The wind was blowing through his beard and his eyebrows, the hairs of which tugged at their anchors and made his skin tingle. He smiled broadly. His whole face celebrated as he careened into town at twenty-five miles an hour and came to a squeaky stop at the traffic light.
Seeing his reflection in the drug store window, he sat a little taller, straightened his back a little, raised his chin, and twisted the throttle until both horses roared.
Albert had wheels.
Chapter Twelve
It wasn’t underground, and it wasn’t a railway. But people called it the underground railway, and everyone knew what it meant. That’s the kind of thing Albert could never understand. Among others. He had this vague idea that the problem stemmed from adjectives.
Cars, for instance. He knew one when he saw one. He could distinguish an automobile from a stovepipe or a potato, but the adjectives – make, model, engine size, nationality, and F.O.B . . . When he was a boy, his peers knew them all, and would recite them without the slightest provocation. To do so was one of the badges of boyhood. Where they came by this information, he never discovered.
Something told him that if he could just learn life’s adjectives, answers to all the great mysteries would become crystal clear.
“The dictionary?”
Albert had been lost in thought. He looked up at the person who sat down across the table from him and dragged him into focus. It was Standish.
“Hello,” Albert whispered. He always whispered in libraries. It suddenly occurred to him that the School may have changed its mind and ordered the detective to bring him back after all. “What did you say?”
“I see you’re reading the dictionary. Looking up anything in particular?”
Standish had a pleasant face. He was relaxed and comfortable with the world. Obviously a man well acquainted with adjectives. One who, in a few short days, could track Albert to the ends of the earth and show up in his bedroom.
“The underground railway,” Albert replied. He tapped the pages with his forefinger. “It’s not in here.”
“You’d probably be better off with an encyclopedia,” said Standish, demonstrating that Albert’s high regard for him was not misplaced.
As a result of his briefing at the School, Standish had learned a lot about Albert: that his remarkable – some said supernatural – gifts were offset by equally remarkable deficiencies. He was prepared to supplement when needed. He liked Albert, even if he preferred country music. “Just a second,” he said. His chair made a loud noise on the wooden floor as he stood up and pushed it back. Albert expected a loud ‘Shhh!’ at any moment.
“Here you go,” said Standish, returning from a nearby stack of books. “The ‘U’s.” He sat down.
“Use,” said Albert, taking the volume Standish offered across the table. “I should use this?” he said, looking from the book to Standish.
“‘U’s,” said Standish, pointing at the ‘U-Z’ on the binding. Albert had never seen it spelled that way. “For ‘Underground Railway,’ you’ll find it in there.”
“I will?” said Albert, amazed. Then he remembered. “I remember!” He’d forgotten to whisper. He looked around to see if anyone was coming. Having assured himself they weren’t, he lowered his voice and leaned across the table. “I’ve used one of these before. For ‘A. Lincoln’. Abraham,” he clarified. “President. But he wasn’t under ‘A’ or ‘P’” he continued, casting a dubious glance at the volume in his hand. “He was under ‘L.’” He paused a moment. “They have musical encyclopedia’s, too. Did you know that?”
“So I’ve heard,” said Standish with a smile.
A man of the world.
The nice thing about encyclopedias is that you didn’t have to recite the alphabet as much. Standish watched benignly as the musical anomaly buried his face in the book, using his finger to guide his eyes through the headings. “‘Underhill, Lamont B., molecular physicist’ 1886-1971, ‘Underground’,” he looked up. “Would it be here?”
“A little further,” Standish suggested.
Albert resumed reading. “‘Underground Railway’,” he said. “Underground Railway!” he repeated as the meaning dawned on him. “This is it!”
Albert was not a fluid reader. It helped to read aloud, but since he was in a library, he whispered. When he had finished the entry, he raised his eyes and fixed them on the Standish.
The stare made Standish uncomfortable. “What is it?” he said, when he could take it no more. “Did you find something?”
There was no reply. Albert unscrewed his stare and turned his attention to the entry. He re-read it. And again. It wasn’t a long entry. About a quarter page. But it was speaking volumes to Albert.
“What do you think about people?” he said at last. He didn’t look up.
Standish repeated the question. “What do you mean? People in general, or someone in particular?”
“In general,” said Albert. Certain parts of the entry had stood out, and he was reading them again. “The things they do to each other.”
“Such as?”
“Slavery,” Albert replied. “War.”
“Oh, you mean human nature,” Standish replied. “We don’t seem to have gotten a handle on ‘love thy neighbor,’ if that’s what you mean.” He smiled, but Albert didn’t notice. He’d finished reading, and was thinking.
“People hurt each other,” he said after a protracted silence. He raised his eyes. “Why is that?”
Standish suddenly felt guilty. He was, after all, a member of the human race and was in the uncomfortable position of defending it to an outsider. He lowered his eyes. “Who knows, Professor?” he sighed. He surely didn’t. Not that he ever thought about it. If people didn’t mistreat each other, he’d be out of business.
Albert stared at the page. “People don’t change.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Standish replied. “I’ve known many an alcoholic who . . . “
“No,” Albert interrupted. Albert never interrupted, but Standish had misunderstood. That’s not what he meant, and if he didn’t say so, he might lose the thought forever. “I mean . . . in general.”
