Killing Cassidy

by Jeanne M. Dams

  “Football. Our kind, not soccer. The sine qua non of American college life in the fall. And we’re playing Notre Dame. They haven’t had a really good team for a couple of seasons, but they’re still a legend in college football, and beating them would make the whole town happy all year. There won’t be a hotel room for miles around that weekend, but we can either take off for a few days, or stay with one of my friends. I didn’t like to impose on anyone for two or three weeks, but there are a lot of people who’d be glad to put us up for a weekend. Unless you’d rather just get away from all the crowds and hullabaloo.”

  “I want to see the football game,” Alan had said firmly.

  My mouth had gaped. Neither of us has much interest in sports.

  “I like to learn,” he’d explained. “I’ve never seen American football, and I understand it’s part of the culture.”

  “I don’t know that culture is exactly the word, but I’ll see if I can get tickets.”

  It had felt odd, dickering by international telephone with box office personnel who’d never heard of me or Frank, when Frank, as faculty, used to be offered season tickets automatically. And it felt odd now to be hunting for a hotel in the town where I’d lived all my life. The hotel was new and I had trouble finding it, peering at street signs, looking for landmarks that seemed to have moved.

  “Alan, I must have gotten turned around somehow. There ought to be a beautiful old bank on this corner.”

  The corner held an ugly new drugstore with a spacious parking lot. Alan looked at the old street map I’d found buried in a box back in England and said only, “No, this must be the place. Turn right.”

  We checked in and unpacked, rather silently.

  “Pleasant room,” Alan said.

  “Yes.” I folded underwear into a drawer.

  “Tired, darling?”

  “A little. It was a long drive.” I bit my lip and turned away. Tears were trying to escape from the corners of my eyes.

  Alan is a perceptive man. His natural powers of observation have been sharpened by years of training and experience as a policeman. He is also keenly sensitive. He said nothing more, but whistled as he hung up his clothes and arranged his shaving things to his liking in the bathroom.

  I had planned to take him on a tour of the town and the university as soon as we arrived, but I was tired. Jet lag and a long drive and—well, that was enough, for goodness’ sake. Undoubtedly weariness was responsible for the tears.

  “I think I’ll take a little nap.”

  “Good idea.” Alan’s tone was determinedly cheerful. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll walk a little and orient myself.”

  “Fine.”

  I didn’t want him to go, and he knew it, but after he’d left, I realized I was glad he was gone. I could cry if I wanted to, and I did.

  I’d thought I was coming home. Why did everything seem so foreign?

  My appointment with the lawyer was the next morning, Friday. For moral support, I put on one of my best-looking suits, a string of very nice pearls, and a soft velvet hat that packs well and flatters my gray hair.

  “Do you want me to come with you, love?” Alan’s hand paused over a selection of ties.

  Even Alan was behaving oddly. “Of course I want you to come!”

  “Sorry, darling. I seem to feel just a trifle out of place here. Slightly de trop.”

  I smiled somewhat grimly. “Not half as much as I do, I’ll bet. And I’m not moving a step away from this hotel without you.”

  “Well, then.” He chose a sober navy blue tie, presumably suitable for a lawyer’s office, knotted it, donned a blazer, and held out his arm. I clung to it all the way out the lobby door.

  “Do you want me to drive, as well?”

  “I’m not sure which of us is the worse driver in this country, to tell the truth. I used to be really good, too! Let’s just walk. It’s not far, and my head needs clearing.”

  It was another lovely day. Our hotel was on one side of the Randolph University campus, the lawyer’s office on the other, so it seemed natural to cut across. There were small changes that I, with heightened sensitivity, noted and resented. “That’s a new wall. And what on earth have they done to the Bryant Building? Good grief, it’s got a whole new wing! And double-ugly, too.”

  We dodged hurrying students.

  “They, at least, haven’t changed a bit. Except they look a little scruffier.”

