Chapter 24
WHEN HE GOT BACK, she’d hung up the phone and was staring into space, her face as white as the snow outside the window.
“Good Lord, Helen, what did you find out?” She drank some of the brandy. “Thank you, Peter.” She set down the glass with great care. “During the past several months, there’s been a strange little trickle of rare books coming into the market through a dealer whom my friend refuses to name, which means he’s a fence. They all have had the same odd-shaped bookplate steamed out of them. Two weeks ago, the dealer got hold of the poems of Currer, Ellis, and Acton B-B—”
“Here, take more brandy. Helen, that can’t be true?”
“It is if my informant says it is. He claims the book is in mint condition and the dealer got it for five thousand dollars because who ever heard of Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell?” Her voice was shaking.
“Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell,” Shandy repeated in a stunned tone. “Charlotte, Emily, and Anne. Their one joint publishing venture, paid for out of their own thin pockets and a complete financial bust. Ten copies sold, or something like that?”
“Six, I believe,” said Helen. “The rest were used to line trunks. Peter, I think I’m going to be sick. It’s—it’s like finding out Sir Parsifal had gone and hocked the Holy Grail.”
The librarian wrung her hands in anguish. Shandy felt it only common courtesy to cover them with his own. The gesture led to further courtesies.
At last Helen murmured into his collarbone, “Peter, you’re such a blessed comfort. I wish I didn’t have to go.”
“You don’t.”
“But Dr. Porble will be furious.”
“To hell with Porble. How do we know he isn’t a crook?”
“He’d never sell the Bronte sisters for a lousy five thousand dollars.”
“He wouldn’t know the Bronte sisters if they walked up and hit him over the head with their reticules.”
“Then he wouldn’t know enough to steal the book, would he? Peter, I really must go. Professor Stott will be coming in for his hog statistics and they’re still not finished. I can’t afford to get fired.”
“Yes, you can. I should point out that what with having tenure in the rank of full professor, in addition to my royalties from the Balaclava Buster, et al., I am a man of not inconsiderable fortune.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Lawful wedlock was what I had in mind.”
“But you’ve only known me since Monday afternoon. Peter, you’ve been a bachelor—”
“Quite long enough. Nothing is more powerful than an idea whose time is come. You, as a woman of literary attainments, should know that. I’m not trying to rush you, Helen. I’m just—er—doing the preliminary spadework. A natural first step for a farmer to take.”
“Then I may have time to think it over?”
“Of course. You—er—won’t mind if I count the days?”
“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t. I think I’d better go now. Thank you, Peter.”
At least it wasn’t a flat turndown. Shandy refrained from offering to walk her back up the hill, and sat down at his desk. He needed to collect his thoughts. Taking paper and pen, he started making a list.
Perhaps because his mind was running in that general direction, the first query he wrote down was, “Why would any woman in her right mind afflict herself with Grimble?” He could see but two possible explanations: either she was indeed damned hard up, or else she wanted something from him that she couldn’t get any other way.
The one thing Grimble had that nobody else did was that keyboard in his private office. Was it actually possible one of the ladies Shandy knew—for she must somehow be connected with the Crescent as well as the college—could bring herself to commit such an act?
For five thousand dollars? Plenty of women had done it for less, and God alone knew how many books had been peddled out of the Buggins Collection by now. Even at cutthroat prices, the take must be impressive. Had the looting gone on over a long period of time, or was it the threatened fruition of his own long campaign to get the books into circulation that had inspired somebody to weed out the treasures first?
He wished he didn’t keep coming back to the likelihood that he himself was responsible for the whole rotten chain of events. Doggedly, Shandy turned to another question. He was writing, “Who stole my Santa Claus?” when the doorbell rang.
It was a woman, and for one delirious moment he thought Helen might have returned to say yes. She proved, however, to be Hannah Cadwall.
“Peter, I came to thank you for getting me out of jail. The president says you stayed up all night hunting for taxine in Ben’s nose drops.”
