"I'll think about it," Z said, knowing that nothing else he could say would turn Calder off.
"That's a good start. After thinking about it, of course, you must do something about it. If I could only get my clients to make positive changes in their lives when they're unhappy, I'd be a happier man, myself. But a lot poorer." The doctor winked again; as if he and Z shared secrets. "My clients would get well and stop paying me."
There was movement at Z's shoulder ... someone else ... there.
Though generally feeling safe in crowded places, Z didn't like the idea of becoming so involved in conversation that a third party could get close to him without him being aware of it.
"Pardon me," said a deep voice above and behind Z's back.
Half turning, Z saw a man he didn't know. Tall. Skinny. Long neck and big Adam's apple. Eyes blinking slowly like an ostrich in a zoo. Long lashes. A man of Calder's age.
"Oh, hi, Fritz," said Calder, Calder knowing the man meaning Z could relax. "I don't believe you two have met. Fritz, this is Bob Zapolska, a friend of mine. Bob's a detective. You won't believe what he's been able to do for me. You know how Maddox Construction screwed me? Well, Bob got my money back from them, and ....." Calder seemed to run down suddenly, as if he'd forgotten to wind himself up all the way. "Oh. ... And, Bob, this is Fritz Furlwangler, American historian at Bateman."
"Pleased to meet you," said the gangly professor, extending a long arm to Z, shaking Z's hand with a stronger grip than Z would have imagined. (Today was a day for surprises, Z feeling like a space voyager landed among shape shifters. "Screwed?" Not the language he thought a college teacher would use. Ever.)
"I don't want to interrupt," the new man said in a firm, low voice, "but I saw you over here and thought you might not have heard. I just found out myself."
"Sit down, why don't you," Calder said, pointing at one of the empty chairs, beginning to pull his overcoat off the chair's spindled back."
"I can't. I've got to run. Got a one o'clock." The man paused. "It's about Victor."
"Victor?"
Looking over, Z saw that Calder's face was as blank as a robot who'd had his OFF switch punched. An illusion only; it was the way Calder looked when thinking.
"Tommy Victor. The janitor," the stranger prompted.
Calder brightened; began burbling like water gurgles from an uncorked jug.
"Sure. The custodian. I was just talking to him yesterday, in fact. I didn't think of him because I always call him Tommie V. V for victory. If you need something done -- temperature regulated, floor cleaned, anything in maintenance -- call Tommie V. V, for victory." Calder could tell he wasn't making himself clear. Grinned. "I got a theory that what's important in life is not big victories like winning a war, but prevailing in small battles like getting the heat regulated in your office. Tommie V always helps you win the 'dinkys' which, because they're so numerous and because they bug the hell out of you, are more important than what people call life's 'big' victories."
"I felt that way about him, too. Everybody did."
"Did?"
Calder's mind was snake-strike fast. No doubt at all of that. When he wanted, he could pick up every - little - shade - of - meaning in a person's voice or look.
"That's what I said, unfortunately. It's bad news. Tommie is dead."
"Dead!" Again, the cyborg look, this time with a twitch at the corner of a Calder-robot eye.
"Worse than that, if that's possible. He was shot."
It was as if time had stopped in that silence-smothered corner of the restaurant.
Though Z didn't know the dead man, the others made Z feel the loss.
"When?"
"Sometime last night, apparently. I just heard it from Washburn. Shot in a sub-basement of Bateman Hall. When he didn't report for work this morning, there was a search. He never failed to come in, you know, no matter how sick he was. The way I hear it, it took a long time to find him. It seems no one goes where they found his body."
"Who would do a thing like that?" Calder -- cold sober.
"I don't know. And all I heard was shot. Said like it could be suicide. But I don't think so."
"No."
Pared down, a janitor at the school where the professors taught had been killed. Maybe suicide, maybe not.
"Well, I've got to go. Just thought you'd want to know, Hugh." Hugh was Calder's first name. Z knew that because the professor had introduced himself over the phone, not as Dr. Calder, but as Hugh Calder.
