by Crider, Bill
"Of course I would," Elaine said. "I don't know much about football, but I think we should support the college teams."
"Right," Burns said. "Absolutely." Knowing about football wasn't really necessary for watching HGC's team, anyway. In fact, the less you knew, the more you could enjoy the game. "I'll pick you up about one o'clock."
"All right. I hope that nasty reporter won't be around by then."
"What did he say that got you so upset?" Burns asked.
"All kinds of things. He said that he had looked for me on Saturday, but that he missed me because I got out of the building so fast after my interview with Mr. Napier. I told him that I had to meet you, and then he made a snide remark. So I had to tell him that it was strictly business, and then I had to explain what I meant. So he found out everything."
"I don't suppose it matters," Burns said. "The way my nose looks, I can't keep telling people I bumped into a door." That was exactly what he had told Tomlin and Fox, not that they had believed him.
"It's all such a mess," Elaine said. "I just wish Mr. Napier could find out who killed Street and it would all be over."
Burns felt the same way, but he didn't have as much faith in 'Mr. Napier' as Elaine did. And he didn't like the soft way she said his name, either. It wasn't easy for a sedentary English teacher to compete with a man of action.
"I'm sure it will all be over by Saturday," he said, hoping that he was not being overly optimistic.
"It had better be," Elaine said. As Burns left her office, she was getting the bubble maker out of the desk drawer again.
As usual in Texas in early September, the weather was still quite warm. Burns noticed that the grass around Main was drying, except where it was shaded by the tall pecan trees, and he wondered if there was a new economy drive on to save water. There had been a time, right after he first arrived at HGC, that the lawn was something to brag about. That was because Dr. Rogers, the president at that time and not then under the influence of Dean Elmore, had taken a great deal of pride in the school's appearance.
Every spring was heralded, if that was the right word, by the smell that filled the air, the smell of dried sheep shit. Rogers had it brought in by the truckload and dumped on the campus, after which the custodial staff could be seen for days raking and smoothing and covering the grass with the odorous manure. The smell pervaded everywhere, the courtyards, the classrooms, and even the cafeteria. But the lawn was always lush and green. The fact that it was frequently watered during the summer months helped, too.
The shade of the pecan trees felt cool as Burns walked under them. Most of them were far taller than Main's three stories, and in years when conditions were right they produced a good crop of pecans. Mal Tomlin was especially fond of the nuts and could often be seen strolling the campus, picking up handfuls of pecans. He cracked them and ate them in his office and in the history lounge, the floor of which was sometimes covered with their hulls.
Burns entered the building and cantered up the stairs to the third floor. Clem was still in her office, grading papers, so he stopped by for a minute.
"Did the reporter and Dr. Land find you?" he asked.
"Yes," Clem said, putting down her red pen. "And you can wipe that innocent look off your face. I know who sent them."
"I wouldn't exactly say I sent them," Burns protested, though not very strongly.
"I would," Clem said.
"I'm sorry," Burns said. Then, "I was wondering if you could tell me what you told them."
"Word for word?"
"Maybe not. Just who the faculty members are who might have gotten letters like yours from Street, the ones who were here when he taught at HGC."
"I can tell you that easily enough," Clem said. "There's Miss Darling, for one. Abner Swan, Don Elliott, Mary Winsor, and Dick Hayes. Most of the others have either retired or gone on to other jobs by now."
Hayes was the chairman of the Department of Business, and Mary Winsor was the journalism department. She taught all the courses, supervised the school paper and yearbook, and even wrote a great many of the school's press releases.
"What about Mr. Fairly?" Burns said.
Clem thought for a second, twirling the red pen in her fingers. "I hadn't considered him," she admitted. "I suppose I have a habit of thinking about the faculty and not the members of the maintenance staff. But Mr. Fairly was here then."
"He must have been pretty young," Burns said.
"He was. It was his first job, I believe. He couldn't have been more than nineteen or twenty. He didn't go to college, of course. He had been working for a lawn care service or something of that sort, and the owner went bankrupt. He came here, and he's been here ever since."
"He's moved up in the world, though," Burns said. "He's head of the whole shebang now."
"That's true. And of course he knew Street."
Burns thought again about the rifle.
"That's what I was afraid of," he said.
Burns went back to his office, intending to make a little list. He did not do so immediately, however. He could only stand in the office doorway and survey the damage.
It wasn't anyone's fault, really, except his own. He knew that. It was a character flaw that he had tried to correct but never could: he kept a really messy desk.
He didn't know why. It wasn't that he liked clutter, and in fact he often expressed admiration of the desks in the offices of his colleagues. They often had large areas of cleared space where the top of the desk could actually be seen, and the papers that were in sight were neatly stacked in what appeared to Burns's wondering eyes to be organized and orderly piles.
Burns's desktop was organized, too, but he was the only one who understood the organization. There were graded papers there, and papers yet to be graded. There were memos to be replied to and letters to be answered. There were textbooks to be read, and there were notes for his different classes.