“It had to be somewhere.”
“But to think you’d do that for me! Peter, I didn’t realize.”
Oh, God, there was that look again, and this one’s husband not even buried yet. Shandy backed away a step.
“Not at all,” he replied stiffly. “Ben was a colleague, and I felt I owed you something in return for the capable way in which you managed Jemima’s funeral.”
“Oh, that.”
Hannah strove not to appear deflated. “I’d forgotten poor Jemima. Well, I daresay the experience will come in handy now that I’ve got to do it over again for Ben. Harry the Ghoul ought to give me a cut rate.”
She started to laugh, somewhat hysterically. Shandy remembered the brandy and she quieted down.
“Yes, I believe I would. Maybe it will take away the taste of that jail food. Peter, I simply can’t tell you what it was like.”
She proceeded to do so, however. It took Shandy some while to switch her off on a different track.
“Hannah, do you have any faintest glimmering of a notion who may have killed your husband?”
“Now, don’t you start. Seventeen different policemen asked me that this morning, as soon as Dr. Svenson came roaring in like the Bull of Bashan and made them unlock the cell. Of course I don’t. If I did, don’t you think I’d have managed to talk my way out of being arrested in the first place?”
“But dash it, Hannah, you must know something? You lived with the man. Where did Ben get his nose drops?”
“Drugstore, I suppose, or at the Cut-Rate when we went shopping in the city. It’s just a common brand you can buy anywhere. He always keeps—kept—I still can’t get used to it—anyway, he’d always buy two, one for the house and one for the office. Ben had terrible trouble with his sinuses, you know. He claimed those nose drops were the only thing that ever helped him. Dr. Melchett tried to tell him it was the nose drops that caused the congestion, but of course he’d never get Ben to believe that.”
“Would he have used them as soon as he got to the office?”
“I should think so, coming in out of the cold like that. He generally did.”
Shandy had a thought. “Would he have done it that day after the funeral, when we all more or less arrived at your house in a bunch?”
“I suppose so. I had so many things on my mind just then, I wouldn’t remember.”
“Assuming he did, was he likely to go into the bathroom or somewhere and shut the door, or would he just bale the stuff into him wherever he happened to be?”
“Oh, you know Ben. He’d never miss a chance to perform in front of an audience. No misery ever loved company the way his did. That’s the brandy talking, not me.”
The professor nodded. “So undoubtedly at least some of the people there were treated to a discourse on nose drops. I daresay I’d have heard it, too, but I was preoccupied with Tim. That means anybody there could have got the idea of buying a bottle of that same brand, doctoring it with taxine, and planting it in Ben’s desk with the virtual certainty that he’d pump poison down his throat the next morning.”
“Why, yes, I suppose they could, if they could get in, but how could they do that? Ben was always so careful about locking up, even if he just stepped out to go to the men’s room.”
“What about his secretary?”
“Not Myrnette Woodruff,” said Hannah flatly. “Anyway, she’s been down with flu ever since Christmas night, because I called to let her know about Jemima’s funeral and she was too sick to come. She felt terrible to miss it. And you needn’t get any funny ideas about her and Ben either. Her husband’s Master of the Grange and they celebrated their silver wedding anniversary this past October. Her daughter gave them a lovely party and Ben and I were invited. That’s wonderful brandy, I must say.”
She drained her glass and looked hopeful. Against his inclination, Shandy gave her a refill. This conversation was probably going to wind up as an exercise in futility. If she had anything of value to tell, that sharp state policeman would surely have got it out of her. All he himself would be likely to get was a hard time. Still, one never knew. He poured himself another modest tot and settled back in his chair.
“Hannah,” he said abruptly, “did Jemima ever mention anything about books being taken from the Buggins Collection?”
“That’s a crazy question, though, come to think of it, she did. She was stewing one day about making him bring it back.”
“Making whom bring it back?”
“Oh, Peter, how can you expect me to remember a silly thing like that, with everything else that’s happened? Jemima was always in a swivet about something.”
