by Crider, Bill
"Then where is yours?" Burns asked.
"That's what the policeman wanted to know." Dorinda looked at Burns with suspicion. "Are you working for him?"
"I'm just an English teacher," Burns said. "Despite what you might have heard."
"Well, I don't know where my snout is," Dorinda said. "I don't see what difference that makes, though, since I never went near that office."
"Can you prove that?" Burns asked.
"You sound just like that policeman. No. I can't prove it, but doesn't he have to prove I went there?"
"If I sound like Boss Napier, it's only because I'm trying to apply a little logic to this," Burns said. "If Napier can prove that snout under Elmore's head is the same one you were wearing, you might be in considerable trouble." He dropped his cigarette in the Dr. Pepper can, wondering idly what kind of can would be there tomorrow. The cigarette had long since gone out.
"I just don't understand," Dorinda said. "I must have lost my snout somewhere. I thought maybe it was in here. I thought that if I could just find it . . ."
"Well, it's sure not in here," Fox said. "Where else did you go that day? When did you miss it?"
"That's just it. I didn't miss it. I must have laid it down somewhere and then not thought of it again."
"I guess you'll have to keep on looking," Burns said. "But I'm afraid you won't find it. Where did you go after you left here?"
"I'm not sure," Dorinda said. "I think I went to the ladies' room."
Chapter 9
They waited until he crowd of students had cleared the halls after the eleven o'clock classes, and then they waited a minute or two longer. Burns and Fox had never been in the ladies' room before, and they wanted to be sure that they didn't shock anyone.
They needn't have worried. Dorinda marched up to the dark green door and pounded on it with her fist. "Anyone in there?" she yelled. No one answered, so they all three went in.
This room was much nicer than the men's room downstairs. There was no rat, for one thing. For another, the stone walls had been covered with Sheetrock, which had then been textured and painted. There was a large mirror over the sinks, and there was a couch under the window. The only jarring note was the sign taped to the mirror:
PLEASE!
DO NOT!!
SPILL POWDER!!!
IN THE SINK!!
MAID ROSE
Dorinda looked in the stalls, and Burns looked beside the sinks and beside the trash can. No snout.
"Look," Fox said. "If you'd left the snout in here, Rose would have thrown it away anyway. There's no way it would still be in here."
"I'm almost sure this must be where I left it," Dorinda said, her eyes scanning the room. There was a fluorescent light, in addition to the frosted windowpane, so there was no dark corner for the snout to be hidden in. "Maybe someone picked it up."
"You aren't even sure you left it here," Burns said. "Just keep on looking. And just hope no one saw you going into the library that day."
Dorinda just looked at him and then walked out, leaving Fox and Burns alone in the ladies' room. "I think we better get out of here before someone comes in," Fox said. "Although it would probably start the best rumor in some time."
They got out.
Faculty meetings were always held in the chapel of the Bible Building (Hartley Gorman IX). Burns, Fox, and Tomlin walked in together at four o'clock exactly and sat on the thin red cushion in one of the back pews. One of the music teachers was playing a slow and mournful version of "Amazing Grace" on the old Wurlitzer electric organ. President Rogers was seated behind and to the left of the podium, wearing a black suit and a somber expression.
Most of the rest of the faculty had arrived by the time Burns was seated, and he hardly had time to reach for a songbook before Rogers was on his feet. "Let everyone stand," the president said, "and join in singing hymn number two hundred thirty-eight, 'What a Friend We Have in Jesus.'" He raised his arms. Everyone stood, and the organist surged into "What a Friend."
Burns looked around as everyone sang. Hardly anyone bothered to look at the hymnal, the song being such a familiar one. There wasn't a wet eye in the house.
Then the song was over. "Let us all remain standing," Rogers said, "while Dr. Swan leads us in prayer."
All the heads automatically went down, and Abner Swan stepped out of his pew and walked to the front. It was not a long walk, since Abner habitually sat on the front row, the better to impress the administrators.
