The Ancient Nine

by Ian K. Smith, M. D.

  “I just got home from the Crimson,” I said. I looked at the clock on my nightstand. It was a little past one. I hadn’t realized it was that late when I left Stromberger. We talked for about an hour before I left. She turned out to be a lot more interesting than I had expected. We talked sports, movies, campus politics, and agreed that it was strange the Crimson hadn’t run more stories on Abbott’s disappearance.

  “I’ve been calling you for the last two hours,” Dalton said. “I found the damn article and almost got my ID taken away in the process, but that’s another story.”

  “Someone followed me from Widener to the Crimson,” I said.

  “Followed you? Why the hell would someone do that? You’re tired. Your imagination is on overload.”

  “I know what I saw. I’m not crazy. The guy followed me out the Yard and toward the Square. Just to see if it was real, I quickly turned around and started heading back toward the Crimson, and he was right behind me. I turned down Plympton, sprinted to the Crimson, and hid behind a dumpster. A few seconds later, he was standing across the street. This guy was definitely following me.”

  “Jesus Christ! Did you get a good look at his face?”

  “Not really. It was too dark, and he was across the street. He was white, wearing a plain baseball cap and wire-rimmed glasses, and was at least my height. That’s all I could see from where I was.”

  “Did he do anything?”

  “He looked up and down the street, then just stood there and stared at the Crimson. He took out a pad and wrote something down. Then he turned and walked away.”

  “Really weird,” Dalton said. “It’s late and we’re both tired. Maybe you just thought he was following you, but was doing something else.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Anyway, which paper had the article?”

  “The Boston Evening Transcript. It was written by some reporter named Archibald Fleming. This guy must’ve really done his homework. He had a lot of sources and knew a lot about the clubs, stuff only someone on the inside would know.”

  “You think he talked to some of the members?”

  “He must’ve. Abbott had been planning for a long time to break into the Delphic to find this secret room everyone was talking about. Several guys had tried the year before, but got caught by the club steward before they made it into the club’s main rooms.”

  “Was Abbott part of that group?”

  “It didn’t say. Everyone figured those guys were from another club like the Pork or Spee.”

  “Was Abbott a member of a club?”

  “Nope. He had been punched by the Fly as a sophomore, but didn’t get in. Halloween night, a bunch of guys were eating dinner at Quincy, and Abbott announced he was breaking into the Delphic to find the secret room. He asked if anyone at the table wanted to go with him.”

  “And they all wimped out,” I said.

  “Everyone except for a guy named Kelton Dunhill. He lived down the hall from Abbott and was on the wrestling team.”

  “Holy shit!” I said. “I got the same name. There were three articles in the Crimson, two from November of ’27 and one from May of ’28. Dunhill was mentioned in the third article.”

  “Did they have all the other stuff I found?”

  “No, the last article just had a quote from Dunhill saying Abbott was planning to hit the Delphic on Halloween night.”

  “Well, Fleming wrote a lot more. He said Dunhill actually walked up to the Gas with Abbott just after midnight.”

  “Dunhill went in with him?”

  “No, Dunhill got cold feet at the last minute and left.”

  “Did he know if Abbott made it in?”

  “That’s where the article comes up short. It places Dunhill at the clubhouse, but it doesn’t say if he actually saw Abbott enter.”

  “Something’s not adding up,” I said. “You have a kid from a very prominent family who suddenly disappears, and only three articles appear in the student newspaper?”

  “And no mention of culpability or lawsuits,” Dalton said. “How un-American. It’s like everyone just accepted the guy disappeared, then announced him dead when they figured enough time had passed and they were ready to move on. It doesn’t make sense at all.”

  We paused and rolled things over in our minds. “So, you think Abbott could’ve seen or heard something he wasn’t supposed to?” Dalton finally said.

  “That’s what I’m thinking,” I said. “And someone from the Delphic decided to keep him quiet. Permanently. Remember the words on that garter.”

