The Green Revolution

by Ralph McInerny

  “Over! Over!” Lipschutz was transformed by the suggestion. “Never. Now it is a battle to the death. I will humble them, I promise you. I will get the last laugh. They will eat their horses before I am done with them.”

  “Horst, you’ve made your point.”

  Lipschutz’s expression was almost of contempt. “You don’t understand.”

  “The research center?”

  “How did you know of that?”

  “Is it a secret? I think Father Carmody mentioned it.”

  “Carmody! He was their henchman. He tore up the petition.”

  Roger could not wait to get Father Carmody’s account of what had happened on the steps of the Main Building. Suddenly, Piero moved to Lipschutz, grabbed the lapels of his jacket, and pulled him close.

  “You drop that goddamn petition or I’ll beat the shit out of you.” Piero spoke with a controlled rage, if not with the vocabulary Lipschutz was accustomed to.

  “Who are you?” Horst’s terrified eyes rolled to Roger. “Who is this maniac?”

  Piero gave him a thorough shaking, then pushed him into the desk chair, which began to roll toward the wall, with the astounded Lipschutz looking at his assailant.

  “My name is Senzamacula. Get out a sheet of paper. I want you to write that my father has never had anything to do with your stupid petition.”

  “Roger,” Lipschutz yelped.

  “Come, Piero,” Roger suggested. “I think you have made your point.”

  Piero hesitated. The phone rang. It was Phil, calling to tell Roger what he and Jimmy had been doing.

  Roger turned away, and told Phil about Piero’s attack.

  “I’m surprised it wasn’t Wintheiser.”

  Roger hung up and turned toward Piero. His face was still flushed with anger and his body tense. He was half the size of Wintheiser. Roger managed to get Piero out the door.

  Settled in the golf cart, Piero said, “I could have killed the sonofabitch.”

  15

  There are levels of hell, and Professor Horst Lipschutz had descended through several of them in a single day. In retrospect, it seemed to him that he had been taken to the pinnacle of the Main Building and told that he could be master of all he surveyed. It had long rankled him that the administration was impervious to his suggestion for a research center, a real research center, that could justify the university’s claims for itself. No one who had spent as much time in academic circles as he could really be surprised by the density and irrationality of his colleagues, nor did he by any means confine this assessment to the administration. The faculty were, if possible, worse. Imagine the reaction of Guido Senzamacula to the generous move that Lipschutz had made, adding him to the signatories of his petition, admittedly anticipating his agreement, but how could any rational animal disagree? That Otto Bird and Roger Knight denied that they had given him permission to include their names had been a disappointment, of course, but they had not made any public protest.

  Of course, it was not the inclusion of other names on the petition that mattered. No need for false modesty. It was the first name, that of Horst Lipschutz that should have brought home to the administration the decision they faced. Had he ever seriously thought that he could persuade the university to drop football? Actually, he had. From the beginning, though, that had been a mere target of opportunity. Whether or not they saw reason on that matter was secondary; the essential thing was that, prompted in this way, they should finally concede the wisdom of entrusting the university’s reputation as a research institution to his capable hands. Dear God, he had three books in the press at this very moment. His list of publications exceeded, he was sure, that of any other member of the faculty, and not merely in quantity. His was an international reputation. Had he not been honored by the Bavarian Academy?

  * * *

  To review his credentials now on this ignominious day was more than a justification for the tears that poured down his leathery cheeks, through the runnels that descended from either side of his nose to the corners of his mouth. A mouth whose lower lip trembled as he wept. Never in his worst nightmares had he been treated like this.

  He tried unsuccessfully to eradicate from his mind the fiasco on the front steps of the administration building. How confidently he had marched there surrounded by a handful of representative supporters, his pace matching the beat of the drum that someone he did not recognize had thought to bring along. It was the drum that had made their presence one that could not be ignored. Finally, the doors of the entrance had opened, and Lipschutz took a deep breath. His moment of triumph was at hand. St. George Patton, pray for us. If he had known then what lay ahead …

  He put his head on his desk and sobbed. His mistake had been to respond to that crooked finger of the evil little silver-haired priest who stood where the president should have been standing. Someone had whispered in his ear that this was Father Carmody, a power behind the scenes. An intermediary, nonetheless. He should have refused. He should have sent some lieutenant up those stairs. He should have …

  Against his closed lids he could see again that dreadful priest tearing up his petition, tearing it again and again, disdainfully, and then flinging the pieces at him! It was the cheering and applause that accompanied this act that undid Lipschutz. He turned in confusion to what he had imagined were his supporters and other well-wishers. They were cheering, applauding, that abominable act. Then, as he stumbled down the stairs, brushing past the television, they began to laugh!

  How in the name of God had he managed to get to his hideaway office, only a short distance from the scene of his ignominy? Ah, but his descent into hell was far from over. There was Roger Knight with some brute of a companion come to manhandle him.

  Senzamacula! No doubt the coward had sent his muscular son to attack a colleague, to shake him as a terrier might shake a rat, to push him into his chair, which continued backward until his head hit the wall. Could there be anything worse than this day, in this life or the next?

