“I want to learn who the point guard on the women’s basketball team is this year.”
Griselda slowed the cart and stared at him. “Are you serious?”
“No.”
“Meaning you don’t want me to know why we’re going?”
“You will be with me all the time and will soon know as much as I do.”
“Fat chance.”
“Precisely.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean—”
“Always take credit for wit, whether intended or not.”
Roger hoped that he would not have to talk to Anthony. The secretary, Thelma, would do. As he understood it, she had been among the group Tom McTear had invited to the network apartment to watch a game in comfort. Perhaps she could give him Scott’s address so that he could arrange for a meeting without alarming Anthony. Scott put himself in the position of the aggrieved and his complaint was against Anthony who was unlikely to be a forthcoming font of information about his new-won foe.
Griselda rolled them right up to the door of the building and parked.
“I will be ticketed and towed.”
She shook her head. “They’ll figure it belongs to a banged-up jock.”
“Are athletes beyond the law?”
“Only in season.”
The glass double doors of the sports-information department slid aside at their approach and Roger waddled through, Griselda effectively concealed behind him. The girl at the receptionist desk looked up. Her eyes widened, her mouth opened, she raised a hand and lowered her glasses, she stared. Griselda came out from behind him.
“Thelma, this is Professor Knight.”
She lifted dreamily to her feet and held out a hand. “Oh, we’ve met.”
“So we have. I am as unlikely to have forgotten you.”
Her chin tucked in in doubt. “Me?”
Griselda said, “Do you have a chair? A large chair?”
The search for an adequate chair occupied the next few minutes. Finally, it was decided that Roger would be least uncomfortable in the armless chair that Thelma used, a secretary’s chair. Lowering himself tentatively into it, Roger judged that it would do, at least for the short time he was here. “I feel that I am perched on one of those things golf fans unfold.”
“Have you really come to see me?” Thelma said, obviously delighted to be at the center of all this fuss.
“I need your help. I believe you know Scott Frye.”
Thelma had sat upon her desk after surrendering her chair to Roger. Now she slid along it away from him. Her receptive manner gave way to a receptionist manner.
“Scott.”
“He works at a place called the Hoosier Residences.”
Thelma said nothing.
“Where Naomi McTear stayed. And her brother,” Griselda said.
“But why have you come here?”
“Oh, it’s probably only a baseless rumor. Scott came to my good friend Father Carmody saying that a book about the Tom McTear trial was being planned and I wanted to speak to him about it.”
“It is baseless. Scott couldn’t write his way out of a wet paper bag.”
“You’re sure of that?”
The door of Fred’s office opened and Anthony came out, preoccupied, papers fluttering in his hand. He stopped abruptly at the sight of Roger Knight. He looked at Thelma.
“Why don’t you help this gentleman, Anthony,” Thelma said. And to Roger, “We can wheel the chair right into that office.”
“Anything at all,” Anthony said, but he was puzzled, perhaps by the expression on Thelma’s face and her tone of voice. But the secretary came into the office too and so did Griselda. Anthony took the chair from behind the desk and rolled it free, perhaps not wanting to seem to usurp Fred’s office. The time for obliquity and indirection was past.
Roger said, “Your friend Scott Frye told Father Carmody that you have stolen an idea he had for a book about the McTear trial.”
“Stolen!” Thelma said. “How can you steal an idea?”
Roger nodded. “A good point. The sense in which our ideas are ours is unrelated to their content.”
Silence fell.
“Of course there can be ownership of a sort. Plagiarism is a case in point.”
Anthony was aroused. “It’s true that Scott and I talked about such a book. He seemed to think I would write it and he would get credit. Such a thought could occur to anyone but if they are unable to write how can they have a claim on it?”
“And you have claimed it?”
“I am giving serious consideration to writing such a book.”
“I can see the attraction of the idea,” Roger said. “Publishers seem drawn to such books, don’t they? Exposés, sensational treatments. I can also see why Father Carmody thinks the university would not be well-served by such a book.”
Thelma came around to face Roger. “Anyone could have that idea. Maybe others already have. The university can’t stop such a project.”
Roger looked up at her. “Are you involved in it too?”
She stepped back. She looked at Anthony. Anthony said, “If I go ahead it will be a joint product.”
“Ah.”
“Coauthors.”
Roger switched gears. He smiled at Thelma. “I really have to get a chair like this. It’s quite comfortable.” As if in proof he spun around. Griselda stopped him as if he were the great globe itself. He ended facing Anthony. “You must have given a lot of thought to recent events. Fred’s death, Naomi’s, the arrest of Tom McTear.”
“That will be the meat of the book.”
“Do you think Tom is guilty?”
“The book will follow the trial process. The jury will determine who did it. Or who they think did it. I suppose it could have been any number of people other than Tom McTear.”
“He did it,” Thelma said flatly.
Roger swung back to her. “It certainly looks that way, doesn’t it? I would hate to be his defense lawyer.”
“But what is punishment nowadays?” Anthony said.
Roger said, “For me, the mystery is how Tom McTear could have gotten into the apartment to poison the coffee in the cannister.”
