Hugh Brennan hailed him as Chandler was passing alongside the dark-red brick pile that was Matthews Hall. Chandler looked up from the sidewalk which he’d been steadfastly regarding in the hope of passing out of the scene unnoticed. Brennan pulled even, a thickly constructed, rather short man whose physique matched his personality: there was something of the good-natured barnyard animal about him, a readiness to go passively along until the point when he rooted in, stood his ground, and prepared to fight to the death. He was a professor of English, specializing in the nineteenth-century novel, Trollope in particular. “What ho,” he said matter-of-factly, then flashed a quick grin which was very nearly a permanent feature of his round face. His reddish-blond hair, curly, was plastered against his head by the rain.
“You weren’t a witness to this television mockery, I hope.”
“Ah, but I was … There you were, bathed in light, a resolute though peevish look on your face, a veritable budding star—a Galbraith, an Arthur Schlesinger—and the girl! A looker.” He saw Chandler’s grimace. “So what the hell was it all about?” His chins overhung the heavy cableknit turtleneck, giving the impression that his head rested directly upon his shoulders. They fell into step, skulked out of the Yard into the Square. Drivers were turning headlamps on. The rain continued, steadily drizzling, blowing.
Chandler described the television interview, concluded: “She just disregarded what I’d told her, what she knew to be the truth, so she’d have a good question to start off with—was I the last one to see Bill Davis alive … Goddamn show business crap!”
Brennan’s grin faded, his eyes went flat, as gray as the sky: “Did you really know the kid?”
“No, not really, you know how it is … he struck me as bright, kind of an introvert. I talked to him a couple of times, briefly, but no, I didn’t know him.”
Brennan nodded: “Well, why did he come around to see you? The day he got killed?”
“Beats me. Said he had something to show me, never said what it was.”
“The cops did talk to you, though?”
“Sure, they found my name on him, they followed it up, but it was nothing, ten minutes of routine questions and thanks for my cooperation. Period.”
“So, don’t let it bother you. It’s over.”
“It’s that Bishop woman. She tricked me, she made it seem as if I’m somehow involved. She’s devious and she doesn’t give a damn, and tonight everybody in Boston’s going to see the goddamn interview and start wondering, why was the kid so desperate—her word—desperate to see me.” They crossed the Square, stopped for a moment in the shelter of the University Theatre marquee. Brennan stuck a cigarette in his mouth, lit it, puffed and coughed. “She’s a breaker,” Chandler went on, “a wrecker, some women just can’t avoid it … it’s their nature.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Brennan muttered impatiently, survivor of two marriages, one to an English actress, the other to a Charlottesville belle. “Did you see Robin and Marian?”
“Audrey Hepburn,” Chandler said wearily. “I know, I know …”
“Well, I could take a lot of bullshit from that kind of woman—tough, independent, intelligent, beautiful—”
“Who says she’s intelligent?”
“It’s all over her, for God’s sake. She handles herself well—and she makes a good living! As my sainted Irish mother would have said … did say, in regard to my immortal first wife, Brenda the Star.” He punched Chandler in the arm. “Don’t let her get to you. Cheer up!”
Chandler shrugged impatiently.
“Look,” said Brennan, “let’s go have a drink and a dinner at Chez Dreyfus. Do you good—I’ll tell you a new joke!”
“No, I’m worn out, I’m just going to pig out at home, look at a stroke book and go to bed.” Chandler sighed, peering into the steady rain that was heavier now, as it grew darker. “As a matter of fact, I’ve taken to writing for stroke books—”
“Just so you don’t pose—”
“No, I’ve got that Playboy piece … ‘The Real American Revolution,’ that’s the latest title. Dubious scholarship among the tits and beavers.”
“I hate celebrity academics,” Brennan allowed. They turned the corner by the church and headed toward the restaurant, jockeying for position beneath the single umbrella.