"Thanks, Fritz." Calder -- being polite -- no matter what the circumstance; the kind of man who'd thank the hangman for a well-adjusted noose.
The other man nodded soberly, blinked his eyes, turned, and walked with long, slow, overcoat-stretching strides toward the cash register table up front.
"You knew the victim well?"
"Not well," the professor said. "But I liked him. He did his job. Did it with style. And that's about all anyone can do when it comes right down to it." Even while saying that, Calder began to look ... strange. Agitated. "I don't like this at all. There's something wrong, here. Nobody in his right mind would.............
"Listen!" Calder floating off, he'd pounced back. "Have you got cases piled up or do you have some free time?"
"Some, free time," Z said, knowing Calder wouldn't miss his meaning.
"I'd like to hire you to look into this."
"The police will ...."
"I know. But I have an ... odd feeling .... I get those occasionally." Dr. Calder twitched out a curious smile; looked over at Z as if he'd like to explain something ..... but had decided not to. "If I told you why I went into the study of psychology, you'd laugh," he continued, looking embarrassed.
Calder paused to reload his mind. "Anyway ... I'd like to hire you to look into this. You got money back for me I thought I'd never see again. Didn't charge me. So it's like I've suddenly found money I can use."
"OK. Got a cop friend I can check with. But I'll need help. Didn't know the victim. Don't know the school. I'd need to see where he was shot."
"When you're ready, I can help there. In the meantime, I'll find out all I can." That settled, Calder snapped over his wrist to look at his watch, the doc a man of quick-shifting moods. In fact, if someone asked you to describe the professor in a single word, quick would do it. Wouldn't describe his body, maybe, but everything else about him. "I've got to go. Thanks again. Thanks twice."
All settled, at least to the professor's satisfaction, Calder got up smoothly.
"I'll stay. Have another glass of coke," Z said.
"Sure. Call me."
"Right."
With what seemed like one motion, Calder picked up his white wool scarf from the chair back; snapped the scarf around his neck; lifted his brown coat and swung into it; fished out his billfold (left a dollar tip); picked up his "adding machine" check and disappeared into the crowd of people who were headed for the cash register up front.
Leaving Bob Zapolska at the table -- to think.
First, about how good it felt to be alone. Then, though Calder could wear you out, about how interesting it had been to talk to the fleshy prof.
Since Z was to look into the Tommie Victor case, he'd have the chance to talk to Calder again, probably more than once.
For now, the question was: who'd want to shoot a janitor?
Almost all killings in the sleepy backwater that was Kansas-City-North-of-the-River -- and there weren't many -- were either family, or drug-related. But in this instance, knowledgeable people knew and liked the dead man, neither personal quarrels nor drugs coming up in the conversation.
So, Bob Zapolska stayed behind to think.
And to burn the paper packet the prof's artificial sweetener had come in, Z holding the pink paper between thumb and forefinger, firing up his lighter to ignite the packet's bottom corner, tossing the flaming remains in the ashtray as the fire was about to burn his fingers.
Z remembered his Mom worrying about him playing with fire.
> Looking back from the advantage of adulthood, he could see she thought there was something unusual about a boy who liked fire as much as he did. .......
Z smiled his warmest grimace at that memory of his Mom's concern.
* * * * *
Chapter 6
Friday was colder, a sharp wind from the north playing veg-o-matic with Bob Zapolska's coat and heavy winter slacks as he came back from his daily pilgrimage to pick up the morning paper. Morning paper! It was the daily paper!
Breakfast sandwich, Coke, and cheery blaze waiting for him when he got back inside, he sat down at the table, slipped the rubber band off what was now laughably called the Star and tossed the tangled rubber in the rivet-popping fireplace. Pugh! But the smell wouldn't last long.
Sighing, he unfolded the "greatly expanded" paper.
Again today, there was nothing about a Maddox break-in. No sense even checking for that anymore.
