The Nine Mile Walk

by Harry Kemelman

  “How do you know he ever got to your house?”

  “Well of course I don’t. I just assumed it. Do you have any evidence …” He looked at me questioningly.

  I shook my head, but because he was evidently distressed and I wanted to relieve his mind, I said, “It’s just more likely that it happened on the way to your house rather than on the way back. The slope to the top of High Street from the history office is a good climb, and I myself usually stop a minute to rest before I go on. I’m just guessing, of course, but I think that when Johnny got to the top of the hill, he stopped, and then quite naturally he walked over to see how the excavation was coming.”

  I could see that he was grateful for my theory. He nodded his head slowly and thoughtfully. “As a matter of fact, I do the same sort of thing. I don’t feel winded when I get to the top—” He grinned at me. “I guess I’m in a little better condition, but I always stop to look at the view. You can see over the whole valley, and I can even see the roof of my house from there.”

  My visit to the son was more in the nature of a condolence call. But he seemed to take his father’s death rather lightly, and I was shocked. I could not refrain from remarking on it.

  “What do you expect?” he demanded bitterly. “I knew him about as well as I know you. Since I was thirteen when my parents were divorced, and that’s twelve years ago, I’ve seen my father maybe half a dozen times. I’d get a letter three or four times a year, and that was all.”

  “Sometimes,” I suggested, “it’s not easy for the parent who doesn’t get custody to see the children. He may feel that they are resentful and he is hurting them more by seeing them than by staying away.”

  “He had visiting rights. He never exercised them.”

  “Then what brought you down at this time? A sudden burst of filial affection?”

  “Business. My boss found out that my father had no contract yet for the new book and suggested maybe I could get it for the firm. I thought it might do me some good with them, so I came down.”

  “Did you tell your father that was why you wanted to see him?”

  He had the grace to blush. “No, I just wrote him that I had a week’s vacation and would like to see him if he were free.”

  “And did you get the book for the firm?”

  “I didn’t broach the subject. I thought I’d play it cool. I just said I’d like to see what he was working on and maybe I could give him some editorial assistance.”

  I asked if he had seen the manuscript, but he shook his head.

  “He said he would see me in the afternoon. We were to have dinner together. I assumed he was planning to bring it with him. I waited around all day, and when he didn’t show I called his roominghouse. They said he had left around noon and hadn’t returned. I assumed he had forgotten about me. I guess I was annoyed. It was in keeping with the way he had treated me all my life. So I left the hotel and walked around town until I got hungry and—oh yes, I called the hotel once to see if there was a message, and of course there wasn’t. So I ate at a restaurant alone. Then I picked up a magazine and came back here to the hotel and read and watched TV for the rest of the evening.”

  Our local paper gave the story the full treatment as was fitting with such an important figure in the community. There was a full biography along with quotes from famous people about his book; there was a long statement from the police, a statement from me that included my theory of the time of death, the statements of Mrs. Hanrahan, Professor Ladlo and Dykes together with pictures of each, and finally an editorial gently chiding the police for inadequately safeguarding the dangerous site.

  Professor Bowman was buried the day after Christmas. It was a small turnout. Johnny’s son stood bareheaded, his hands clasped behind him, his handsome face impassive. He left immediately after the service.

  The next day, Nicky Welt returned from Chicago. He had known Bowman for a long time and been friendly with him.

  I told him all the circumstances of his death and the results of our investigation in detail. At the end, he pursed his lips and remarked. “It’s very curious.”

  “What’s curious?”

  “Johnny must have been at least sixty—”

  “Sixty-one, according to his son.”

  “Very well, sixty-one. A man who has lived that long has usually learned to avoid the more obvious dangers.”

  “So?”

  “So it’s curious that he’d get so close to the edge of an excavation that he’d tumble in.”

  “It happens all the time. And remember there was snow and the ground was slippery.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  The college flag remained at half mast for a week, and then everyone returned from vacation, and it was as though Johnny Bowman had never been. It was a phenomenon that I had observed before.

