There had to be a way.
He’d think it out while he watched the windows, later.
Maybe it would come to him.
NINETEEN
‘Lord, I hope today is better than yesterday,’ Frank Heath muttered, as he looked through his mail. ‘They kept staring at me, wondering if I was a murderer.’
‘I know what you mean,’ Pete Rocheleau nodded.
‘Just glare back,’ suggested Underhill.
‘Easy to say,’ Heath observed. ‘You’ve got mostly senior or graduate students. I have three freshman courses this term, and I am now prepared to mount a demonstration of sympathy for any animal in the zoo. We have become Genus Suspect, Species Killer. Suddenly, we’re fascinating – but for the wrong reasons.’
‘Well, I’m not prepared to face them unaided,’ Heskell said, producing a small bottle from his pocket and shaking out two green and black capsules. ‘It’s either this or I leap up on to my desk and start screaming.’ He threw the capsules into his mouth and swallowed them back with a toss of his head.
‘They won’t change anything,’ Jane Coulter said, disapprovingly. ‘The situation still exists.’
‘They’ll change me,’ Heskell said, dramatically. ‘The situation can do what it damn well pleases.’
Dan Stark appeared in the doorway of the inner office. He looked haggard. ‘Ah, good – most of you are here,’ he said, as Lucy Grey-Jenner and Arthur Fowler came in. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that late yesterday afternoon, Edward Pinchman attempted to commit suicide. It will probably be in the papers if . . . he dies.’
They gaped at him, their letters and papers in their hands, half-in or half-out of their coats, all held in suspended animation before the letterboxes.
‘He’s still alive?’ Jane Coulter asked in a shocked whisper.
‘Can they save him?’
‘Alive, yes – but I’m told the doctors don’t hold out much hope,’ Stark said. ‘As you know, his health hasn’t been good for some time . . .’ His voice faltered slightly.
‘He killed Aiken,’ Heskell said, suddenly. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? He was the one.’
‘I don’t know . . .’ Dan said, weakly.
‘There was a note,’ Heskell said. ‘There must have been a note.’
‘I believe a note was found, yes . . .’
‘Then the conclusion is obvious,’ Heskell said, triumphantly. ‘He killed Aiken, then, stricken with remorse, he killed himself. End of story.’
‘They sought to take him, but he escaped out of their hands,’ Underhill intoned.
‘If and when I learn any more, I’ll let you know, of course,’ Dan Stark said. He gave them a bleak, forlorn look and turned away.
‘I can’t believe it,’ Jane Coulter said, looking ill. ‘I can’t take it in. Why? Why would Edward have killed Aiken?’
‘Why would anyone?’ Lucy Grey-Jenner asked. ‘Because Aiken was Aiken – who needed any more reason?’
‘Edward was a good friend,’ Fowler said, visibly shaken by the news. ‘A good man. I can’t believe it.’
‘Neither can I,’ Kate said, angrily. ‘And I don’t.’
‘Well, that’s a waste of tranquillisers,’ Heskell said, chirpily. ‘All’s well that ends – and now back to the boring old routine.’
This cheery announcement drew some shocked and scathing glances from the others which he returned with jaunty boldness. ‘Well, no sense being hypocritical, is there?’ he went on. ‘I mean, it’s a shame about old Pinchman, but who are we to know what went on between them? Some old hatred, simmering away . . .’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Kate said.
‘Well, we all wanted to kill Aiken from time to time, admit it!’ Heskell said, defiantly. ‘Him and his posing and his bragging and his constant threats to stun us all with yet another rivetingly boring revelation . . .’
‘Oh,’ Kate said, suddenly. They all stared at her. She went to the door of the inner office. ‘Dan? Can I have a minute?’
Stark, nearly to the door of his own office, turned and came back as she advanced across the secretaries’ domain. ‘A girl came in yesterday with a manuscript she’d been typing for Aiken. She seemed pretty hard up, so I paid her for it. Can I get it back from his estate? I got a receipt.’
‘Oh, I’m sure that’s quite straightforward – although you should have sent her to me,’ Stark said.
‘Well, she was pretty confused and upset, and I had a class – so I just did the quickest thing then forgot all about it. Sorry.’
