"And why was that?” John Amber asked.
"It, ah, would produce no income, and it might discourage potential donors."
"But it was financed by a donation from Claude Englethorpe!” Manny Grade protested.
"While that is true, once the museum was open, the cost of its continued staffing and upkeep would be borne by the university's general fund. I remember he told me in his plainspoken way, ‘Edgar, a room full of athletic trophies can inspire the alumni to take out their checkbooks. A room commemorating human folly will depress the soul and depress contributions.’”
"What you're telling us is,” Manny Grade said, “our new vice president had no interest in intellectual honesty and was looking solely at the bottom line."
"That is what he was hired for,” the dean said. “To advance the university like any other business. However some of us may agree or disagree, that was his charge from the president and the board of trustees. But the matter is not quite as simple as I may have made it sound. In carrying out his mandate, Judd Anderson had been reviewing every nook and cranny of the university's financial records, including use of university computers and telephones for personal purposes, travel expense accounts, every potential source of financial malfeasance. And I regret to report he had discovered some embarrassing lacunae involving a member of this committee."
"Which member?” Geoff Black demanded.
"That, as it happens, is the key detail I lack. He was planning to lay out the evidence to us all this morning."
"Sounds like it should be easy enough to retrace his steps through the financial records,” Manny Grade said.
"Perhaps not,” said the dean, “if he had removed his evidence from the files and if his killer had, so to speak, removed it from him."
"The obvious inference,” said John Amber, “is that somebody lured Anderson to a meeting at Barcroft Hall in advance of our meeting here and that that person effectively silenced him before he could reveal what he knew."
"You mean, then, Mr. Chan,” said Manny Grade, rolling his eyes, “that the murderer is in this room?"
"Quite possibly so,” Amber went on, ignoring Grade's sarcasm. “Or maybe Anderson called for the rendezvous at Barcroft Hall himself, to offer suppression of the information in exchange for some other consideration. Maybe it was someone Anderson knew before he came here. From Anderson's vocabulary and intonation, I could tell he grew up in the Chicago area. Is anyone here from Chicago?"
"I know what, John,” said Manny Grade. “We'll all go around the table and say, ‘Mother of Mercy, is this the end of Rico?’ and you can tell us which one is from Chicago. Then we can play musical chairs and pin the tail on the donkey while we're waiting for the police."
John Amber said nothing, just smiled, the salute of one showman to another.
Shortly before eleven o'clock, Detectives Ortiz and Miller from the city police arrived at the conference room, and the dean turned the meeting over to them. Ortiz, the older and clearly senior officer, did most of the talking.
"I guess the dean has filled you in on the death of Mr. Anderson. We're going to tell you as much as we can, because we expect your full cooperation in our investigation. Mr. Anderson was apparently bludgeoned to death with a weapon we found at the scene, a heavy bronze thing in the shape of a baseball bat."
Old Finnerty gave a bark of laughter, and all eyes turned to the Chaucer expert, who wiped his eyes with a handkerchief, replaced his glasses, and managed to control his mirth. “Excuse me for that untoward outburst, but that is altogether too macabrely fitting. I have often wondered what happened to that thing."
"You know what it is?” Ortiz said. “Nobody we've talked to so far seems to know."
"The weapon in question is called the Claghorn Bat, named for Claghorn College, which I'm sure most of you have never heard of. You have, however, heard of it under its new name, Ransom University, renamed when the Claghorn family's money ran out and the Ransom family filled the breach. Years ago, Worden and Claghorn were traditional athletic rivals, and each spring the two institutions would meet three times on the baseball diamond. The winner of that series would have custody of the Claghorn Bat until the following year. I myself played shortstop for Worden against Claghorn in my undergraduate days, so you can imagine how deeply into the recesses of time we are delving. Now, it so happens that in the last year of that series, when I was but a newly minted assistant professor, Worden swept the three games and took possession. Claghorn disbanded its baseball program, probably for reasons of cost effectiveness and that famous bottom line, and Worden's possession of the bat became de facto permanent."
"Oh, the irony,” Manny Grade said appreciatively. “Brained by the bottom line."
"Choice, isn't it?” old Finnerty agreed. “Whoever murdered our new vice president displayed a wonderful sense of poetic justice in choosing that particular weapon."
"Or more likely he didn't choose it,” Grade mused. “Maybe he grabbed whatever came to hand, and the choice of weapon was just a happy accident."
"Happy accident?” said Selma Canfield. “I cannot believe that some of you are able to take this hideous crime, the death of a valued member of the academic community, as an occasion for jokes and laughter."
"We must make allowances, my dear,” said the dean. “We're all in a kind of shock, and people deal with such situations differently. What else can you tell us, Detective Ortiz?"
"Not much. Anderson's secretary said he was already in his office when she arrived at eight o'clock. He was talking to someone on the phone and had agreed to meet them. She didn't know who it was, and he didn't say where he was going, but he was carrying a manila folder with him. Several students reported seeing him crossing the campus. He asked Fenbush, the guy who found the body and as far as we know the only other person in the building at the time, where the elevator was. Fenbush said he didn't think there was one. He said Anderson seemed angry and stomped off down the hall. Fenbush went back in his office and didn't think another thing about it until he heard this crashing noise and went to investigate."
