"The problem," he was saying in a deep, public voice, "with Kittredge's theory of the marriage cycle is that the order of composition of The Canterbury Tales is unclear. We do not, in short, know that 'The Clerk's Tale' precedes that of 'The Wife of Bath,' for instance."
The girl mumbled something I couldntt catch, and Hayden responded.
"No, you are responsible for what you quote. If you didn't agree with Kittredge, you shouldn't have cited him."
Again the girl's mumble. Again Hayden: "Yes, if you'd like to write another paper, I'll read it and grade it. If it's better than this one, it will bring your grade up. I'd like to see an outline or at least a thesis statement, though, before you write it. Okay?"
Mumble.
"Okay, thanks for coming by."
The girl got up and walked out. She didn't look pleased. As she got into the elevator I reached around and knocked on the open door.
"Come in," Hayden said. "What can I do for you?"
It was a tiny office, just room for a desk, chair, file cabinet, bookcase, and teacher. No windows, Sheetrock partitions painted green. Hayden himself looked right at home in the office. He was small, with longish blond hair. Not long enough to be stylish; long enough to look as though he needed a haircut. He had on a light green dress shirt with a faint brown stripe in it, open at the neck, and what looked like Navy surplus dungarees. The shirt was too big for him, and the material bagged around his waist. He was wearing goldrimmed glasses.
I gave him my card and said, "I'm working on a case involving a former student and I was wondering if you could tell me anything."
He looked at my card carefully, then at me.
"Anyone may have a card printed up. Do you have more positive identification?"
I showed him the photostat of my license, complete with my picture. He looked at it very carefully, then handed it back.
"Who is the student?" he said.
"Terry Orchard," I said.
He showed no expression. "I teach a great many students, Mr."--he glanced down at my card lying on his desk-"Spenser. What class? What year? What semester?"
"Chaucer, this year, this semester."
He reached into a desk drawer and pulled a yellow cardboard-covered grade book. He thumbed through it, stopped, ran his eyes down a list, and said, "Yes, I have Miss Orchard in my Chaucer course."
Looking at the grade book upside down, I could see he had the student's last name and first initial. If he didn't know her name or whether she was in his class or not without looking her up in his grade book, how, looking at the listing ORCHARD, T., did he know it was Miss Orchard? Like Tabor, the zinnia head, no one seemed willing to know old Terry.
"Don't you know the names of your students, Dr. Hayden?" I asked, trying to say it neutrally, not as if I were critical. He took it as if it were critical.
"This is a very large university, Mr. Spenser." He had to check the card again to get my name. I hope he remembered Chaucer better. "I have an English survey course of sixty-eight students, for instance. I cannot keep track of the names, much as I try to do so. One of this university's serious problems is the absence of community. I am really able to remember only those students who respond to my efforts to personalize our relationship. Miss Orchard apparently is not one of those." He looked again at the open grade book. "Nor do her grades indicate that she has been unusually interested and attentive."
"How is she doing?" I asked, just to keep it going. I didn't know where I was going. I was fishing and I had to keep the conversation going.
"That is a matter concerning Miss Orchard and myself." Nice conversation primer, Spenser, you really know how to touch the right buttons.
"Sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to pry, but when you think about it, prying is more or less my business."
"Perhaps," Hayden said. "It is not, however, my business; nor is it, quite frankly, a business for which I have much respect."
"I know it's not important like Kittredge's marriage cycle, but it's better than enlisting, I suppose."
"I'm quite busy, Mr. Spenser." He didn't have to check this time. A quick study, I thought.
"I appreciate that, Dr. Hayden. Let me be brief. Terry Orchard is accused of the murder of her boyfriend, Dennis Powell." No reaction. "I am working to clear her of suspicion.
Is there anything you can tell me that would help?"
"No, I'm sorry, there isn't."
"Do you know Dennis Powell?"
"No, I do not. I can check through my grade books, but I don't recall him."
"That's not necessary. The grade book won't tell me anything. There's nothing at all you can think of? About either?"
"Nothing. I'm sorry, but I don't know the people involved."
"Are you aware that the Godwulf Manuscript has been stolen?"
"Yes, I am."
"Do you have any idea what might have happened to it?"
"Mr. Spenser, this is absurd. I assume your interest relates to the fact that I am a medievalist. I am not, however, a thief."
"Well," I said, "thanks anyway." I got up.
"You're welcome. I'm sorry I wasn't more useful." His voice was remarkable. Deep and resonant, it seemed incongruous with his slight frame. "Thanks for coming by."
As I left the office, two students were waiting outside, sitting on the floor, coats and books in a pile beside them.
They looked at me curiously as I entered the elevator. As it descended I could hear Hayden's voice booming. "Come in, Mr. Vale. What can I do for you?"
On the ground floor were two campus policemen, and they wanted me. I hadn't eluded Mary Masculine after all.