  * * *

  Night fell and he remained in the office. He did not turn on the lights. The door was locked, of course, but what protection was a locked door against the forces of unreason? He grew hungry. He had to go to the bathroom. He did not dare. Only when he could bear the twin pains no longer did he unlock the door and look out. The men’s room was at the end of the hall. There was a little alcove where machines delivered tasteless snacks for exorbitant prices. First things first. He went swiftly to the men’s room. Inside, he hesitated before turning on the light. Nonsense. Still, he hid himself in a stall while he did his business. He could lift his feet from the floor if anyone intruded.

  Relieved in several senses, he came out of the men’s room. He was pondering the selections the machines offered when there was a sound behind him. An office door was opening. Lipschutz froze. At the sight of Roger Knight in the open door, Lipschutz cried out.

  “Fear not, Horst. I am alone.”

  “That maniac attacked me. You were a witness.”

  “I want you to come with me. We don’t want any repetition.”

  “You think he will be back?”

  “Maybe someone else. I’ll take you where you’ll be safe.”

  Safe! Lipschutz could have cried out at all the word represented. “What did you mean, someone else?”

  “Later. Let’s go.”

  Some minutes later, he accompanied his enormous colleague to his waiting golf cart.

  “Where are we going, Roger?”

  “Holy Cross House.”

  PART THREE

  1

  Jimmy Stewart concluded that the presence of those matching shoe prints, some on the putting green, others up at the first tee where the towel was missing from the ball washer, might not prove that Willis had been killed, but they sure as hell meant that he had not died alone. Some guy with big feet had been there and for some oddball reason had stuffed the towel from the ball washer into Willis’s mouth. Before or after he died, who knew? Phil Knig
ht said that asking Feeney was like consulting the Delphic Oracle.

  “The what?”

  “Ask Roger.”

  “First chance I get. What size shoe do you wear?”

  “Eleven.”

  “I wear a ten and I think I have big feet. Those prints were made by at least a fourteen.”

  This exchange took place before Grafton began to write about the Cinderella Fella, his fanciful story accompanied by a photograph of one of those footprints. Alongside it was a scale indicating the size of the shoe, which was at least a fourteen.

  * * *

  “He died under the eyes of God,” Grafton had written piously, “but there was another pair of eyes as well, human eyes. In those small hours of that Sunday morning less than a week ago when, on the practice putting green of the Notre Dame golf course, Ignatius Willis went to meet his Maker. There was a human witness. He left his mark upon the greensward. (See accompanying photo.) And what happened there doubtless has left its mark on him.”

  He was reading these lines, half aloud, half from memory, when Larry Douglas entered his office.

  “Have you read my story?”

  “That’s why I’m here. Who took the picture?”

  “I did.”

  “What a great idea.”

  “Without my words, it’s only a picture.”

  “Where can I get a copy?”

  “Buy a paper.”

  “I mean a clearer one. The original.”

  Grafton took a small camera from his desk, turned it on, punched a button, and handed it to Larry. The young man from Notre Dame security studied it intently. “This is much clearer.”

  “We’re not a magazine, Larry. We use newsprint.”

  “I think you and I are the only ones who still think something bad went on out there.”

  Grafton nodded. “The police act as if you hadn’t drawn their attention to those shoe prints.”

  Larry’s intent look became desolate. “That was my partner.”

  “Your fiancée?”

  “Don’t say that!”

  “You’ve broken up with her?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “It always is,” Grafton said wearily, as if from experience. Only monks had less experience of women than he.

  “Let me take this and have a print made.”

  “Larry, that camera is a tool of my trade.”

  “There’s a drugstore up the street where I can do it. I’ll have it back to you in ten minutes.”

  Grafton made a dismissive gesture, and Larry scooted from the office. Grafton was almost sorry he’d had the idea of accompanying his story with a photograph of that shoe print. It was distracting. How could the reader savor his prose with that huge picture competing for his attention? The ratio between words and picture suddenly seemed far more than a thousand.

  * * *

  When the picture curled from the printer, Larry held his breath. Then he held the print for a full minute before he began to study it. Ever since Laura had drawn attention to shoe prints on the putting green, which had then been matched by identical ones at the ball washer, Larry had been dreaming of a way to turn her coup into his own. The sight of the photo next to Grafton’s story had given him an idea. At the time, he was seated on the edge of his bed, bedraggled, unrested, looking at his shoes lying on their sides on the floor just out of reach.

  “Larry, you don’t work today.”

  He ignored Laura. His hand went out and grasped his shoe. He turned it over and studied its sole.

  “Larry?”

  “Go to sleep.”

  “Well, thanks a heap.” She rolled onto her side, causing the waterbed to ripple, and pulled the blanket over her shoulder.

  It wasn’t that he was ignoring her. He hadn’t heard her. He stumbled across the room to the early bird edition he had bought at some godawful hour the night before. Asking Laura in was the line of least resistance. He did not want to make the long drive to where she lived. There he would have had to park and grapple for half an hour before she let him go and went inside. The last thing he remembered before falling asleep was her grumbling, “I hate waterbeds.”

