One Coffee With

by Margaret Maron

  “I’ve made a few notes, Lieutenant,” he said anxiously.

  Detective Tildon—inevitably rechristened “Tillie the Toiler” by his colleagues—found it very difficult to make comparisons, draw parallels, formulate theories or see beyond the obvious; but to compensate for his lack of imagination, he followed the book to the letter, and he was scrupulous about detail. Tillie’s reports were sometimes officialdom’s despair, sometimes its salvation. Legend had it that he once used three sheets of paper to describe one ordinary cocktail glass found at the scene of a murder—but the detective in charge wouldn’t have thought twice about the triangular-shaped chip of glass embedded in the heel of the murderer’s shoe if he hadn’t remembered Tillie’s sketch of the cocktail glass’s missing chip.

  Plowing through Detective Tilden’s mountains of verbiage could be exasperating; yet, on the whole, Sigrid approved of his thoroughness. Occasionally he was too anxious to please, and his feelings were easily hurt, but Sigrid preferred him to the hotshot macho types who bordered on insubordination when required to take orders from her.

  Now Tillie described the situation to her in low undertones. He explained his sketch of the department, filled her in on the people he’d talked to so far and told why he’d detained these particular seven to wait for her questions. He had listed them in order of seniority:

  Prof. Oscar Nauman, Chairman, Color and Basic Design

  Assoc. Prof. Albert Simpson, History of Classical Art

  Assoc. Prof. Lemuel Vance, Advanced Printmaking

  Asst. Prof. Piers Leyden, Life Painting

  Asst. Prof. Andrea Ross, History of Medieval Art

  Asst. Prof. Jake Saxer, History of Modern Art/Slide Curator

  Miss Sandy Keppler, Secretary

  No one was better than Detective Tildon in preliminary interviews. Witnesses were so disarmed by his cheerful, bumbling manner that they often said more than they’d intended. And Tillie wrote it all down in a neat, precise script.

  Sigrid seated herself at Sandy Keppler’s desk and slowly reviewed his notes. She’d seen the raised eyebrows when Tillie called her by her title and decided the witnesses could use the extra time to get used to the idea that a female police officer would be conducting the investigation. Her height and her no-nonsense appearance helped. At fiveten, her dark hair braided into a knot at the nape of her neck and wearing a loose, rather poorly tailored pantsuit, she looked efficient and capable of command.

  At last she lifted her head from Tillie’s notes and spoke in the quiet voice that always warranted attention. “My name is Lieutenant Harald, and I’ll try not to keep you any longer than necessary. First, is access to the Chemistry Department very convenient from here?”

  She sat erect behind the desk, her hands neatly folded, her gray eyes watchful; and all seven—with the possible exception of Oscar Nauman—were suddenly reminded of certain teachers they’d faced in elementary school. Piers Leyden cheekily raised his hand.

  “If it’s poisons you’re looking for, why go all the way over to Chemistry? We’ve got a decent supply of our own right downstairs.”

  “State your choice,” agreed Lemuel Vance. He had exchanged his ink-stained lab coat for a disreputable brown cardigan. “I’ve got nitric, acetic, sulfuric and hydrochloric acids, as well as potassium dichromate, trisodium phosphate and sodium hydroxide.”

  He had meant to be sensational; but Sigrid calmly referred to Tillie’s list and said, “Oh, yes, you must be Professor Vance. Printmaking.”

  “Which includes lithography and etching,” said Vance. “The acids and alkalis are to bite lines into metal plates.”

  Tillie had already discovered that no teacher could resist an opportunity to lecture, but he was stunned. “You let kids mess around with that stuff?”

  “Certainly!” Vance said blithely. “One learns by doing, Officer. An eye here, a hand there and the students get cautious.”

  “Stop being cute, Lem,” said Oscar Nauman. “It’s not as dangerous as it sounds, Detective Tildon. Our beginners work under close supervision. All chemicals are locked up except when Professor Vance or a graduate assistant is in the workshop.”

  “It’s the same for photography,” Sandy volunteered helpfully. “I guess some of those developer compounds must be poisonous because they’re kept locked up, too.”

  “Who has the keys?” asked Sigrid.

  “I do,” said the girl. “There in the top right drawer.”

