The Letter Killeth

by Ralph McInerny

  “I doubt that it was spontaneous combustion.”

  “But who would do such a thing?”

  “Who would light a fire in my wastebasket?”

  “But you said that was an accident.”

  “To protect the culprit. How could I know what he would do next?”

  Izquierdo was looking at a photograph on Lucy’s bookshelf. “Who’s that?”

  “You wouldn’t know him.”

  “He looks like the cabbie I rode with last week.”

  “It’s my husband.”

  So the story she had told Pauline was true. Lucy turned the picture toward the wall.

  Wack was thawing out, but it wasn’t much of an improvement. Still, Izquierdo was glad the maniac had misinterpreted Lucy’s invitation to coffee. He realized that he himself was in a state of mild shock, vulnerable to sympathy. He would be mere putty in Lucy’s predatory hands. Before Pauline had got to know Lucy, Raul had been able to regale his wife with stories of Lucy’s pathetic importuning. All imaginary, of course, as Pauline learned. The cabbie had proved a better audience, vicarious Leporello of Raul’s amorous adventures.

  “She is profoundly in love with a married man.”

  “What have I been telling you?”

  “Her husband.”

  “She’s married?”

  “They’re separated. He got mad because graduate school was taking her so long. Of course she doesn’t believe in divorce. She intends to win him back.”

  This had been a revelation. How unobservant he had been. It turned out that Lucy attended the noon Mass in the chapel of Malloy, contiguous to Decio. Izquierdo had followed her there to be sure and lingered outside the door listening to the more or less familiar liturgy. He had half a mind to go in himself. Of course he didn’t. He had lost his faith; he had destroyed Pauline’s; he had no compunction about sowing doubt in the minds of his students. The funny thing was that he went on praying, addressing God as if nothing had changed between them.

  “I better go.” Wack had tipped forward and looked at the puddle of melted snow at his feet.

  “It looks like you already have.”

  After Wack was gone, Raul said, “He did it, you know.”

  “Raul! It’s melted snow.”

  “I mean my car. He lit that fire in my wastebasket, you know that.”

  “Do I? I thought it was an accident.”

  “He did it. Now my car.”

  “But that’s…”

  “I know, unbelievable. He’s insanely jealous of me.”

  “He is.”

  “Over you, for one thing. You know he worships you.”

  “Oh stop it. Can’t you be serious for five minutes?”

  “Starting now?” He looked at his watch.

  He accepted her offer of a ride home, just give him half an hour or so. “I won’t have to call a cab.”

  She glared at him.

  In his office he sought vainly for consolation in his unbelief. Someone was after him, there was no doubt of that, and he, too, found it difficult to think that it was Oscar Wack. He thought of all the students whose religious beliefs he had mocked. It could be anyone. He shivered. He had half a mind to start a fire in his wastebasket. The five minutes must be up. He found that he was addressing the God of his childhood.

  “Don’t let them get me.”

  2

  “There’s got to be a connection,” Crenshaw said.

  “There could be.”

  “That car was set on fire deliberately. There have been threats of firebombing all over the campus. Not that I wasn’t the last to know.”

  Phil Knight didn’t blame Crenshaw for being uneasy. Nor for not liking it one damned bit to be told that the administration had brought in a private investigator to look into the matter they chose to keep secret from campus security.

  “Whose car was it?”

  Crenshaw displayed a twisted and charred license plate. “A faculty member. He shouldn’t have been parked there.”

  “Give him a ticket.”

  But he punched Crenshaw on the arm when he said it.

  The head of campus security had come to the apartment to see Phil as soon as someone in the provost’s office told Crenshaw that a private detective was looking into the threatening notes that Crenshaw had learned of the hard way. Crenshaw thought there must be a connection between those notes and the torching of the car in front of the library. In the kitchen, Roger, swathed in a huge apron and sporting a Notre Dame baseball cap, was moving around in a cloud of steam making spaghetti. Meatballs simmered on the stove. This was the hour when Phil watched ESPN and argued with the experts on a sports panel, arguments he always won, of course. Crenshaw’s visit, however understandable, was not welcome. And Roger had asked the head of security to stay for dinner!

  Crenshaw had treated the invitation as an effort to compromise him. “I’ll eat at home.”

  “As you wish.”

  Crenshaw couldn’t figure Roger out. Well, few people could. Roger had already given Phil an eyewitness account of the burning before Crenshaw arrived.

  “An exploding car?”

  “Cars are designed to explode. Internally, that is.”

  Phil had been waiting for a call from Father Carmody, certain the old priest would make the connection that Crenshaw had.

  Phil asked Crenshaw if he had spoken to the owner of the car.

  “He wasn’t in his office. I hate to bother him at home.”

  “How would he have gotten there?”

  “Look, you’re investigating this, not me. I’ll leave it all to you.”

  That presumed that Crenshaw’s presumption of a connection between the burning car and the threatening notes Phil had been asked to look into was correct. Well, maybe there was a connection.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Izquierdo. Raul Izquierdo.”

  Father Carmody called after Crenshaw had gone, and Phil was able to tell him whose car had burned in front of the library.

