by Crider, Bill
Rogers did not stand. Burns thought that he was sensitive about his height, or lack of it. "Have a seat, Dr. Burns," Rogers said, motioning to the chair in front of the desk.
Burns sat. The chair was firm and comfortable, but when he looked at Rogers across the expanse of the desk, Rogers seemed miles away.
"Dr. Burns, it seems that someone is out to destroy and discredit Hartley Gorman College," Rogers said. His voice, certainly not as mellow and fruity as Abner Swan's, was nevertheless as effective in a private conversation as in a public meeting. "The question is, who?" He looked at Burns as if he expected an answer.
"I really have no idea," Burns said.
"But you seem to be on the scene when things happen," Rogers said. "Not that I'm implying anything," he added, when Burns didn't speak.
"I'm a victim of circumstance," Burns said. "I don't know what's going on, and that's a fact."
"The police seem to think otherwise," Rogers said, leaning over the desk and steepling his fingers.
Burns wondered what Napier had told Rogers when he called. "They're wrong, then," he said. "I had an appointment with Dean Elmore, and I just happened to find his body. I just happened to come to school last night and interrupt an arsonist. I know that sounds feeble, but it's the truth."
Rogers changed tacks. "I can't imagine why anyone would wish to take the life of Dean Elmore," he said.
Burns didn't respond. Rogers wasn't that dumb.
"Of course, I suppose he did have his faults," Rogers finally said, "but which of us doesn't?"
Maybe he was that dumb. Burns decided to find out. "I hate to speak ill of the dead, but let's face it: Elmore had more faults than most people around here. Most of us have never figured out why he was ever chosen to be dean in the first place."
Rogers looked shocked. He folded his hands, and they disappeared behind the desk. "Why, he was chosen by a committee," he said. "I'm sure the committee thought he was the best man for the job. There could be no other reason."
"Of course," Burns said.
"Well, then," Rogers said. "I just wanted you to know that I'll be doing all I can to help the police in their investigations. I hope that all of this is cleared up soon. And I'd like to thank you for what you did last night. Were it not for you, Main would be a heap of ashes and stone at this moment." He stood up and held out his hand. Burns had to strain himself to reach it, but he managed. They shook, and the meeting was over.
Burns left, with one thought on his mind. He was going to call Don Elliott and have a little chat.
Chapter 11
Elliott was puffing from his climb up the stairs, a feat that had rendered him temporarily speechless. Burns waved him to a chair, and they waited until Elliott was breathing more or less normally before beginning their conversation.
"I know why you called," Elliott said, his baritone restored.
"You do?" Burns asked, surprised. He wasn't even sure himself.
"Of course," Elliott said, and Burns was once more amazed that such a powerful voice could come from such an apparently frail body. There were more distinctive voices at HGC than seemed right for such a small institution. "Everyone's talking about me, and the police have asked you to pump me for information. I knew it would happen."
Burns recalled their earlier conversation. He was beginning to suspect that Elliott was a little paranoid. Or maybe he was feeling guilty about something.
"Look," Burns said, "no one's talking about you, and the police can do their own pumping. They're much better at that sort of thing than I am. But I did want to talk to you about that committee you served on."
Elliott gave a theatrical sigh."I knew it," he said. "I knew it would come to this."
"Come to what?" Burns was already feeling exasperated, and they had just begun talking. "I haven't even asked you anything yet."
"Ha," Elliott said, enunciating clearly and mournfully. "Ha-ha."
"Don," Burns said, trying to keep his voice level, "I'm just another faculty member. We're colleagues. That's all this is, just a meeting between two colleagues. I'm not some undercover secret agent."
Elliott seemed to shrink even more. If he'd been blue, the casting director for "The Smurfs" would have spirited him away. "So you say. So you say. But everyone knows about how someone tried to burn this building last night and you stopped him. Falling through the flooring and all." He glanced over his shoulder at the hall, though there was no way he could see the hole in the ceiling. "You were up here with the police half the night, from what I hear, searching the building for clues."