“You know,” Chandler mused slowly, “I wish I had been there when he came to my office, I keep turning it over in my mind, wondering … he did say something to me, last week I think, but I can’t quite get hold of it—it was no big deal, no clue, but he just came up after the lecture, looking at me through the hippie glasses, said he had something he wanted to show me. He was shy about it, he said something … wait, I’ve got it, he said I wouldn’t believe it but I had to authenticate it!” He stopped and pinched his lower lip together: “That’s it, something he wanted me to authenticate! Hugh, that’s pretty damn strange … what the hell would a kid like that have that needed an authentication?”
“Document, maybe? Some kind of historical thingy, you mean?”
“Something old or something with a questionable pedigree … maybe a possible forgery? God, it’s weird, the way it just came back to me.”
“So Polly Bishop is no fool, my lad. She said you knew something and she was right—”
“But it couldn’t have anything to do with the murder—”
“Well, you never know, do you?”
In front of Chez Dreyfus, Brennan stopped him again.
“Let me lighten your day,” he said.
“A joke,” Chandler said grimly. “You’re going to tell me a joke …”
“An English professor is out on the town with three graduate students. Ahead of them they see a gathering of ladies of the night-hookers, to you. The professor sets a problem. If a gathering of geese is a gaggle, lions a pride, sheep a flock, then what is a congregation of hookers? Well, being bright lads and steeped in literary allusions, the answers were snappy. Number One shakes his head, strokes his chin, suggests … ‘a volume of trollops’! Which is pretty damn good. But Number Two tops him with ‘a jam of tarts’! Well, Number Three has his back to the wall and triumphantly comes up with … ‘a flourish of strumpets’! The professor has to give them credit, they’ve done well for old Harvard … but they’re all wrong. The correct answer, and as students of English literature they really should have known—the correct answer is—”
“An anthology of pros,” Chandler said, his spirits lifting. He couldn’t help laughing. Brennan’s face clouded.
“You’ve heard it … I’ve told you before …”
“No, no, it came to me as in a dream.”
“Don’t bullshit me, somebody told you …”
Moving on by himself Chandler came to the market on the corner of Brattle Street, nipped in for some coffee and Brie and fresh crusty bread. But what, he wondered, had Bill Davis wanted him to authenticate?
Even in the aftermath of a lousy day Chandler drew comfort and pleasure from an evening at home amid the clutter of his life, the bric-a-brac that in the end adds up to a life. He had made a fair amount of money from his books, one of which had been a main choice of the Book-of-the-Month Club, and his well-paid labors at Harvard. He had never taught anywhere else: in fact he was one of those rare birds who had entered at eighteen and never left Harvard. In some ways, he was well aware, it had been a sheltered life but it was the life he would have chosen for himself over any other. He had never married, though on a couple of occasions he’d come rather close. He had no views on marriage, rarely thought of it: he’d either get married or he wouldn’t. At the moment he had no serious lady friend and that didn’t bother him one way or the other. What would happen, would happen.
Feeling he deserved a treat for dinner he’d ordered in a pepperoni-and-mushroom-and-anchovy pizza which now lay in ruins on the coffee table before his deep, overstuffed armchair. The slipcovers were wearing out at the arm but unlikely to be refurbished in the foreseeable future. The book-packed library where he s
pent most of his time contained a black-and-white television set which dated from the Army-McCarthy hearings, some Boston ferns which had been dying for five years, a brick-fronted fireplace full of blackish ashes, and a large copy of Houdon’s bust of George Washington. Despite the clutter it was a clean room, as was the entire twelve-room, two-story house he’d bought fifteen years before.
Stretching mightily, he went to the spotless kitchen where he poured a fresh cup of coffee from his Chemex. When he made coffee, he ground his own beans. He went back to the library and sat down again. He picked up two empty cans of Carling Red Cap Ale and dropped them into a wastebasket. He liked his life: maybe he was a bachelor after all, had become one without really thinking about it.
He sipped the steaming coffee, unfortunately glanced at his watch. Damn! It was time for the late news … Having fought off the impulse to watch Polly Bishop at six, he now weakened, got up with a sigh and flicked on the set which knew nothing of transistors and color guns and took forever to warm up.
