Come to Dust

by Emma Lathen

  What had followed between husband and wife had amused the older grads. But today Lou was betrayed not betraying. “It was sickening,” she said with a small girl’s quaver in her voice. “People were passing out. I had to help Jim out to our car. But,” she regarded Nivelle like a martyr at the stake, “Sprague was alive then. I saw him. He looked dreadful. I thought he was going to be sick. He was going upstairs.”

  “Was he going upstairs alone?” Captain Nivelle asked.

  Lou looked at him piteously. Then she took a deep breath, and said, “Yes, he was alone,” and then broke into tears.

  It was very late when the Lancers and Thatcher were freed from the Inn and they were not the last to leave. Marsden, the Dunlops, two Dekes, and Ralph were gloomily awaiting renewed calls from Nivelle, whose show of stamina was impressive.

  The long slow transformation of Sunday afternoon into the evening had taken on a nightmare quality of smoky air, unanswered questions, and impassioned outbursts from busy people with appointments elsewhere, and a white lipped argument between Marsden and somebody named Frank.

  Cold sandwiches produced by an embittered kitchen did nothing to make the situation better.

  George sounded hesitant. I told Lyman we’d drop in before leaving,” he said stretching his stiffness out.

  Lucy and John both regarded him thoughtfully. They were standing in the cool darkness outside the Inn. The crowd had finally dispersed. The state troopers had not. John felt constrained to repeat an earlier sentiment: “George, you are a sucker for punishment.

  Chapter 17

  Bachelor of Arts

  Inside the president’s house, John found no reason to change his mind. Only an errant optimist could have prophesied anything but ruin and despair for Dartmouth. Thatcher could easily sketch in the outline of its coming public image. Dartmouth cajoled millionaires into donating considerable sums and what happened? Enterprising members of the Alumni Association made off with the funds. Dartmouth demanded that applicants take admission tests and what happened? The Admission Committee lost the scores. Dartmouth invited high school seniors up for a football weekend and what happened. One got murdered.

  Nor were the police inquiries of a nature to comfort the college’s dwindling band of adherents. The police, it soon became clear, did not like the rumors that Patterson had been abroad in town on the fatal night. They did not like Marsden’s story, corroborated so reluctantly by Ralph; they did not like Dunlop’s story, corroborated with such suspicions haste by his wife. In fact there was only one thing that did please the police, and that was the list of Patterson’s four classmates.

  “Bolt holes,” Nivelle decided. “That’s why he hasn’t been picked up. He had a bolt hole ready with one of these four. And you say two of them are here?

  No matter how you sliced it, the old grads were not going to come out smelling like roses. And Todd, Thatcher noted approvingly, was not an errant optimist. He was in his office with George and John, a resentful Lucy having been delivered into the capable hands of Mrs. Todd. There with a steadily sagging face, Todd received police emissaries, delivered a statement to the press, and phone the United State Senator from New Hampshire. The Senator was too busy thanking his lucky stars he went to UNH to be of much help.

  But there was yet another blow in store.

  Todd’s grasp of events did not disintegrate entirely until two of his assistants burst into the room, progressing in a series of swooping sideward bows as they made way for a visitor. The three men sprang to their feet at the intimations of royalty. It was a moment before the swirling throng clarified enough for John to see. At the center of the whirlpool a small man stood erect, his slight figure vibrating with a controlled spare virility. The face was familiar from millions of record jackets, TV, Time, and the podium itself. Maestro Arturo Fursano had flown to his son’s side.

  “I must see my son,” he hissed. “My Pier Luigi, he is still alive?”

  “Certainly, certainly Maestro,” Todd babbled. “We will send for him at once.”

  A chair was produced and was waved away. Arturo Fursano had not come to New Hampshire to sit. He had come to rescue his only son from assassins.

  “Child murderers. Monsters.” he proclaimed as he prowled around the room.

  The entrance of Pete did not noticeably lower the emotional temperature. Father and son embraced, the son overtopping his father by a clear eight inches.