"Oh, God, our heavenly Father," Abner began, and then went on to bless the school, its founders, its faculty, its students, its administration, and its board, the "great nation we all live in," and "especially the family—of which we feel that we are all a part, Dear Lord—of the late Dean Elmore, a man who did his part to make Hartley Gorman College the fine institution of higher learning it is today." Abner went on to ask for guidance, strength and direction, as well as wisdom and compassion. By the time he finally said "Amen," Burns was beginning to wonder if he thought he was preaching an Easter sermon.
Swan's "Amen" was echoed around the chapel by a number of others, and everyone sat down. President Rogers remained standing behind the podium and looked out at them. Then he began speaking. He had a good evangelical style, Burns thought. Nothing flashy, nothing to cause Jimmy Swaggart to lose any sleep over, but effective nonetheless. He knew when to shout, and he knew when to whisper. He knew when to get a catch in his voice, and he knew when to be straightforward and manly.
The gist of his message was that although the school had suffered a great tragedy and a lot of unwarranted publicity—even the television stations in Dallas had carried the story—Hartley Gorman College would recover and go forward. That although Elmore had been a great leader (and here Burns had looked around to see if there was anyone else biting his lip and trying not to snicker), God would send another leader to take his place. That although Elmore's forward-looking vision would be sorely missed, perhaps some of his innovative plans could be carried out. (Burns sincerely hoped that they wouldn't be.)
Rogers then announced that Elmore's funeral would be held on Friday afternoon at 2:00 p.m. at "the church." No one had to ask which church that meant, since whenever anyone at HGC referred to "the church," he meant the First Baptist Church across the street from Main. In conclusion, Rogers said that he knew that Elmore's death could in no way be related to HGC and that the person or persons responsible were no doubt outsiders who had sneaked into the administrative offices in the hope of robbing them. Surprised in their activities by the valiant dean, they had killed him and escaped.
Burns was genuinely surprised at this last bit of information, and he looked around to see if anyone else was buying it. Few seemed to be paying much attention, though some were looking up speculatively, as if here was an angle they hadn't thought of. As far as Burns was concerned, there was good reason they hadn't thought of it—it was hogwash. He had been on the scene, and he knew that Elmore wasn't the victim of a botched robbery attempt. Rogers was obviously trying to keep everyone from thinking what some of them already were: that there was a murderer among them.
Rogers asked for a moment of silent prayer, and then they all sang "Oh, God, Our Help in Ages Past."
As the books were slipped back into the racks and the feet began to shuffle, Fox turned to Burns. "Did you buy all that?"
"I believe we got some publicity," Burns said. "I just hope we don't get any more."
Burns was sitting at home that night rereading Ross Macdonald's The Chill when a thought occurred to him. The sinks in the ladies' room, there being two of them, sat on a long green cabinet. There had been doors on that cabinet, but no one had opened those doors when he, Dorinda, and Fox had searched the room. It wasn't impossible that Rose, if she had actually found the snout on the sink corner, had put it inside the cabinet for safekeeping. It seemed highly doubtful that she had, but it was something that should be checked. For that matter, they should have asked Rose herself if she had found it. It
wasn't always easy to find Rose, however, and Burns had often wondered when she wrote and posted her notes. He had seen many notes over the years, but he had never seen Rose taping one to the wall.
Then there was Rose. Burns found himself wondering if she had ever had any difficulty with Elmore. What if she had found the snout, carried it over to Elmore's office, and conked him with the paper-clip holder? She certainly seemed at times to possess the power to make herself invisible. It was all highly unlikely, but . . .
Burns returned to his book, but he found that he couldn't concentrate. He was afraid he'd been bitten by the detection bug. Before long, everyone would be right about him. He'd be cooperating with Boss Napier.
He'd rather be Lew Archer, though, or Philip Marlowe.
He got up and walked around his room, his finger marking his place in The Chill. The whole thing bothered him more than he had allowed himself to admit. He was restless, and he couldn't stop thinking about it.