  Sigrid fished them out and handed them to Tillie, who signaled to one of the lab personnel and slipped out to check on the chemical supplies.

  “Who knew where the keys were kept?” asked Sigrid.

  “Why, practically everybody,” Sandy replied. “Seniors and majors are supposed to work independently when classes aren’t in session, so they just reach in and take the room key they need. Of course, they’re supposed to sign for them; and as Professor Nauman said, they aren’t supposed to use any chemicals without supervision.”

  Her tone implied that the rules weren’t stringently enforced, and that was confirmed when Sigrid examined the clipboard in the same drawer. It hadn’t been signed since the week before.

  “1 suppose you never lock your desk?”

  “Only at night, “Sandy admitted unhappily.

  Sigrid pulled a fresh sheet of paper toward her. “We’ll take it from the top, I think.”

  There were groans and mutters of fatigue and hunger from her captives—all of whom had missed lunch—but Sigrid ignored them. “Now then, Miss Keppler, when you went downstairs at ten-twentyfive, who else was around?”

  More than ever Sandy Keppler was reminded of a third-grade teacher who had stressed precision and accuracy. “Professors Simpson and Vance were the only ones I actually saw,” she said carefully.

  “Don’t be tactful, my child,” said a genial Piers Leyden. “You knew Saxer and I were floating around somewhere.”

  “Okay, “said Sandy, tossing back a lock of golden hair. “You both were here, too, but so far as I know, that’s all. There were a couple of lecturers who finished at ten, and another graduate assistant was supposed to be here; but she went home at ten, too. Do you want their names?”

  “Not at the moment,” Sigrid said. She skipped to another name on Tillie’s list. “Professor Nauman was in class then, but what about you, Professor Ross?”

  Sigrid recognized that she and Andrea Ross were about the same age, but the professor made more concessions to femininity. She wore a well-cut navy pantsuit and a white ruffled shirt, which softened her thin face. Her short brown hair was slightly waved, and there was a porcelain quality about her complexion.

  “Did you come upstairs earlier?” Sigrid asked.

  “And help myself to poison in time to get back to the snack bar for breakfast before Sandy so obligingly set her tray down on my table? Sorry, Lieutenant. I arrived here with the coffee, not before.”

  Her tone was light, but Sigrid noticed her clenched hands and white knuckles as she toyed with an unopened pack of cigarettes.

  “Detective Tildon has given me the gist of Miss Keppler’s conversations with Professors Vance and Simpson,” she said, “but not with you.”

  “It wasn’t anything!” cried Sandy.

  Andrea Ross waved off the young secretary’s quick protest. “Never mind, Sandy. I haven’t made a secret of my feelings,” she said. “Two days ago I learned that Professor Quinn had recommended Jake Saxer for promotion over me. You must have had similar experiences, Lieutenant. How did they make you feel?”

  When Sigrid didn’t answer, Professor Ross shrugged insultingly and ripped the cellophane from the cigarette package. “Or maybe you haven’t. Maybe you’re the Police Department’s showcase model—the one they point to whenever rank-and-file women start complaining that they aren’t getting the same breaks as the men.”

  Sigrid continued to gaze at her with neutral gray eyes, and Andrea Ross flushed. Her own eyes wavered for a moment, and then she said defiantly, “I
have a Ph.D., seniority and better evaluations from my students; but I didn’t cozy up to Riley Quinn, and I’m not a man, so Saxer gets my promotion. And yes, I’m pretty damn bitter about it. But I didn’t slip poison into Quinn’s coffee while Sandy had her back turned. Not downstairs and not here!”

  She extracted a cigarette, lighted it and inhaled deeply. Saxer’s thin lips had tightened at the implied insult, but he remained silent.

  “And after you and Miss Keppler returned to this floor?”

  “For what it’s worth I was in the slide room preparing for my class when the ten-o’clock lectures finished,” said Ross. “Professor Leyden was in his office when I first went past, but I’m not sure of the time.”

  “Wish I could reciprocate,” Leyden said fliply, “but I never saw you, kid. My back was to the door, and I just assumed all that in-and-outing was Jake.”

  “Professor Simpson?”