  “Well, Dad,” said Pete affectionately.

  “My son,” cried the Maestro in thanksgiving.

  Cautiously Lyman Todd tried to steer them into calmer waters. “I’m sorry you had to come up yourself. I was on the point of calling Mrs. Fursano.”

  “No.” It was a rebuke. Imperious black eyes flashed; the slight figure strutted forward on cat feet. “When there is violence, it is not a matter for women.”

  Within minutes he was to be proven wrong. In some families it was the women who flew to meet danger. Mrs. Jonathan Hughes arrived under police escort.

  “Mrs. Hughes, here, has a theory,” said Nivelle.

  “I told John’s father we should never have let him come up here,” she said tearfully. “It is all a plot, I know it is. Someone wants to kill all the boys.”

  Todd immediately launched a flood of soothing phrases. Sprague had been alone with Patterson. The other boys had not. Therefore they were in an entirely different category. The tone, more than the words, had its effect. Doubtfully Mrs. Hughes dried her eyes and admitted that she might have been leaping to conclusions. Then, in a flash, the good work was undone.

  “So.” Arturo Fursano inhaled sharply. He stroked his mustache with delicate ferocity. “Someone wishes to kill Pier Luigi. Well let them try.”

  Daredevil challenge was not for Mrs. Hughes. Instantly the handkerchief was out again. “John must have police protection. Until that awful Patterson is caught.” Helplessly Todd looked at the police officer. There was no reassurance there.

  “She might be right,” said Nivelle. “WE don’t know what happened with Patterson. I think I’ll put it to the police down in the city.”

  “But there were three other men present when Patterson talked to these boys,” Todd protested. “We do know what happened.”

  The Captain’s silence was eloquent. It would be a long time before any police force believed a word uttered by a member of the Committee.

  “And now,” Fursano returned to the floor, “I remove my son. There shall be no further question of Dartmouth, Pier Luigi.”

  “I don’t mind,” said Pete equably. “Any place in the country is all right with me. I’m down for Williams too.”

  Todd was stung. “Williams has no musician in residence program.”

  An involuntary look of contempt was politely banished from the Maestro’s face. “Bah. There is no question of that. Pier is not a musician.”

  John was lost in admiration at this trenchant realism. He was willing to bet that Pete’s performance would have had any other parent hiring Town Hall. And he was right. He did not know that the Maestro could afford realism. The musical hopes of the house rested on one Flavia Fursano. Only 11, she still had long pigtails that bounced when she ran, but already she had very grave doubts about current interpretations of Mahler.

  To be lost in any emotion was not safe when George was at the mercy of President Todd, John learned on the way home to New York. “He’s in such a mess,” George said.

  “His mess George. Not yours,” said Lucy.

  “I know that. But when I turned him down on everything else he wanted, this seemed like such a small thing.”

  John said sternly, “Just what did you agree to?”

  “I said we would try to find Baxter. If Patterson is hiding with him, it would be a help for Dartmouth to get there first.”

  “Oh well,” Lucy breathed a sigh of relief. “There can’t be any harm in that.”

  Banks have their own way of doing things. While the New Hampshire police sent out fliers about three Dartmo
uth alumni, while the New York police made the interesting discovery that Baxter did not own a car, was not listed in the phonebook, and patronized neither the gas or electricity company, Miss Evans, George’s secretary, undertook her own inquiries.

  Thus within a surprisingly short time Lancer was once again enabled to interrupt John’s working day. “Until last June Baxter ad a checking account with Citibank. His address then was on West 24th Street,” he said.

  John was resigned. “I suppose we have to go and look at it, but it stands to reason that if he closed the account he moved.”

  “Yes. I’m hoping they can tell us where he went.

  There was no argument from the Sloan’s SVP. John was just as glad to. Miss Corsa, still tirelessly canvassing every far flung outpost of the Catholic Empire had filed an interim report. Within the metro area there was no Father Martin any connection with one of Patterson’s four names, who had a parish of his own, who was cloistered in monastic orders, or who was engaged in mission work among the Indians on Long Island.

