Tooth and Nail: A Novel Approach to the SAT (A Harvest Test Preparation Book)

by Charles Harrington Elster

  “True. However, you’ve left out one executor.”

  “Carmen Torres?”

  “Yeah. Why’s that?”

  “Why do you think?”

  Caitlin sipped her coffee. “Well, I don’t know her that well, but I don’t think she’s the type. She seems so upright and virtuous. Besides, she and Leo are close.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time avarice—the desire to accumulate a little cash—came between friends.” Bill stood up and began pacing behind his desk. “Think about it, Caitlin,” he went on, playing the devil’s advocate. “If you could get a pile of money, let’s say a million dollars, by committing some small offense, some peccadillo, would you do it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Suppose you could get the money free and clear by just hitting a friend over the head, no serious injuries, just knock him out, and he never has to know you hit him. Would you do it?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Honest?”

  “How could you be sure you wouldn’t injure the person?”

  Bill sensed her vulnerability and applied more pressure. “Caitlin, think of what you could do with all that dough! You could buy a yacht and sail around the world, or live in a mansion, or collect nice cars, or give it all to charity, or start a newspaper. You could be as exotic or as conventional as you liked. Whatever your fantasy was, you could fulfill it. One brief, ultimately innocuous action resulting in a lifetime of serenity—you can’t say the idea doesn’t have a certain allure.”

  “Of course I’m intrigued by it, but—”

  “But what?”

  “It’s just too repugnant. I mean, maybe if I was really desperate, then for a million dollars I’d let someone hit me, but I don’t think I could bring myself to hit somebody else. On the other hand, if the guy knew he was going to be hit, and we were planning on splitting the money afterward, then, yeah, it’s possible I’d consider doing it.”

  “You mean, under certain circumstances you’d do it?”

  “I suppose so, but what are you getting at?”

  Bill sat down again and put his feet up on his desk. “Caitlin,” he said, teasing her, “do you consider yourself an ethical person?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “And if you could commit a crime—hypothetically at least—don’t you think there are certain circumstances under which even Carmen Torres, despite all her integrity, could commit a crime?”

  “Okay, okay,” Caitlin acquiesced. “I suppose so.”

  “Right, especially since she hasn’t gotten tenure yet. When an associate professor signs a contract at Holyfield, do you know how long it’s for?”

  “Five years?”

  “Three, and it’s renewable only twice. That means the longest she could teach here without receiving tenure would be nine years.”

  Caitlin recalled that when she’d met Carmen in the dining hall the professor had said this was her ninth year at the college. “That would mean this is her last year.”

  “Precisely.”

  Caitlin leaned forward. “So what are you implying?”

  “I’m implying that whatever it is she’s after, if she can get her hands on it first, it could be a scholarly coup—the basis for an article, which in turn could be the basis for a book, which in turn could be the basis for a comfortable little niche at Holyfield for the rest of her life.”

  “But wouldn’t academic advancement be motive enough for any junior faculty member in the humanities?”

  “Sure, anyone who can wield a blunt instrument and administer chloroform is a candidate. But we’re trying to narrow our list of suspects, so we have to look at those closest to the crime. And Carmen, as a friend of Prospero’s and an executor of his collection, probably has some idea of its contents.”

  Bill continued to augment the evidence against Torres, elucidating a set of ordinary circumstances that might turn an amiable professor into a callous felon. Yet no matter how logical and rational his deductions seemed, Caitlin remained incredulous. Every time she tried to imagine Carmen hitting Leo on the head or sneaking up behind Hargrave, her mind rebelled.

  “Look, Bill,” she said finally, “isn’t this a little farfetched? I mean, if we wanted to we could fabricate motives and make anyone look guilty.”

  “You really think it’s implausible?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Bill stood up. “Then I’m definitely not going to let you interview her.”

  “I’m glad,” Caitlin said with a laugh. “I wouldn’t want to be in that awkward position. Any more news about Leo?” she asked, standing up and gathering her notes.