  “I’m sorry,” apologized the elderly historian. “I was absorbed in a new book on Herculaneum, but I don’t think anyone came past my desk except Miss Keppler. Of course, someone could have entered by the other door, and I wouldn’t have seen him. The mail rack completely blocks my view of that door.”

  “And you were in the inner office alone, Professor Saxer?”

  The blond teacher glared at her haughtily. “I had telephone calls to make, Lieutenant. There are only two telephones on this whole floor: the one inside and Sandy’s. And you’ve seen what a crossroads of the western world this outer office is.”

  “He’s right,” said Sandy in answer to Sigrid’s inquiring gaze. “Everyone phones from the inner office if it’s empty. It’s more private.”

  “Anyhow,” said Saxer, “Sandy hadn’t brought the coffee up before I went inside, and she and that Harris kid were both here when I finished.”

  “But you and the coffee were here alone while Sandy was in with me!” Vance chortled. “You could be the winner, Jake!”

  Saxer’s pale face grew even paler with suppressed fury, but he managed a tight smile beneath his yellow beard. “And where were you when Sandy went tripping down the hall to wash her hands?”

  He turned back to Sigrid. “All this talk about who could have done it is pointless. Any of us could have—even Sandy—but what about the one person we know was hanging over that bookcase? Why aren’t you questioning Leyden’s protégé?”

  “Who’s that?” she asked, sorting through Tillie’s notes and wondering who was missing.

  “Harley Harris, that’s who!”

  “You gotta be kidding,” said Vance. “That kid’s too incompetent to be a poisoner. You ever see him open a tube of paint?”

  Sigrid’s faith in Tillie was restored as she found his comments on the absent graduate student, his last peevish remarks and his failure. She read through them briefly and squelched Vance’s impromptu imitation of the boy by saying, “We’ll certainly want to talk with him, but in the meantime—”

  “As long as you’re on who’s missing, there’s someone else,” observed Andrea Ross. “That Mike What’s-his-name, Karoly’s nephew.”

  “Mike Szabo?” asked Leyden. “That was a lot earlier, wasn’t it? And downstairs. Mike wasn’t—”

  “Yes, he was,” Sandy interrupted. “He came up on the elevator with Andrea and me to get that chair Phil and Jaime broke last week.”

  “He even carried the tray,” Andrea reminded her. “Remember when it got so crowded? We had our back to him for the last three floors.”

  “Could he have put something in a cup with just one hand?” Sandy asked. “Anyhow, how would he have known which was Professor Quinn’s cup? There were four coffees and Lem’s hot chocolate.”

  Professor Simpson cleared his throat. “Didn’t he carry the tray into your office alone?”

  “Mike wouldn’t have poisoned Riley,” Leyden objected. “Hit him over the head with a baseball bat, yes; nag him to death, yes; but poison?”

  “Who is Mike Szabo?” asked Sigrid, knowing this must be their first mention of the man as a possible suspect since his name did not appear in Tillie’s notes.

  Several started to answer, but Oscar Nauman’s deep voice carried. “He’s a Hungarian refugee employed by Buildings and Grounds and the son of Janos Karoly’s only sister.”

  It was clear the name meant nothing to Sigrid. “Janos Karoly was an abstract artist who came to prominence here in the fifties, Lieutenant,” explained Jake Saxer, the hint of a sneer in his voice, implying he thought her an ignorant philistine. “He died in the early sixties and left all his paintings to Riley Quinn. His reputation is still growing, and the paintings become more valuable every year. Mike Szabo thinks they should have gone to him—he was still in Hungary at the time, hadn’t corresponded with Karoly or anything in his whole life, but he still thought Professor Quinn somehow cheated him out of an inheritance.”

  “Did he?” asked Sigrid.

  “Of course not! It was all perfectly legal.”

  “Yeah? Then why wouldn’t Riley let Mike see Karoly’s notebooks?” asked Leyden.

  “Why should he?”

  “The question is, why shouldn’t he?” gibed the neo-realist. “Riley could read Karoly’s French, but I’ll bet you two wooden nickels and a pug dog he was afraid of what those Hungarian passages had in them. We’ve all heard about how he covered those up whenever he let anyone look at the notebooks.”

  Saxer shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t read Hungarian.”