Stark smiled at her. ‘You are a soft touch, Katie. Anybody with a sad story and you’re right there. What was the manuscript anyway?’
‘I don’t know, I only peeked . . .’ she stopped, for he was grinning at her. ‘Well,’ she said defensively, ‘You would have, too.’
‘I’m sure I would, and will,’ Stark agreed.
‘Did you know if he was researching anything about the Greek army?’ Kate asked.
‘The Greek army? Aiken?’ Dan was amazed. ‘Surely not.’
‘Well, I was looking at it upside-down,’ Kate conceded. ‘It looked like “Four something Cavalry” – but I could have been wrong.’ The nine o’clock bell sounded in the hall, and she raised her voice over the clamour. ‘Anyway, I’ll give it to you later on, all right?’
‘Fine, any time.’ Stark’s voice was suddenly loud as the bell stopped. He started back to his office, then stopped. ‘Is Wayland ill, by the way?’
‘Richard? Not that I know. Why?’
Stark shrugged. ‘I gather he missed all his classes yesterday afternoon. Thought you might know why.’
‘No idea. Maybe he was ill. Did you call the fraternity house?’
‘Yes, last evening and this morning. No sign of him.’
‘You mean – literally?’
‘I mean they told me hadn’t been in the house since yesterday morning, and they haven’t heard from him. Or so they say. They might be covering up for him.’
‘Covering what?’ Kate asked.
Stark looked a little pink. ‘Oh, you know – ’
Kate came back a few steps. ‘No, Dan, I don’t know. Covering up what?’
His brows drew together and he seemed to be trying to make up his mind about something, when the second bell rang. He looked very relieved. ‘You’d better skedaddle or your class will have escaped.’
‘Oh, lord . . .’ She ran to the door. ‘I’ll ring the house after this period. They must know where he is.’
Kate’s first free period was at eleven. She rang the fraternity house as soon as she got back to the office and found that Richard still hadn’t appeared. His mail remained in his pigeonhole and there had been no call for him.
‘Is that Jody Longman?’ she demanded, when a voice informed her that Richard was nowhere in evidence.
‘Y . . . yes . . .’ came the tentative reply.
‘This is Kate Trevorne.’
‘Oh, hi.’ Jody’s voice warmed considerably. ‘I didn’t know it was you, Miss Trevorne. Don’t you know where he is?’
‘Would I be calling if I did?’
‘Guess not. Sorry.’ His voice lowered to a whisper. ‘The police were here looking for him last night, too.’
‘Were they?’
‘Yeah. We were having a party – we thought it was a bust. Everybody flushed their joints down the john and then they only wanted him. Blew the whole thing.’ He sounded grievously wounded. ‘It was the same one who was bothering you in the cafeteria.’
‘Lieutenant Stryker?’
‘That’s the one. Supposed to be really something.’
‘Oh, he’s something, all right – but we won’t say what,’ Kate muttered.
‘Miss Trevorne – is it true? About Professor Pinchman, I mean? Being the one who killed old Adamso
n?’
‘Where did you hear that?’
‘Somebody said so,’ he mumbled, evasively. ‘I don’t believe it, myself. Do you?’
‘No, I don’t, Jody. Not one damn bit. See you.’ She put the phone down, glared at it, then picked it up again.
That damn cop.
There was still a faint odour of gas hanging in the cold apartment. Damp patches under the windows showed where the snow had fallen and melted, and the flattened cardboard they’d put over the broken window in the kitchen was barely adequate to keep out the icy air. The day was bright and clear and sunlight lay cruelly on the worn patches of the plush sofa, the faded colours of the old Persian carpet, and the pair of aluminium crutches leaning forlornly against what must have been Pinchman’s favourite reading chair in the far corner.
‘Tag these as possible murder weapons, right?’ Neilson asked, going towards them.
‘Yeah, in a minute, in a minute,’ Stryker said, moving to the middle of the room.
‘You got to stand and stare, first,’ Pinsky told Neilson.
‘You what?’ Neilson demanded, thinking Pinsky had slipped a gear or two since the previous night.