  Bill nodded. “He called this morning, said he was sore but should be out of CHS this afternoon.”

  “That’s great!”

  “Yeah, he’s pretty resilient,” Bill said, walking Caitlin to the door.

  Caitlin trotted up the stairs, then stopped at the top and turned. “Hey, Bill?”

  “Hey, what?” he replied, sticking his head out the door.

  “I’m sorry I was late this morning.”

  “Forget about it and get to class!”

  Caitlin smiled and hurried off across Longman Green. Looking up, she saw that the sky had grown bleak and menacing. The morning air was chilly and moist. So much for Indian summer, she thought, shivering. It’s going to pour.

  Shortly before noon, the sky opened up. Lightning crackled and thunder roared. Slanting sheets of rain pounded rooftops and pelted the street. Caught in the deluge, Phil began to run, leaping over the puddles that had quickly accumulated on the sidewalk. By the time he reached CHS, he had abandoned all hope of remaining dry.

  The sliding glass doors parted and Phil dashed into the shelter of the lobby. He paused to take a quick inventory of the damage. His sneakers, socks, and blue jeans were soaked. Water had dripped from his bare head to his neck, then under his jacket and down his back. About the only thing that wasn’t drenched was his backpack. Thank goodness for waterproof nylon, he thought.

  He took the elevator up to the third floor and signed the visitors’ book at the nurses’ station. Then he dripped and squished down the immaculately buffed hallway to Leo’s room.

  The door was open. Phil looked in and saw Leo lying in bed, on top of the covers, reading a magazine. Apparently he had already perused the day’s editions of the Herald and The Plains, for both newspapers lay crumpled on a chair beside the bed. He wore a maroon terry-cloth bathrobe over a white T-shirt and jeans, and there was a fresh, somewhat less conspicuous bandage on his head.

  “Hey, Leo. How ya doing?”

  Leo looked up. “Phil, good to see you, my man,” he said in a sonorous bass voice. “Hey, did you get caught in the storm? You look like a sewer rat.”

  “Yeah, it’s a monsoon out there. I’m soaked to the gills.”

  “Well, come on in and dry off. Grab a towel from the bathroom.”

  “Thanks.” Phil set his backpack on the floor, doffed his jacket, and draped it on a chair. He found a towel and began rubbing his hair. “So, what’s new?” he asked Leo.

  “What’s new is that the doctor checked me out this morning and the diagnosis was merciful. She pronounced me full of vitality and said my bondage in this sanitary wasteland would end at four o’clock.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Phil said, sitting down on the end of the bed, “because something else happened last night. My room was searched.”

  Leo scowled. “Is Caitlin . . . is the letter . . .”

  “Don’t worry. They’re both okay.” Phil recounted the details of the break-in. “I think they were looking for the book your letter was in. Nothing was stolen, so what else could it be?”

  Leo pounded the bed with his fist. “I knew someone was onto us. This confirms it. You haven’t told anybody about the letter, have you?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Not even your roommates?”

  “They don’t suspect any malicious intent. They just think
the whole thing was some kind of eccentric freshman initiation ritual.”

  “And the campus police?”

  “They were gone by the time I got back to the room.”

  “Good,” Leo said with a sigh of relief. “But there’s no time to lose. We’d better get to work solving those clues.”

  Phil got up from the bed. “That was my first thought, too, which is why I took the liberty of getting you some pertinent reading material.” He unzipped his backpack, removed several books, and set them down on the bed. “I had a break this morning between calculus and history, so I dug these out of the stacks for you.”

  “Good thinking,” Leo said. As he examined the books, his face lit up with delight. “A History of Codes and Ciphers, Elementary Principles of Cryptanalysis, Cryptography: A Manual for Students—excellent! You are one resourceful dude, Phil. Thanks for taking the initiative.”

  Phil shrugged. “Don’t mention it.” He put on his jacket and zipped up his backpack. “I thought maybe we could get together with Caitlin later on and start figuring things out.”