He looked at the clock. Nearly eleven. Too late to do anything, really, but after all he did have a key to Main. He could go down and look in that cabinet. That would take his mind off things and calm him down. No one would ever even have to know.
He put on a blue knit sweater, got in his car and drove toward the school. He would have to be careful, since the night watchman, referred to by most of the student body as "Dirty Harry," was said to have an itchy trigger finger.
"Harry" was a retired policeman—long retired. Guesses at his age ranged from seventy-five to eighty and up. No one knew for sure. All they knew was that he was a short, driedup man who looked far too small to carry the gun he wore on his belt, a heavy .44 magnum that he'd been known to pull on anyone who crossed his path after eight o'clock at night.
And they also knew that after about ten o'clock he retired to the boiler room and slept in a straight-backed wooden chair that he tipped against the wall. So Burns figured that he would be pretty safe if he entered Main.
The weather had been cold and overcast for several days, and the nights were the same. An occasional drop of rain hit the Plymouth's windshield as Burns drove toward the school, but nothing big enough or frequent enough to require the wipers.
Burns parked on the street outside the building. There were no other cars in sight. The parking lot near the Administration Building was deserted. He got out of the car and started up the walk. There was no way to sneak in the building—not that he intended to sneak—since it was lit on three sides by huge floodlights. However, Burns was not worried about anyone's seeing him and alerting Dirty Harry; there was almost never anyone on the streets of Pecan. City after ten o'clock, and tonight was no exception.
Burns got out his key and entered. The old wooden doors were hardly a deterrent to burglars, since a good push was all that was really required to open them, even without a key. He locked the doors behind him, though, so that if the watchman did check he would find them secure.
With the heat off for the night, Main was cold and dreary. Burns didn't mind. He liked the musty, dusty smell of the old building, and the floodlights outside gave plenty of illumination by way of all the windows. Burns walked along the hall and to the stairs.
The stairs had been carpeted at one time, and they still were, but only in a manner of speaking. The carpet had been subjected to so many years of HGC students' footsteps that it was worn completely away in places, which made it dangerous if one wasn't careful. A shoe toe or heel could easily be caught and cause a serious fall. But Burns went up the steps confidently, even in the semidarkness. He knew them too well to worry about falling, though one teacher no longer with the school had fallen and broken her coccyx in broad daylight. She had been forced to carry a rubber doughnut with her to sit on for months afterward.
It was darker on the third floor, but Burns had no trouble reaching the ladies' room. He pushed open the door and flipped the light switch, then stepped inside. The door closed quietly behind him. He didn't think that Dirty Harry would see the light through the single frosted window, and besides, Harry was probably sound asleep in his chair in the boiler room by now.
Stepping to the sinks, Burns pulled open the cabinet doors. There was nothing inside except four rolls of industrial-strength toilet paper (some people preferred to call it "bathroom tissue," but Burns felt that "tissue" was far too gentle a name for this stuff, which he was positive could be used to sand automobile bodies in preparation for painting), two red-white-and-blue canisters of Ajax cleanser, and a stiff-bristled brush with a long wooden handle.
Just to make sure that there was nothing else, Burns moved the rolls of toilet paper aside, but there was nothing behind them. The snout was definitely not there. Burns closed the cabinet. Well, he thought, he'd just have to ask Rose in the morning.
He flipped off the light and reached for the door handle. That was when he heard the noise.
Main, being old, made a lot of noises. The rafters creaked and the windows rattled. Sometimes you might even hear a rat scuttle across a ceiling tile. And sometimes still a pigeon would get into the attic and beat around.
This noise was different. It was a solid thump, as if someone had bumped into something. And it seemed to come from the attic.
Burns stood still, his hand on the doorknob, waiting for his eyes to, get accustomed to the darkness. His first thought was that Dirty Harry had indeed seen the light and come to investigate. But the noise was definitely not in the right spot to have been made by someone coming up the stairs.