The blow-combed anchorman faded in, like a broken photograph coming back together, and smiled unctuously: “Next, our Polly Bishop talks with the Harvard historian who may have been the last person to see Bill Davis alive … after this word …”
A dogfood commercial used up a minute, then one for a bank shilling china, then one for a horror movie, then Polly Bishop was there, serious and competent, a very good media personality—he had to admit her effectiveness—going on about venerable old Harvard Yard and the well-known Harvard professor …
God help us, he did look angry and insufferably arrogant and stuffy! It irked Chandler to see himself as a snotty prig, scowling and being nasty to this pretty, sincere woman who was not only doing her best but was guaranteed in the station’s advertising to be a “crime fighter.” Finally, unable to watch, wondering if Bill Davis’s murderer was watching and figuring that this wise-ass professor ought to get the big sleep, too … he turned to stare out the window into the rain dripping off the porch, dribbling sibilantly through the shrubs beyond the railing.
When she had finished he turned and addressed the set: “Lady, you’re the reason male chauvinism just won’t die …” He turned the set off, packed a pipe, lit it, and went out on his porch to air himself out in the clean moist chill.
Across the street two men were out for a stroll in the rain, hands in raincoat pockets, heads down. The shorter man wore a checked porkpie hat that matched his raincoat. Chandler squinted at them through the rain, smiling to himself. My God, there couldn’t be two men in one day with the same taste in haberdashery … He shook his head. New neighbors, maybe.
Then he went back inside, locked up for the night, threw a couple of logs onto the grate, lit them, and settled back down to read.
Thursday
HE WOKE UP THE NEXT day thinking about Bill Davis and Polly Bishop and the cops. She’d been right: he had known something he hadn’t been telling her. Authentication … He sure as hell wasn’t going to call Polly Bishop but he’d better tell somebody. Namely, the cops who’d called on him two days before. Brookline cops.
Brennan dropped by Chandler’s office just past ten o’clock for coffee. The percolator on top of the bookcase was rattling, about to explode. Chandler leaned back in his swivel chair, put his feet on the desk, and stared out the window at what appeared to be sunshine. There had been a marked springiness in the air as he’d walked to work. It was bound to be a better day.
“Did you use yesterday’s grounds?” Brennan made a face at his coffee cup. “Admit it—”
“Don’t be ridiculous. This coffee was brewed from very special beans I ground at home this morning. Very expensive stuff—”
“Tastes funny. Special beans …”
“Kona Java Supreme, I believe. With a soupçon of cinnamon. Connoisseur’s delight and, therefore, entirely wasted on you. I’ve had very good comments, believe me.”
“Not from me,” Brennan sighed, settling down in the leather easy chair dating from the time of John Harvard himself. “Well, I caught the Polly and Colin show last night.” He sipped, frowned, sniffed at the cup like a wary dog.
“I did too—incredibly depressing. Woman’s a menace.”
“A knockout, she is. You’re the menace. What a prick! The kid’s just trying to do her job—”
“Kid? Ha! Job? Some job …”
“Did you tell her what you’d remembered about Davis?”
“You’re kidding, it’s none of her business—use your head.”
“Well, you can’t keep it to yourself. Cinnamon? This stuff tastes like oregano … or sage, or something not normally associated with coffee—”
“I’m about to call the Brookline cops, the guys who came down here to question me.” He yawned. “I was up until three reading—”
“You need a real live girl—”
“Did you a helluva lot of good.” He yawned again.
“Had its moments.”
“I’m sure—”
There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” Chandler called.
Two men entered, looked inquisitively about: the first blinked nearsightedly behind wire-rimmed spectacles. He had a fiftyish look and a face full of concern. “Professor Chandler,” he said. “Have you got a moment?”
“What is it?”
“Police,” he said. “Just a couple of questions, Professor.” He looked at Brennan: “If you’ll excuse us?”
“That’s all right, Hugh. Stay put. Look, you’re a little late if this is about Bill Davis. I talked to your people the other—”
“Ah, that’s it, that’s just it, Professor, if you don’t mind.” Both men were in the small office and the door was closed. It was tight. “We’re new people, don’t you see? Boston homicide.”