Though over a week had gone by, the front page still sported coverage of the Monet theft, today's headline promising in-depth coverage of the case, the paper's article turning out to be officials saying they knew nothing; officials refusing to be quoted; officials reluctant to reveal what they hinted they knew.
Printing a great big zero on the front page would have saved a lot of ink.
The article of interest was in Section B (the area of the paper reserved for news that didn't press on the nerves of the K. C. power structure.) EMPLOYEE FOUND DEAD AT COLLEGE.
Before burning that section, Z memorized the piece -- not hard to do because it was so short.
Thomas B. Victor, custodian, was discovered shot to death yesterday in a basement room on the campus of Bateman College. A college spokesman revealed that the weapon found beside the body was one that had been used in a detective play some years ago, stored, with other theater props, in a largely unused sub-basement in the college's theater building: Bateman Hall.
Bateman College custodial supervisor, Harold Yerkes, said that Mr. Victor, a long time maintenance worker at the college, had been missing since Wednesday evening.
No second party in the shooting is being sought at this time, according to an informed source. "Mr. Victor had been suffering from severe depression of late," said Calvin Gurthrie, college president.
Funeral arrangements are pending the identification of surviving relatives.
Possible suicide? Not according to Professors Calder and Furlwangler.
While Z had taken the Victor case as a favor to Calder, Z was beginning to get interested in what really happened to the man who "everybody" liked.
The phone rang.
Susan!
Almost had to be. She was the only one who had his home phone number.
He'd let his pride stop him from calling Susan at work yesterday afternoon. Something he regretted when he failed to get her at home again last night.
With rising excitement, Z got up, dodged the coffee table, and squeaked down into the sofa. His hand a little shaky, he picked up the phone.
"Z."
"Ted."
Z almost cursed -- an irrational reaction, Z calming himself with a deep breath. He owed it to Ted to be polite, particularly since he'd asked Teddy to get back to him about the Monet theft. What had thrown Z off was that he'd expected a call from Ted at the office rather than at home. The police no doubt had Z's home phone number because that rat-faced Captain had ...
"Z? You there?"
"Got something?"
"Yes and no." Teddy Newbold, practicing politics. "Like you wanted, I put in a call to a friend of mine on the K.C. force. Wasn't his case, but he said he'd check and, late yesterday afternoon, I got a call from a lieutenant, wanting to know what my interest was in this. I'll be honest with you, I didn't expect that. I thought my 'good buddy' could keep his mouth shut and just throw something my way, casual like. Anyway, this lieutenant, name of Willis Addison, wanted to know my interest. And I had to give him your name, Z." Since Z hadn't called the K.C. cops, it had to be that Ted's friend on the K.C. force was the one with verbal diarrhea. "Sorry about that, buddy." An apology that rang as true as Republicans sympathizing with the poor.
"Yeah."
"Anyway, this lieutenant is heading up the painting squad. So, I had to tell him about you. And he wanted a description and what your interest was in the matter and all that kind of thing. After that, he seemed mostly interested in you, which I couldn't figure. So I asked him why. And he tells me they're checking absolutely every lead on this one, no matter how small. Hell, they're making up clues just so they can have something to do, if I got his meaning. Everybody up and down the line is desperate to make progress on this and you know what that means? It means that they don't got shit and that the heat's on all the way from the mayor, to the commissioner, to the captain, to every pissant uniform on the street. Hell, from the way he talked, almighty God himself is interested in this one and threatnin' to blast everybody with a lightning bolt if they don't get that friggin' picture back by yesterday.
"So what I think, is that this lieutenant, who's going to take the fall for this big time if he screws it up, is delighted to have any reason to look busy and get the hell away from his desk and from a million questions from the Goddamn newspaper reporters to say nothin' about the bastards from TV. So, the bottom line is, he wants to come north to talk to you."
"Me?"
