"Well, they're rather odd chaperones. I should think they'd cramp your style."
"They don't. I'm not interested in women."
"Is that a fact?" said Melissa.
"Yes."
"Oh."
A shaky voice said, "P-p-please..."
Trent and Melissa looked up. There was a girl standing on the walk in front of the steps, facing them. She was wearing a plaid skirt and a red sweater, both turned inside out. She was wearing her left shoe on her right foot and her right shoe on her left foot. There was a circle painted in lipstick on one of her cheeks and a double cross drawn with eyebrow pencil on the other. Her hair was drawn right straight up from her head into a topknot and stiffened with soap or grease. She was holding a magazine in one hand and a fountain pen in the other.
"Please," she said, staring at Trent with dilated eyes, "will you autograph this--this for me?"
She held out the magazine open to one of the Heloise of Hollywood ads.
"What?" said Trent.
"Oh, please," said the girl. "If you don't, they'll take me back to the house and paddle me on my b-bare skin. And they paddle awfully hard."
"Who?" said Trent incredulously.
The girl rolled her eyes mutely to indicate a group of girls standing about twenty yards away. These were all normally dressed--that is, normally for girl students. They were watching with a sort of sly, breathless anticipation.
"What's the meaning of this?" Trent demanded.
"She's a pledge," said Melissa. "This is Hell Week for sorority pledges. She's going through her initiation. They always make pledges do embarrassing things like this--or worse. Let's see your pledge pin... She's a Delta Gamma. Go ahead and sign her ad. She really will get paddled unless you do."
"All right," said Trent.
The girl handed him the pen and the magazine. "Will you," she said, cringing, "will you sign it Handsome Lover Boy?"
Trent made a strangling noise.
"Oh, go ahead," Melissa said. "Give her a break."
Trent was white around the nostrils, but he signed.
"Aw, creepers," said the girl, breathing again. "Thanks a million, and I'm sorry."
Trent handed her the magazine and the pen. "Are any of your cute sorority sisters--any of the upperclassmen--taking meteorology?"
"Why, yes," said the girl. "Four or five of them."
"Tell them," said Trent, "not to bother about studying or turning in any papers I assign, because every one of them is going to flunk the course."
"You mean it?" said the girl. "Oh, good--good!"
She ran back to the group of girls. They opened up to receive her, giggling. The girl said something. The group stopped giggling. Their heads turned in unison in Trent's direction. They huddled and argued. They looked at Trent again. They turned around and walked away very soberly. The pledge, trailing behind, looked over her shoulder and leered gleefully.
"You cooled them off," said Melissa. "That house has been up before the Dean of Women once already this year for lousy grades. Are you really going to flunk them?"
"Yes."
"They'll send a delegation of seniors to apologize to you tomorrow."
"They'll still flunk."
"They'll wail at the Dean of Women and probably at T. Ballard Bestwyck."
"And they'll still flunk."
"You're sort of a determined character," said Melissa. "And awfully touchy."
"You're entitled to think so, if you like."
"Now don't get mad," Melissa said. "I know it's none of my business, but you can't blame me for being curious."
"What about?"
"Well, you act sometimes like you have half-good sense. You certainly knew what anyone intelligent would think about those ads. Why did you let your wife put them in all those magazines in the first place?"
"I didn't let her. I didn't know she was doing it."
"You can read, can't you?"
Trent looked at her, exasperated. "For the last four years--up until a few months ago--I was sitting on an ice pack in the middle of the Arctic Ocean. All my supplies and mail were delivered by jeep plane. I didn't order any women's magazines, and consequently I never saw one."
"What on earth were you doing in the middle of the Arctic Ocean?"
"That's where the weather makes up--the weather that affects the flying conditions on the Great Circle route through Alaska and Siberia. There were quite a few isolated weather stations up around there."
"Oh. Who was up there with you?"
"One Aleut and two Eskimos."
"Males?"
"Yes."
"I'm an anthropologist," Melissa said. "I know what they use to cure the furs they wear. Did these use it?"