The other man sidled along the bookcase. He was chewing on an old black pipe. He was bald but for a fringe of grayish hair over his ears and around the base of his skull. There were freckles spattered over his dome and face. “You know how it is, Professor, the Brookline lads just aren’t used to this kind of thing—they asked us to come in, take over, give it our fine touch.” He smiled rather like a leprechaun left over from Finian’s Rainbow. He sucked his pipe, a hollow, damp sound. “You might say they’re playing it safe. They can blame us when everything goes wrong …” Both of them had a good chuckle over that. “What do they know about homicide, eh? Not damn all!” He leaned back against the bookcase, folded his arms across his chest, smiling benevolently.
“Well, I’d like to see some identification,” Chandler said. “No offense …”
“Of course not,” the first man said, withdrawing a wallet. He flicked it open and held it out.
Chandler leaned forward, inspected the ID. “Fennerty? Andrew Fennerty …” He nodded. “And you …” The leprechaun offered his wallet. “McGonigle? You guys are kidding—two Boston cops, both Irish? Fennerty and McGonigle?”
“Look at it this way,” McGonigle suggested. “It’s too bloody absurd to be a fake. You can imagine, we take a lot of ribbing, Fennerty and me.” He had another good laugh. Everyone was having a wonderful time. Brennan grinned: “Hey, would you guys like some special cinnamon coffee?”
“Are you satisfied, Professor?” Fennerty pocketed his ID. “Sure, I’m game for some coffee, Mr. …”
“Brennan.” He blew dust out of two cups and poured.
“Sure, sure, I’m satisfied.” Chandler leaned back again, watching. “What can I do for you?”
“Just run through this last visit you had from Bill Davis,” McGonigle said, taking his coffee from Brennan. He sniffed it suspiciously and set it down on a bookshelf.
“Oh, God,” Chandler moaned and began the recital. Fennerty and McGonigle listened intently, nodding solemnly. Chandler worked his way toward the end: “Contrary to the implications made by that woman on television last night, I did not see Bill Davis that last day. Got it? Did not … However, I did remember something.” He told them about the authentication business, e
xplained the possibilities.
“Well, well, well,” Fennerty said, bobbing his head, making a tiny O with his mouth.
“That could be very important,” McGonigle said. “Or it might be meaningless … Say, would you mind if I filled my pipe?”
Chandler pushed the tobacco tin toward him.
“It’s our job to find out,” Fennerty said.
“Okay, now are you guys going to keep pestering me? I don’t know anything else. Nothing.” McGonigle got his pipe going and smoke wreathed his head. “You people, that damnable TV woman, cops from Brookline, cops from Boston … I’m not an idiot, y’know, there’s got to be an end—”
“Now, now, Professor, nobody said you were an idiot—”
“I saw you guys yesterday, both of you, you were standing over at Matthews watching me make an ass of myself on television … spying on me, damn it!” Fennerty suddenly looked into his coffee cup as if he’d discovered a snake. He put it down on Chandler’s desk. “It’s got to stop!”
“We’re only doing our job, sir,” McGonigle said soothingly. “We’re only asking you a few questions. We’re not spying on you.”
“We don’t want to cause trouble,” Fennerty said.
“Well, it looks like hell, cops all over my office. I’m drawing attention to the college and I don’t like to do that, not this kind of attention … This institution is one of the good things left and I don’t like to drag it in the mud—”
Brennan smiled: “Fight fiercely, Harvard.”
“I’d hardly say you were doing anything like that, Professor,” Fennerty remarked softly. “Why, no one loves Harvard more than I … I went through Harvard myself—”
“You did?” Chandler felt himself drawn up short.
“Sure, every morning on the way to grammar school …”
Brennan laughed loudly.
“Brennan likes lousy jokes,” Chandler said brusquely.
“Well, a sense of humor is the greatest gift,” Fennerty said. “You should develop yours, Professor.”
The Glendower Legacy Page 6