  Even Dykes, who had been closest to him, rarely mentioned him. As a matter of fact, he had a brand-new interest: the faculty chess tournament. He was on the Executive Committee of the club and was in charge. Since he was one of the best players, with an excellent chance of becoming champion, small wonder that he went about his task with enthusiasm.

  Nicky and I had just finished lunching at the club when we came upon him tacking up the results of the draw on the bulletin board. Seeing Nicky, he said, “Hullo—we’re matched in the first round.”

  “So we are,” said Nicky. “I’m free at the moment if you’d care to play and get it over with.”

  “I’ve got all afternoon,” said Dykes, “but Laura may call and I ought to be home to receive her call. She’s still in Florida, you know.” His face brightened. “Unless you’d care to come over to my place and play there. I’ve got a board and tournament chessmen. I’d like you to see my house,” he added.

  Nicky gave me a questioning glance and I shrugged my shoulders. “Very well, I’d like a bit of a walk.”

  “We go up High Street,” Dykes said. “It’s a bit of a climb.”

  “My office is in Lever Hall, young man,” said Nicky with some asperity, “and I make it by way of High Street every day.”

  As we strode along, the wind whistled down the street and we had to lean forward against it. Dykes marched on his long legs and Nicky and I strove to keep up with him. A couple of times I thought Nicky would have liked to stop to catch his breath—I know I would have—but it was a point of pride with him not to show any weakness, and we continued without a stop until we reached the crest of the hill. There Dykes stopped.

  “My place is over there. You can just see the roof from here.”

  “Why, it’s not far at all,” I said.

  “About a hundred yards as the crow flies,” he said. “But unfortunately it’s a lot farther by foot.”

  Nicky nodded and then walked over to the other side of the road. “And this is where poor Bowman fell, eh?”

  Since the accident, the police had put up a sturdy barrier of chain link fencing which made it impossible to approach to the edge.

  “If they’d had a fence like that up, Bowman would have been alive today,” Dykes remarked.

  From there on it was downhill and the going was much easier. The street on which Dykes lived was a short private way with just his house and one other facing it that might have been its twin. They were both Victorian houses with numerous turrets and gables and tiny porches that served no really useful purpose.

  Dykes stood back in obvious admiration. “What do you think of it? Of course it needs a lot of work, and I’ll be busy with putty and paint for most of the summer, I guess, but I feel I’ve got something here to work on.” He led us up the steps to the front door. He unlocked it, and stood back proudly. “Look at that—almost three inches thick. And that lock and the door handle—and this knocker. Solid brass all of it and heavy. I’ll bet you couldn’t replace this knocker alone for fifty dollars.”

  The door opened on a small vestibule, just beyond which was a large square reception hall, unfurnished except for a coat rack. Dykes snapped on
a light and we could see a large room on either side, and like the reception hall, unfurnished.

  From below came the sound of a dog barking and a moment later we heard him scratching on a door in the rear of the house, demanding to be let out.

  Dykes smiled. “Good old Duke.”

  “Aren’t you going to let him out?” I asked.

  “He’s better off down there,” he said. Then in a tone of sharp command, “Down, Duke, down. Quiet.” The barking and scratching stopped immediately and we heard him obediently trot down the stairs. Dykes listened to the dog’s retreating footsteps and grinned smugly at the dog’s training.

  He led us to a broad staircase, and as we started upstairs said, “Take a look at that balustrade, will you. That’s solid mahogany.” He rapped it with his knuckles.

  He led us into a room on the second floor that evidently served as the living room. This too was sparsely furnished with several armchairs, a coffee table and a rug, probably the furnishings of their former apartment but now quite lost in this new spaciousness. Over near the window, in an alcove, was a small round table with a chessboard and a box of chessmen. Two bridge chairs were drawn up to it, and Dykes left the room to return with a third.

  Dykes drew white and won the first game in little more than twenty moves. As they turned the board around for the second game—the rules called for the best out of three games—Dykes said, “I guess that gambit was a little strange to you.”