  “That’s not the front,” the old priest corrected. “That’s the east side.”

  Phil told him the name of the professor whose car it was.

  “I never heard of him.”

  “He didn’t get a threatening note. As far as we know.”

  “Keep me posted. My dinner just arrived.”

  The phone went dead.

  “Mangiamo!” Roger cried, and they tucked into the spaghetti and meatballs. Phil had a glass of Chianti, and Roger, who never drank alcohol, ice water.

  “Al dente,” Roger murmured, approving the result of his labors.

  “Do you know a Professor Izquierdo, Roger?”

  “I’ve heard of him. One of the subversives.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A professor who subtly mocks in class the beliefs on which Notre Dame is built.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I wish I was.”

  “Why would someone like that want to teach here?”

  “Perhaps he isn’t in demand elsewhere. Here he is an oddity. And our pay scale is AAAA.”

  “An irate student?”

  Roger made the connection, thought about it, shrugged.

  Roger had shown Phil the origin of the letters that had gone into those threatening messages.

  “I know the kids who put out this paper. You do, too. They’ve been here. Bill Fenster and Mary Alice Frangipani.”

  “Are you saying they sent those messages?”

  “No. Just that their newspaper provided the letters.”

  Jimmy Stewart, an old friend and detective on the South Bend police, called after supper.

  “I hear you had a car set on fire.”

  “You busy?”

  “Me? I’m a cop.”

  Phil had decided that he would pay a call on Izquierdo that night. Roger had approved. Strike while the car was still hot. The car had been taken downtown so that the cause of the fire could be ascertained, which is how Jimmy had heard of it. Ph
il had offered to pick up Jimmy, but he suggested they use public transportation, meaning his prowler. This was not the kind of errand Roger went on, curious though he was about Izquierdo. Jimmy was a grass widower and kept crazy hours; maybe that’s why his wife had left him. He never talked about her, which was all right with Phil, a lifetime bachelor.

  There was a Hummer in the driveway, and when Jimmy pulled in behind it, the lights in the house went out.

  “Maybe we should have used your car, Phil.”

  They considered the situation. The fact that the Bulls were playing that night made the decision easier.

  “We can talk to him on campus.”

  3

  Larry Douglas told Laura that Crenshaw was crazy for washing his hands of the investigation into the torched car. Laura seemed to think that they were reconciled, after the way Henry had moved in on Kimberley during that ill-advised double date. Double cross was more like it. He took some consolation in the attention Laura paid to what he said. Crenshaw had shagged him from his office when he offered to investigate.

  “As a parking violation?”

  Crenshaw resented the fact that Philip Knight had been brought in by the administration to look into those threatening notes. Who could blame them? There were too many retired cops like Crenshaw in campus security. For them, the job was just a lark, supplementing their pension, no real police work involved. A rash of thefts in the residence hall had led to little more than a list of missing items, and a warning to look out for strangers in the dorms. Female joggers threatened on the lake paths were advised to run in pairs. This was police work? Larry, since being hired, had been reading up on criminology, police investigations, the arts and skills of the profession.

  “You should have joined the real police,” Laura said.

  “Maybe I will yet.”

  Had she lost weight? That was what had made him vulnerable to Kimberley, all that flab on Laura. It hadn’t mattered when they were parked and whooping it up. In the night all cows are black. Remembering her affectionate nature, to put it obliquely, he was doubly pleased with her sympathy with his criticism of Crenshaw. He almost told her that, to hell with Crenshaw, he was going to do a little freelance investigating. Finally he did tell her, since he needed her help in filching a master key for Decio.

  “I’ll come along.”

  “Better not,” he said in a husky voice.

  “You don’t want to ride your bike, or walk. I’ll get a golf cart.”

  “Good girl.”

  He bought her supper at the Huddle, and when definitive dark had settled in, they set off in the commandeered cart. They were both wearing uniforms, but who would know because of their overcoats. It was kind of snug on the seat of the cart, bun to bun, so to speak, but through so many layers of clothes it would take an inflamed imagination to find it titillating. Laura drove. The frigid wind had died down; the snow under the lamps along the walkways sparkled. Who would believe it was nearly zero?

  When they got to Decio, Larry hopped out, and Laura said she would make circuits of the walkways that stretched from the library to the stadium rather than just sit immobile. As it turned out, he did not need the master key for the front door of Decio, as several professors were emerging when he got there. One held the door for him, not really looking at him. And Larry was inside.

  There was a glass case to his left that listed all the occupants of the building and their office numbers. Alphabetically. He found Izquierdo, Raul. Third floor. He took the elevator up and a minute later was standing at Izquierdo’s door. He had taken the precaution of telephoning the office from the Huddle. The phone rang and rang, unanswered. Still, the fact that people had been leaving the building when he came in, and the many lights in offices that had been visible when Laura drove up to the entrance, suggested caution. He knocked. Very lightly. Nothing. He was about to knock again and then thought to hell with it. He slipped the key into the lock and turned. He went in without switching on the light, shutting the door first. When he flicked on the light he turned.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  Henry Grabowski sat behind the desk. His look of terror when the light went on melted into mere surprise, and then he was laughing.