"He was on the phone with me at the time,” Vanessa said. “Obviously neither of us knew what we were hearing."
"Did Mr. Fenbush see Mr. Anderson's attacker?” Myra Buford asked. “I mean, if he was right next-door and went at once to investigate, he might have, mightn't he?"
Now Ortiz turned cagey. “We haven't really finished our questioning of Mr. Fenbush. Now obviously, Detective Miller and I need to interview each of you individually and in some detail, and we'll try to arrange that at your convenience over the next few hours. But for now, if you could each tell me where you were this morning and who might have seen you around the time this was going on. It's just routine."
The Museum of Plagiarism committee proved remarkably lacking in ironclad alibis. Vanessa's being on the phone at the moment of the attack was one of the stronger ones, but Manny Grade suggested she could have been on her cell phone at the time and talking to Stephen Fenbush from the next room. Making chitchat while in the act of committing murder. No one laughed, but Vanessa was sure they all recognized the suggestion as facetious.
* * * *
Alex Haley paid novelist Harold Courlander $650,000 in settlement of a plagiarism suit, which claimed Haley's 1976 bestseller Roots had used passages verbatim from Courlander's 1968 novel The African. Haley blamed volunteer researchers who had given him the material without attribution.
* * * *
The Faculty Club's dining room was decorated with faculty and student art, had white tablecloths and flowers on the tables, and was staffed by student chefs and attentive wait staff from the university's restaurant-management program. If it was a little pricey to justify regular visits, it offered a quiet alternative to the noisy university cafeteria. Vanessa ordered a salad, Stephen one of the monster sandwiches for which the club was locally famous. If he managed to get through it, she would wonder about his metabolism.
Though pleased to be in each other
's company, they weren't quite themselves. Vanessa was frankly worried, and Stephen, though doing his best to maintain his insouciant persona, seemed distracted.
"Stephen, did you see the person who killed Anderson?"
"No, I didn't. If I hadn't been talking to you at the time, I might have got there more quickly."
"Well, thank God you didn't. You might have been another victim of the Claghorn Bat!"
Stephen snickered at that.
"I know that sounds like something out of an old serial,” she said, “but it's not funny. And Stephen, if you didn't see the killer and you told the police you didn't, why on earth did Detective Ortiz not say so to the committee? He said they weren't through questioning you, with the clear implication you may have seen something."
"Oh, did he? Good."
"Why are you pleased with the idea? You could still be in danger."
"Oh, not really. I'm beginning to like Detective Ortiz. He strikes me as an old-school detective. Do you suppose he's thinking of laying a trap for the murderer with me as the bait?"
"Stephen, the kind of detective you're talking about never existed outside of fiction."
"I suppose, but if I knew who did it, and I have the feeling I should—"
"Why should you? You barely know these people."
"It's just a feeling that I'm not picking up on something. If I did know, that might make a difference in how I play things. I could lure the killer myself and maybe get Ortiz to cooperate with me. We're pretty certain it's a member of your Museum of Plagiarism committee."
The food arrived then and they were silent for a few minutes. Vanessa hadn't much of an appetite, but Stephen tore into his sandwich with enthusiasm. Half of it was gone when he said brightly, “Would you like to see my office?"
"No, I would not. I'd be glad to come to your apartment and look at your etchings any time, but I have no desire to visit Barcroft Hall now or ever again, and I think you should request another office."
"Okay, you're probably right. We don't have to visit the scene of the crime, but try to visualize it with me. Say you're Anderson.” He positioned a salt shaker to represent the murdered vice president. “You come into Barcroft Hall at the end nearest the quad.” Two parallel pieces of cutlery became the rectangular building. “Nobody would enter from the other end unless he was a visiting squirrel out of the park. Barcroft has one long corridor down the middle, mostly empty offices and completely empty classrooms on either side. The classroom where Anderson was killed is B14, the first door on the left as you enter, and my office is the second door on the left. The killer has arranged to meet Anderson there, but for an ambush rather than a polite discussion. Anderson doesn't know the campus yet, being new to his position, and the killer would have had to give him directions. Anderson, for some damn reason, is looking for an elevator. He finds none, so he comes and finds me. I'm pretty sure there's no elevator and tell him so. What does he do next?"
"Tries the stairs?"
"Sounds logical, but they've been blocked off, making it clear to anybody the upper floor isn't in use. He stays on the ground floor, walks up and down the corridor. Maybe he tries a few doors. Finally he enters the classroom where the killer is waiting for him and brains him with that fabled Claghorn Bat. We hear the crashing noise as Anderson falls into the crates and upsets the bookcase. I get off the phone with you rather rudely—"
"Not at all."
"—and rush next-door. I don't see anyone in the corridor or in the room when I enter. But I easily might have, and if the killer didn't know until your committee meeting that there was anyone in the building at the time, he or she might very well think I saw something."
"Stephen, I really think you should get off that. I think you should make it known to the whole campus community that you saw nothing."
"And what exactly did you see, Mr. Fenbush?” asked a familiar voice from over her shoulder.
