by Ruth Wade
“Did he get any support?”
“Oh, Milligan saved his face for him very nicely. He said he quite agreed with him, and that he thought we should enter in the minutes our recommendation that before any money is spent on the buildings, we should banish the rats. Delaney was pleased at that, and he spent the rest of the time nodding solemnly to himself, looking the picture of a man who has made his point. The meeting finished soon after, though. We all felt a sudden need for fresh air.”
“Milligan is a good fellow,” said Daly. “That was a kind thing to do.”
“He made himself unpopular by it, though,” said Bradley. “I don’t mind telling you that several members of the staff have been in to ask me to retire Delaney at once. They would have been glad if we had had to have him hauled off by the Guards.”
“Can they not wait one year, until he is seventy?” said Daly. “He’s a first-rate archaeologist.”
“That is why there is no valid excuse for pushing him out,” said Bradley. “Miss O’Leary is leading the anti-Delaney party, because she is terrified of rats. Every time she sees Delaney, she thinks of them.”
Miss O’Leary had been one of Daly’s most brilliant students. She had abandoned English literature for Irish, and was now Professor of Celtic languages. Like most professors, Daly was prejudiced against all subjects except his own, and he had always thought Irish a somewhat unlikely enthusiasm for a lively young woman of thirty. She was one of the most beautiful women that he had ever seen, quite tall and very slender, with jet-black hair and searching dark-blue eyes. In her dealings with her fellow-man she was a ravening wolf, but Daly knew it was true that she was terrified of rats. A great many of her colleagues were equally terrified of her, for she was a relentless enemy. She had a magnificent command of language, which she used to curl up an opponent or to support an ally as the occasion demanded. Daly thought that if she started a movement to have Delaney retired, it would take all of Bradley’s reserves of power to oppose her successfully. But it was doubtful if Bradley wanted to oppose her. It was clear enough that he was only too anxious to remove Delaney. Daly sighed for his poor old friend, whose chances of finishing his last year at the College seemed slim indeed.
He dragged his thoughts away from the fascinating convolutions of university politics to hear Bradley say:
“When do you give your first lecture?”
“On Thursday at noon, I believe. That gives me a day to look over my papers.”
“Ah, yes,” said Bradley indulgently. “You may have quite a large audience. The students have been working up an amount of publicity. They tell me that quite a number of outsiders have put their names down for the series.”
It was the custom of the College to invite the public to the Keyes Lectures. In order to prevent overcrowding, however, people who wished to come were asked to register their names with the College. This usually had the effect of making them attend at every lecture, no matter how dull the speaker, almost as if they had paid for the privilege. It also kept casual sightseers and frivolous people away. The effect of an earnest bloc on the students was mercifully dampening. Apart from this consideration, Daly, like most professors, delighted in lecturing to the general public. He tried to cover his gratification, but Bradley was sharp enough to see it and crude enough to comment on it.
“I thought you would be pleased,” he said. “The outsiders keep the students quiet.”
“I have never found my students inattentive,” said Daly gently.
“Of course not,” said Bradley heartily. There was a pause, which Daly occupied by drinking his sherry. Then Bradley said, in a different, confidential tone: “Were you surprised at being invited to give the lectures?”
Daly raised his eyebrows.
“I should not be surprised if I were offered the Nobel Prize,” he said blandly.
But he felt a prickle of irritation. Bradley was a tactless fool, without a doubt. Now he was laughing heartily.
“Witty as ever!” he crowed, while Daly watched him coldly. “The Nobel Prize! Well, well!”
“Think of that!” said Daly softly.
“Still you must have been surprised,” Bradley was saying. “I arranged it myself, you see.”
Daly sat up straight and asked sharply:
“Why have the students worked up outside publicity?”
“Oh, that is just to annoy Badger. You need not take any notice of Badger.”
“I could murder this man,” Daly said to himself as he sat back carefully in his armchair. Aloud he asked: “Why did you have me invited to give the Keyes Lectures, Mr. President?”
Like the echo of an avalanche, hollow-sounding and shaken, came the answer:
“Because I believe that someone is planning to murder me.”
Chapter 2
The secret of Professor Daly’s good humour was that he could never remember his personal grievances. They commanded his attention for a moment only, until they were replaced by something more interesting. He sat up now to stare at Bradley. The suddenness of his movement sent a minute splash of sherry on to his coat sleeve. He got out his handkerchief and blotted it absently while he observed the change that had come over the President.
Bradley was clearly making a determined effort to retain an appearance of detached amusement. But his smile flashed on and off like a defective electric bulb, and his eyelids twitched with fear. He jerked a little in his chair. His hands grasped each other for comfort and fell apart again unconsoled. When he spoke his voice was husky, until he gave a little nervous cough.
“I’m sure you think I’m a fool, Daly. But I know I’m right. I thought of you at once.”
“But it’s a couple of months since I was invited to give the lectures,” Daly pointed out.
“I knew I was safe during the long vacation,” said Bradley. “Not enough people about.”
