“Miss Gorham, you’ve got the real detective eye. You’re wasted in that catalogue room. How about you and me setting up a detective agency?”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“Just what is your question, now?”
“Was that grille unscrewed on Thursday, the night of the murder?”
There was a long silence.
“Miss Gorham, I don’t really know whether to tell you the truth or to stall you. I don’t want to get into trouble, and either way I may get into trouble. But I think I’ll tell you the truth, on condition that you don’t go and tell the Loot. I don’t think the truth would help him to find the murderer. If I do think it will help him, I’ll tell him myself. Do you agree to that?”
“Well—well, all right, I agree.”
“Okay. All right then. That grille was not unscrewed on Thursday night.”
“Oh.”
“But it was unscrewed on Monday night, when Miss Coindreau died.”
“But who unscrewed it?”
“Mr. Hyett!”
“Mr. Hyett? But why—”
“It isn’t perhaps a very pretty story to tell a nice girl like you. But you might as well find out about the facts of life sooner or later. Well, anyhow, you know that Mr. Hyett took care of his cousin, Dr. Pickard, last year. And somehow or other he got a chance to make a copy of the key to the locked press. And what’s more—I don’t know this really, but I’m willing to guess—Mr. Hyett found out the combination of the safe. Maybe the old Doc was delirious.”
“But do you mean to say that Mr. Hyett had serious designs on the Library’s treasures?”
“No. What he was after was the erotica.”
“What? He would go to all that trouble—and danger—just to look at some dirty books! He could have ordered them at the delivery desk, in the usual way. That is the faculty’s right.”
“Yes. But he would have let people know that he was taking a reading-course in the rough stuff of all ages. People talk, you know. He wouldn’t have liked that. What he liked was to sneak into the Library before closing-time and hide somewhere—usually, I guess, right in the locked press, if the Wilmerding was empty. And then he would turn on the reading-light, which you can’t see from outside, and stay there an hour or two, just gloating. And then come down and unscrew the grille to the ventilating machines. He carried a big knife with a screwdriver on it. And he’d walk out the door, which has an ordinary latch that opens from the inside. And in the mornings when I made my rounds I would take a look to see if the screen was unscrewed. He would usually come around early and screw it up himself, but sometimes I got ahead of him.”
“Why, that old devil! I still don’t quite see why he went to all that trouble.”
“You know, I’ve seen a lot of funny business in my time. You wouldn’t believe some of the things that people do. But in some ways this campus is the funniest place of all. Because here people don’t usually do anything; they just think. And that probably isn’t very healthy. Now you take this old Hyett. He’d probably never done anything much in his life. But what he knew! Some of the things he knew even surprised me. Well, the way I figured it out, he’d exercised his imagination so long that facts didn’t have any grip on him, you might say. I mean—if you’ll excuse me, Miss Gorham—”
“Go ahead.”
“He’d get a big thrill out of a picture of a naked woman, but a real naked woman would make him sick. And it was no good for him to practice dirty tricks, or even to see them. It was no good for him unless he could read about them. You might say even his sins were literary sins. It’s a kind of fetishism, like the psychology books say. I could give you some examples—”
“You make it perfectly clear, Cameron; you needn’t labor the point. You seem to have got pretty chummy with him.”
“We used to talk a lot. And he showed me some of the funny pictures sometimes. But they don’t mean anything to me. I’ve seen quite a lot in my time.”
“There is one thing I don’t understand, Cameron,” said Gilda, slowly. “You should have reported this invasion of the locked press to the Librarian. You were not doing your duty to the Library. If this business of the ventilating screen were known, you would be discharged immediately. Why did you permit it to go on, then?”
“Mr. Hyett used to tip me. Very nicely.”
“You don’t deserve to keep your job.”
“Oh, Miss Gorham! Remember that I knew Mr. Hyett well enough to know he wouldn’t take anything out of the Library. He was too well trained for that.”