"Like I said, it doesn't make any sense except for giving the poor schmuck a place to hide out for awhile. So, here's what I did. I told him that, unless I called him back, he was to meet you at your office, ten o'clock sharp tomorrow morning. All very unofficial and hush hush."
"I can make that. But I still don't ...."
"It's nothing, Z." The ominous pause. "Well ... maybe not nothing. Somehow, I got the idea that this guy Addison thinks there's a Northland connection to the heist. Hell, I don't know. But it's nothing to do with you, either way. I scratch his back, he don't kick me in the balls. You scratch his back ... or you can kick him in the balls, for all I care. I'm just trying to stay the hell out of this."
Z could believe that.
"But like I was saying, this guy's the big daddy on the painting case. So, here's what's in it for you. While you're doing the poor bastard the courtesy of gettin' him out of the public eye for a time, you can pump him. Find out what you want to know from the horse's mouth."
"OK." Ted, for all his duck and cover-his-ass instincts, might just have something there. Maybe Z could find out something from the lieutenant. Worth a shot, anyway.
"Well, that's it, good buddy. And, Z?"
"Yeah?"
"Unless it's about something else, it's like they say: don't call me -- I'll call you. 'Bye." Click.
Z hung up the phone. Thinking. Wondering if the K.C. police did have a lead that pointed over the bridges. And something else. If Ted was right about Northland involvement in the disappearance of the Monet, then it wasn't likely this Detective Addington ... Addison ... "don't got shit," as Ted had put it. While knowing the approximate location of the criminal (or better yet, of the painting) wasn't the kind of fertilizer to grow an arrest, it might provide enough of a smell to start the bloodhounds baying.
Whatever the truth of that, Z knew he'd better be careful with the lieutenant. Z damn well didn't want that kind of stink stuck to him.
All in all, a lively way, maybe even a productive way, to begin a Friday morning.
No reason to quit now.
So Z placed two quick calls of his own, both to Bateman College; got the secretary, Beth Ogden, right away; asked if he could come on campus about 2:00 to get his last payment so he could buy the deadbolts and get them installed for her. Got an affirmative to that.
The other call had taken longer. Calder was in class, said the psychology department's high-toned secretary. Z would have to call back after ten.
Calling back "after ten" as instructed, Z found that Calder hadn't learned much about the janitor's death, but that he wasn't buying the suicide talk in th
e morning paper: was downright indignant about that.
Calder said he'd discovered how to get to the spot where the custodian had met his maker -- that great big Sweeper Upper in the sky, Z figured. Calder also said he'd be in his office all afternoon, his office in the Social Science building.
The calls made, Z's plan was to see the lady first, then locate Calder.
Two birds with a single stone. Which was pretty good in a world where, most of the time, you couldn't knock a bird from a flock with a double-barreled, trigger-wired, spread pattern twelve gauge.
With the prospects of money coming in this afternoon, Z decided he could afford lunch at Tippin's; treat himself to the best (and most expensive) Reuben in the city.
After that, he could decide whether or not it was a good move to call Susan at her work.
* * * * *
Chapter 7
Except for being unable to feel his toes and his difficulty seeing through the small hole Z had to keep wiping through the frosted windshield -- the Cavalier's heater waiting until the coldest afternoon of the year to surrender -- he had little difficulty driving along a lightly trafficked I-35. He was in the right lane, going slowly, his attention divided between keeping his car on the wind-gusted road and looking for a Bateman College sign, finally finding a Bateman placard attached to the Two-Miles-to-Liberty marker.
Continuing into Liberty, driving past the square, Z was now on North Elm -- a residential street lined with old growth trees and dignified houses.
Another mile, and what had to be the college loomed ahead, Bateman College (like so many institutions of higher learning) built on a hill.
As he closed on the school, he saw that the rise of ground did provide a beautiful location, at least it would be pretty when spring resurrected the wooded campus' trees, their branches now waving a skeletal plea for mercy to the wind-swept, sky.
Of Mice and Murderers Page 6