She was hovering in the doorway to the English office. One of the cops was big and fat with a thick, pockmarked face and an enormous belly. The other was much smaller, a black man with a neat Sugar Ray mustache and a tailored uniform. They weren't wearing guns, but each had a nightstick stuck in his hip pocket. The fat one took my arm above the elbow in what he must have felt was an iron grip.
"Start walking, trooper," he said, barely moving his lips.
I was frustrated, and angry at Lowell Hayden and at Mary Masculine and the university. I said, "Let go of my arm or I'll put a dent in your face."
"You and who else?" he said. It broke my tension.
"Snappy," I said. "On your days off could you come over and be my dialogue coach?"
The black cop laughed. The fat one looked puzzled and let go of my arm.
"What do you mean?" he said.
"Never mind, Lloyd," the black cop said. "Come on, Jim, we got to walk you off campus."
I nodded. "Okay, but not arm in arm. I don't go for that kind of stuff."
"Me neither, Jim. We'll just stroll along."
And we did. The fat cop had his nightstick out and tapped it against his leg as we went out of the building and toward the street. His eyes never left me. Alert, I thought, vigilant. When we got to my car, the black cop opened the door for me with a small, graceful flourish.
The fat one said, "Don't come back. Next time you show up here you'll be arrested."
"For crissake," I said. "I'm working for the university.
Your boss hired me."
"I don't know nothing about that, but we got our orders. Get out and stay out."
The black cop said, "I don't know, Jim, but I think maybe you been canceled." He closed the door and stepped back. I started the car and pulled away. They still stood there as I drove off, the fat one looking balefully after me, still slapping his nightstick against his leg.
CHAPTER TEN
IT WAS GETTING DARK, and the commuter traffic was starting to thicken the streets. I drove slowly back to my office, parked my car, and went in.
When I unlocked my office door the first thing I noticed was the smell of cigarette smoke. I hadn't smoked in ten years. I pushed it open hard and went in low with my gun out.
There was someone sitting at my desk, and another man standing against the wall. In the half-light the tip of his ciga
rette glowed. Neither of them moved. I backed to the wall and felt for the light switch. I found it, and the room brightened.
The man against the wall laughed, a thin sound, without humor.
"Look at that, Phil. Maybe if we give him money he'll do that again."
The man at my desk said nothing. He was sitting with his feet up, my chair tipped back, his hat still on, his overcoat still buttoned up, though it must have been ninety in there, wearing rose-colored gold-rimmed glasses. He looked at me without expression, a very tall man, narrow, with high shoulders, six foot four or five, probably. Behind the glasses one eye was blank and white and turned partly up. Along the right line of his jaw was a purple birthmark maybe two inches wide, running the whole length of the jaw from chin to ear.
His hands were folded across his stomach. Big hands, long, square, thick fingers, the backs prominently veined, the knuckles lumpy. I could tell he was impressed with the gun in my hand. The only thing that would have scared him more would have been if I had threatened to flog him with a dandelion.
"Put that away," he said. "If he was going to push you I wouldn't have let Sonny smoke." His voice was a harsh whisper, as if he had an artificial throat.
Sonny gave me a moon-faced smile. He was thick and round, running to fat, with mutton-chop sideburns that came to the corners of his mouth. His coat was off and his collar open, the tie at half-mast. Sweat soaked the big half-moon circles around his armpits, and his face was shiny with it. I put the gun away.
"A man wants to see you," Phil said. I hadn't seen him move since I came in. His voice was entirely without inflection.
"Joe Broz?" I said.
Sonny said, "What makes you think so?"
Phil said, "He knows me."
"Yeah," I said, "you walk around behind Broz."
Phil said, "Let's go," and stood up. Six-five, at least.
When he was standing you could see that his right shoulder was higher than his left.
I said, "What if I don't want to?"
Phil just looked at me. Sonny snickered, "What if he don't want to, Phil?"
Phil said, "Let's go."
We went. Outside, double-parked, was a Lincoln Continental. Sonny drove; Phil sat in back with me.
It had started to snow again, softly, big flakes, and the windshield wipers made the only sound in the car. I looked at the back of Sonny's neck as he drove. The hair was long and stylish and curled out over the collar of his white trench coat.
Sonny seemed to be singing soundlessly to himself as he drove. His head bobbed, and he beat gentle time on the wheel with one suede-gloved hand. Phil was a silent and motionless shape in the corner of the back seat.
"Either of you guys seen The Godfather?" I asked.
Sonny snorted. Phil ignored me.
"Beat up any good candy store owners lately, Sonny?"
"Don't ride me, Peep; you'll find yourself looking up at the snow."
"I'm heavy work, Sonny. College kids are about your upper limit, I think."
"Goddammit," Sonny started, and Phil stopped him.