  For one giddy moment John thought it might all have been too much for Miss Corsa. But secret research with the door locked proved she was right. By God there is an Indian reservation on Long Island he discovered. He didn’t want to be around when she learned that one of Patterson’s accounts was the Armenian Apostolic Diocese. It would turn out that they were being regularly massacred by Turks up in the Bronx.

  During the taxi ride John reverted to Baxter’s bank account. “If we don’t find anything at West 24th Street, will Citibank go through their records for us? His last check could probably tell us a good deal, if he made it out to himself and used it to open an account someplace else.”

  Gloomily George shook his head. “That won’t do any good. I’ve already tried that. They remember how he closed out; it made a big impression on the teller. He drew out the balance in cash, some $4,200. The teller said Baxter had never taken out more than $100 before.”

  John’s gloom matched George’s. “Another Patterson,” John predicted. “We are probably heading straight to some woman who’s keeping everything the way Alec loved it.”

  “Baxter isn’t married,” George replied.

  John did not disturb the innocence of George’s thoughts. But he reminded himself that Baxter moved in less conventional circles than Rye. In the event, however, nothing more alarming than a surly janitor awaited them at West 24th Street. It was a shabby brownstone converted into furnished apartments.

  “What’s your fuss about Baxter?” the janitor grumbled. “You are the second lot after him.”

  His surliness was dispelled by the grandeur of George’s idea about tipping. “Yeah, Baxter had the top floor front, the one with the skylight,” he continued much mellowed by the tip. “But it’s been rented to other people for months now.”

  They asked for a forwarding address. “No, nothing like that. Just gave notice, packed his bags, and left.”

  He paused and then said, “What’s this about the police?”

  They soothed him. It was not Baxter himself who was of interest to the police they explained. Merely a friend who might have been staying with him.

  The janitor was immediately knowing. “Not Baxter. Oh maybe overnight sometimes. But he wasn’t shacked up with anyone, if that’s what you mean.”

  George tried to turn the subject, “That isn’t what —”

  “If he did any helling around it wasn’t here. Of course he was away weekends a lot. Especially in the summer.”

  John stirred slightly. This was the first Baxter characteristic to emerge. “What was he like? As a tenant?”

  He had been the ideal tenant. Quiet himself, he had not been unduly critical of the noise from others. “Some of these old biddies, Christ. They call out the riot squad if someone has a Saturday night party. The janitor admitted that it was not that the old biddies didn’t have a point sometimes. The kids often arrived with nothing but their clothes and high volume recording equipment.

  “Folk music?” John suggested sympathetically.

  ‘At their loud levels it doesn’t matter what it is,” the janitor retorted darkly.

  Under further prodding, a picture of Baxter developed. He had been a property less transient in a world of the same. But he had been adult, hardworking, and respectable. He was a familiar figure on the street, going down to the corner in his old tweed jacket for a pound of coffee or beer. He had made no friendships with the other tenants. They were mostly old residents or kids. It was not an artistic neighborhood. “Thank goodness,” he breathed.

  It had just been another dead end. George summed it up as they made their way toward 8th Avenue. John was agreeing absently when suddenly he interrupted himself to stretch out a detaining arm. “Did you see that, George?”

  “See what?”

  “That store we just passed. The Artists’ Supply Place.”

  George looked back at the modest shop front and sign. “What about it? Oh you mean they might know something about Baxter?

  “Somebody seems to have that idea. That’s Ralph in there.” Without a word they retraced their steps and descended to the below street level entrance. They had a clear view of the store and Ralph, deep in conversation with the apparent shopkeeper. They went inside.

  They went inside. “Hello Armitage,” Lancer greeted him. “Are you looking for Baxter too? We just have come from his old apartment.”

  “I don’t seem to be getting anywhere,” Ralph replied sourly. “He seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth last June. The shopkeeper tut tutted. Baxter had simply moved. That’s all there was to it. He wasn’t the kind to advertise his movements.