These things were not necessarily in orderly stacks, however, and the system drove Rose crazy. She liked to do her job and to do it right, and she believed that her job included dusting the office furniture. In every office. Including Burns's office.
She managed to restrain herself most of the time, but every so often, say once a month or so, she could stand it no longer and she dusted Burns's desk. To do so, she had to move everything on it, and she could never put it back exactly where it should have been. It usually took him a couple of days to set things right.
Obviously, Rose had been in while he was gone. The desktop was neater than he ever left it, the papers all in stacks, the letters neatly arranged, the memos separated from the letters. Burns knew that he should have simply said something to Rose, but he didn't have the nerve.
Still, there was something that was not quite right about the neatness. It was not exactly Rose's kind of neatness.
Burns never locked his office door; he never even closed it until, he left in the afternoon. It would have been easy for anyone to walk in and go through everything there.
Maybe he was wrong. He would ask Rose later. Right now, he wanted to make his list.
It wasn't very long. It contained only names: Clem Nelson, Miss Darling, Abner Swan, Mary Winsor, Dick Hayes, and Don Elliott. Mr. Fairly's name was on it, too, but there was a question mark after it. Burns doubted that Street had even known Fairly. He would find out, though. He was going to talk to the people on the list. No matter what Napier might think about his doing so.
He looked out the window. The pigeon was still on the ledge, so he reluctantly picked up the phone to call Clarice Bond.
Chapter 11
Burns had no sooner hung up from his singularly uncommunicative conversation with Clarice about the pigeon than the phone rang, startling him. By that time of the afternoon, Main was virtually deserted, and he rarely got any calls after one o'clock. He was sure that it couldn't be good news.
He was right. It was Miller's secretary, informing him that Miller wanted to talk to him. In person. At once.
> Burns sighed and hung up.
The HGC administration was currently ensconced in an old warehouse, where their offices had been moved after the fire that destroyed the former Administration Building the previous year. Most of the warehouse was given over to the maintenance crew, and Burns caught a glimpse of Mr. Fairly sitting at his desk and discussing something with Clarice Bond.
Dead pigeons, probably, Burns thought, and then wondered what kind of discussion anyone could have with Clarice.
Miller's office was at the back of the warehouse, and like all the others had his name written on a white card taped to the door. Burns thought that the administrators should have plastic signs made, like the one in the History lounge, but the offices were supposed to be merely temporary.
He tapped on the door and entered. Miller's secretary, who had replaced the former president's, was a rather severe young woman. Burns thought of her as looking something like Marilyn Quayle.
"Dr. Miller is expecting you," she said, and Burns went on past her and into the president's inner sanctum.
Whereas Dr. Rogers's office in the Administration Building had been decorated with pictures of Rogers shaking hands with famous men and women, Dr. Miller had his own style. The walls of his office had recently been paneled with a light-toned wood, but they were not hung with pictures. His diplomas were there, however, along with all kinds of other framed documents informing whoever was interested that Miller was an Outstanding Educator of the South, and Outstanding Young Man of America, and a member in good standing of the Rotary Club. He had honorary degrees from two universities, and he had received an honorable discharge from the United States Army.
Against one wall there was a bookcase filled with volumes of history, the discipline Miller had studied as an undergraduate and graduate student. Burns thought he caught a glimpse of Street's books sandwiched in among studies of the Gilded Age and the robber barons.
Miller was sitting at his desk writing something on the school's letterhead. He looked up at Burns.
"This business with Street is not good for the school from a public relations standpoint," the president said. "I can't imagine what could be worse."
Burns could. Elmore had been worse, for example, even before he died, and of course his murder had generated a bit of unwanted publicity. But that had been mostly local; the story had a brief play in the papers around the state and then died down. The murder of a best-selling writer, however, was another story.
"We're going to be on the CBS Evening News," Miller said. "Your seminar has really gotten us in a mess.
Burns wanted to scream "My seminar?" at the top of his lungs, but he knew better than to do it. He didn't say anything, just stood there and looked at Miller.
"Sit down, sit down," Miller said.
Burns sat in a worn armchair that looked as if it had come from one of Fox's garage sales. It didn't seem to sit level, but that might have been because of the floor.
"Something's got to be done," Miller said. "And you've got to do it."
"The police chief warned me to stay out of it," Burns said, though he knew that wasn't strictly true. He didn't even know exactly why he said it, since both Miller—and Napier in his own way—seemed to be asking him to do exactly what he really wanted to do, namely, to snoop around. He didn't want to have any actual responsibility, however. Maybe that was why he was hesitant to commit himself.
"The police chief doesn't run this school," Miller said. "It's not his a—his rear-end that's on the line. You've done this kind of thing before, as I understand it."
"That was more or less an accident," Burns said truthfully, wondering who had been tattling to Miller. He had enjoyed playing his part in the investigation of Elmore's murder, however. Probably he had read too much Ross Macdonald.
"I don't give a hoot in he—hoot whether it was an accident or not," Miller said. His face was getting red, and Burns wondered if the poor man had a heart condition or suffered from high blood pressure. "I want you to get to the bottom of this, Burns. You can be sure that everyone on campus will cooperate with you. The sooner this is over and forgotten, the better."