“For God’s sake, woman, try!”
“Don’t yell at me like that! Ben never yelled. He could get pretty nasty sometimes, but he always kept his voice down.”
“I’m sorry, Hannah, but you’ve got to remember! Damn it, the person who took that book is probably your husband’s murderer.”
“That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard.”
Mrs. Cadwall set down her twice-emptied glass and started gathering herself together. “I don’t mean to be rude, Peter, I really do appreciate what you did for me, but I must say you’re getting some awfully peculiar notions lately. Those plastic reindeer, for instance. Now, please don’t take this the wrong way, but if I were you, I’d go and have a nice, quiet talk with Dr. Sidman.”
She was out the door before Shandy could think of a way to convince her that he did not need a psychiatrist. Perhaps in fact he did, for a notion wilder than all the rest came surging through his brain. Quite forgetting what Mrs. Lomax was going to say when she found sticky glasses sitting on the walnut tables, he grabbed his ancient mackinaw and made a beeline for the Administration Building.
Miss Tibbett was only too happy to make Professor Shandy free of her files, and intimated ever so gently that she’d be happier still to grant other freedoms. Shandy pretended not to know she wasn’t talking about the files.
“No, no, Miss Tibbett, I mustn’t take up any more of your valuable time. Just leave me here and go on with what you were doing. Er—there is just one more thing.”
“Yes?” she responded eagerly.
“I expect it’s been chucked out years ago, but is there the faintest chance you still have the curriculum vitae Dr. Cadwall submitted when he applied for the comptrollership?”
“We don’t chuck things out, Professor.”
Gracious even in disappointment, Miss Tibbett produced the document that had been lying dormant for over a quarter of a century. Shandy read it avidly and made careful notes. He asked for another more recent dossier and made further memoranda. He fought down an impulse to kiss Miss Tibbett, after all, and rushed from the building. Now that the preliminary research indicated a hopeful prognosis, his next step was obvious. He must find out where in Sam Hill Patsville, Ohio, might be, he must get there as fast as possible, and he must hunt up some longtime inhabitant with a good memory and a penchant for gossip.
When he stopped at the brick house for pajamas and toothbrush and the spare hundred-dollar bill he always kept hidden inside the stiff front of his only boiled shirt, he found Mrs. Lomax itching to state her views with regard to sticky tumblers on walnut tables. Shandy wasn’t interested.
“Never mind that. When you’ve finished here, I want you to take this note across to Miss Marsh. If she isn’t there, leave it where she’ll be sure to see it.”
“Why? Where are you going?”
“Away.”
He put on his respectable overcoat, now only somewhat damp, grabbed his hat and muffler, and dashed for Harry’s Garage, where a car was already being gassed up to take him to the airport. Mrs. Lomax gaped after the professor, then went to the kitchen and steamed open his note. It read:
Dearest Watson,
The game’s afoot. Stay in the roundhouse till I get back. They can’t corner you there.
Devotedly,
Arsène Lupin
“Well,” Mrs. Lomax remarked to the teakettle, “they’ve all been saying he’s gone soft in the head. Now I’d believe anything.”
Chapter 25
NOT UNTIL SHANDY WAS halfway back to Balaclava Junction did he remember that he’d been ordered by Mrs. Svenson to bring Helen to tea on Thursday afternoon. He checked with one of the airplane’s stewardesses, who confirmed his suspicion that this was indeed Thursday. There was no way of finding out from here whether the engagement was still on in view of Cadwall’s demise, but he’d damn well better show up, just in case. It was nip, tuck, and a costly speeding ticket, but he managed to reach the library in time to find Helen zipping up her new boots and casting worried glances at the clock.
“Young Lochinvar is come out of the west!” she exclaimed.
“Very funny. Is it still on?” he gasped.
“Yes, but don’t you want to sit down a minute and catch your breath?”
“I’ll breathe when we get there. Come on.”