  “He certainly isn’t,” said Thatcher. “But the way, Ralph, you must be the other party the janitor mentioned. I suppose the police haven’t gotten there yet.”

  Ralph just snorted his opinion of the police.

  “Oh they’ll get there. Slowly but surely. We tried a short cut through bank accounts. How did you manage it?”

  “Marsden knew a gallery that sells some of Baxter’s stuff. They dug out this address for him.”

  John nodded. He had found out what he wanted to know. Both Marsden and Armitage thought it worthwhile to track down the elusive Baxter. An unlikely alliance if there ever was one. Police suspicion seemed to be cementing the bonds of the Committee.

  The shopkeeper was interested by the mention of a gallery. “That will be the Capricorn,” he commented. “They were doing nicely by Baxter. Have you seen his seascapes? Beautiful control. He’s got a real future.”

  “He doesn’t seem to have much of a present,” Ralph said with a glance at the street outside. “I thought the real artists lived over in the East Village.”

  It was the shopkeeper’s turn to be contemptuous. “East Village beards and hippy clothes don’t make artists. Alex was too old for that sort of thing anyway. And he was coming along. I don’t suppose he had a suit to his name; and he had to take less and less commercial work to stay alive.”

  Fine thought John irritably. More commercial work would have made it necessary for him to have a fixed address. But apparently he was now free as air itself.

  “He must have some friends. Apparently he kept in touch with people like the advertising man we met at Dartmouth. George we are working the wrong end.”

  “Oh, Alec has friends. There are those people he goes to in the summer. I remember sending him some supplies to him there.” The shopkeeper clearly viewed himself as his champion.

  “You mailed him things?” John alertly asked.

  “Sure. I was getting in some brushes he wanted. But he was out of town for a few weeks. Let’s see.” He frowned in thought.”

  “Yes,” Ralph prompted.

  “Don’t rush me; it’s coming.”

  “Maybe you have a record?”

  His small hand was raised. “Don’t push me. I can hear it. It wasn’t Quigley … Kentley … no but almost … Knightley. Knightley. That’s it. Mr. and Mrs. Stephen Kn
ightley. Somewhere in New Hampshire.” The shopkeeper ended in a flourish of triumph.

  “Well, can you beat that? Ralph asked the world, “Gabe’s Marian Knightley.”

  His companions looked at sea that he fastened on a person not a place. Ralph saw that and said, “She is Gabe’s partner. And now it turns out she’s got a place in New Hampshire too.”

  George was skeptical. “What makes you think it is the same Mrs. Knightley? There must be hundreds of them.”

  “She told me Baxter was a friend of her husband. But she didn’t say he had been a resident at their house.”

  John cut in. “That seems to settle it. The next step is to talk to her.”

  “We could go there right now,” said Ralph.

  Behind his back George and John exchanged looks. Neither was anxious to join forces with Ralph.

  “Why don’t I call her to see if she’s free,” John temporized. “It would be more courteous to make an appointment.”

  The shopkeeper offered his phone. Within minutes fate had handed John the means to shed Ralph. “Neither Gabe or Mrs. Knightley are in the office. I’m afraid we will have to defer our talk with her. The receptionist doesn’t know when they will be back. In the meantime, you two Old Grads will want to look at the papers. The first stories about the murder have just hit.”

  Chapter 18

  Classes will not Meet

  The temporary unavailability of Gabe and Mrs. Knightley had beneficial effects over and above sending Ralph after the latest editions. “At the moment, George, there doesn’t seem to be anything to stop our returning to the bank,” John pointed out.

  And a fine thing it was, he reflected, when the Chairman and SVP drifted into the Sloan only as a last resort. In the taxi, George projected tempered restlessness. “I’d like to talk to this Mrs. Knightley. You must admit, John, it is odd. There seems to be a link between Patterson, Baxter, and Knightley. And if Baxter is staying in New Hampshire …”