"Yes."
"Ugh," said Melissa. "They must have been very sweet-smelling companions. I had the idea that you'd only been married about two years."
"That's right."
"Well, how did you manage it?"
"Do you know where Point Barrow is--on the extreme northern tip of Alaska?"
"I know now."
"Well, I came south to there from my station, in the supply plane, to get a tooth filled. There was a Navy port authority at the Point, and a Navy dentist called on them once in awhile. Heloise--my wife--was there at the time."
"What? What was she doing clear up there?"
"It seems that in her cosmetics she uses some very exotic materials of one sort and another. The juices from arctic lichen and moss and walrus blubber and all that sort of thing. This stuff was collected at Point Barrow. She had a big batch of it there, then. It was worth a lot of money, and the naval port commander refused to assign shipping space for it. She got passage on a transport plane--she has a great deal of influence--and went up to see about the matter. She was still arguing with the commander when I arrived."
"I see," said Melissa. "How many white women were living at Point Barrow?"
"At this time she was the only one there."
"Hmmm," said Melissa. "You'd been up on that ice floe for two years before that?"
"Yes."
"I see," said Melissa slowly.
"See what?"
"Oh, nothing. Just a little matter I was curious about."
"Heloise is a very attractive-looking woman."
"Did I say she wasn't? Is she actually fifty-four?"
"She doesn't look it."
"Not, anyway, after two years on an ice pack."
"That had nothing whatsoever to do with it!"
"Well, all right. Don't be so huffy. I'm not arguing with you."
"What are you doing?"
Poking my nose in your business," Melissa admitted frankly. "You can snub me now, if you like."
"I can't snub everybody in the world."
"That's true enough. Can I ask you something else?"
"I don't know of any way I can stop you."
"Well," said Melissa, "isn't it true that when you got back here again and found out about those ads and sort of surveyed the rest of the feminine population--"
"No!"
"You don't even know what I was going to ask."
"I certainly do."
"Well, I'm not blaming you."
"Blaming me for what?"
"For getting smart and walking out on her."
"I didn't!"
"Oh, phooey," said Melissa. "She agreed to let you go peacefully if you'd lay low and let Doan keep tabs on you until she buried that Handsome Lover Boy drool and started another advertising campaign."
"You know," said Trent, "judging from your unconventional visitor last night, I should think you'd have enough troubles of your own to sort of keep you busy."
"I guess you're right," Melissa admitted. "What happened after I ran you out of my apartment last night?"
"Nothing, actually. I mean, they didn't find out anything except what Doan had already guessed. That Humphrey is so interested in getting something--it doesn't matter what, apparently--on Doan that he hardly has time for anything e
lse. They went up to my apartment last night, and he and Doan both got drunk. The only change that rings in is that they argue more loudly. If you know who that prowler is, you're the only one who does or is likely to find out."
"Doan called your wife, didn't he? When he thought Humphrey would be likely to arrest him?"
"Yes."
"She must really know a lot of influential men in these parts."
"No. She knows their wives. You've seen that enormous monstrosity of a beauty salon of hers out on Sunset Boulevard, haven't you? Her headquarters? That place is staffed like a battleship.
She doesn't make any money out of it--even though the prices are something terrific. She keeps it for prestige. She lures motion picture stars into the place and fills them up with liquor--it's easy to get drunk in a steam cabinet--and then finagles free testimonials out of them."
"I don't think I'd like her."
"Nobody--I mean, perhaps not."
"I'd like to meet her, though."
Trent said, "If you ever do--and tell her that you know me--you're likely to get a reception that will surprise you."
"Why?" Melissa asked.
"Never mind. Just don't tell her."
A new voice said, "Hi, Melissa."
"Hello, Shirley," Melissa said.
This girl was small and slim and dark, dainty as a new doll. She had very large, mildly vague brown eyes and black hair gathered into two thick braids that dangled forward over her shoulders and down over an attractively prominent chest. She was wearing a sloppy-joe sweater with the sleeves pushed up and moccasins and a pair of blue denim jeans with three fountain pens in the right hip pocket.