“Nevertheless—”
“Look here, Miss Gorham. I can only hold this job for a few years more. I’ll get rheumatism, or I’ll break a leg or something, or I’ll just get too tired to do the work. And I’ll be retired on Workmen’s Compensation of about fifty cents a day. And I may live for twenty-five years. I don’t get any pension like you people on the faculty and in the administration. There’s no children to take care of me. I’ve got to take care of myself, and I plan to do it. It’s hard for a low-paid man like me to put money away, so I’ve had to take some chances. But I can assure you that I have always watched out for the interests of the Library.”
“You ought to tell Dr. Sandys. And I think he would be justified in discharging you.”
“I hope Dr. Sandys don’t discharge me. I’d hate to be obliged to spread the news about his debt to the Excelsior Personal Loan.”
“But this is a threat!”
“All right. It’s a threat.”
Gilda pondered.
“After all,” she said, “there’s nothing shameful about borrowing money. Look at the United States Government!”
“That’s right. It all depends on what you’re borrowing it for.”
“You’re suggesting—”
“I’m not suggesting. I’m saying.”
“You’re suggesting that Dr. Sandys has some reason, probably shameful, for needing money. So he borrows it, probably at exorbitant interest, from the Excelsior Loan, in return for secrecy.”
Cameron grinned. “You’re the one who’s doing the suggesting. Don’t blame me.”
“But what reason could he have?”
“Maybe he plays the ponies. Or the stock market. Or maybe he keeps an expensive jane somewhere.”
“That doesn’t seem to be in character.”
“Or maybe he’s got a wife who drinks two bottles of benedictine a day, and he has to pay her high to make her stay out of town. Or maybe he’s a werewolf and he runs around at night biting babies, and every now and then he gets caught and has to pay up. I could think of lots of things.”
“Could you think of the real reason?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“That’s one thing, Miss Gorham, I’m not going to tell you. It cost me something to find out, and it may be worth a good deal to me.”
“So, you are planning a little blackmail. Aren’t you pretty indiscreet in telling me all this?”
“I guess I am. I really shouldn’t have done it. I guess I just like to show off. But I don’t think you’ll go and squeal. If I lose my job, Dr. Sandys is pretty likely to lose his. And what’s more, I wouldn’t be surprised if Miss Gilda Gorham would leave the library business and take up stenography in some big city.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t forget, Miss Gorham, that I really like you very much, and I don’t want to hurt you, but I have to look out for myself. And I might begin passing it around, for instance, that you and Mr. Hyett used to meet in the locked press after closing-hours, to read those funny books together. And, after all, you haven’t any alibi—”
“Good-by, Cameron.”
Gilda turned away with an effort at dignity. Cameron slapped her in mid-section.
“Now don’t forget, Miss Gorham! Don’t forget!”
Gilda ran for the stairs, to the sound of Cameron’s laughter.
She ran through Biology and Physiology, and only p
aused when she saw a professor reading in an aisle of Anthropology. She found a quiet alcove, within hailing distance of the professor, and sat down.
That Cameron! Blackmailer, usurer, conscious, shameless liar, conniver in the misuse of library books! A thorough immoralist! It would be a pleasure to bring him to his just deserts.
What had he suggested about Dr. Sandys? Was that a bluff, or did he have a blackmailer’s knowledge of Dr. Sandys’s past? It would hardly be sufficient, for effective blackmail, to possess the mere fact that William Sandys had been a messenger at the Hopkinson Library at the time of the 1916 book-theft. Perhaps Cameron had learned, by some underworld connection, that Dr. Sandys was the actual culprit in the case. Or perhaps he had some other reason to believe that Dr. Sandys was a book-stealer, a victim of bibliokleptomania, you might say. But if Dr. Sandys stole for gain, he should be rich, and the puzzling thing was that he was so poor. Perhaps he was already in the hands of a blackmailer, and Cameron would blackmail him because he was being blackmailed. A superfetation of blackmail.
What was Dr. Sandys’s secret?
Gilda had already had some success in finding things out by simply asking the people concerned when they were off their guard. A primitive form of sleuthing, no doubt, but it seemed to work.