As it was already ten after four, Helen didn’t ask the questions that were obviously burning on her lips. Together they toiled up to the crest where the president’s house, white-painted and Palladian-columned in the tradition beloved of academe, rose in majesty out of the snowdrifts. One of the several Misses Svenson, tall and fair as a young birch tree, let them in.
“Good afternoon, Professor Shandy, and this must be Miss Marsh. We’re so glad you could come. I’m Ingeborg. Please come in. Mother is in the living room.”
From the array of coats and boots in the front hall, they could see this was a party of no mean proportions instead of the intimate family tea they’d anticipated. In a way, Shandy was glad. It meant a stupendous smorgasbord after the chilly artifacts of plastic and cardboard that airlines and fast-food restaurants are pleased to call food. It meant tiny glasses of akvavit and large cups of hot tea to warm the cockles and cheer the spirit. It meant lots of people to cushion him from the full impact of President Svenson, but it also meant noise, confusion, a necessity to make small talk that would prevent his being able to mull over what he’d found out in Patsville, Ohio, and how it fitted in with the things he already knew. He decided to concentrate on the herring and postpone the mulling.
Helen Marsh, although no more prepared than he for the gala assemblage that met their eyes, was by no means out of countenance. Her well-made light blue dress and modest pearls were entirely appropriate, her smile unstrained, and her conversation ready. He was proud of her. He’d tell her so if he ever got a chance to speak to her again. They’d barely made their manners to Sieglinde when Professor Stott claimed her and led her to where the good things were piled highest, talking hog statistics with unwonted animation the while.
Shandy possessed himself of a plateful of sandwiches, a nip of akvavit, and a cup of tea, thinking to retire into some corner and refresh himself in peace. It was not to be so. “Shandy, I want you.”
“Certainly, President,” he managed to articulate around a mouthful of rollmop, “if Mrs. Svenson doesn’t mind.”
Intimating that he didn’t give a damn whether Mrs. Svenson minded or not, the great man led his victim into the library, and shut the door. “Talk.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Don’t be flip, Shandy. Damn it, I told you on Sunday to get this mess cleared u
p, and you’ve let it go from bad to worse. Now they’ve attacked my power plant.”
“How bad was the damage?”
“Not bad,” Svenson admitted. Then he roared, “Any is bad! Why, Shandy? Why?”
“I think I know why,” the professor replied, “and also who and how. The trouble is, I have no stickable evidence yet.”
“Horsefeathers! Get ’em in here. I’ll make ’em talk.”
“That would be one approach,” said Shandy cautiously. “However, I—er—think I can manage something that would be more convincing in court than—er—confession under duress.”
“I don’t trust you.”
Shandy slammed down his cup and sprang out of the chair. “I don’t give two hoots in hell whether you trust me or not. I’m the one who’s been victimized, I’m the one who got this mess shoved down his throat, and I’m the only one who’s lifted a hand to straighten it out. I’m tired and I’ve got a rotten cold and I’m goddamned fed up with being badgered. If you want me to resign here and now, consider it done. If you want me to finish this job right, get the hell off my back and let me do it.”
“By yumping yiminy!”
For a full thirty seconds, President Svenson stood snorting through his hairy nostrils like a bull about to charge. Then his lips curled skyward. He began to chuckle. It turned to a guffaw that brought Sieglinde hurrying into the room.
“Thorkjeld, what are you laughing at?”
“Shandy just told me to go to hell.”
“Can you not go quietly? You frighten our guests.”
“She’s mad at me for leaving the party,” said the president morosely. “It’s Shandy’s fault, Sieglinde. All right, Peter, I’ll give you till tomorrow noon. Come and eat herring.”
“Er—thank you, no. I seem to have lost my appetite.”
“Eat herring!”
The professor ate and found it, after all, good. Nevertheless, the hollow feeling at the pit of his stomach remained even after he and Helen were settled back at the brick house and he was telling her what he’d found out and what he’d deduced and she was reacting altogether to his satisfaction.
Rest You Merry Page 21