“Why do you think you are going to be murdered?” Daly asked. “Perhaps you take your position too seriously. All Presidents’ lives are threatened, sooner or later.”
“Do you think so?” said Bradley eagerly. He brightened for a moment and then said bitterly: “I didn’t think you would laugh at me.”
“I’m not laughing at you,” Daly protested. “It’s quite true. All big public figures get anonymous letters threatening their lives.”
“How did you know about the anonymous letters?” Bradley asked sharply.
“I didn’t,” said Daly. “But they are part of the pattern. Have you got them here? I should like to see them. They are often very revealing.”
“I’m afraid I have burnt them,” said Bradley.
But his eye had travelled quickly across to the Nelson rent table that stood between the windows.
Daly gave no sign that he had noticed, but he wondered if the letters were locked into one of the drawers.
“What did they say?” he asked.
“Oh, a lot of nonsense,” said Bradley. He laughed without humour. “But I have no doubt that there was a threat to my life. There were all sorts of wild accusations about my so-called persecution of the staff, and a strong suggestion that I am planning to pinch the Leahy money.”
“What is the Leahy money?” Daly asked patiently.
“Leahy is an odd little duck, an Irish-American industrialist. He has a stack of money that he wants to give to the College. We are trying to work out a scheme that will please him and still be useful to us. You remember, I was telling you just now that Delaney wants to spend it on exterminating the rats.”
“Have you got any rats, by the way?” Daly asked curiously. “There were none in my time.”
“Not that I know of,” said Bradley, “unless you count Delaney himself.”
Daly studied the President for a moment before he said:
“Then it is some time since you began to get the letters.”
“Three months and more,” said Bradley. “I get one every Tuesday by the second post.”
“Have you had one to-day?”
&n
bsp; “Yes,” said Bradley curtly.
“In what way is your life threatened?”
“They are all the same,” said Bradley, making a renewed effort to appear detached. “First comes a list of my so-called crimes. Then at the foot of the page there is a picture of a little tombstone, in ink, with my name on it. It’s quite nerve-racking, I can assure you.”
“I have no doubt of that,” said Daly. “And clearly a threat of some kind. Have you not thought of telling the police?”
“Of course not,” said Bradley shortly. “That is quite impossible. There would be publicity, and heavy-handed enquiries. It would all be most unsuitable.”
Daly tried to fix his face into a sympathetic expression while he considered the whole story. An honest man who believed that his life was threatened would have called in the Guards at once. He began to wonder why Bradley had been so hesitant. His eyes certainly had that blank appearance of a man who does not feel comfortable in the company of the police. To be sure, Daly had seen the same look on people with tender consciences, whose lives were made miserable if they forgot to water the geraniums or feed the cat. But he happened to know that Bradley’s conscience was not especially tender.
“Why did you think that I could help you?” he asked at last.
“I read your evidence at the Crane’s Court trial,” said Bradley. “It was patent that you had observed a great deal more than most people. I know no one else that I can trust. And you understand university life. Please do not let me down.”
“Of course I’ll help you,” said Daly, “but I can’t do it alone. I have no authority to question people.”
“You have my authority,” said Bradley tartly.
Daly did not point out that this was not worth a fig. Again he noticed perspiration on Bradley’s forehead, in spite of his attempt to appear merely angry. It was a great many years since anyone had threatened to murder Daly, but he still respected the effect that such a threat can produce.
“Besides,” continued Bradley, “it is essential that no one knows you are asking questions for a purpose. It must look like mere curiosity. I don’t want people to know that I commissioned you to look after me. And that reminds me, I’m not asking you to do this for nothing. You can name your own fee. I’ll spare no expense.”
Daly found these continual embarrassing turns in the conversation very trying. He managed to shelve the question of a fee for his services without actually stating that he was not a professional detective, and hurried on to the next point:
“If I find out who is writing the letters, I take it that you will have no objection to calling in the Guards then?”
“If you find out who is writing the letters,” said Bradley emphatically, “I’ll deal with him in my own way. The Guards must not be brought into the business at all.”
“I should not attempt to deal with it,” said Daly judicially. “If you face the person in question with his guilt, he may murder you in real earnest.”
He said this deliberately and brutally, for he was convinced of its truth. Bradley waved the idea aside and said:
“Don’t you worry. I’ll be able for him, once I know who he is. Your only business is to discover that, and leave the rest to me.”
Daly had his own ideas about this, but it was clear that there was no further point in discussing them. Bradley was saying bitterly:
“You won’t find it hard to get the staff talking about me. Just let them think you disapprove of me, and you’ll find yourself surrounded with people bursting to discourse on my sins. I never courted popularity. I never pandered to them, nor flattered them as they would have liked. But I got the work done, all right, which is more than can be said for most presidents.”
And he sat back and stroked his stomach, waiting for Daly to agree that this policy had been sound. Daly had long ago ceased to wonder that anyone had threatened to murder Bradley. The surprising thing was that he had been left so long alive. Possibly what had saved him was the fact that professors are not usually practical people. Even if they worked out a dozen methods of murdering Bradley, unless they could hand on the actual task to a research student, nothing would ever be done.