  It was certainly strange to me. He had opened by advancing the king’s rook pawn to the fourth. It was probably the worst move on the board and one which I could not recall having seen used except by the veriest beginner. It was as though he were deliberately handicapping himself to make up for the advantage of drawing white, and I thought he was showing a form of courtesy toward his older opponent who was also a guest in his house. Then it occurred to me that by throwing away his first move perhaps he wanted only to show how lightly he held Nicky. But as the game progressed, the initial move somehow became the focus for a strong attack on Nicky’s king after he had castled. And then quite suddenly, the attack appeared to be a mere diversion and he captured the queen. Nicky had no choice but to resign.

  He grunted in acknowledgment of defeat and put down his king. Nicky is not a good loser. They had not played more than half a dozen moves of the second game when we heard a bell ring somewhere toward the back of the house.

  “Is that the call you were expecting?” I asked.

  “No, that’s the doorbell.” He left the room and we could hear him shout down the stairwell, “Come on up.”

  He escorted into the room a young man of his own age with reddish-brown hair and a white freckled face with sharp knowing features. He was dressed in a leather wind-breaker with a fur collar. A small foreign camera with a large protruding lens dangled from his neck by a leather strap. Dykes introduced him as his friend Bud Lesser.

  Dykes did not offer to get him a chair and Lesser did not seem to expect one. He stood there, one hand resting on the back of Dykes’ chair, his eyes flicking from the board to the faces of the players.

  “Do you play, Mr. Lesser?” I asked out of politeness.

  “Some.”

  “He beats me more often than I beat him,” Dykes said. He made his move and then leaned back lazily and said, “How do you like my camera, Bud?”

  His friend shrugged. “I don’t know. Haven’t had time to do a full roll yet. I’ll know better when I develop what I’ve got in here.”

  Nicky in the throes of deciding on his next move glared at the two, and Dykes immediately turned his attention to the board. I, too, concentrated on the board. It seemed to me that Nicky had a slight advantage. He made his move and we all relaxed a little.

  “I’ve got a Schlossmann antenna you can have if you’re interested,” Lesser volunteered.

  “Oh yeah? When did you get it?”

  “It’s the one I got for myself, but I decided not to use it. My place is too low. I bought two and installed one for Arnold Sterling across the way. He tells me it works fine.”

  Dykes glanced at the board and negligently pushed a pawn. “I didn’t know he had one. When did you put it up?”

  “You can see it from here,” said Lesser, nodding toward the window. Dykes left the chess table and went to the window to look out. “He wanted it for Christmas, so the day before I came down at noon and by two o’clock I had it up.”

  Dykes returned to his seat. “If I had seen you, I would have given you a hand.”

  “I saw you,” said Lesser.

  “You couldn’t have, I was away all day.” Nicky made his move and he made his own immediately after. The game had reached a critical point and Nicky’s brow was furrowed as he concentrated on the position. Dykes, too, was hunched forward as he studied the board.

  As Nicky reached forward to move his piece, there was a flash of light and the simultaneous snick of a camera shutter. Nicky looked up indignant.

  Lesser grinned. “Sorry, I just couldn’t resist that shot—the afternoon sun slicing in through the slats of those venetian blinds on you, Bob, like you was dressed in prison stripes.”

  “Bud has a great eye for trick camera shots,” Dykes offered by way of apology for his friend. He concentrated on the board for a long minute. Then smiling, he made his move and favored me with a wink. The advantage was clearly with him now. He was completely relaxed as he said to Lesser, “What are you asking for the antenna?”

  “Five hundred.”

  Dykes whistled. “I couldn’t manage it.”

  “I’ll take three hundred and your camera.”

  Nicky moved and Dykes turned his attention once more to the board. He had a clear win and his next move seemed obvious, but he took a long time thinking about it. Finally he made it and turned once again to Lesser.

  “Installed?” he asked. “I’d want it right above that dormer window in back.”

  “Fine with me. I’ll put it any place you like.”

  “It’s pretty high-up in one of the gables. Will you need any help?”