  “Absolutely. I’ll check out these books and see what I can come up with. You want to meet for dinner at the commons?”

  “Sure, what time?”

  “How about six o’clock?”

  “Okay. See you then,” Phil said and started to leave.

  “Yo, wait up a second,” Leo called out.

  Phil stuck his head back inside the doorway. “What?”

  “A word to the wise from your freshman counselor. Get an umbrella, will ya? Otherwise you’ll be spending the rest of the semester right here in CHS with the flu.”

  Phil grinned. “Sure, Mom. Anything you say.”

  Chapter 19

  Professor Bibb’s Eminent Domain

  Professor Bibb took Caitlin’s drenched raincoat and dripping umbrella and smiled cordially. “Perhaps you should remove your footwear as well.”

  Caitlin looked down at her battered sneakers. A small puddle was beginning to form around them on the gleaming parquet floor.

  “Sorry about that, Professor,” she said, prying them off by stepping on their heels.

  “No need to worry. Just taking precautions,” he said, opening the front hall closet and hanging up her coat. “You may put them on the tray next to the door.”

  Caitlin placed her shoes next to an old pair of galoshes. They were reminiscent of the ones her mom had made her wear over her shoes whenever it rained in grade school. She had thought the black rubber boots made her feet look like tree stumps, and she remembered the day in the sixth grade when she had vehemently refused to put them on and her mother had relented.

  “Right this way, Ms. Ciccone.”

  Caitlin followed Bibb to an archway at the end of the hall. She could hear the soothing strains of classical music coming from the room beyond.

  “May I get you anything? Juice or tea?” Bibb asked, ushering her into the living room.

  “Tea would be great, thank you.”

  “Ah, good. Well, then, I’ll be right with you. In the meantime, please make yourself at home.”

  As Bibb disappeared back down the hallway, Caitlin looked around in wonder at the lavish furnishings. The capacious room was crammed with antique furniture and objets d’art. Luxuriant plants sprouted in the corners, and at the far end a white-lacquered baby grand piano stood to one side of a tiled fireplace with a mahogany mantel. On the walls traditional landscapes and still lifes hung next to contemporary abstract expressionist paintings, in no discernible order. The sheer plenitude of acquisitions, and their diversity, convinced Caitlin that Bibb was an eclectic connoisseur with expensive tastes.

  She wandered through this thicket of things and passed under another arch that led into what appeared to be Bibb’s library. On one side of the room, tall glass cases displayed old leather-bound volumes. On the other, open shelves rising to the ceiling housed books that probably were used on a more regular basis—well-thumbed scholarly tomes, sets of classics, and abstruse treatises in French, Italian, German, and Latin.

  In the middle of the room an intricately carved wooden stand supported an enormous book that looked like an archaic unabridged dictionary. Its cover was studded with dark gems and embossed with exotic lettering. She opened the book and was surprised by the brightly illuminated pages. They seemed to shine with an inner light.

  “Ms. Ciccone!”

  She looked up to see Bibb set a serving tray down on a table and rush toward her. Startled, she let go of the book and stepped back. The cover dropped shut with a thump.

  “Ms. Ciccone, are your hands clean?” he blustered, carefully examining the first few pages to check for marks.

  Caitlin was amazed at how the possibility of a smudge could dismantle the composure of this renowned scholar.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right,” Bibb said with a frown. “There doesn’t appear to be any damage. I shouldn’t have left the book sitting out in the open where someone could tamper with it.”

  Bibb unlocked one of the glass bookcases, then picked up the volume and lovingly put it in its place. He turned, wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, smoothed his hair, and glanced at Caitlin.

  “All’s well that ends well,” he said with a convivial laugh, regaining his equanimity. He pointed to the serving tray. “Would you mind setting that on the table by the picture window in the living room? I’ll be just another moment.”

  Caitlin ferried the tea set to its appointed spot without a mishap, then sat down in an armchair and looked out the window.

