by Crider, Bill
"It wasn't my idea," Burns said.
"Of course it was. Who else but an English teacher would want a man like that to come here and fill the ears of anyone who would listen with salacious filth?"
"What?"
"Oh, you don't have to look at me that way. I know the kind of works you discuss in your classes, things by atheists like Shelley and libertines like Byron. Stories by Catholics, like that O'Connor woman, and stories that use the worst kind of language. What must our students think? What will they become?"
"I don't know," Burns said. "Do you think they might fool around with their choir directors?"
Swan looked at Burns with pity. "Oh, yes, that's always the way. Proclaim me a sinner, though my sins are long forgiven, unlike yours. You are the one who brought that man here, and therefore you're responsible for his death."
"I didn't kill him," Burns pointed out. "I thought maybe you did."
Swan stood up. "How dare you suggest such a thing! I tried to keep him away! I—"
He stopped, knowing he had said too much.
"That's all right," Burns said. "I had you figured for the letter to the newspaper. There wasn't a word of truth in it, was there?"
Swan slumped into his chair. "No, it wasn't true. I made it up. How could you have known I sent it?"
"A man's character is his fate," Burns said.
"That's not Biblical," Swan said.
"No, but it has a certain ring to it. Look, Abner, I don't care now if you wrote Duncan that letter. I just want to find out who killed him and Street."
"I didn't do that," Swan said. There was something in his tone that indicated he wasn't terribly sorry that Street, anyhow, was dead.
"I didn't think you did," Burns said. "People who resort to writing letters and making phone calls usually don't have the guts to kill anyone or do anything else that requires a face-to-face meeting."
"What do you mean about phone calls?" Swan asked.
"Never mind." Burns got up to leave, but when he got to the door he turned back. "Speaking of phone calls, did Street call you after that dinner the other night?"
"Yes," Swan admitted. "But I wouldn't talk to him. I hung up on him. I didn't have to listen to his abuse if he didn't have the nerve to face me."
Burns was disgusted. "It figures," he said. He went out into the hall.
"I'll pray for you, Burns," Swan called after him.
"Don't bother," Burns said.
Burns stopped by the library after leaving Swan's office. Elaine was sitting at her desk, looking at her trophies.
"Did you get things organized in the stacks?" Burns asked.
Elaine smiled. She had a wide, generous mouth. "Yes, finally. It wasn't too bad, really. How's the nose?"
Burns reached up and touched it. "Fine. I hardly notice it now." In fact, it wasn't bothering him at all. His head was still sore where he had banged it on the tractor seat, but he wasn't going to mention that.
"R. M. called me this morning," Elaine said.
"Who's R. M.?" Burns asked.
"Chief Napier," she answered, looking at him as if he were stupid. "He doesn't go by his name, just the initials."
"I see," Burns said. R. M.? He didn't like this at all. "What did he want?"
"He just wanted to ask me a few more questions about what happened in the stacks. He thinks he's close to cracking the case."
"Cracking the case?"
"That's police talk. About the attack on you here in the library. Anyway, he said he wanted to come by and talk to me about it some more this afternoon."
"He wants to come by?"
Elaine looked concerned. "Are you sure you're all right? You keep repeating things."
"I'm fine," Burns said, hardly believing what was going on. What a rat Napier was! He would never have suspected the chief of being a Don Juan. More questions about the incident in the stacks, indeed. The very idea! Burns had "cracked the case" of the library attack last night. All Boss Napier wanted was to see Elaine again. Burns didn't tell her that, however. He would talk it over with Napier, instead.
"You're certainly quiet," Elaine said.
"I was just thinking about the case," Burns said.
"I'm sure you don't need to worry about it. R. M. is certain he knows who was behind it."
"Did he tell you who that was?"
"No. He said that he might have to keep it a secret, since the perp might be involved in other aspects of the case."
"The perp?"
"You're repeating things again."
"I just wondered if that was more police talk," Burns said.
"Oh. Yes. It means perpetrator, I believe."
"Thanks. Well, I have to go talk to someone." Burns wanted to scream, but he kept himself under control. "Are you still going to the game on Saturday?"
"Sure. I'm looking forward to it."
"Me, too," Burns said, but somehow he wasn't looking forward to it as much as he had been.
Burns passed several people on his way to the warehouse, students and faculty alike, but he merely waved to them and went on. His mind was occupied with thoughts of Elaine and Boss Napier. He wasn't jealous, he told himself, but somehow he wished he hadn't found out that Napier was a real human being who collected toys and painted miniature figures. Thinking of him as a lout made it easier to hate him.
When he reached the warehouse, Burns went inside and looked around. Things looked different with the lights on, and he could see the lawn mower he had fallen on. It was bright red. And he hadn't hit his head on the seat, which was padded. He had probably hit it on the steering wheel or the shift lever.
He went into Fairly's office. Clarice Bond was at her desk.
"C'n he'p ya?"
Burns had talked to Clarice enough to know that she had asked if she could help him. "I'd like to talk to Mr. Fairly."
She looked up at him, the fluorescent lights reflecting off her glasses. "'es' inair."