  “That,” Alan pronounced gravely, “is an inexorable law of nature.”

  The sun was warm. So was my suit. By the time we reached the office, I was grateful for the air-conditioning. I was, I told myself firmly, sweating only because of the heat.

  “You’re not nervous, are you, darling?” Alan spoke in an undertone.

  “Of course not? Why should I be nervous?”

  He smiled and clasped my hand.

  Ms. Carmichael kept us waiting for only a moment or two before meeting us in a rather austere conference room.

  “Sorry. I had a phone call at just the wrong moment.” She shook hands with us. She was an attractive woman in her early forties, dressed with a minimum of feminine touches and very much all business in manner. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Nesbitt. I’ve heard a lot about you and Professor Martin. I’m sorry for the occasion that brought you here, however. Dr. Cassidy was a fine man and a fine teacher.”

  “You studied with him?”

  “One class only, early in my undergraduate career. It was the last year he taught, I believe. He was in his seventies and made us all run to keep up with him. We would have done anything for him. And this must be your husband?”

  “Alan Nesbitt, yes. And I don’t actually use his name. I prefer Dorothy Martin.”

  “I can understand that,” she said, and grimaced, suddenly looking more human. “I took back my own name after my divorce.”

  Alan and I exchanged looks. My choice of name had nothing to do with feelings about my marriage. “Yes, well. I suppose you’ll want to see some identification? I brought my passport.”

  “That’s fine.” She studied it, carefully comparing the photo with my face, and handed it back. “Well, that’s that. Not that I was in any real doubt. You’re exactly the way everybody described you.”

  She was looking at my hat. I grinned. “I guess I’m pretty old-fashioned, but I like hats.”

  “And they suit you. Now, I don’t want to delay you, Mrs. Martin. I have your check prepared.” She opened a slim manila folder on the table. “If you’ll just sign the receipt—that’s fine. You won’t forget to send me your expenses, will you? And, finally, here is something I was directed by Dr. Cassidy to give you.”

  She handed me two envelopes, one with a check showing through the cellophane window. The other was a stiff, heavy envelope. The flap was not only gummed down but sealed with a blob of wax. I studied it, suddenly nervous again.

  “I’m sure you’ll want to read your letter, if it is a letter, in privacy, and I have another appointment. Here’s a letter opener. If you’ll excuse me? Please take all the time you like. Can you find your own way out?”

  I muttered something, Alan stood politely, and the young woman left the room, closing the door behind us.

  “Alan, I don’t like it!” I whispered. “The letter from beyond the grave. It feels spooky.”

  “My dear, I don’t know why you’re making so much of this.” His normal tone of voice lowered the emotional temperature. “There are no doubt some things the professor wanted you to know, and perhaps he didn’t trust international mail. An opinion that I must say I share.”

  “But why did he seal it so elaborately, then? Why did he seal it at all? I can’t imagine anything he would have to say to me that would be as private as all that.”

  “Hmmm. That is perhaps a trifle odd, though some people have an exaggerated sense of privacy.” Alan took the envelope from me and examined it carefully. “Well, it doesn’t look as though the seals have been tampered with.”
/>   “Why should they be?” I demanded.

  “I haven’t any idea, except that when someone takes such precautions, it’s usually because he expects some hanky-panky. Just in case, love, why don’t you open it at the bottom?”

  I looked at him sharply, but picked up the paper knife and slit the bottom of the envelope.

  The enclosure was a single sheet of paper, again thick and heavy and expensive. “I don’t understand this stationery, either. Kevin lived very simply. He was never ostentatious about things like stationery.”

  “More of the privacy concern, perhaps. I’d defy anybody to read that through the envelope, even held up to the strongest light.”

  The paper was covered on both sides with the shaky handwriting of the very old. I spread it flat on the table so Alan and I could read it together.

  Dear Dorothy,

  By the time you read this, I’ll be gone. We both know death isn’t the end, and I’ll see you again, though I trust not for some time, as time is counted on your side of the great divide. I wish you a long and happy life.