Daly stood up to go, saying:
“I’ll ask questions here and there, and see if I can find out who is behind all this. But if I do find out, I won’t tell you his name until after we have again discussed the question of calling in the Guards.”
“Very well,” said Bradley, with a contemptuous shrug for such scruples. “Just find out, as you say, and we’ll talk about the other question afterwards.”
It was clear that he had no doubt of his power to persuade Daly to part with the information when the time would come.
“And perhaps he will, in spite of me,” thought Daly, as he walked back to his rooms across the quadrangle.
Lewis had got the fire going in his study, and had pulled the leather-topped table into exactly the position that Daly had always favoured. His dispatch-case lay on the table, and Lewis would have ferreted through it to see if the lectures were any good, if Daly had not taken the precaution of locking it. He opened it now, took out a bundle of papers and tried to settle down to read. He had to give it up after a short time. Usually his own words fascinated him, so that he would read on and on as if he were in a dream. But this evening he lost interest after half a page, and his mind kept returning to Bradley’s plight. At last he put down the papers and gave himself up to consideration of it, and of his own connection with it.
It was not only by chance that Professor Daly had been associated with the solution of several murder mysteries. The psychology of murderers had always had a terrible attraction for him. In his younger days he had made a game of spotting potential murderers — selfish, vain, short-sighted, often stupid people who seemed capable of becoming obsessed with hatred, so that the only solution of their difficulties appeared to be in the death of their enemy. He had become so expert at his game that he had more than once spotted murder when no one else had suspected it. Then he had kept his own counsel and watched while the murderer, though never accused of his crime, was eventually and inevitably destroyed by his own conscience. On the rare occasions when he had joined in the pursuit, he was far too sensitive and intelligent not to have suffered agonizing qualms afterwards. For this reason he had recently resolved firmly to turn his back upon all murderers and their tantrums.
But Bradley’s case was surely different, he pleaded with himself. Perhaps this was an opportunity such as he had never been offered before, actually to save a man from being murdered. This time he would not have to watch helplessly, since he had been asked to interfere. It would be cruel and heartless to refuse.
“There you go again,” he said to himself severely. “I knew you would not be able to resist.”
He felt his hands go clammy in sympathy as he remembered Bradley’s fear.
It was characteristic of him that he wasted no time in speculating about his next move. The room had grown dark, except for the dancing flames of the fire which were reflected in dull pools of light on the panelling. He heaved himself out of his chair and went across to close the heavy tapestry curtains. At all sides, lighted windows shone out on to the dark quadrangle, making the grass look more velvety and brilliant than it could ever have done in the daytime. The red-curtained windows of the President’s Lodging had a solid, comfortable air. Daly wondered what Mrs. Bradley thought of all this. It seemed either that Bradley had not told her of his fears for his life, or else that she had failed to comfort him. It was possible that Bradley had not wished to worry her pretty head, but Daly thought it far more likely that Mrs. Bradley was kept for her usefulness only, and that Bradley never discussed his affairs with her at all.
He went downstairs to the public telephone in the hall, and a moment later he was inviting his friend, Inspector Mike Kenny of the Civic Guards, to dinner at the College.
“In the plainest of plain clothes, Mike, if you please. Take the shoulder pads out of your co
at. Wear pointy-toed shoes. Red socks, if possible. A white shirt. And a decent silk tie. No, not a flamboyant one — frightful word, that! And no darting of the eyes about, taking notes on the cuff, measuring of the floor, asking to see licences, or any of that sort of thing. I’m not sure what your profession is to be, but I shall have thought of something by the time you come.”
He hung up with a sigh, released the handle of the booth door, which he had been clutching to make sure that no one could hear, and went off to the restaurant to book a table for himself and for his guest.
It was typical of King’s College that no one had thought of inviting Professor Daly to dinner on his first evening in the College. He had not expected it. He knew that his former colleagues would all notice him sitting in the dining-room, would look at their watches and suddenly realize what date it was, and then come scurrying, rambling or trotting over to make their apologies and fight among themselves about who should have him first. But for this evening he was free, and Inspector Kenny would have an invaluable chance of observing the antics of professors against their native background.
Some time later, he waited for Mike in the main hall, and looked him over judicially before admitting that he would do.
“The suit is a trifle loud, perhaps,” he said, “but I think we may turn that to account.”
“It’s Connemara tweed,” said Mike hotly, “and anyway it’s the best one I have.”
“I was wondering if it wasn’t too good,” Daly explained gently. “Wait until you see how the others are dressed. You must not take me for a typical professor.”
He smoothed his beautiful waistcoat with pride.
An aged man hurried past, dressed in greenish evening clothes of a very old-fashioned cut. Mike looked after him in alarm.
“You said nothing about evening clothes — ”
“No, no,” Daly soothed him. “That was Professor Milligan. He is the only one who wears evening clothes. He says he won’t get any more when that suit is worn out.”