‘Stand and stare,’ Toscarelli said, patiently, as Stryker pivoted slowly in the middle of the room. ‘Don’t touch, don’t pick up, move, or alter. Most of all, don’t assume.’
‘I went to college,’ Neilson said, sarcastically. ‘I read the books.’
‘Then read the room,’ Stryker suggested.
Neilson, obviously thinking this a childish exercise, sighed pointedly and looked around him. ‘He sure liked cactuses,’ he said, finally. ‘Look at all the ugly little bastards.’
‘Cacti,’ Stryker said, pedantically. ‘What else?’
Neilson shrugged. ‘Jesus . . . oh, all right. Living-room, two windows overlooking courtyard, usual furnishings, old carpet . . .’
‘Old Persian carpet, worth maybe two thousand dollars,’
Stryker corrected him. ‘Go on.’
‘No kidding?’ said Pinsky, moving his feet back and staring downward. ‘It doesn’t look that much.’
‘What else?’ Stryker asked Neilson.
Neilson shrugged. ‘A lot of books, desk, typewriter. He smoked a pipe yesterday – I suppose you’re going to do something like Sherlock Holmes with the pipe ash?’
‘I wouldn’t know pipe ash from horse feathers,’ Stryker said. ‘If you say he smoked yesterday, I believe you.’
‘Right. Okay.’ Neilson went over to look at the pipe in the ashtray, and the coffee cup beside it. ‘He drank coffee, yesterday, too.’
‘I want the contents analysed right away,’ Stryker said. ‘And also fingerprinted, so be careful.’
Pinsky had been looking around, and now he fixed Stryker with a suspicious eye. ‘Because the note was typed, is that it?’ he asked Stryker. ‘Because the signature was typed, also.’
‘Maybe.’
Pinsky grinned in satisfaction. He sat on the arm of the easy chair and nearly knocked over Pinchman’s crutches. Grabbing at them, he almost went over, himself. Neilson snorted. He still wasn’t used to Pinsky’s habit of crashing into or over things and generally teetering on the fine line between vertical and horizontal at least nine times a day.
Neilson looked from Stryker to Toscarelli to Pinsky. ‘This is a game, right?’ he asked, uneasily. They were just standing there, looking around, like a bunch of goddamn lighthouses or something. ‘Twenty questions?’
Nobody said anything.
‘Look, the guy left a note and put his head in the damned oven, right?’ Neilson probed.
‘That’s how it looks,’ Stryker agreed, neutrally.
Neilson’s face screwed up. He glared at Toscarelli, who was looking into the kitchen on the far side of the room, at Stryker who was over by the windows, at Pinsky, who was still holding the crutches and whistling through his teeth absently.
‘Hey!’ Neilson shouted.
Pinsky jumped. ‘What?’ he demanded. ‘What, what?’
Neilson was pointing to the crutches and Pinsky dropped them as if they’d grown suddenly hot. ‘I still got my gloves on,’ Pinsky said, self-righteously. ‘I didn’t . . .’
Stryker and Toscarelli had turned. Neilson was so full of it he could hardly speak. His mouth felt stiff.
‘The guy has two artificial legs, right?’ Neilson said.
Stryker nodded, then started to smile.
‘And wings, maybe?’ Neilson added, slyly.
‘It’s a good thirty feet from that chair to the oven in the kitchen,’ Stryker agreed.
‘Aha!’ said Pinsky.
They were still looking around the room when the voice came through the open doorway, sharp and angry. ‘I want to see the note he supposedly left.’
They all turned. Kate Trevorne stood there. Her colour was high – she’d walked from the campus and the icy air had reddened her cheeks. Her curly hair looked like a bronze chrysanthemum, and her brown dufflecoat hung open over a red pullover. Stryker thought she resembled a robin, beady-eyed and wary, edging her way into a strange garden.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he demanded.
‘I called the police station and they told me you were here. I want to see the note Edward left. Is that it?’
‘Don’t touch it!’ Stryker shouted as she marched across the room to where the note was still stuck in the typewriter.
‘I’m not an idiot,’ she said over her shoulder. She stood, hands jammed in pockets, leaning over the typewriter. Then she straightened up. ‘Edward didn’t type that.’