Ah, the HGC rumor mill, Burns thought. If Elmore could have turned out degrees at half the speed the school could generate rumors, he would have died happy.
"All right," Burns said. "Have it your way. But remember, I'm telling you the truth. This is just information I want. I may give it to the police later, but right now I'm asking for me. To satisfy my own curiosity. As far as I know, this is something the police haven't even thought of." And if I know Napier, he won't think of it at all, Burns almost said. He restrained himself, however.
"I understand," Elliott said. It was clear that he didn't believe a word that Burns had said.
"Good. So what's the real truth about how Elmore got to be dean? You counted the votes, you said."
"It's your friends that have been talking about me, isn't it?" Elliott asked. "Fox and Tomlin. They're the ones. Aren't they?"
"Don, just answer me. Man to man. No one else is involved. I promise."
Elliott did not look reassured, but he finally answered. "Yes, I did count the votes. But that's not where it all started." He wiped his hand across his forehead. "Elmore was actually a pretty good candidate. He was in-house, and therefore he was familiar with the school and the faculty. He knew all about our programs and our operations. In fact, he'd really done his homework. We had some prepared questions, and he answered all of them very satisfactorily."
"But Don," Burns said, "everyone hated him."
"Of course, there was that," Elliott said. "A personality problem, we called it. But look at it from the committee's point of view. The other candidates were from out of town. They didn't know our situation here. And how were we to know they wouldn't turn out to be as obnoxious as Elmore?"
"So Elmore was clearly the best candidate, and he was chosen on that basis?"
"It could have been that way," Elliott said.
"Don't give me 'could have been,' Don," Burns said. "Did he get the votes or not?"
"I don't know," Elliott said. His head was down, and he didn't meet Burns's eyes. His voice was still controlled, but it was very low.
"You don't know?" Burns was taken aback. "You don't know? But you said that you counted the votes."
"I was supposed to," Elliott said, still without looking up.
Burns thought about it for minute. "I see," he said, and he thought he did. "The fix was in. It didn't matter who everyone voted for. Elmore was going to win."
"That's true," Elliott said. "But no one on the committee ever made any protest. It's possible that they did vote for Elmore."
"Possible," Burns said, "but it didn't matter. Okay. Why did you do it?"
Elliott looked up, but he didn't say anything.
"I always wondered about you and your wife getting that dormitory job," Burns said. "Elmore couldn't have arranged that, not so soon after getting the deanship. It had to be Rogers." He looked sharply at Elliott. "It was Rogers, wasn't it?"
"Yes," Elliott said. His voice was so subdued that Burns almost didn't hear him, quite unlike Elliott's normal voice. "He came to me during the interview process and said that he really hoped that Elmore would get the job."
"That's all?"
"He . . . he said that he'd been thinking about that dormitory job. I'd asked him about the vacancy earlier. I'd invested some money unwisely—nearly all my savings—and I needed to recoup. He hinted that if Elmore became dean, I'd get the dorm. That's all, just a hint. But I made sure that Elmore was
the man."
Elliott finally looked up at Burns. "And no one on the committee ever complained. Probably most of them did vote for Elmore."
"None of them ever takes credit for it," Burns said. "Rogers didn't give you any idea why he wanted Elmore?"
"No," Elliott said. "He never said."
Blackmail at HGC? Burns wondered. It just didn't seem possible that Elmore could have anything on President Rogers. After Elliott left, Burns, like Miniver Cheevy, thought and thought and thought about it.
But he couldn't come up with anything.
A little later, Fox turned up at Burns's office door. "Want to go see someone kiss a pig?"
Burns had been thinking so much about the snout that he'd forgotten about the actual contest. "Why not?" he said. "You think it's still on?"
Fox was sure. "You don't think a little thing like the death of one of the participants is going to stop an event of this magnitude, I hope. The show must go on, and besides, it's all for the scholarship fund."
"You think Dorinda will be there?"