  “Serva Sodalitatem,” Dalton said. “Protect the brotherhood.”

  “That’s right. And maybe the brotherhood decided Abbott had become a liability, so he conveniently disappeared.”

  “Sounds pretty good, Spense, but there’s just one problem.”

  “Which is?”

  “We don’t even know if the Ancient Nine were even around back then.”

  “That’s why we need to track down Kelton Dunhill.”

  “How the hell are we gonna do that?”

  “Pick up the phone and call him.” I took out the entry I had copied. “Mr. Kelton Dunhill now lives in the Thompson Home for the Aging in Miami. I got his address and phone number from an alumni directory over at the Crimson.”

  “Nice work, Spense. We’ll call him first thing tomorrow. Hopefully he still has his marbles and can talk to us. He must be closing in on eighty by now.”

  “He’s probably one of the only guys still alive who remembers what happened that night,” I said. “Unless you can squeeze something out of Uncle Randolph, Kelton Dunhill is probably our only shot.”

  * * *

  DALTON CAME OVER TO my room the next morning since Percy left earlier with Hartman to attend some singing retreat up in the Berkshires.

  “Who’s gonna do the talking?” Dalton said, sitting on our couch, flipping the remote in his hands. Dalton always liked to flip things. If it wasn’t a remote or football, it was a pillow or book. Anything to keep his hands occupied.

  “Maybe you should do the talking,” I said. “You sound more like an innocent college student.”

  Dalton wasn’t fooled for a second. “You mean I sound white, and he’s less likely to hang up on me because of that.”

  “Close enough,” I conceded.

  “That’s fair. Let’s talk strategy before we call. What do we want to accomplish?”

  “We want him to tell us everything he remembers about that night,” I said. “He must know something. Fleming had him not only at dinner with Abbott, but at the Delphic the night of the disappearance as well.”

  “What if the guy has Alzheimer’s?” Dalton said. “More and more old people are coming down with it. So, let’s say Dunhill is half out of his mind, then what?”

  “I don’t know. I guess we’re at a dead end. Maybe see if he kept a journal or something that we can look at.”

  “Sounds good,” Dalton said. “What if he wants to know why I’m asking all these questions?”

  “You’ll figure something out. You’re the king of bullshit.”

  Dalton flipped the remote a few more times, then said, “All right, what the hell, let’s give it a try.”

  I put the phone on the table between us, hit the speaker button, and dialed. A woman answered on the third ring.

  “I’m looking for Mr. Kelton Dunhill,” Dalton said in his most official tone.

  “Is this business or personal?”

  Dalton looked at me. I mouthed the word personal. “Personal issue, ma’am,” he said, keeping his voice low and steady.

  “Are you on his call list?”

  Dalton shrugged his shoulders at me and said, “No, but I’m sure he’d want to take this call.”

  “Your name, sir?”

  “Dalton Winthrop from Harvard College. I’m calling Mr. Dunhill about an important school matter.”

  “Is this a solicitation, sir?”

  “Not at all. This is for something completely different. We�
��re bouncing around the idea of honoring him at one of the reunions.”

  The absolute king of bullshit.

  “That’s such a nice gesture,” the operator said. “Mr. Dunhill could use something like that to lift his spirits. What did you say your name was?”

  “Dalton Winthrop, class of ’91.”

  “One moment, Mr. Winthrop.”

  Classical music blared from the telephone while Dalton and I exchanged high fives. “So far, so good,” I whispered, feeling a surge of adrenaline.

  “This is Kelton Dunhill.” The music was gone, and the deep voice boomed over the intercom. “What can I do you for?” Dunhill growled.

  “Good morning, sir. My name is Dalton Winthrop, class of ’91. Thanks for taking my call.”

  “What do you want, Winthrop?”

  Dunhill was nothing like we had expected. His voice was clear and strong, and he sounded like he could’ve been sixty instead of eighty and ready to go about five rounds without gloves.