“Maybe Fred let him in?”
Roger shook his head. “And left him alone to poison his coffee? If it was just his cup that had been poisoned, conceivably that could have been done surreptitiously. But the whole cannister?” Roger looked around as if in bewilderment. “Of course that begs the question of his getting in. He must have done it when Fred wasn’t there. In that way he could be far off when Fred made use of the poisoned coffee.”
Anthony nodded. “That is a problem.”
“Santander could have let him in,” Thelma said.
Anthony shook his head. “He would have mentioned that by now if he had.”
“It seems a small point,” Thelma said.
“He couldn’t have gotten at your keys,” Anthony said with a laugh.
“No way. He’s never been in the office so far as I know.”
“Your keys?”
“People leave keys to their homes and cars and apartments here with Thelma. In case of loss, so their mail can be taken in when they’re away, whatever.”
Roger nodded. “One theory is that he took the key from Naomi’s purse. After all, she must have had a key.”
Thelma grew animated. “How else could she have gotten into the apartment the other day?”
“That must be it.”
They ended on a happy note of agreement. Anthony accompanied them out to the golf cart, Thelma having repossessed her chair.
“It may fall through, you know. The book. It’s still just an idea an agent is trying to peddle. Tell Father Carmody that.”
“And to pray that the deal doesn’t go through?”
Anthony looked back at the closed double glass doors.
“As far as I’m concerned, I hope it doesn’t. I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize my position here.”
As they drove
away, Griselda said, “His position? He’s one rung above Thelma.”
“And what rung is hers?”
“The one below his.”
Roger said, “What got Mary Shuster off was the mug book of people in the administration, all rungs and ranks. There is one for the faculty too, and another for the chaired professors.”
“And one for the athletic department.”
“Do you have one?”
“I could get one.”
“Now?”
Griselda made a U-turn and headed back to the Joyce Center. Roger waited in the cart, his hood pulled over his head, while she went inside again. She hurried past the double doors of sports information and went out of sight. Five minutes later she was back.
“Got it. I assume you want to see my picture.”
“I hated to ask directly.”
She punched his arm. “Home?”
“Where is your car?”
“You want to go someplace else?”
“If you’ll take me.”
9
YOUNG JACUZZI IN THE prosecutor’s office was understandably affected by the attention the case against Tom McTear had attracted. The media were in from everywhere, some perhaps anxious to see a colleague fall, others more sympathetic, all intent on squeezing every last line, byte or footage from the events at the St. Joseph County Courthouse, Judge Jerry Frese presiding. Jacuzzi had made himself available to the press with a prodigality that had brought a rebuke from the judge.
“I know it’s old-fashioned, Graham, but I think courtrooms are where cases should be tried, not out on the steps. With all this snow and ice you might fall and break an arm.”
Laughter in the court. Maybe if judges learned how to express themselves otherwise than in multiply qualified sentences they would be interviewed more often themselves. Jacuzzi, a young man, did not question the desirability of exposure to the media. The fleeting fame associated with this seems timeless while it endures and second thoughts come afterward, if at all. Jacuzzi was not loath to suggest to the press that the case against McTear was a lock. Not even the laconic briefings of Jimmy Stewart raised doubt in his youthful mind.
“Of course it’s all circumstantial,” Stewart said, stopping Jacuzzi in full flight.
“You mean we don’t have video footage of him putting the poison in the coffee cannister?”
“Where did he get the poison? Did he buy it, did he steal it?”
“Aren’t the Chicago police looking into that?”
“In between more pressing duties. Don’t count on a bill of sale turning up. And of course there are no fingerprints of McTear anywhere in Fred Neville’s apartment.”
“Gloves.”
Stewart did not tell him that no prints of McTear had been found in the Hoosier Residence apartment where undoubtedly he had stayed. The cleanup crew there really cleaned up.
“Nor did anyone ever see him enter Fred’s apartment, let alone when Fred was missing from his office.”
Of course Jacuzzi had responses to all these. But his strategy was to fix in the jury’s mind that McTear had motive and opportunity and blur such difficulties as Stewart was raising.
“You think he’s innocent?”
Stewart said, “Guilty as sin.”
“So why are you giving me such a hard time?”
“I’m a Cubs fan.”
“You wouldn’t want a murderer doing play-by-play.”
Stewart let it go. “But your main problem will be how he got into the building in the first place.”
“With a key.”
“Where did he get it?”
“From Naomi.”
“Too bad she isn’t here to back that up. Besides it begs a question. Did she herself have a key?”
“Oh come on. She let herself in.”
Teresa, the supposed cousin of Santander? Stewart let it go. A nagging thought returned, one expressed by Phil Knight. They had not questioned the girl who had been with Santander on one occasion, a girl who worked in the building. She must have a master key. Had she let anyone into Fred’s apartment at the relevant times? Investigators for the defense would surely think of that. Well, not surely. Maybe. Stewart called Phil and asked if he was up to a little detective work.
“As little as possible.”
“This won’t take long.”
“The game starts at eight.”
