ Napier asked. “He’s never heard from again, right? Did he just take off for the tall and uncut? And what about the other servants? Big old house like that, out in the middle of nowhere, that Usher guy couldn’t take care of the place, not in his condition. Somebody had to cook and clean and all that. What was his condition, exactly?“

  Burns had to admit that he didn’t know what Usher’s condition was, not exactly.

  Napier didn’t care. “So anyway the old pal buries his twin sister alive, she breaks out of the coffin, gets out of the basement, and comes after him. Then the whole house falls down. Right?“

  “Right.“

  “Well, what about the servants? The guy who rode up is the only one who gets away, so what about the servants? Did they just stay in there and let the house fall down around them? Or did they slide out the back door before the big crash? It looks to me like if Poe was any kind of a writer, he’d tell you stuff like that.“

  “Well,“ Burns said, “what happens to the servants isn’t really the point of the story. You see—“

  “No,“ Napier said. “I don’t see. It’s the details that matter, Burns, and Poe was weak on the details. What’s that other story, the one about the letter?“

  “’The Purloined Letter,’“ Burns said.

  “Yeah, that one. Guy goes in to a dimly lighted room. He’s wearing sunglasses so dark the other guy there can’t see his eyes, but he still manages to read the address on a letter from all the way across the room. You think anyone could really do that?“

  “Probably not, but—“

  “Don’t give me any buts. It’s the details, Burns, the details. Like that story about the ape.“

  “’The Murders in the Rue Morgue.’“

  “Right again, Burns. You were probably a real whiz in grad school. Anyway, in that one the ape kills the women and then goes out the window. And we’re supposed to believe that he closes the window so that it locks behind him. Do you believe an ape would do that, Burns?“