"He's in there?" Burns asked, gesturing toward the inner office door.
"'s'wat sed."
"That's what you said."
"'s'wat sed."
Burns gave it up and went into the other office. Fairly was at his desk, looking at something that might have been a master plan of the campus.
"Hello, Dr. Burns," he said, laying the plan aside. He had a deep, gravelly voice that seemed somehow to go with his widow's peak. "Having any more trouble with the pigeons?"
"Now that you mention it, no," Burns said. "But haven't you been listening to the radio or reading the papers?"
Fairly looked sheepish. "Yes, I have. I'm really sorry about that. I didn't know any of that would happen. I guess I underestimated the number of pigeons, not to mention the effects of the poison."
"What about shooting them?" Burns said. "Wasn't that awfully dangerous, too?"
"You know about that?"
"I heard you up there. And I saw you and your son coming down from the attic."
"Well, that wasn't really dangerous," Fairly said. "It was just my son's .22 rifle."
"I read once that a .22 bullet can carry for miles."
"That may be true," Fairly said. "But he wasn't using bullets. He was using birdshot. It probably wouldn't even break the windows."
Burns thought about that. It sounded logical.
"It wasn't efficient, though," Fairly went on. "He killed a few, but it was too dark to see well, even with the light we carried up there. So I tried the poison."
"That certainly seems to have worked," Burns said.
"Yep. But we'll have to go back and carry off the carcasses."
Burns was glad that was going to be taken care of. "About the windows, . . ." he said.
"We'll fix those, too. Maybe not put in new glass, but we'll nail some tin over the openings."
That would work better than cardboard, Burns thought. "Is anyone going to tell the city council or the police about whose fault all the dead birds are?"
Fairly seemed embarrassed. "No, I guess not. I m
entioned it to Dr. Miller, but he said the school had already had enough bad publicity. Anyway, the worst is over."
Well, maybe no one would find out, Burns thought. "I'd like to ask you a few things about Edward Street," he said, changing the subject.
"A fine man," Fairly said. "I owe a lot to that man."
Burns was stunned. "Do you mind if I sit down?" he said.
"Of course not," Fairly said.
Burns sat in an old chair stuffed with what might have been horsehair and covered with cracking leather. "You liked Street?"
It was Fairly's turn to look surprised. "Didn't everyone? He was a great guy. Got me out of a tough situation. I could've lost my job."
"I heard about that. How did he manage it?"
"President Rogers liked him. He knew Speed was working on a book. Speed told him that if he finished the book, the school would be famous. So Rogers didn't fire him. And Speed was right about the book."
"Speed?"
"That's what he liked for me to call him. He was a track star one time."
"I know," Burns said, still amazed. "And he never asked you for anything, never wanted a favor in return for saving your job?"
"Nope. Not a thing. Like I said. He was a good guy."
Burns shook his head. This was as bad as finding out that Napier collected toys. It appeared that even Street had a human side.
"Did he ever mention his new book to you, the one he was working on?"
"I didn't know anything about any new book," Fairly said. "He called me the other night, just to say hello and talk about the old times for a minute. He was quite a guy."
For a minute, Burns thought that Fairly might be lying, but the man was so obviously sincere in his admiration for Street that Burns was convinced of his truthfulness.
"So he really did get you out of a jam?"
"He really did." Fairly looked around his office. "Believe me, Dr. Burns, I learned my lesson. I never took another hit. I don't even drink. Street saved my ass, and I never forgot it. You know what my kid's name is, the one with the .22 ?"
"No," Burns said. "What is it?"
Fairly smiled. "Edward," he said.
Burns left the warehouse more puzzled than before. He had talked to a lot of people, all of whom had at least a slight motive for killing Edward Street, with the exception of Fairly, who really seemed to believe that Street was a wonderful fellow.
Yet Burns couldn't seem to find any convincing evidence that the other people he had talked to were guilty of murder. How did the police do it? he wondered. They gathered evidence, of course, which consisted of a lot more than talking to people, but how did they know what evidence to gather?
He had confronted just about everyone except for Mary Winsor and Miss Darling. He would try Mary again, and then Miss Darling, if she was still on campus. He didn't put much hope in catching either one of them out, but Mary had not told him about her affair. Obviously she had something to hide.
One of the people he had talked to must have committed the murder. That much he was sure of. All he had to do was decide which one it was, then call in Napier.
Napier. That snake! Sam Smooth, that was what he was, though you would never guess it to look at him. Burns wanted to talk to Napier, all right, and he had more to talk about than murder. What right did he have to horn in on Elaine, the first eligible woman to show up at HGC in what seemed like forever? Just thinking about it made Burns angry.
But how could he confront the chief of police? After all, Napier probably thought he had just as much right to chat up an eligible female as Burns did. It wasn't easy being a bachelor in Pecan City, as Burns well knew.
At any rate, facing up to Napier would have to wait. Burns had to talk to Mary Winsor first. Maybe he would solve the murder, and then Napier would be too busy following up on the investigation to bother Elaine.
Burns fervently hoped so.
Chapter 17
Burns thought he was doing pretty well so far, all things considered. He had found out who sent the letter to Duncan, and he had found out who had stolen the books from the library. He also knew who had broken his nose and how the library books had gotten defaced.