Standish still felt defensive. “Well, can you say that, really? I mean . . . here’s a good example,” he said, tapping the encyclopedia. “We don’t have slavery anymore.”
Six months ago, Albert would have let the statement pass. In fact, six months ago, he wouldn’t have given it a thought. But he’d learned a lot since then, about life. About the world. “I think we do,” he said. He didn’t say anything about Mary Kay. “We just don’t call it that anymore.”
“I don’t know if that’s true,” Standish said weakly. Then again, he didn’t know it wasn’t.
“I do,” said Albert.
Standish had gathered from the School’s description that Albert was a kind of idiot savant. That impression, for no reason he could put his finger on, was undergoing a rather pointed revision. “Well,” he said. That was all. He shrugged.
“Sometimes they had secret places and trap doors,” Albert resumed without segue. Fortunately he was looking at the page again, or Standish would have been lost. “Not just barns and cellars.”
“The underground railway?”
“The stations,” Albert corrected. “Places where they would hide people. Slaves. Human beings. But it wasn’t really underground,” he continued softly. He didn’t want to shatter any of Standish’s preconceptions all at once. “Or a railroad.”
“No,” said Standish matter-of-factly. “I know.”
Amazing.
“Secret places,” Albert said after a while. “To hide people.”
Albert had had a secret place once, in the woods behind the house in Maine. It was down in a little hollow by a birch tree. He couldn’t find it when he went back the next day. Birch trees seemed to have sprung up everywhere overnight.
Seems there’s such a thing as too secret.
“Well,” said Standish, “no matter how bad we may be
as a whole, it’s nice to know altruism’s not entirely dead.”
“Altruism?”
Standish looked up the word in the dictionary and laid it in front of Albert. Albert read aloud. “‘Unselfish concern for the welfare of others. Selflessness. Fr. altruisme alt. Lat. alter . . . ’”
“Never mind the last part,” Standish suggested.
Good. It made no sense.
“The first sentence explains it pretty well.”
Albert re-read the sentence. “You mean these people had altruism, don’t you? The ones who helped the slaves.”
“That’s right,” Standish replied. “They were altruistic. Willing to put themselves in danger, in order to defend others.”
Albert considered this. “It was a long time ago,” he said.
So it was. For a minute or so they watched the sunlight creep across the page.
“Sarah says you’re keeping the news people away from me,” said Albert. That’s where his thoughts had taken him.
“Well . . . that’s what I’m getting paid for. But the townsfolk are doing most of the work.”
“Who?”
“The townspeople. I think they’ve adopted you, Professor,” Standish said with a smile. “I followed this gaggle of reporters and photographers into the bookstore the other day, hard-nosed city types – they’d been asking questions all over town – and everyone gave them the same answer: you’d been here a couple of days, then went on to Atlanta.”
“Hot-lanta,” Albert corrected. “I didn’t.”
“As far as they’re concerned, you did.”
Albert slowly realized what Standish was saying. “They lied,” he said. “The whole town?”
“Well, I had a little meeting with the town fathers. Talked about your problem, and they seemed interested in helping out. So, we came up with a likely story,” Standish said modestly. “I think they sympathize with what you’ve been through, and you’ve got a lot of fans hereabouts; at least, people have heard of you. It’s a small town. They’ll do something like that.”
The beard was useless. Everybody knew who he was. Probably even Maylene, the difference being that she didn’t care. Bless her.
“Besides, nobody much likes the press these days, anyway. Like I said, they’ve adopted you.”
Adopted by a town of liars. ‘Must give us pause,’ Albert thought. He couldn’t remember where he’d read that line, but it seemed to fit.
“That’s altruism, for you.” said Standish. “The whole town is on your side, doing what they can to protect you, and there’s nothing in it for them but the satisfaction.”
This would take some thought.
“Anyway,” said Standish, standing to go. “They sure make my job a lot easier.”
“You’re not altruistic?” asked Albert, he glanced at the dictionary to check the pronunciation, then regarded Standish carefully.
“No,” said Standish, though at the moment, he wished he were. “More of a mercenary. I’m paid to watch out for you.”
Albert absorbed the notion for future evaluation.
“Mr. Standish?”
“Professor?”
“They found Marchant DuShane guilty.”
“He hasn’t been tried yet, Professor,” Standish explained. “They indicted him. The trial is week after next.”
The distinction was lost on Albert.
“But I don’t see how they can find otherwise, just between you and me. I mean . . . the will and everything,” Standish said in summation.
“Mm,” said Albert. He’d been fighting the urge to mention it. Murders were like quicksand; they sucked at you. The harder you struggled, the more you got caught. And you couldn’t ignore it. Once you were in, you were in. “Have you ever met him?”
“DuShane?”
“Marchant,” said Albert, to avoid confusion.
“Haven’t had the privilege,” Standish replied.
Albert made more thinking sounds. Standish waited. “Neither have I,” he said after a while. “But Heather has. You know Heather?”