Burns wanted to say he'd love to do it, but still he hesitated. It wasn't the danger. He already had a broken nose, after all.
"I'm not sure I want to pry in the personal lives of my friends," he said.
"Well, you'd better want to," Miller said. "English teachers are a dime a dozen, Burns."
There it was, the barely veiled threat. Burns had hoped that Miller would be above that sort of thing. Even Elmore, whom Burns had detested, would never have stooped to indirect threats. No, Elmore had always been much more direct.
"Naturally, I'll be glad to ask a few questions, if you think it's for the good of the school," Burns said.
"That's better," Miller said, some of the redness fading from his face. "I'll expect you to report your findings directly to me. Keep me posted every day. More often than that if you find anything out. And if anyone refuses to cooperate, just let me know."
"What about Boss Napier?" Burns asked.
"I told you, Burns, Napier does not run this college. Our duty is first to HGC and then to the community."
Burns wondered what Street would think about that. He said, "I'll have to let Napier know if I find anything out. I believe he would insist on it."
"You tell me first," Miller said. His Chamber of Commerce demeanor was not holding up well in his first big crisis.
"All right," Burns said, crossing his fingers. He would much rather cross his fingers than to cross Boss Napier. Napier might play with toy soldiers, but Burns had still not ruled out the bullwhip.
"Fine," Miller said. "I'm glad we've come to an understanding." He turned back to the letter he had been writing.
Burns got up to go and shot another quick look at the bookcase. Street's books were there, all right, and Burns was certain that he could see on the bottom of the spine the spots where the library's call numbers had once been stuck.
Burns's car was parked on the street in front of Main, so he walked back toward the building. It was too late to go back to the office, and he did not have any papers to grade, so he decided to go on home. Catch the CBS Evening News.
He thought about the two books he had seen on Miller's shelves. It was possible that he could be wrong. It was hard to be certain from a distance that the spines were marred, but he would have given a pretty penny to see the pages of the books. If the books were indeed the ones that had until recently been in the HGC library, Miller was trying the old "Purloined Letter" gambit, but it wasn't going to work, not with keen-eyed private eye Carl Burns on the case.
And that is precisely what I am, Burns thought. A private eye, although not in possession of a license, engaged by the school's president to solve a crime.
Burns enjoyed mystery novels, particularly the stories of Lew Archer and Philip Marlowe and Nero Wolfe. He had sometimes in his private fantasies pictured himself as Archie Goodwin reporting to Wolfe as the great man lay in bed, his one-seventh of a ton reclining in yellow pajamas. But he had never really thought he would find himself to be an actual investigator. In the case of Elmore's death, he had been regarded by Napier as more of a nuisance than anything else, though Burns, not Napier, had been the one to come up with the solution.
He realized that he was also in a position of dubious legality, but so long as he did no more than snoop around the campus, Napier probably wouldn't care. He had seemed to be asking for some help himself. Perhaps he had recognized Burns's great investigative skills and—
Burns shut down that line of thought. No need to get carried away. He had gotten lucky once, and he had almost gotten himself killed in the bargain. This time, he was going to watch his step.
His path to Main took him by the Journalism Building, which Burns suspected had once been an Army barracks. At least that was what it looked like, a long wooden building painted white, with the words "JOURNALISM, HGC," painted on the side. Beneath them there was a d
rawing of something that was supposed to represent a panther but that looked to Burns a lot more like a domestic house cat with long fangs.
Burns knew that of all the faculty members, Mary Winsor put in the longest hours. She was probably still in her office. If he was going to play private eye, he might as well get started.
He mounted the wooden steps, shaded by an enormous old elm tree, and entered the building. The barracks, if that was what it had been, was now divided into several parts. At one end, to Burns's left, was Mary's office. To his right were two more offices, much smaller ones, and a classroom. There was also a classroom behind the wall in front of him. That was the room where the journalism students, what few of them there were, put the school's publications together.
There wasn't much going on since it was a Monday and the school paper did not appear until Friday. In fact, there were no students in sight. But the door to Mary's office was open, so Burns walked in.
The office was quite large. Besides Mary's desk it contained two bookshelves, a wicker sofa and two wicker chairs, and stacks of old yearbooks and newspapers. There was even a pallid bust of Pallas, on a water-stained wooden stand. Or maybe it was Diana or Hera for all Burns knew. The wicker furniture was old. The cushions were faded and the paint was peeling off the wickerwork. There were colorful afghans that Mary had knitted herself tossed on the backs of the chairs and the sofa. She probably owned the furniture, just as Clem probably owned hers.
Mary was behind the desk. She was a small woman who always looked harried. Her clothes never fit her quite right, and her hair was never under complete control. There was always a stray curl or sprig of gray sticking up in the air or out to the side. She was the kind of woman things happened to.
There were just people like that, Burns thought, and Mary happened to be one of them. She got all the strange students, for one thing.