Vanessa turned her head and said, “He didn't see anything, Manny. Rien. Nada."
"Speak English, Professor, please,” Manny Grade said. “May I join you two for just a moment?” By the time the sentence was finished he had already lowered his bulky form into one of the two unoccupied chairs. “Seriously, I'm not a party crasher. Three's a crowd, or in my case a regiment. But, Van, I must show you something that came crawling my way in today's snail mail. As you may know, I have a time-honored place on the platinum sucker lists of those few Luddite antiquarian booksellers who still quaintly produce printed catalogs. And here I present to you one such.” He passed a small booklet to Vanessa. “Tell me if you see anything interesting."
Vanessa was slightly annoyed. “I don't like guessing games, Manny."
"Oh, I do,” said Stephen and reached across to not quite snatch it out of her hand. He paged through it, emitted an exasperating “Hmmm,” and passed it back to her, pointing at one particular page. “I think this may be what Professor Grade is referring to."
Vanessa saw that the dealer was offering a fine first edition of Theodore Dreiser's Sister Carrie in tandem with an equally fine copy of George Ade's Fables in Slang, noting that the latter volume contained the Ade piece which Dreiser had borrowed from in his novel. “Yes, I see. A plagiarism theme. But a bit pricey for the Museum of Plagiarism to purchase, don't you think?"
"You're looking at the Ade and Dreiser pairing?” Grade said. “That isn't all. Elsewhere, he has Courlander's The African paired with Haley's Roots. There are others as well. It appears that a collection of plagiarized fiction has suddenly come onto the market. Seems quite a coincidence, doesn't it?"
The student waiter asked Manny Grade if he wanted to order any food. Vanessa thought he looked tempted, but instead he took it as a cue to rise from his chair and say, “I must depart. No promises to keep but yards to go before I sleep. My office calls me for my afternoon nap. Keep that if you like, Van. Perhaps your Spillane man might want to order some prime James Hadley Chase to compare and contrast."
When Manny had left, Stephen said, “What's he getting at?"
"I think he's just boasting he has an office big enough for him to lie down in,” Vanessa said.
"I mean, of course, with the dealer catalog. What does he think it means? What do you think it means?"
"Well, there was that donation that was offered to the committee, but it turned out to be worthless. It couldn't be any of this stuff."
"Couldn't it? Let me borrow this catalog for a day or two, will you?"
"Of course. It's no good to me."
"Your Spillane student won't want the James Hadley Chase?"
"Not at these prices."
"I'd like to talk to this book dealer and see if he can tell me where he got these plagiarism artifacts.” He smiled at her with a sort of maniacal gleam in his eye. “During the time we've been sitting here, Vanessa, did you see a little light bulb appear over my head at any point?"
"I don't think so."
"Well, thank you anyway. Talking to you made all the difference. I've solved the case, you see."
"You've what?"
"Well, maybe that's putting it too strongly. I know who did it, but it's flimsy. I can't prove it."
"Who did it, Stephen?"
He shook his head. “The gifted amateur never tells until the very end. But I'll tell you what I will do. This collection the committee turned down. Did you all have a look at it?"
"No."
"Just as I thought. It was just one person who was supposed to look into it, right? And that one person came back and told you there was nothing good in the collection."
"That's right."
"And do you remember who that one person was?"
"Yes, it was—"
"Don't say it!” He took a small notepad out of his jacket pocket, tore off one sheet and passed it over to her, tore off another sheet for himself. Out of the same pocket he took a business-size envelope with the university address in the upper left-hand corner. “Write down the name of the person on that sheet, fold it up, an
d put it in this envelope. On my sheet, I'll write the name of the murderer that I have divined on admittedly flimsy evidence.” When both had written their names and put them in the envelope, he sealed it, wrote Stephen Fenbush on the front, and gestured to the student waiter who had been serving them. “Marcus,” he said. “Excellent job today. Great service. Will you be working here at this time tomorrow?"
"Sure."
Stephen handed Marcus the envelope. “When Professor Strom and I come for lunch at the same time tomorrow, kindly seat us at this same charming table and serve us this envelope with our appetizer."
Vanessa was torn between annoyance at Stephen's presumption and curiosity about his theatrical gesture. One thing was certain: nothing would stop her from keeping the next day's lunch date.
"Of course that dealer stonewalled it,” Stephen said the next day, not overly put out about it. “When I asked him where those books came from, his claim of confidentiality could not have been more vehement if he had been a priest and I had asked about this morning's confessions. He'll tell the police when the time comes. Anyway, here's my scenario. Tell me what you think."
"I think you have a Philo Vance complex,” Vanessa said.
"Well, I'll admit I considered inviting the whole Museum of Plagiarism committee to lunch and making it a William Powell gathering of the suspects, but this Faculty Club is too expensive for that, and anyway I'd rather just tell it to you.
"A book collector who has heard or read about the plans for a Museum of Plagiarism writes the committee chair a letter saying he has some items to donate that might be of interest. It's brought up to the committee at one of the meetings, and one of the members volunteers to contact the potential donor and see if he has anything of value. The committee member—we'll call him or her X—"
EQMM, February 2007 Page 3