  “I was doing some research, sir, and came across your name in one of the archived articles,” Dalton said. “I found your contact information, so I figured I’d give you a call.”

  “What articles were you reading?”

  “The articles about Erasmus Abbott, class of ’28. I was hoping—”

  There was a loud sound, then silence.

  “Mr. Dunhill?” No answer. “Mr. Dunhill, are you there?” Dalton looked at me. I shrugged my shoulders.

  “What the hell just happened?” Dalton said.

  “He obviously didn’t like what you said and hung up.”

  “Maybe we just got disconnected.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Let’s call him back.”

  “He’s not gonna speak to you, Dalton.”

  “He’ll talk to me,” Dalton said. “Dial the goddamn number.”

  I dialed the number again. The same lady answered the phone. She put him right through to Dunhill’s line. The old curmudgeon picked up on the first ring as if he knew Dalton would call back.

  “Dunhill here.”

  “Mr. Dunhill, it’s Dalton Winthrop again. Sorry we got disconnected.”

  “We didn’t get disconnected,” Dunhill roared back. “I hung up the damn phone, and I’ll do it again!”

  “Please don’t do that, sir. I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions. It won’t take much of your time.”

  “At my age, I got all the damn time in the world, but I still have nothing to say about Erasmus Abbott or anything connected to his death.”

  “But you said something to Archibald Fleming.”

  “That was a long time ago, and it was a mistake. I regret I even spoke to that little weasel. You damn reporters are all the same. You take the information people give you and twist it to fit the angle of your story. Objective journalism, my ass!”

  “I’m not a reporter, sir. I’m just a student.”

  “What the hell does a student care about a story like this? It’s been more than fifty-odd years since all that happened.”

  “It’s just one of those stories you hear about, but can’t believe,” Dalton said. “I was reading what little I could find about the case, and I was surprised at how the investigation seemed to stop so abruptly. I expected a missing student would be a pretty big deal back then, especially when it involved such a prominent family. But there wasn’t much coverage in the press. I just find the entire situation fascinating.”

  “Well, un-fascinate yourself, because I have nothing further to say on the telephone,” Dunhill said. “If you’re really a student and not some reporter posing as one, and you want to talk to me, then present yourself in person. Once I can make you out, then we might have a little chat. Any other arrangement you might be after, you can forget about it. Face-to-face and nothing else.”

  Dalton looked at me. I shrugged my shoulders. “When would you like me to present myself, sir?” Dalton said.

  “Whenever you want. I’m always here.”

  “Would you mind if I brought a classmate with me?”

  “As you see fit.”

  “Thanks for your time, Mr. Dunhill.”

  “See ya around, Winthrop.”

  And with that, Kelton Dunhill ended the call. Dalton and I sat there for a moment and stared at each other in disbelief.

  Dalton smiled. “I hope you haven’t put away your swimming trunks for the winter. This weekend, we’re heading to Miami.”

  10

  TWO DAYS LATER, I was cursing Harvey “C Minus” Mettendorf as I walked up the back steps of the Coop, Harvard’s famed bookstore that anchors the center of the Square. During some lapse of sanity, I decided to take a philosophy course taught by Mettendorf, a renowned professor in the government department who had been on the faculty for almost thirty years and for every one of those years at the center of some type of controversy. Whether it was baiting the Vietnam protesters in the sixties or criticizing the university’s efforts at recruiting more minorities and women, Mettendorf used his esteemed tenured position to incite and injure, worrying little about those he harmed, instead finding immense joy in the number of victories he amassed in his ideological wars.

  I took Mettendorf’s course for two reasons. First, it was the Harvard thing to do. There was an unofficial short list of important professors and courses known throughout the student body. These internationally acclaimed thought leaders, whether you agreed with them or not, were considered to be an integral part of the Harvard experience and essential to a student’s intellectual growth while being schooled in the great Harvard halls.