"That's part of the fun," Fox said. "And we can see if she's found her snout."
Burns got up and went with him. They stopped on the first floor for Mal Tomlin, and the three of them walked to the student dining hall. The weather had improved considerably; the sun was shining, and the sky was a clear blue. The temperature was near sixty degrees.
Mal Tomlin was smoking a cigarette, and the ashes blew back on Fox's jacket, a moth-eaten red-and-black number with a high school letter on it. Fox brushed the ashes off and admonished Tomlin to be more careful.
"I didn't know you played football in high school, Earl," Tomlin said.
"I didn't," Fox told him.
"Then where did you get the jacket?" Tomlin asked.
"There was this big garage sale over on Lindale Street—" Fox began.
"Never mind," Tomlin said. "I should have known."
They entered the men's dormitory, bypassed the faculty dining room, and went straight on into the student dining area. There was a girl sitting at a table, and in front of her was a cigar box. Burns, Fox, and Tomlin each paid her two dollars, which she put in the box. Then they got green plastic trays from a high stack and entered the line.
The room had a low ceiling and a cement floor; consequently it was extremely noisy. Students were sitting at wooden tables and talking, laughing, and even yelling. In the kitchen, pots, pans, and utensils were being washed, dried, and banged into drawers or thrown into bins. Now and then an empty plastic glass would hit the floor and bounce hollowly.
The three instructors got their plastic plates and their napkin-wrapped utensils. Then they were served. The food was about what they had expected: mashed potatoes, stringy green beans, carrots, and a batter-fried meat patty of indeterminate origin.
After being served, they went to a drink dispenser. Burns got water, the others got soft drinks. Then they located an empty table and sat down. As they picked at their food, they looked around for other faculty members. Coach Thomas was there, sitting morosely at a table with Fran Stafford and Joe Reasoner. Abner Swan was at a table with several other members of the Bible Department. Burns didn't recall their names, but he recognized their white shoes. And Dorinda Edgely was there, sitting at a table with several students.
It was too noisy in the hall for real conversation, so the three men continued to make a pretense at eating while waiting for the big moment. It wasn't long in coming.
The tone of the noise changed around them, and Burns looked up. Struggling through one of the side entrances was none other than George ("The Ghost") Kaspar. In his arms was a squirming, kicking, squealing member of the pork brigade. Not a full-grown hog, of course, but a sizeable pig.
Tables were shoved aside by cheering and laughing students as George made his way toward the center of the room. Bunni was trailing behind him.
When they arrived approximately where they wanted to be, George set the pig on the floor. There was a rope around its neck, and George held one end. The pig strained against the rope, emitting an eager squeal, but George held tight.
Bunni waved her hands for quiet. Someone banged a fork against a plastic glass, which did no good at all. The chattering and laughter continued. Finally, Bunni put two fingers in her mouth and gave a piercing whistle. It grew quiet immediately.
Burns was amazed. He had never realized that Bunni had talent. He would have given a lot to be able to whistle like that, but he had never been able to master the art. Maybe Bunni would teach him.
George began making a brief speech. "I'd like to thank you all, on behalf of the student government, for making our contest such a big success again this year," he said. "Your contributions have added over three hundred dollars to our scholarship fund." There was a round of halfhearted applause. "The big winner this year, with over a hundred and fifty dollars turned in, is"—George paused for effect—"Miss Dorinda Edgely!"
Burns looked over at Dorinda, who didn't seem nearly as happy as she should have at her victory. Leave it to Elmore to spoil even the smallest moment of triumph, even if he had to do it from beyond the grave.
Looking past Dorinda, Burns spotted someone he hadn't noticed earlier. Wayne Elmore was leaning against the far wall, looking as prissy as ever, and even more contemptuous. He was quite a good-looking boy, actually, but the perpetual sneer on his lips detracted a great deal from his appearance. Burns wondered what his home life must have been like. With Elmore for a father, it wouldn't have been good. You never knew, though, Burns thought. Some of the most faithful dogs were the ones most mistreated by their masters. Burns then wondered why Wayne was there at all; it seemed a bit disrespectful to his father's memory for the son to be attending a frivolous contest on the clay before the funeral. Maybe Wayne had hoped to defend his father's title, or to get a chance to kiss the pig if his father had happened to win.