"You look, terrible," she said to Melissa. "I heard about your prowler from Beulah Porter Cowys. That must have been a very interesting experience."
"Oh, it was."
"How did it make you feel? Now don't just tell me you were scared. I want to know specifically. Did you feel a tingling sensation in--"
"Shirley! Now, stop it! I didn't feel any tinglings, and I'm not going to talk about it any more."
"Well, why not?"
"Just because," said Melissa flatly and finally. "Shirley, this is Eric Trent--meteorology. This is Shirley Parker. She's a special--doing graduate work for a master's in psychology."
"How do you do," said Trent.
"You're Handsome Lover Boy," said Shirley.
"And what if I am?"
Shirley shrugged. "Now there's no point in reacting toward me in a hostile manner. The name is simply a word association picture with me. I don't feel any contempt toward you on account of it."
"Well, thanks very much," said Trent.
"Your attitude shows an obvious repression there. You ought to work it out. How do you feel when you approach your wife?"
"What?"
"You heard what I said. Wasn't the question clear?"
"It's clear that it's none of your business!"
"Oh, yes, it is. I'm writing a monograph on the subject--to get my master's. It's going to be published by the university press."
"I don't care to be in it."
"I wouldn't use your real name," Shirley assured him. "You'd just be an anonymous case history."
"No, thanks," said Trent.
"You're not showing the scientific attitude."
"You're right," Trent agreed.
"People make things very difficult for me," Shirley complained. "I mean, they're all so stupidly touchy on the subject of sex."
"Hi, everybody," said Doan. He was wearing a brown tweed sport coat now and brown tweed slacks and a dark green sport shirt.
"Hello, Mr. Doan," said Melissa.
"How do you feel this morning?" Trent asked.
"Not too bad," Doan told him. "I mean, I'm breathing--I think."
"Two of our third floor neighbors complained this morning about the noise last night."
"Humphrey always talks loud when he's drunk."
"You were doing all right in that line yourself."
"Self-defense," said Doan. "You have to talk loud to Humphrey, or else he won't pay any attention."
"He didn't, anyway."
Doan nodded. "Humphrey is very stupid, I fear. Who's this, here?"
Melissa said: "Shirley, this is Mr. Doan. He's a detective. This is Shirley Parker, Mr. Doan."
"You're cuter than a bug's ear," said Doan.
"I know it," said Shirley.
"She's writing a monograph," Eric Trent warned. "On sex."
"No," Shirley corrected. "Sex comes into it just incidentally. It's on psychotherapy. Psychosomatic therapy."
"That's nice," said Doan. "I bet."
"Do you have a sex life?" Shirley asked.
"Sure," said Doan. "But it's private."
"That's the way everyone acts," Shirley said. She stared at Carstairs in a speculative way. "What about him?"
"He does very well," said Doan. "He's different from most males. He gets paid for his services, and they're very much in demand. The owners of lady Great Danes have to write months ahead to get an appointment with him."
"Would you mind changing the subject?" Trent asked.
"Why?" Doan asked. "Sex is very interesting, and personally I think it's here to stay."
* * *
"Hallo, peoples," said Morales, coming out of the front door of Old Chem and shaking the dust from a mop gently over them all. "Nice day, no? Yes?"
"Did you paint my office?" Melissa demanded.
"Senorita, I have eight--"
"Yes, I know. Just forget it."
"Senorita, if you had eight children, you would know that forgetting them is difficult--not to say, impossible. Ah! And how do you do, Senorita Shirley?"
"Hello," said Shirley.
Senorita Shirley, last night I had a very surprising experience."
"I don't want to hear about it."
"Senorita, this is a matter of immense scientific interest."
"How do you know?"
"Senorita, when a man has eight children, he acquires a certain flair in this field which gives him superior judgment."
"I'm not interested," Shirley told him.