That was all to the good. But he still had no idea who had killed Street. And he had been shot at, besides getting his nose broken. He couldn't recall that Philip Marlowe ever got a broken nose.
Mary Winsor was reading a student-written article when Burns walked in her office. "Why doesn't anyone use apostrophes anymore?" she asked him.
"I don't know," Burns answered. "For that matter, why doesn't anyone put a comma after the name of a state when the name of the town is used?"
"Maybe it doesn't matter," Mary said, laying the paper aside. "Have you found out anything more about Edward?"
"A little," Burns said. "You knew him pretty well, didn't you?"
Mary looked at him sharply. "Innuendo doesn't become you, Carl."
"I apologize. I didn't know how to bring it up."
"That's all right. I really shouldn't be so snappish. It's just that I ran out of gas on the way to school today and had to walk several blocks carrying a gas can. The gas gauge in my car doesn't work, you know."
"No, I didn't know," he said, though he certainly was not surprised. "Ah, do you mind if we talk about Street instead of your car?"
"I'm sorry. I wasn't changing the subject deliberately. No. I don't mind if we talk about Edward. What did you want to know."
"About . . . well, about . . . ." Burns stopped. He didn't know how to put it. Obviously he wasn't as tough as he thought he was.
"You've probably heard that old rumor about my having had an affair with him. Isn't that it? You don't have to be afraid of saying it."
"That's it, then," Burns said.
"You shouldn't let things like that bother you so much, Carl. Besides, there's no truth in the rumor. Well, maybe a little."
"What do you mean?"
"You know what this place is like as well as anyone. Every day there's a new rumor about something or someone. It's a small community, and we don't have much to talk about, so we talk about each other."
That much was certainly true, Burns knew. He was beginning to see a pattern here, like one of his lists. Dick Hayes had denied everything, blaming Street's story on rumor and misinterpretation of facts. Swan had not denied anything, but the offense Hayes mentioned had occurred before Swan had ever come to work at HGC and the rumor had never affected him or his work at the college. And now Mary was telling Burns that the story about her and Street had been exaggerated.
"There was nothing to that story about Hayes killing his wife, either," Burns said.
"I never really thought there was. I shouldn't have mentioned it."
"Don't worry. He's the one who mentioned you and Street. Why didn't you bring it up, by the way?"
"I really wasn't trying to hide anything. I just didn't think it was important. I can see why you might think it would be, though."
"Did Street call you after the dinner to remind you of that old rumor?"
Mary nodded. "Yes, he did. I told him that he should be ashamed of himself, but that he could put whatever he wanted in his new book. No one would ever believe that I had an affair with him."
"But you did say there was a little bit of truth in the story," Burns reminded her. "How much is a little?"
"Not much. Edward was young, but he was already arrogant, and he liked to talk about himself. The funny thing was that he never really trusted his own judgment about his writing. Because I'd written a few stories that were printed in the big-city papers, he asked me to look over some of the early drafts of Dying Voices."
"And did you?"
"Yes. But he didn't want anyone to know he was asking for my help. We used to meet here in this very office in the late afternoons. Someone saw him leaving one day, and that was all it took. It was all over campus by morning."
"That's all there is to it?"
"You've heard of Caesar's wife?"
&n
bsp; "Yes," Burns said.
"As faculty members at HGC, we, too, had to be above suspicion. In those days, girls going to gym class had to wear raincoats over their gym shorts. Men were not allowed to wear shorts on campus. PDA was forbidden on campus. In other words, President Rogers ran a tight ship."
"Or seemed to," Burns said, thinking about Hayes and Fairly. "What's PDA?"
"'Public displays of affection.' You could be 'campused' if you got too many marks against you for PDA."
"What does that mean?"
"Campused? It means you were restricted to the dorm."
"That was before my time here, thank goodness," Burns said. "It's too bad Rogers didn't avoid private displays of his own."
Mary knew what Burns meant. "Yes, it is too bad. Anyway, he called me into his office and gave me quite a reading out. I convinced him that nothing was going on, though." She looked at Burns. "I suppose the story's improved over the years."
"I didn't get the improved version," Burns said. "Anyway, I don't guess it would be worth killing anyone for."
"No. I was rather flattered, actually. I told Edward that when he called."
"What did he say?" Burns asked.
"He seemed disappointed. I think he was just trying to create a disturbance. He always did enjoy being the center of attention."
Burns thought she was probably right. He had not known Street for very long, but he seemed the kind of man who loved a disturbance. He had certainly gone out of his way to create one at the dinner, and the letters he had sent were another effort in the same direction. Burns wondered if the man were so insecure in his fame that he felt it necessary to assure himself that it existed by belittling those who had not achieved it for themselves. Maybe he felt that he had become a success only through good luck and constantly had to prove to himself that he was really where he was. Somehow, Burns didn't envy him any longer.
"In other words, you think he was just a lot of hot air?"
"That's right," Mary said. "I can't imagine why anyone would want to kill him for that."
For the life of him, Burns couldn't imagine why, either.