Dorinda was making her way to the center of the room, and Burns turned to watch. She had almost gotten there when the pig got loose.
George later said that he must have momentarily relaxed his grip in the excitement of the moment. Burns, however, would always believe that George let go of the rope deliberately, just to see what would happen.
In any case, the pig was loose, and an excited pig is quicker on his feet than one might think.
The pig made a run straight at Dorinda, who was momentarily paralyzed by the sight. Bunni, faster of wit than Burns would have believed, stamped her foot down on the end of the rope.
Both women went ass over elbows, Bunni because the knot in the end of the rope jerked her off balance and Dorinda because the pig ran right into her slightly bowed legs.
There was instant chaos. Some people were leaping to the aid of the fallen women, while others were chasing the pig, some of them giving their ideas of the Arkansas razorback hog call. The hog calling caught on quickly, and cries of "OOOOOOOOOOEEEEEEEEEEEII! P-I-I-I-G! SOOEY!!" rang all around the room.
The probably deafened pig dashed this way and that, skittering desperately as it tried to gain traction on the hard floor.
The only one who seemed to remain calm in the melee was Wayne Elmore. Burns would have liked to help out, but Fox was laughing so hard that he was weeping, and Burns began laughing as well. The sight of Dorinda landing on her stretch pants had done them in.
Wayne Elmore, on the other hand, acted as if he were accustomed to dealing with crises of this nature every day. He waited calmly by the wall, and when the pig flashed by, he reached down quickly and cleanly, snatching the rope, grasping it firmly, and planting his feet.
The pig was brought up short, the rope choking off its piercing squeal. Its feet shot right out from under it, and it hit the floor with a thud that shook dust from its hide.
Fox, who had almost regained some semblance of calm, began laughing again, so hard that he had to put his head down on the table. Even Mal Tomlin was cracking up by now.
With a look of complete disdain, Wayne took several loops in t
he rope and began dragging the pig back to where George still waited, his hand on Bunni's arm. Dorinda still sat with legs splayed out on the floor, and she recoiled as Wayne dragged the resisting pig past her.
George took the rope, and Wayne swished away without a word.
It was several minutes before the crowd quieted enough for George to speak again. Even at that, he was interrupted from time to time by choked guffaws from Earl Fox.
"Well, faculty and fellow students," George said, "I hope this won't become a feature of our annual event." There were boos and cheers. The students plainly liked the idea of a repeat performance.
"To continue," George said when things quieted again, "Miss Dorinda Edgely has won the honor of kissing this year's pig." He looked for Dorinda. "Could someone please help Miss Edgely to her feet?"
Several students belatedly dashed to the rescue of the fallen professor and helped her to her feet. She looked anything but eager to kiss the pig, but she gamely started forward. She'd wanted this honor for years, and she wasn't going to pass it up.
George very carefully handed Bunni the rope, then scooped up the pig in his arms. Dorinda gave it a hasty peck on the snout. The students whistled and cheered.
"You know," Fox said, "it reminds me a little bit of Romeo and Juliet." Then he began laughing again.
But Burns was thinking about Wayne Elmore.
Chapter 12
It was while he was watching the ten o'clock news that night that Burns thought of something that made him wonder if he hadn't missed an important point. Worse yet, it appeared that Napier had missed it, too.
The point was, that if someone had tried to burn Main one night and been thwarted, what was to keep him from trying it again the next night? The answer, as far as Burns could see, was that nothing could stop him, unless Dirty Harry was on the ball. And if Harry were on the ball, it would be the first time.
Burns got in his car and headed for the school. It was only when he got there that he thought of calling Napier.