Opening the door slowly, Burns stepped out into the hall. The light was faint, but had anyone been there he would have seen him.
There was another noise, different this time, but clearly from the attic. Something strange was going on, and Burns was going to find out what it was. He felt very protective toward the old building, and now he suspected a student prank, though that would be in worse taste than most HGC students would indulge in, considering the recent death of the unlamented dean.
In the past, there had been such pranks, though not during Burns's tenure at the school. He had heard the stories, one of which concerned several erstwhile scholars who had led a mule up the stairs of Main and stationed it in the spacious cupola over the north classroom, the one in which Burns taught most of his classes. There wasn't enough noise for a mule this time, but something was going on.
Burns walked to the head of the stairs. To his right was the door to his classroom. To his left was the hallway that led to his office by way of Clem's and Miss Darling's offices. But just before the hallway there was a door. Facing the head of the stairs, he also faced that door, which was always kept locked. Behind the door was a large storeroom, and at the back of the storeroom was the stairway that led to the attic. Burns had seen the stairway, but he had never put a foot on it.
Burns tried the door. It was unlocked. He pushed it open.
There was no light in the storeroom, but there was a window. Burns could make out the stacks and stacks of cardboard boxes that contained the collected English themes of generations of HGC students. In theory, the papers were kept in storage for two years, then disposed of. In fact, some of the boxes probably held themes that were ten or more years old.
Elmore had recently made one of his rare trips to the third floor—in fact, his only trip, if Burns remembered correctly—and discovered the trove of paper. Unfortunately, Elmore had been in the company of the local fire marshal, and the storeroom had been declared a fire hazard. Elmore had supposedly hired his son and another student to clear out all the old boxes, leaving only those collected within the two-year limit, but so far nothing had been done.
Burns made his way through the stacks of boxes, some of which came up to his shoulders, until he came to the stairway. Nothing in this room had ever been remodeled. The floor was bare planking, and the walls were yellowing plaster. The stairs were crudely fashioned from four-by-sixes. Obviously, many an HGC student had been in the room at one time or another; the plaster was covered with names and dates scrawled
or neatly printed over the years. Burns couldn't read any of the names or dates in the dimness, but he had read them before. The earliest date he had seen was 1913, along with a name written in pencil. He'd often wondered what had happened to the student who wrote it, and if he ever remembered the moments he'd spent there by the stairs putting his name on the wall.
There was another noise from above. Burns put his foot on the first step and started up.
There was another door at the top of the stairs. This door, too, was always kept locked, but it was not locked now. It was standing slightly ajar. Beyond it was deep darkness.
Burns went through the door. He stood quietly, hoping that his eyes would adjust to the absence of light. He could hear the noise more clearly now. There was definitely someone in the attic, someone who was walking around very carefully.
There was some light in the attic after all, coming in through small cracks and also through some of the original stained-glass windows that had once extended from the third floor on up into the attic. Most of these had been boarded over, however.
To Burns's right was some sort of partition or wall, and there seemed to be some kind of walkway under his feet. He put his hand on the wall and started walking. He was being as quiet as possible, since he had decided that whoever was in the attic shouldn't be there. He would try to see who it was without being seen.
There was a strong ammonia odor, and Burns thought of what Mal Tomlin had said about the pigeons. Just then, the wall ran out and Burns's hand groped into darkness. He felt forward with his right foot. The walkway had ended, too.
Burns stood on the walkway, waiting and listening. He could hear someone moving around, and now he could hear something else, as if the person were muttering to himself. Then there was a sloshing noise, followed by the sound of liquid splashing. Burns smelled gasoline.
The very thought of what a fire could do to Main made Burns turn to his right, toward the area over his office, stepping carefully from rafter to rafter, feeling for each one with his foot. At about the point where Clem's office ceiling was, he was stopped by a massive black object, darker than the surrounding darkness. He put out his hand and touched it. It was metal. He moved his hand along it.