Standish had made a sort of unconscious hobby of appreciating Heather’s qualities, from a distance. “I know who she is,” he said. How much more non-committal could he be? “Why?”
“She says he’s smart,” said Albert. “‘Street smart’, she said. Do you know what that means?”
“It means he can handle himself in day-to-day life, I guess.”
Just the opposite of Albert. “That’s what I thought,” said Albert, a little surprised. “I saw a picture of the knife,” he cringed. “Did you see it?”
“I did,” said Standish. “Very unusual.”
“One-of-a-kind, is what they said,” Albert corrected. “That means there’s only one like it?”
Standish said that was so.
“So, if you find it stuck in . . . if you find it somewhere . . . it could only belong to one person.”
“Very likely,” said Standish. Albert had pretty much summed up the prosecution.
Albert shook his head. “Do you think that’s smart?”
“I beg your pardon?” said Standish, who had heard perfectly. “Do I think what’s smart?”
“If you were going to . . . do something like that. Like they say he did . . . would you use your own knife?”
“You sound like DuShane,” Standish replied with a smile. “During the hearing, he must have said that fifty times. “If I was going to kill someone, you think I’d be dumb enough to use my own knife!’” He shrugged. “I guess the grand jury didn’t share Heather’s opinion of his intelligence.”
“I wouldn’t leave fingerprints on the handle,” said Albert. And if he wouldn’t, who would? “Even if I decided to leave the knife . . . unless . . . ” The words fertilized a notion in Albert’s brain. It would be some time until birth.
“The argument is that it was a botched job, plain and simple,” Standish persisted. “This is how the prosecution presented it,” he held up his fingers and began folding them down in turn, as he ticked off each statement, “motive – he was the sole heir to the Judge’s estate – until Heather showed up. The Judge was about to include her in his will. If that happens, chances are DuShane’s windfall is halved – at least. He might even be cut out altogether.
“Opportunity?” another finger went down. “He said he was sick in bed at the time of the murder, and that his housekeeper will swear to it. But where is the housekeeper? Odds are she’ll turn up sooner or later. And I do mean turn up,” he said with emphasis.
“He skips over late that afternoon,” he walked his fingers across the beam of sunlight, from shadow to shadow, “goes into the kitchen, up the back stairs, into the office and . . . ” he illustrated the remainder in sign language.
Albert had been struggling with the notion. The first trimester is always the hardest. But something Standish said poked its head into the cavern of his consciousness and screamed for attention.
“But the Judge was sitting at his desk,” said Albert.
“That’s right.”
“He would have seen anybody come in.”
“That’s right,” said Standish, a little less readily. Albert let him think about it. “So . . . DuShane comes in . . . the Judge figures he’s there for money, like always. They argue . . . ”
“Heather didn’t hear any arguing,” said Albert. “Just voices.” That was important. She would have, even over the radio. “Besides . . . the Judge never let anyone in his study when he was working. Not even Heather . . . and he liked her.”
“Maybe he was taking a break.”
“He still had the pen in his hand when . . . when they found him.”
Standish stood up abruptly and rubbed the back of his neck. Then he drew his hand down over his face. He looked very tired all of a sudden. “No,” he said. “Now, listen. Just listen. He sees DuShane in the doorway and – for whatever reason – decides to let him in.
“The door was closed,” said Albert. “Locked.”
“
No,” Standish replied. “Usually, yes. Not this time, though. It’s the exceptions that make the rules.” He continued. “Maybe DuShane didn’t come after money. Maybe – maybe they just have something to talk about.”
“But the Judge didn’t stop writing . . . ”
“Wait, Professor, now. Just . . . ” He studied the ceiling for a moment. “They’re talking while – while the Judge is writing.” He looked at Albert. “He didn’t have to stop writing,” he said. “You can write and talk at the same time.”
Albert couldn’t.
“Anyway, DuShane is walking around the room, and in a minute he’s near the desk, where he can see that the Judge is writing a new will.”
“What about the knife?” Albert asked.
“What about it?”
“Where is it?”
“Where?” Standish repeated. The echo of the word searched his brain for an easy answer. “He was holding it behind his back.”
“Oh,” said Albert. His expression betrayed absolutely nothing, but it made Standish squirm.
“He sneaks up behind the Judge, stabs him. Then . . . ” all at once the light of realization spread across his face, “ . . . then he heard Heather in the hall. Doesn’t have time to grab the knife . . . ”
“He’d let it go?”
“Now . . . now, don’t, Professor,” Standish objected. “Just listen. He’s got no time. He didn’t even grab the will, did he? And, remember, he just barely made it as it was. Heather saw him on the stairs.”
“She saw his jacket,” Albert corrected again. Facts were important. If you left one outdoors it would take up with strangers, and you wouldn’t recognize it when it came home.
“Which was enough to convince the grand jury,” said Standish. “Anyway, he runs off down the stairs . . . back home and into bed. Now, whether his housekeeper saw him or not, I think she became a liability. Time to check the flowerbeds.”
Albert was detained at an earlier point in the narrative. “Have you ever been in the Judge’s den?” he asked softly.
“No,” said Standish, with a shake of the head. Albert was obviously no audience for black humor. “Why? Have you?”
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