  There is, however, one thing I wish you to do for me, which is why I have brought you here in this melodramatic way. It is a matter, I suppose, of shutting the barn door after the horse is stolen. I have tried to get in touch with you, but the idiots in the phone company claimed they didn’t have your number, and you never replied to my letter.

  “Alan, I never got a letter!”

  Alan was reading ahead. He didn’t respond.

  You see, I have heard about your exploits as an amateur detective. You must be very careful

  —this was underlined three times—

  and say nothing to anyone, because this is a small town, and it could be almost anyone—my doctor, my lawyer, the police chief, one of my friends, even my own family, however painful it is to believe such a thing.

  “What is he talking about?”

  “Read on,” said Alan, his voice grim. I looked up at him in surprise and then turned back to the letter.

  You see, my dear, someone is trying to kill me. When you read this, they will have succeeded. There is little I can do. I hate to admit it, but I am too old and too frail to pursue an unknown enemy myself. I have no concrete evidence to take to the police, even if I could be sure the police were to be trusted. No, my murderer, or murderers, will succeed. It is not a great tragedy, not at my age, but it makes me angry. I would prefer to live out my life to the span God intended. Furthermore, I believe in justice. No one should be able to kill without retribution. I want you to find my murderer.

  I repeat that you must be careful, but I have every confidence in you. You have done some remarkable things in the past, and with that Scotland Yard husband of yours to help, I know you will not fail me.

  All my love, Kevin

  2

  WE looked at each other in naked shock. “But—but—” “Shh!” Alan’s his was short and very quiet. “Let’s get out of here. And try to act nonchalant.” He put the letter back in its envelope and tucked it into his breast pocket before opening the door.

  “It was certainly kind of your friend to remember you with such a nice note,” he said in a crisp, carrying voice as we went through the outer office.

  “Umm—yes, he was that kind of person.” I bared my teeth in an imitation smile at the receptionist, who smiled in return and wished us a nice day.

  “Alan,” I whispered urgently when we were got outside.

  “Yes, it certainly is a beautiful day,” he replied with a brilliant smile. “Shall we take a stroll through the university?” He gripped my hand. “Wait. No one will notice us on the paths.”

  He chatted inconsequentially until we were well inside the campus boundaries, and I exploded. “Alan, I have to talk about it!”

  “I know. We should have relative privacy now. The students have their own concerns.”

  “Then let’s sit somewhere. There’s a bench.”

  “Don’t look so grim,” he warned.

  “Look, I’m not Sarah Bernhardt! If anyone comes near, we’re talking about the death of an old friend, and one I might have prevented. Of course I look grim!”

  We settled. There was so much to say, I didn’t know where to start.

  Alan broke the silence. “You’re feeling guilty, aren’t you?”

  “Guilty and incredulous at the same time. If only we hadn’t changed the phone listing to your name. If only that letter he sent hadn’t gone astray! And yet—Alan, I don’t know how to take it. It’s entirely unbelievable, really. You’re taking it seriously, though, or you wouldn’t have insisted on all the cloak-and-dagger stuff.”

  “A policeman learns to be careful. If there’s the slightest possibility that Professor Cassidy was right, we can’t take any chances. I admit that I remain highly skeptical. The man died of pneumonia, didn’t he?”

  “That’s what the letter said—the one from Ms. Carmichael.”

  “Are we talking here about biological murder? The deliberate introduction of a virus or bacillus into the professor’s environment?”

  Alan’s tone was carefully neutral, but I flared up.

  “How do I know what we’re talking about? It’s all obviously impossible! That’s the stuff of Golden Age fiction, people going around planting germs or untraceable poisons all over the place.” I thought about Agatha Christie’s Easy to Kill and The Pale Horse—two wonderful books, but nobody ever claimed that their plots were highly realistic.