  “Neither did anyone else in Riley’s pocket,” taunted Leyden. “That’s why he was afraid to let Mike see them.”

  “That illiterate peasant! Do you think he cares about his uncle’s genius? All he wants with the paintings is the money.”

  “And what the hell did Quinn want?” chimed in Lemuel Vance. “The way he kept pushing up Karoly’s reputation with those articles in The Loaded Brush and Arts Today. You think that didn’t jack up the price every time he put one of the paintings on the market?”

  Jake Saxer bit off a sharp retort as all three men suddenly remembered why Sigrid was following their exchange so intently. They subsided with sheepish faces.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” she said dryly and turned to Sandy again. “To recapitulate: this Mike Szabo, who seems to have had a grudge against Professor Quinn, carried in the tray for you and was alone with it for a few minutes?”

  “Well, yes,” said Sandy, “but really he barely had time to set it down and pick up the broken chair before he was back out again.”

  “And am I correct in assuming that you always left two cups, with sugar clearly marked, in a tray on that bookcase every morning?”

  “Just Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Professor Nauman isn’t here on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and Professor Quinn has—had—third period free then, so I’d just take it on in to him at his desk those two days.”

  “But the two cups would be there by ten-forty the other three days?”

  Sandy nodded. “By ten-forty-five, anyhow. I got back a little early today.”

  “Wait a minute!” cried Vance, springing up from his chair and rushing over to the bookcase. “There were two cups sitting here, both exactly alike, right? So how could anyone be sure which one Riley would take?”

  “Congratulations for finally seeing the obvious,” Leyden said sourly. “Better hire yourself an official taster till they catch him, Oscar.”

  “Is that a suggestion or a warning?” asked the white-haired chairman with a half smile.

  “What about it, Miss Keppler?” asked Sigrid. “Was there a pattern as to who took which cup?”

  The girl seemed genuinely puzzled. “I’m not sure. Professor Quinn lectured just down the hall while Professor Nauman’s class is on the next floor, so most times Professor Quinn had first choice; but I’ve never noticed which cup he usually took.”

  “No? Still, I think we must assume someone did,” said Sigrid, “unless it didn’t make any difference to the murderer. A rather unlikely proposition.”

&n
bsp; As the implications of her statement sank in, Piers Leyden shook his dark head. “Much as it pains me, I have to say Harley Harris is probably the only one dumb enough to poison a cup of coffee without caring whether Riley or Oscar drank it.”

  There were quick murmurs of agreement. Someone repeated Harris’s threats; another described his anger and frustration at not receiving his master’s degree.

  “No!”

  Oscar Nauman had listened without comments as his eager colleagues heaped blame on the unfortunate Harris, and now he cut across their accusations, silencing them. “Rotten taste,” he said firmly, “but all the time, and anyhow no one liked him.”

  Obviously he thought his statement made the graduate student’s innocence crystal clear. Sigrid looked blank and Lemuel Vance grinned.

  “Don’t mind him, Lieutenant Harald; Oscar tends to leave out whole paragraphs when he’s being logical.”

  Patiently Nauman elucidated. “Harris is an ant. Constant toil. A drudge. He doesn’t socialize. Never comes up for coffee breaks. He’s dull witted but just bright enough to know when he’s the butt; so he stays downstairs painting all the time. Can’t have been up here for coffee more than once or twice in the last year.”

  Sigrid saw his logic, “So you think he wouldn’t have known Miss Keppler’s routine with the coffee cups?”

  “Precisely,” said Nauman. “And the same reservation applies to Mike Szabo.”

  Sigrid glanced around the circle of attentive faces, but no one seemed inclined to dispute Nauman’s observations. She nodded, made a brief notation on her note pad, then gathered up all the papers and neatly aligned their edges. “It will probably be necessary to speak to you again, but that’ll be all for now, I think,” she said, rising from Sandy’s desk and motioning to Detective Tildon, who had reappeared in the doorway during Nauman’s statement.

  “Class dismissed!” said Leyden, but no one smiled.

  The professors drifted away from the office, and Sandy Keppler reclaimed her desk as Sigrid and Tillie conferred with the remaining lab technician, who was awaiting permission to leave. The others had finished with the inner office and already departed.