  “No, I can put it up myself all right. I’ve got a magnesium ladder and it’s no trouble.”

  “Okay, when we finish here I’ll show you where I want it.”

  The game did not last much longer. Another half dozen moves and again Nicky put down his king in acknowledgment of defeat. We followed Dykes downstairs, and then because he seemed to expect it and because by now we were somewhat curious, we followed him to the yard in back of the house. Dykes pointed up at the roof. “There,” he said. “Can you put it up right there?”

  Lesser looked up. “Sure. I can rest my ladder right here in front of the cellar bulkhead.”

  “See that molding in the corner? Can you attach it to that?”

  “Sure, no sweat. I’ll use an angle bracket. Tomorrow be all right? Around noon?”

  “Fine.”

  Lesser left and Dykes finished showing us around. “What do you think of it?” he asked eagerly. “Do you see what I mean when I say it’s solid and built to last?”

  Nicky pointed out the cellar bulkhead doors where Lesser proposed to set his ladder. “I notice you’ve had to do some modernizing,” he remarked wryly. “Those don’t look very solid.”

  Dykes grinned. “I guess there are some things you can’t have too solid. The original bulkhead doors weighed a ton and they were pretty far gone. I could have patched them, but as you know bulkhead doors don’t just swing on a hinge—you’ve got to lift them. I was worried for Laura when she had to take her wash from the basement out to the yard. She couldn’t manage those heavy doors so I installed these aluminum ones. These, a child can lift.”

  On the way back, I was tempted to tease Nicky about the quality of his chess. “You were not doing too badly in that second game,” I said. “For a while I thought you might even pull out a win.”

  Absentmindedly he agreed. “He does play well, doesn’t he? All slapdash and daring and full of surprises.” Then he smiled and a
dded, “But I was so absorbed in the conversation between Dykes and his friend that, frankly, I lost interest in the game.”

  Nicky always offers excuses for losing at chess.

  The next day, Nicky and I had just finished lunch at the Faculty Club and were heading back to his office when Dykes joined us and said, “Say, if you fellows are going up High Street, I’ll come along if you don’t mind.”

  I am not at all sure that Nicky didn’t mind—the defeat still rankled—but of course he couldn’t very well refuse. As we walked along Dykes explained that Lesser was going to put up the new antenna and he felt he ought to give him a hand.

  When we came to the top of the hill, Dykes pointed. “Why, there he is now.” We followed the direction of his finger and to be sure could see in the distance a tiny figure on a ladder, working away at the edge of the roof. We watched for a moment and then started off. Dykes, who had stopped to tie his shoelace, hurried to catch up and we went on together to Nicky’s office. We stood on the sidewalk talking. Then just as Nicky turned to leave, Dykes exclaimed, “Why here comes Duke.” He squatted down on his haunches and called, “Here, boy.” The dog increased his speed as he sighted his master and came bounding up, dancing around Dykes until his master ordered him sharply, “Down, Duke. Sit.” Immediately the dog obeyed and sat motionless, a mound of iron-gray fur except for the ridiculous red flannel tongue which vibrated ecstatically. From deep in his throat came urgent whiny sounds.

  “It’s just as if he’s trying to tell me something, isn’t it?” Dykes remarked. “All right, boy, come on.” He waved farewell to us and walked off down the road, the dog pacing sedately by his side.

  “Smart dog,” I remarked.

  “Well trained,” Nicky amended.

  “Well, there’s no doubt that the master is plenty smart,” I said maliciously, attributing his curt reply to yesterday’s defeat.

  He did not deign to answer, but turned on his heel and mounted the stairs. I chuckled at the thought that I had reached him—it didn’t happen often.

  Nothing at my office demanded my attention and I was in no hurry to get back. So I strolled back by way of the campus where I bumped into Professor Zelsky, with whom I had been matched for the first round of the tournament. He was also free, so we returned to the Faculty Club and played our match which I won handily in two straight games. It gave me considerable satisfaction to know that I had at least made the second round while Nicky had been eliminated in the first.