She would ask Dr. Sandys what he was so carefully concealing. If she caught him just right, he might even tell her.
She stopped at the catalogue room for her bag, went to the women’s rest room, and worked on her face and hair. Then she went to Dr. Sandys’s office. He was alone. She entered the room and closed the door.
When she emerged, a few minutes later, her face bore a somewhat puzzled look.
She went to the pay telephone booth, shut the door carefully, and used up several nickels.
Chapter XIX
ON SATURDAY afternoon the catalogue room was very quiet. Most of the girls observed the half-holiday strictly, though two or three of the more conscientious had returned after lunch. Gilda was at her desk, trying to get caught up on some of her neglected work.
In this task she was considerably balked by Miss Cornwell, whose life was made a hell by Pseudonyms. The Library rule was that books should be entered in detail under the author’s real name, with only an added listing under his pseudonym. But in certain cases the rule was violated. Thus Voltaire’s works were entered in full under Voltaire, with an added listing under Arouet, François Marie. After years of bitter argument, the works of Mark Twain and the scholia upon him had been transferred from Clemens, Samuel Langhorne, to Twain, Mark. Gilda had recently decreed that listings for Farigoule, Louis, should be re-entered under Romains, Jules, on the ground that M. Romains had now created for himself a sufficient reputation under his pen-name. Miss Cornwell, a rigorous formalist, held to the strict letter of the rule. She spent half an hour of Gilda’s time arguing against any concession to popular ignorance. The discussion was to Gilda irritating, but at the same time a refreshing return to the normal concerns of her normal days.
Miss Cornwell retreated, vanquished but unconvinced. She put on her hat and left, with another lingering worker. Gilda was alone in the catalogue room. From time to time she glanced at her watch.
It was four o’clock when Professor Belknap entered the room. He came to Gilda’s desk.
“Good afternoon, Miss Gorham. I received your message.”
“Oh yes, Mr. Belknap. A small matter really. I just wanted to ask you about that Hodgkin book, before Monday—”
“I am glad that we can return to our everyday occupations, in these trying moments. And let me seize this occasion to apologize for the scene you witnessed in the French Seminary this morning.”
“Not at all. I thought you were entirely justified. Mr. Casti’s accusations seemed to me at the least irresponsible.”
(“Funny how I get to talking like the person I am talking to,” thought Gilda.)
“I fear he is an intemperate and headstrong young man.” Professor Belknap sighed.
“But you were wonderful, the way you put him in his place. That knife of his! I was frightened to death of that knife!”
Professor Belknap smiled his difficult smile.
“There are times when one must fear a knife. But not when it is held in the hands of a weakling.”
Gilda gazed at him, her eyes large and wide.
“But you were going to speak of Hodgkin’s Italy and Her Invaders?” said the professor.
“Oh yes. You wanted two sets put on reserve for your students in History 101, and you specify the latest edition. We have only one set of that edition, but we have a good set of the old edition in the duplicates. I wonder if that wouldn’t do. It’s a pretty expensive book, in eight volumes, and we hate to order another one.”
“I don’t object in principle. But I’m afraid I don’t recall exactly how far this new edition differs from the old. I should want to make sure about that.”
“I’ll have it sent up. Or no, it’s Saturday afternoon, and the boys at the desk now don’t know their way among the duplicates. Maybe if you would come down with me to the crypt?”
“Why, certainly, Miss Gorham.”
Gilda led the way to the crypt’s entrance, snapping on the light at the head of the spiral stair.
“This is interesting. I have not been in the crypt for years. It is rather an eerie place,” said Professor Belknap.
“I like it. It makes a nice solitary retreat for me, when I want to get away from all the to-do in the catalogue room. There is hardly ever anyone here, especially out of office hours. I even like the smell, so cool and musty. The smell of dead books, I sometimes think. What is it that poor Lucie Coindreau used to call it—the odeur du renfermé, the shut-up smell.”