‘Oh?’ His tone was sceptical.
‘This is a manual typewriter,’ she said. ‘Edward and I share a guilty secret – we’re both touch typists. It’s considered very non-intellectual to be good with your hands, so we keep quiet about it. Touch typists develop bad habits, they also have weak and strong fingers. Whoever typed this did it one-fingered, the pressure is the same on every letter.’ She was very calm, now.
Neilson, Pinsky and Toscarelli looked at one another and grinned. Stryker just watched her, and said nothing. She turned away and went into the kitchen – he followed and stood in the archway. Her eyes went over everything – broken window, cooker, sink, the litter of things on the drying rack – spoons, cereal bowl, frying pan, basting tube, wooden spatula, a potato peeler, dishes, glasses, cups. She picked up the basting tube and squeezed the rubber bulb a few times. Her hair fluffed up and down in its breeze. She used it to point to the wall above the cooker. ‘There’s a pan missing,’ she announced.
‘I threw it through the window to let the gas out,’ he said. ‘It was full of potatoes. It must still be down there.’
She dropped the baster back into the rack and went over to the window to peer through the narrow gap between cardboard and frame. ‘It is,’ she said. ‘Also a lot of potatoes. Peeled potatoes.’ She turned and stared at him. ‘How come he peeled potatoes for dinner if he planned to kill himself?’ Suddenly what he’d said struck her. ‘You broke the window? You found him?’
‘He could have killed himself,’ Toscarelli called from the sitting-room. ‘He’s just getting over pneumonia, he should have waited for . . .’
‘SHUT UP!’ Stryker bellowed.
‘Nothing wrong with those lungs,’ came Neilson’s wry voice.
‘How did you know there was a pan missing?’ Stryker asked Kate, in a normal tone.
‘You saved his life.’
‘So far. How did you know about the pan?’
She shrugged. ‘I’ve been here lots of times, often cooked his dinner, especially when I first came back and started teaching. I was very rusty, and Edward gave me lots of coaching so I could make a good impression. He’s a very special man. He would never kill himself. Never.’
‘Not even if he’d murdered someone?’
‘Not even then.’
‘You don’t argue about his being a killer, just a suicide.’
‘I don’t know about his being a murderer, but I do know he’s had plenty of reasons and plenty of opportunities to kill himself over the years, and never did it. He was in almost constant pain – the pills were always there.’ She looked at the gas cooker. ‘And he hated the smell of gas. I refuse to believe it was suicide!’ Her voice broke.
Toscarelli came over and gave Stryker a dirty look.
‘So does he. Don’t let the little bastard stampede you.’
Kate looked at Stryker. ‘You don’t?’
‘I believe he hit Adamson. I don’t think he meant to kill him, and I don’t think he tried to kill himself, either.’ He nodded towards the crutches. ‘Those were found leaning against that chair. He was found in the kitchen, head in the oven, thirty feet away.’
‘You mean somebody else was here? Somebody else tried to kill him? And made it look like suicide?’
‘Isn’t that what you came here to tell us?’ Stryker asked. ‘You said he didn’t try to kill himself, so what were you suggesting? Divine intervention? Martians?’
‘And you think this was the same person who killed Aiken?’
He fixed her with a baleful eye. ‘I certainly hope so. I don’t want to think we’ve got more than one killer running around knocking off the English Faculty of Grantham University one by one.’
‘And you still think it’s one of us?’ Kate asked.
‘I don’t know. My guess is that Pinchman knocked Adamson down – for some unknown reason – and then left him, not realising how seriously he’d hurt him. Then someone else came along, found Adamson lying there unconscious, and took advantage of the situation to finish him off with his own paper knife. If you think back to Saturday morning, you’ll recall that Pinchman was pretty astounded when I said Adamson had been stabbed to death.’
‘Did Edward know who did it?’
‘I think he might have guessed. Hence his attempted murder.’
She took a deep breath. ‘Then I will help you, if you still want me to. I didn’t mind when Aiken got killed, I hated him. But I mind like hell about Edward.’
Monkey Puzzle Page 15