  The panoramic view from the penthouse apartment was impressive. The rain had abated and the oppressive gray storm clouds, which had dominated the city’s skyline and the arable Iowa farmland stretching beyond, finally were beginning to lift. The whole city seemed to be at her feet. Nine blocks down College Street she could see the distinct group of buildings that made up the central Holyfield campus.

  “Here we are,” Bibb said, returning with a plate of cookies. “I see you’ve discovered another one of my apartment’s prime assets.”

  “This view is great,” Caitlin said. “It must make you feel like a king looking out over his domain.”

  Bibb chuckled. “Some say I do live like a king. Unfortunately, the days of monarchy are long gone and my regal ambitions must be otherwise gratified.”

  The professor lowered his sizable girth into a high-backed armchair opposite her. With pronounced effort, he leaned forward and began to serve. “I found this tea in a little shop in London last summer. It’s delightful. One sugar or two?”

  “None, thank you.”

  “Cream?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “How abstemious of you, my dear!” Bibb exclaimed. “But I should have known. Your article on the Shakespeare radio colloquium was so evenhanded.”

  “Thank you,” Caitlin replied.

  “Perhaps too evenhanded.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I must say, there was a veritable plethora of outlandish speculation being bandied about. Not all theories deserve equal space, you know.”

  “That may be,” Caitlin said, trying to steer clear of any ideological booby traps, “but as a reporter my job is to relate what’s said and report the facts. I’m not an editor.”

  “Ah, yes. Of course,” Bibb sighed. “Tell me, Ms. Ciccone, what facts are you looking for today?”

  “We’re investigating the attacks on Professor Hargrave and Leo Kabnis.”

  “Leo Kabnis, the honors student?” Concern clouded Bibb’s usually jovial expression.

  “Yes,” Caitlin said, monitoring his reaction beneath a casual mask. “It happened last night. Someone clubbed him on the head in his room.”

  “That’s dreadful, simply dreadful!”

  “The doctors think he’s going to be okay.”

  “I hope so,” Bibb said. “I’d read about poor Hargrave—in your newspaper, in fact. But now Leo Kabnis too? That’s absolutely appal
ling.”

  “There’s reason to believe that the incidents are somehow connected to the Prospero collection.”

  “Yes?”

  “I was hoping you could answer a few questions.”

  “Gladly,” he said, holding out a plate of cookies. “Please, help yourself.”

  “Thanks. That book I was just looking at, that’s a rare book, right?”

  “Very. It’s an eighteenth-century copy of a famous Sufi text, Secrets of llluministic Wisdom, by Ibn Sabin.”

  “Sufi—what’s that?”

  “The Sufis are a sect of Islam. They claim to teach the arcane doctrine behind all religions. Recent scholarship indicates that the ascetic St. Francis of Assisi may have practiced Sufism, and of course you remember King Arthur’s famous Knights of the Round Table?”

  “Yes?”

  “They and other chivalrous organizations—and even the fraternities on our very own campus—may be derivative, whether they know it or not, of a sect of Sufis called the Khidr Order. In fact, the Black Prince’s Order of the Garter was quite likely a mistranslation of that.”

  Caitlin took a sip of her tea. “So the Khidr Order was a kind of prototype.”

  “Yes, although its many emulators have always managed to misunderstand the radical mysticism at the heart of its practices.”

  “How did you get your hands on this book? Was it expensive?”

  “Luck,” Bibb said with a subtle wink. “Years ago, when I was a junior faculty member in Alabama, I went to an estate auction on the outskirts of Tuscaloosa. The recently deceased had at one time inherited an odd miscellany from a forebear who had dabbled in theosophy, alchemy, phrenology, and other nonsense. No one knew what the books were, let alone what they were worth. I picked up the whole lot for $150.”

  “What would a collector pay for the Sufi book now?”

  “It’s insured for two hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Two hundred thousand? Why don’t you sell it?”