Professor Belknap was silent.
Gilda, leading right, left, and right among the high, solemn aisles, reached up occasionally to turn on a hanging, open light-bulb.
“I always expect a bat to fly out,” she said. “Ah, here we are.”
She took down a volume of Hodgkin’s Italy and Her Invaders, and handed it to Professor Belknap. As he turned the pages Gilda stood close beside him and looked respectfully over his shoulder.
“Yes, this will do, I think,” he said. “The additions in the later edition are not essential, for beginning students. The pagination is different, but I can easily arrange for that in my assignments. Yes, that will do.” He handed the book back to Gilda. She replaced it on the shelves.
She stood for a moment, unmoving.
“Well, if that is all—” said Professor Belknap, with mild surprise.
“It isn’t really all. There is something else I wanted to show you.”
She drew from her pocket a small silvered leaden ball, dangling from a string about eighteen inches long.
“Did you ever see this before?”
Professor Belknap looked at it coldly.
“It appears to be a child’s toy. Or no, I believe it is one of those divining instruments which had a considerable vogue in France recently. Mademoiselle Coindreau once demonstrated the thing to me.”
“Did she demonstrate it to you on the night she died?”
“Really, Miss Gorham!”
“Because it was found beside her body on the floor of the Wilmerding.”
“Really, Miss Gorham! I don’t know if you realize what you are saying, but it amounts to an accusation—”
“Call it a reconstruction. Would you like to hear my reconstruction?”
“I think I might find it curious, though probably not convincing.”
“I think that last Monday at the President’s reception Lucie Coindreau persuaded you to meet her in the Library just before closing-time. She probably took advantage of your interest in medieval grimoires, and promised to show you something remarkable she had turned up in the Occulta. Maybe some medieval justification of her radiesthésie. She said she would meet you in the Occulta in a few minutes; she didn’t want to put you to the embarrassment of walking over with her. S
he slipped out of the President’s house by the back way, to get away from Casti. Anyway, she liked to do things in a mysterious, roundabout way. I suppose she just liked intrigue.
“The two of you met in the Occulta, and Lucie showed you some book, perhaps the Nostradamus. And she showed you this radiesthésie ball. She dangled it in front of your eyes. And you were seized by a fit of unreasoning rage, and gave her a push, and she fell over the rail. You realized in a flash that it must look like an accident, so you shoved the pair of steps over to the rail under the electric light, and turned off the light. And then you dodged probably into the Philosophy Seminary. And you watched the main entrance of the Library until you saw the coast was clear, and then you simply walked home and went to bed.”
Belknap laughed, his rare, harsh laugh, betokening contempt, not amusement.
“But, my dear Miss Gorham, you must realize that this is the veriest nonsense. What earthly reason would I have for pushing poor Mademoiselle Coindreau to her death? ‘In a fit of unreasoning rage,’ you say. Perhaps because she showed me the wrong reference, or something? I must be very subject to fits of rage. Have you ever seen me angry?”
“No.”
“I am not even angry now, in the face of your fantastic suppositions. Do you blame me also for the death of poor Hyett, and for the theft of the Filius Getronis?”
“Yes. I think that when you and Lucie went up to the Occulta, Hyett was already hidden in the locked press. He had the lights off, of course. He saw everything, but was afraid to do anything about it. Afterwards he was unwilling to go to the police, because he would have had to reveal that he was in the locked press. So he adopted the melodramatic method, typical of him, of frightening you into a confession, by patching ‘Thou shalt do no murder’ into his microfilm, which he was going to substitute for yours. Probably he was planning to keep on tormenting you, by putting ‘Thou shalt do no murder’ in your classbook, and in anonymous letters to you, and by pinning it on your pillow or something. He thought he would break your nerve and send you jittering to the police.”
Professor Belknap laughed again. “He wouldn’t break my nerve by such methods. But that almost sounds like one of his ideas. Poor old Hyett! I find your story fascinating. And how did I murder Hyett?”
The Widening Stain Page 18