  All through the night, his subconscious had apparently been at work. When he sat on the edge of the bed, his eye had been drawn fatefully to his shoe, to its sole, to the mark in the curve where sole met heel. Now, in the drugstore, he peered closely at the color print of Grafton’s photo. He could have cried out. A diamond, a word beneath it. He would need a magnifying glass to make it out. No, no, he could read it. Stromberg! The same brand as the shoes that Bridget Sokolowski had turned over to him.

  * * *

  “Thanks,” he said to Grafton, putting the camera on his desk.

  “Let me see it.”

  The reporter took the print and held it some distance from his eyes. He nodded. “Of course it’s clearer, and color helps.”

  He handed it back, and Larry began to breathe again. What would he have done if Grafton had noticed the trademark on the sole of the shoe? They could have formed a team. Perhaps a time for that would come, but for the moment it was Larry Douglas alone. Rather than go back to his room and Laura, he headed for campus security, where he could use a telephone.

  None of the shoe stores in the area carried Stromberg shoes. Larry was disappointed but not discouraged. He pulled up Stromberg on the Internet. A Massachusetts firm. A number, but not an 800 number. Larry dialed it anyway.

  “I’m calling from South Bend, Indiana. Where is the nearest outlet for your shoes?”

  “Outlet? Retail outlet?”

  “Shoe store.”

  “My dear fellow, Stromberg shoes are custom made.”

  “Each customer orders his own?”

  “Our feet are our chief contact with the world,” the voice went on. “Feet are not to be trifled with, feet…”

  Larry hung up. There was no point in asking that fruitcake if he would tell Larry who his customers were. That could come later, after he matched the shoes Bridget had given him with the prints on the putting green.

  * * *

  “I wonder,” Grafton said, when Larry went back to the reporter’s office to enlist his help. There seemed no point now in keeping his big inspiration a secret. “There must be a way.”

  “I could go around looking for people with big feet and ask them to show me the bottom of their shoes.”

  “The Cinderella Fella.” Grafton smiled, in approval of the phrase he had had to fight with the editor to have above his story about the prints. “I wonder what would happen if I mentioned the make of the shoes in another story.”

  The little leap of hope in Grafton’s voice reminded Larry of the eagerness with which he had rushed off to the drugstore to make that print.

  “Who knows?”

  * * *

  It was when he was outside again, at his car, that he remembered that he still had the plastic bag in his trunk. He drove to a parking place by the St. Joseph River where he and Laura had spent hours he would rather not think about. After turning off the engine, he reached down, depressed the button to open the trunk, and got out. He reached into the bag and brought out a huge shoe and turned it over. Stromberg but nothing more. He was about to put it away again when it occurred to him to examine it further. The name was etched into the inside of the shoe. George Wintheiser.

  2

  Phil had been with Jimmy Stewart when the call from Father Genoux came. Jimmy’s eyebrows shot up, and he handed the phone to Phil. “It’s for you.”

  “Philip Knight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Father Genoux. We’ve met.”

  “Yes.”

  “I was told I might find you there.”

  “What is it, Father?”

  “I wonder if you’ve heard of the demonstration at the Main Building yesterday.”

  “I saw it on television.”

  “I know, I know. In any case, I received a call saying that Professor Lipschutz is missing. He can’t be fou
nd. No one knows where he is. After what happened yesterday, you can imagine…”

  “I’ll be right there, Father.”

  “Father Carmody tells me that he has retained your services, on behalf of the university.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Whatever you can do, Mr. Knight. There’s no need to come here. I will be anxious to hear what you may find out.”

  “Lipschutz,” Phil said to Jimmy, when he had put down the phone. “He’s missing.”

  “He’s been all over television.”

  “He’s not on campus, he’s not at his home.”

  “They want you to find him?”

  “I think they fear he might harm himself.”

  * * *

  Alone on a slow day, Jimmy went across the street for lunch, a hamburger and a beer. He read Grafton’s story about the Cinderella Fella and saw the photo of the shoe print. The guy must be a giant. Jimmy’s eyes lifted from the paper. He stared at the winking name of a beer in neon in the window of the bar. Products have brands. Shoes are products.

  He finished his lunch and went up the street to the paper.

  “Great minds,” Grafton purred. “The shoe is a Stromberg.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “They’re custom made.”

  “Where?”

  “Massachusetts. They have a Web site.”

  Everybody had a Web site, even the South Bend police. Jimmy had never brought it up on his computer.

  Back in his office, he decided he would tell Phil Knight about the Stromberg brand. His phone rang, and he wasn’t surprised to find that it was Phil.

  “Phil, I have something to tell you. Maybe important.”

  “Jimmy, Roger isn’t here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I thought he had gone to class. I don’t think his bed has been slept in. His golf cart is missing, too.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  3

  “We got there too late,” Bingham lamented.

  “How did you get there?”

  “We walked.”

  “No wonder.”

  “It was all on television.”