10
“IF IT’S GOT TO BE ONE OF YOU, I’ll take you,” Santander said, when Roger had succeeded in rousing the manager.
“I won’t tell my brother.”
“Which one is your brother?”
“The one who has the same parents I do.”
Santander accepted that. “So what is it this time?”
“I hate to talk in the hall.”
“I was just going to ask you in.” Santander had been casting incontinent eyes at Griselda during this exchange with Roger. “Don’t I know you?”
“I don’t know.”
“You look familiar.”
“She is a star athlete,” Roger said. “She plays basketball for Notre Dame.”
“That must be it.”
“Do you ever watch?”
“I must have seen you in the paper.”
“Her photograph?” Roger said. He had made it to the couch and now lowered himself on to the middle cushion of three. “Precisely why I am here.” He took the mug book Griselda had given him and thumbed through it. He found what he was looking for. “There. That is Griselda.”
Santander compared the page with Griselda who was shedding her jacket in the overheated apartment. “Sure,” he said.
Roger was turning the pages. He stopped and pointed. Santander stared and then looked at Roger.
“Familiar?”
Santander nodded slowly. “I should have remembered.”
“Who is it?” Griselda asked.
She might have been anticipating the knock on the door. Santander had not restored the security chain after admitting Roger and Griselda and there was nothing to impede Thelma’s entry.
“Well, well,” Thelma said, locking the door but not putting the chain in place.
Roger looked at Thelma sadly. “So you realized how stupid it was to mention Santander and those keys?”
“And that you’re not stupid enough not to pick up on it. I’m sorry about this.” She did not sound sorry.
“Are you going to make coffee for us?”
Thelma smiled. “Pretty good, eh? If Naomi hadn’t paid one last sentimental visit to Fred’s apartment no one would have known. I blame myself. I should have gotten rid of that cannister.”
“In the trash at Hoosier Residences?”
Thelma laughed bitterly. “No matter how much you plan, something is bound to go wrong.”
Santander had been following this with growing alarm and began inching toward the back of his apartment. Still facing Thelma and Roger and Griselda, he got the bedroom doorknob in his hands and slowly turned it. But before he could open it and slip into his bedroom Teresa pulled the door open from the inside and Santander tumbled backward into the room. This distracted Thelma. Griselda in one graceful movement rose and brought the side of her hand down on the secretary’s neck. Thelma slumped to the floor. In the confusion, Teresa made a hasty exit.
“Good work,” Roger said to Griselda. “It might be wise to tie her up.”
Part Five
Tender is the Knight
1
A POUNDING ON THE DOOR announced the arrival of Phil and Stewart. Since Griselda was busy tying Thelma’s wrists and ankles, Roger rose from the couch and lumbered to the door. When he opened it, two surprised faces stared at him. Well, three. Jimmy had a firm grip on the arm of a squirming Teresa who was sputtering in Spanish.
“Roger!”
But Phil’s eyes fell to where the bound Thelma was coming groggily back to the real world. Jimmy ushered Teresa inside and Phil followed.
“There’s your murderer,” Roger said.
Santander appeared in the bedroom door and looked wildly about. The presence of Teresa did not soothe him.
“That’s a lie!” he cried, but he was ignored. A guilty man feels universally vulnerable, but Santander’s misdeeds did not include murder. Teresa directed her flow of Spanish at Santander.
“What the hell is she saying?” Stewart asked.
“You wouldn’t want to know,” Roger said. “Thelma, perhaps you would like to tell Lieutenant Stewart what you’ve been up to.”
But the safeguards of contemporary criminal investigation were invoked by Stewart.
“You tell me, Roger.”
Roger returned to the couch where in comfort he told Thelma’s story, not without repeated tries of intervention from Thelma, immediately shushed by Stewart. Griselda had helped Thelma to her feet with the brusqueness she might have aided a bowled-over opponent on the basketball court and plunked her into a chair. In a blow for modesty, she covered the bared legs of the bound receptionist with a Notre Dame blanket that had been rolled up and placed on the back of the couch.
If Stewart was surprised to learn that Thelma was the murderer he had sought, and thought he had found in Tom McTear, he gave little sign of it.
It was Phil who wondered what Thelma’s motive could possibly be.
“Love,” Roger said simply.
“Love!” Thelma cried.
“Love thwarted. Love twisted. Love spurned.”
“I don’t get it,” Phil said.
“Don’t explain me!” Thelma shrieked. “You couldn’t begin to understand.”
Understanding, however partial, came in the following days. Jimmy took Thelma away and Phil went with him, handing her into the back seat of Stewart’s car. Downtown, the prosecutor was informed of the new turn of events, Tom McTear was released with Maurice Gibbons muttering about a suit for false arrest, harassment, and other indictable offenses, but these were merely pro forma. The lawyer preferred creating the impression that it was his legal skill that had brought about the liberation of his client. Thelma secured the services of Emil Zollar, a local attorney, but nothing could stop her now from talking. Zollar tried in vain to shut her up but she was determined to cast herself in the role of avenging angel. The phrase was Roger’s.
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