"Shut up," Phil said in his gear box voice, and we both knew he meant both of us.
"Just having a little snappy conversation, Phil, to pass the time," I said.
Phil just looked at me, and the menace was like a physical force. I could feel anxiety pulse up and down the long muscles of my arms and legs. Going to see Joe Broz was not normally a soothing experience anyway. Not many people looked forward to it.
The ride was short. Sonny pulled to a stop in front of a building on the lower end of State Street. Phil and I got out. I stuck my head back in before I closed the back door.
"If a tough meter maid puts the arm on you, Sonny, just scream and I'll come running."
Sonny swore at me and burned rubber away from the curb.
I followed Phil into the building. We took the self-service elevator to the eleventh floor. The corridor was silent and empty, with marble wainscoting and frosted glass doors.
At the far end we went through one marked CONTINENTAL CONSULTING CO. Inside was an empty stainless-steel and coralvinyl reception room. There is little that is quieter than an office building after hours, and this one was no exception. The lights were all on, the receptionist's desk was geometrically neat. On one wall were staggered prints by Maurice Utrillo.
Phil said, "Gimme your gun."
I hesitated. I didn't like his manner, I didn't like his assumption that I'd do what I was told because he'd told me to, and I didn't like his assumption that if he had to he could make me. On the other hand, I'd come this far because I was curious. Something bothered Broz enough to have him send his top hand to bring me in. And Sonny looked a lot like one of the two hoods that Terry had described. Also, Phil didn't seem much to care whether I liked his assumptions or not.
I noticed that there was a gun in Phil's hand, and it was pointing at an area somewhere between my eyes. I'd never seen him move. I took my gun out of my hip holster and handed it to him, butt first. People were taking it away from me a lot lately. I didn't like that too much either. Phil stowed my gun away in an overcoat pocket, put away his own gun in the other, and stepped to one of the inner doors of the reception room. It was solid, no glass panel. I heard a buzz, and the door clicked open. I looked around and spotted the closedcircuit camera up high in one corner of the reception room.
Phil pushed the door open and nodded me through it.
The room was bone white. The first thing I saw was my own reflection in the wide black picture window that stretched the width of the opposite wall. My reflection didn't look too aggressive. In front of the window was a broad black desk, neat, with a bank of phones on it. The room was carpeted with something thick and expensive, in a dark blue.
There were several black leather chairs about. Along the side wall was an ebony bar with blue leather padding. Leaning against it was Joe Broz.
There was something theatrical about Broz, as if there was always a press photographer downstage left, kneeling to shoot a picture with his big Speed Graphic camera. He was a middle-size man who stood very straight with his chin up, as if squeezing every inch of height out of what God had given him. He had many teeth--a few too many for his mouth--and they were very prominent and white. His hair was slick black, combed straight back from a high forehead and gray at the temples. The sideburns were long and neatly trimmed. His nose was flat and thick with a slight skijump quality to the end that hinted at a break somewhere in the past. He wore a white suit, a white vest, a dark blue shirt, and a white tie.
There was a gold chain across the vest, and presumably a gold watch tucked in the vest pocket. I would have bet against a Phi Beta key, but little is sure in life. He had one foot hooked on the brass rail of the bar, and a large diamond ring flashed from his little finger as he turned a thick highball glass in his hands.
"Do you always dress in blue and white?" I asked. "Or do you have the office redone to match your clothes every day?"
Broz sipped a little of his drink, put it down on the bar, and swung fully around toward me, both elbows resting on the bar.
"I have been told," he said in a deep voice that had the phony quality you hear in an announcer's voice when he's not on the air, "that you are a wise-ass punk. Apparently my information was correct. So let's get some ground rules. You are here because I sent for you. You will leave when I tell you to.
You are of no consequence. You have no class. If you annoy me, I will have someone sprinkle roach powder on you. Do you understand that?"
"Yeah," I said. "I think so, but you better give me a drink. I feel faint."
Phil, who had drifted to a couch in the far corner and sprawled awkwardly on it, let out a soft sound that sounded almost like a sigh.
Broz moved to his desk, sat, and nodded at one of the leather chairs. "Sit down. I got things to say. Phil, make him a drink."
"Bourbon," I said, "with water, and some bitters."
Phil made the drink. He moved stiffly, and his h
ands seemed like distorted work gloves. But they performed the task with a bare economy of motion that was incongruous. I'd have to be sure not to make any mistakes about Phil.
I leaned back in the black chair and took a sip of the bourbon. It was a little more expensive than the private label stuff I bought. There was too much bitters, but I decided not to call Phil on it. We'd probably have other issues. There was a knock on the door. Phil glanced at the monitor set in the wall by the door, opened the door, and let Sonny in. He had his trench coat folded over his arm, and his tie was neatly up.
Robert B Parker - Spenser 01 - The Godwulf Manuscript Page 8