  “You scared the crap out of me.”

  Larry’s own heart had stopped when he turned to see the figure behind the desk. A second or two went by before he realized it wasn’t the professor, for crying out loud, it was Henry. He was dressed all in black, black turtleneck, a navy peacoat, a black woolen hat pulled down to his eyebrows.

  “You look like a second-story man.” Larry sank into a chair, almost giddy with relief.

  “Actually this is the third floor.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I might ask you the same question.”

  “Why were you sitting in the dark?”

  “I turned off the light when you knocked on the door.”

  “Were you here when I telephoned?”

  “So that was you.”

  Larry’s breathing was more regular now. He looked around the office. He gave a kick at the wastebasket. “It was his car that was torched. But you already know that.”

  Henry said nothing.

  “So what did you expect to find?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  There was a loud knocking on the door, and Larry leapt to his feet. Henry sat calmly in his chair. “Better take off the coat so they’ll see your uniform.”

  Good idea. Of course, they were here investigating a car torching. He opened the door. An owl-eyed little man skipped backward. The uniform had its effect; the man’s eyes swept over it and his indignation drained away.

  “Is Raul here?” He was trying to look around Larry, but Larry blocked the door.

  “Who are you, sir?”

  “I am Professor Oscar Wack. I was about to complain of the noise. These walls are thin as paper.” Again he tried to look inside.

  “Of course you know what happened to Professor Izquierdo’s car.”

  A sly expression came over his face. “Well, I have a theory.”

  “Where is your office?”

  “Next door.”

  “Could we talk there and let my colleague get on with his work?”

  “Of course, of course.”

  Wack scampered to his open door and inside. He looked out to make sure Larry was following.

  “Better close the door,” he said when Larry was inside. “Please be seated.”

  “You said you have a theory.”

  Wack nodded. “You will find this incredible.”

  “I’m listening.” Larry settled into the chair. This was more like it, the investigating officer taking depositions.

  “Izquierdo is crazy. I mean that quite seriously. He set fire to his wastebasket some days ago and blamed it on me. I am certain he set fire to his own car.”

  4

  “It’s not all that easy to burn a car,” Jimmy Stewart said. “It’s not just a matter of dropping a match or lit cigarette.”

  “Planes, Trains, and Automobiles.” Phil laughed, but Jimmy did not understand the allusion.

  “Of course, the technique was spread all over the world in the coverage of those Arab riots in Paris.”

  The conversation turned to the once infamous front-page article in the New York Review of Books instructing on how to make a Molotov cocktail, complete with illustrations. Jimmy’s point seemed to be that while it is not an easy thing to blow up a car—unless you want simply to drop a lit match into the gas tank and add self-immolation to the crime—the knowledge is easily available.

  “The one safe guess is that the professor has enemies.”

  The two men walked to Decio from the Knights’ apartment, a mistake; Phil’s face seemed frozen when they reached the building. Jimmy wore a ski mask and monotonously sang “Jingle Bells” as they hurried through the arctic weather. There was an eatery on the main floor, and they stopped for coffee, if only to have something with which to warm the han
ds. They checked out Izquierdo’s office number and got into an elevator. As the doors were closing, a hand reached in, stopping them. A little man with a helmet of gray hair reminiscent of one of the Three Stooges followed the hand, ignoring those whose ascent he had delayed. The elevator stopped on the second floor and an angular woman got out, having to push the little man aside to do so. At three the door opened and, surprisingly, the little man let them exit first.

  “Can I be of help?” He was studying Phil in a confused way. He obviously only half-remembered their encounter in the departmental office.

  “What’s your name?”

  The question altered his manner. He backed away. “Wack. Oscar Wack. Who are you?”

  Jimmy showed Wack his ID, lest the professor have a stroke. He peeked at it from a safe distance.

  “Others were here last night.”

  “Is that right?”

  “A young investigator and his assistant.”

  “Where could we talk about this?”

  “Talk about it? Haven’t they reported?”

  “We always double-check, Professor.”

  “Ah.” He nodded. “Come.”

  He hurried down the center of the hallway but at a given point veered to one side, his shoulder brushing the wall, then into the center again.

  “Here I am.”

  Phil sat and sipped his coffee while Jimmy got Professor Wack to talk on about his night visitors.

  “I went over there because I was vexed by the noise. I mean, one works late precisely in order to have peace and quiet. You can imagine what Sturm und Drang characterize the daylight hours. Anyway, I went over there to shut Izquierdo up. God only knew what I might be interrupting.”

  “Oh?”

  Wack made a little moist sound, then gave himself permission to go on. “Given the things that have been happening, who knows what’s relevant?”

  “You mean the car burning?”

  “Mainly that, of course. If I were his insurance company, I would look into that matter very carefully.”

  “The car is being examined downtown.”

  “Good. I won’t bore you with the story of the burning wastebasket.”

  “We want to hear everything, Professor, just the way you told it to our colleagues last night.”