  The second reason I subjected myself to the taunts of this ornery spitfire was to prove something to myself. Mettendorf’s middle initial was C, which had been quickly turned into C minus for his notorious hard grading and reputation of giving out more C minuses than any professor in Harvard’s history. Mettendorf was convinced that Harvard suffered from escalating grade inflation despite evidence to the contrary, so he dug in his heels and fought against the tide by giving out grades that sent the ultracompetitive summa cum laudes to University Health Services on the verge of nervous breakdowns.

  So, this is why I was cursing “C Minus Mettendorf” as I trudged up the back steps of the Coop. He had already assigned us three books for the semester, and we had just learned he added another to the list—Kant’s Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals. Not exactly beach reading. With my budget for the semester already stretched, I resorted to the “used texts” section of the store, which some considerate soul was kind enough to set up near a back staircase so financially challenged students could sneak into the discount section and quickly disappear without being noticed by our classmates.

  But my cursing of “C Minus” didn’t last very long that afternoon. Standing in front of the secondhand philosophy shelf, thumbing through a paperback, was Ashley Garrett from the Eliot House dining hall. Gone were the crimson uniform and baseball cap. She wore a pair of jeans that hugged her every curve and a tapered suede coat that couldn’t have hung more perfectly.

  “Ashley,” I said as I approached.

  She looked up from the book she was reading and said, “Mr. Cocky Harvard Man.” Then she went back to the book.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “What does it look like I’m doing?” she said without looking up from her book.

  “My name is Spenser,” I said.

  “I’m overwhelmed,” she said, still flipping through the pages.

  As I got closer, I noticed she was thumbing through Locke’s Second Treatise of Government.

  “Locke’s Second Treatise,” I said. “That’s some pretty heavy reading.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she said, cutting her eyes at me and making me feel three inches tall.

  “I’m just saying that Locke isn’t … well, I’ve read that book and … there’s a lot of information that…”

  “Spit it out,” she said.

  “It’s
a tough book,” I stammered.

  “Go ahead, say what you’re thinking,” she said, planting a hand on her hip. “Why in the hell is the kitchen help reading John Locke?”

  That’s exactly what I was thinking, but I shook my head in deep protest. She closed the book, then pulled another off the shelf—Rousseau’s Social Contract.

  “How long have you been working at Eliot?” I asked.

  “That was a onetime gig, my first and hopefully last time.”

  “You quit?”

  “No, I’m a floater. I fill in wherever the supervisors need me for the night.”

  “Where do you work the most?”

  “I just started last month. They send me everywhere.”

  She went back to The Social Contract, and I went back to digging for some way to keep the conversation alive. Then out of nowhere, I asked, “Do you like homemade ice cream?”

  She looked at me as if I had three heads and said, “Relevance?”

  “Emack and Bolio’s in the Square is having a special for the rest of this week and next. Buy one cone, get the second free.”

  “Last of the big-time spenders,” she said. “You really know how to impress a girl.”

  “Why pass up a good deal?”

  “I have to get going. I have class in an hour.”

  “Where do you go to school?”

  “Far away from here, thank God.”

  “What’s the name?”

  “It doesn’t matter. You wouldn’t know it.”

  “Try me,” I said.

  She sighed, then said, “RCC.”

  I searched my brain like hell, praying I had heard of it. When I couldn’t come up with anything, I nodded my head and said, “Really good school.”

  “Bullshit,” she said. “It’s a community college. You need to work on your bluff, Harvard Man.” She started walking away.

  “What about the ice cream?” I said.

  “I like chocolate chip cookie dough,” she said. “In a waffle cone with rainbow sprinkles on one side and chocolate sprinkles on the other.”

  That afternoon I sneaked down the back stairs with two used books and a big smile on my face, grateful for the first time for Harvey “C Minus” Mettendorf.

  * * *