  “Yes, you’re right.” There was an awkward pause. “Dorothy, try to set aside your feelings for a moment and tell me what sort of man Professor Cassidy was, besides a kind one and a good friend. Did he have a lively imagination? No,” he said, raising his hand as I glared at him, “I’m not implying anything. We have to deal with facts, my dear, and your friend’s character and personality are part of the facts. I know you loved him, and I know he was still a thoughtful old bloke.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “He got you here as quickly as he could. Wanted the trail to be as warm as possible. That implies a certain amount of consideration as well as intelligence.”

  My annoyance was swallowed up in admiration for a neat piece of deduction. “Yes, he was considerate, and very intelligent.”

  I thought about Kevin, trying to obey Alan and be objective. “First and foremost, he was a scientist,” I said finally. “A very, very good one. He helped, back in the fifties, to develop some wonderful new antibiotics. He made a great deal of money from the patents, in fact. So he had the kind of imagination it took to devise experiments and draw inspired conclusions from the results. But he also had the kind of absolutely logical mind that would never, ever jump to conclusions.”

  “Go on. Tell me about his family, his friends.”

  “He had very little family. A sister and a brother who both died some time ago, and their children and grandchildren. No one closer. He never married. It wasn’t that he was cold or distant—quite the contrary. You already know how wonderful he was to me, but it wasn’t just me. He enjoyed everyone’s company and loved to flirt with pretty women. But he was truly dedicated to his work as a microbiologist. He told me once that everything in his life was secondary to that. He never felt it would be fair to neglect a wife when some experiment required his constant presence in the lab.

  “But he had piles of friends, mostly among the students and alumni and faculty. When he wasn’t buried in microbes, he was a fine, caring teacher. Everyone on campus loved him, and that’s pretty unusual in a university, believe me. The petty jealousies can create vicious infighting. But Kevin was above campus politics. He never took sides, but he used to show up at faculty parties and make a point of trying to reconcile combatants. The remarkable thing is that he sometimes succeeded!”

  Alan groaned. “The universally beloved victim. The stuff of fiction, indeed!”

  “Well, I can’t help it. You did ask.”

  “I did. You mentioned one promising detail, however. He was a wealthy
man?”

  “Hmm. He certainly was at one time. His work on antibiotics came before the pharmaceutical houses began sponsoring all the research, so he owned his patents outright, and they brought in tons of money.”

  “What’s ‘tons’?”

  “Oh, hundreds and hundreds of thousands. Maybe even a million or two. But of course as the germs got smarter and the antibiotics began to lose their effectiveness, the money dried up.”

  “But he must surely have invested it. Or did he spend it all in riotous living?”

  “Not Kevin! He lived in a log cabin that he built himself, out in the woods; he liked the simple life. He invested some of the money, of course, but he also poured a lot back into research. Randolph University isn’t exactly poor, but it isn’t Harvard, and it can’t afford to have really superbly equipped labs. Anyway it couldn’t back then. Kevin bought equipment and supplies and paid his assistants out of his own money. All in all, I wouldn’t think he could really be a wealthy man by now. And then there were the loans.”

  Alan perked up. “Loans?”

  “Well, he called them that. He was always on the lookout for students or friends who were in a bind for money, and he’d ask if they could use a small loan. People almost never came to him. He was so sweet, nobody liked to take advantage, and then he didn’t exactly advertise himself as a bank. But if a grad student’s wife had a baby and they couldn’t make ends meet, or a part-time faculty member didn’t have work one semester, or somebody needed to go to a conference and couldn’t afford it, there was Kevin, ready with a handout.”

  “I thought you said they were loans.”

  “In name only. Kevin always drew up promissory notes. I think he had stacks of them printed, just ready to fill in the names and dates and amounts. But he never expected anybody to pay the money back, really. It was just so people’s pride wouldn’t be hurt.”

  “So nobody would kill him to avoid paying back a large sum of money.”