"Senorita, in my opinion you are discriminating against me. I would bear it in silence, except for the fact that my experiences are of enormous scientific value. Just regard the matter objectively, Senorita. Incorporated in your book, my unparalleled performances would make your reputation."
"No doubt," said Shirley. "But they're not going to be--incorporated in my monograph, I mean. You're too disgustingly normal."
"Senorita, I resent that."
"Go ahead and resent."
Morales glowered darkly. "There is very little justice in this world, in my opinion." He hitched the mop up over his shoulder and marched back inside the building.
Shirley looked at Doan. "Did you ever kill anyone? I mean, either indirectly--by getting them hung, or directly--by doing your own dirty work?"
"Both ways," Doan answered.
"Do you rationalize your sadism when you do? I mean, in the manner judges do--by claiming they are ridding society of a menace and all that stuff?"
"No," said Doan. "I do it because I get paid for it. It's nice work."
"I'm afraid you're normal, too."
"I'm sorry," Doan told her.
"Do you know many murderers?"
"Hundreds."
"Are they paranoid or cycloid? It's my opinion that all of them are paranoid to some degree."
"What does that mean?"
"They're paranoiacs," Shirley explained. "It means they live in a subjective world of their own. They rationalize their destructive impulses by a cockeyed logic that has no relation to reality. Hitler was a marvelous one."
"I've never met a murderer who went in for it on such a big scale as he did," Doan said. "Although I did run across a nice old female party who knocked off twenty people with nicotine distilled from bug spray."
"Were her victims all of one sex?"
"Nope. Men, women,
and children. She wasn't a bit choosy."
Shirley nodded indifferently. "Generalized transference of a subconscious repressed aggression. It's very common. Well, I'm going in and try to get something out of Professor Sley-Mynick."
"Oh, Shirley," said Melissa. "Leave him alone. You know you terrify the poor man with your questions so much you make him ill."
"It's good for him," said Shirley. "He's got to work out those experiences--get them up and out in the open. He'll never get well if he keeps them seething in his subconscious the way they are."
A fat shadow waddled out from the doorway and on emerging into the sunlight turned out to be Professor Sley-Mynick himself. He blinked behind his heavy glasses and then, settling his gaze on the group standing and sitting on the steps, twisted around suddenly and looked as though he was going to scurry back from where he'd come.
"Just a minute, Professor," Shirley Parker called to him. "You're the very man I want to see. We were talking about abnormal psychology--about murderers and..."
The professor threw up his hands. "Oh, dear," he said. "Did you say murderers? Who's a murderer? I'm not a murderer, am I? I don't know any murderer. Or do I?"
Shirley tripped up the steps and patted Sley-Mynick on the shoulder. "Now don't be alarmed," she told him, "Our discussion was purely objective, no personalities involved. We were talking about murderers and sex. As you know, I'm writing a monograph and in order to do it I have to interview people and get material on their sex experiences. I wanted to ask you..."
If the professor had seemed startled before, now he looked positively horrified. "Oh, dear," he said. "Sex. Do I have any sex? What sex am I? Male, of course. And you're a female. Oh, dear!"
The poor man retreated back into the building. Shirley had a grip on his elbow now and she dragged along after him until they were both out of sight in the lobby.
"She's pretty, isn't she?" Melissa asked.
"And how," Doan agreed. "Is she married?"
"Shirley? No. She doesn't believe in marriage."
"Is she a communist?" Trent asked warily.
Melissa laughed. "Of course not. Shirley wouldn't go in for anything as old hat as that. She's a philosophical anarchist."
"Oh," said Trent. "Well, excuse me. I have a ten o'clock class." He looked to make sure Shirley was not in sight in the hall and then went in and up the stairs.
"You know," Melissa said to Doan, "he's not so bad, after all. I mean, I thought he'd be an awfully icky sort of a wolf until I got his side of the story. He's sort of cute and innocent, isn't he?"
The Doan and Carstairs Mysteries Page 39