Bloodied Ivy (8 page)

Both Elena and Cortland took the other side, contending that Prescott was if anything too large already. Greenbaum pretty much stayed out of the discussion, although I couldn’t tell if it was from boredom or simply because he had no opinion.

“I think we’ve talked about this long enough,” Elena said at last, turning her lively eyes on me with what I translated to be interest. “Mr. Goodman, have you seen enough of Prescott so far to form any opinions? What are you going to tell your nephew?”

“I’m still doing research,” I answered. “And you can help me, if you will. If you have a few minutes after lunch, I’d like to ask you about the History Department.”

“Careful what you say, Elena. Remember, he
is
an investigator,” Greenbaum admonished, signaling for more coffee.

“Let him investigate,” she challenged, smiling impishly. “I’ll be on my guard, Ted. Yes, Mr. Goodman, I can spare a little time. Do you mind going back to my office? I’ve got to pick up some papers there.”

I said that was fine with me as the group broke up. They each had separate checks, and Cortland picked mine up. We agreed that I’d meet him back in his office at two o’clock, and off I went with the exotic Mrs. Moreau. “My office is in Meriwether Hall,” she said as I caught a whiff of a scent I couldn’t identify, but liked. “Have you been there yet?”

“Nope. Richardson and Bailey, but not Meriwether.”

“Well, don’t get too excited,” she said. “They’re all pretty much the same—American Colonial on the outside and Academe Dreary on the inside.”

Meriwether indeed looked like the other buildings, although it was set in a nicer grove of trees and had more ivy on its brick walls. Elena’s office was on the first floor, and was barely bigger than Cortland’s, but considerably neater. There was a color photo of the New York skyline at night on the wall facing her and another of the Golden Gate Bridge behind her. “See what I told you?” she said, gesturing me to a chair facing her desk and closing the door. “I think schools hire somebody to come in and make the interiors of all their office and classroom buildings as cheerless as possible.”

“Could be worse,” I said, grinning. “At least you’ve got a nice view. I appreciate your taking the time to see me.”

She flashed that impish smile again. “Oh, I would have invited you over here if you hadn’t invited yourself. I’m most curious as to what you’re up to here at Prescott, Mr. Archie Goodwin.”

I
LIKE TO THINK VERY
few things knock me off stride, but that did, and I probably showed it. “I beg your pardon?” was the best I could do in response, and Elena Moreau considered me with amusement from behind her desk.

“Mr. Goodwin, don’t tell me you thought you could come up here, less than ninety minutes from New York, and not be recognized by someone. Don’t you know that you’re famous?”

“Tell me about it.”

She shifted in her chair and her smile widened. “I thought you looked familiar when I walked into the dining room, but I couldn’t place you right off. Then when I heard that silly name—Arnold Goodman, really!—it clicked. I’ve seen your picture in the New York papers two or three times, I suppose in connection with some case or another of Nero Wolfe’s. At that, I should have recognized you anyway; we’ve met before.”

“Ouch,” I groaned. “In the words of somebody who’s probably famous, that’s the unkindliest cut of all.”

“Shakespeare, by name, and the actual phrasing is ‘most unkindest cut,’” she said, tossing her head so that her hoop earrings danced. She was having entirely too much fun. “We have a mutual friend, Mr. Goodwin.”

“Call me Archie, please. Especially since you seem to know me so well. I do believe it’s coming back, though. Would our mutual friend have the initials Lily Rowan?”

She chuckled. “Could be.”

“Look, I admit you’re holding the high cards, but give me a second to recover. Did I meet you at a Children’s Aid benefit ball, six years ago—possibly seven—at the Churchill?”

“Bravo!” she said, clapping nicely shaped and well-manicured hands. “I can’t swear to the year, but it was at the Churchill, and you were indeed with the charming Lily. And I can hardly blame you for not remembering me, either. Lily’s beauty is enough to put everyone else around her in the shade.”

“You do just fine yourself,” I assured her. “And you may not believe this, but I thought I recognized you at lunch, too.”

“Maybe I’ll choose to believe it,” she said with another toss of her head. “How’s Lily? It must be more than a year since I talked to her.”

“Just fine as of Saturday night. I was with her at, of all places, the Churchill, attending, of all things, a charity ball. How do you two know each other?”

“A number of years ago—never mind how many—I was on the faculty at City University, and she was in one of my classes. As I recall, she wasn’t a full-time student, just taking a course or two that interested her.”

“That’s Lily, all right, always shopping.”

“Anyway, we got to know each other, although I can’t say we were close friends—we traveled in somewhat different social circles, to say the least. She did get me involved in some of her good works, though; one of them was Children’s Aid, which was why I happened to be at that ball. By then I had switched over to NYU, but since I’ve moved up here—I’ve been at Prescott four years now—I don’t see my old New York acquaintances all that often. But we’re supposed to be talking about
you
, as in, why are you here?”

“To repeat what I said at lunch, I’m scouting the university.”

“Right. That’s why you were using an alias, and a pretty transparent one at that.”

“Okay, so it wasn’t terribly clever,” I conceded. “When I made it up, I didn’t realize it was going to get critiqued so thoroughly.”

“Mr. Goodwin—Archie—you don’t really have a nephew in Indianapolis, do you?”

“No comment.”

“If I may suggest a scenario,” she said, leaning back, smiling, and lacing her fingers behind her head. “Try this: Walter Cortland, poor myrmidon that he is, thinks that Hale Markham was bumped off, to use your vernacular. He realizes there’s little if any support for his contention at the school and less with the local police. So where does he go? To the world-famous sleuth Nero Wolfe in New York, the man hailed for his deductive miracles. And what does Nero Wolfe do, but—”

“Let me guess,” I said, holding up a hand. “He sends his lackey—that’s me—up to poke around.”

“Bingo! Although lackey is a word that demeans what I understand to be your not inconsiderable talents. I prefer associate at the very least. And colleague is even better.”

“Sounds good to me—colleague, that is,” I said. “As for your scenario, it’s amusing.”

“What other explanation is there?” Her eyes twinkled mischievously.

“Okay, for purposes of discussion only, let’s assume that you’ve got it more or less right. What do you think of the idea that Markham was murdered?”

“Absolute bunk,” Elena Moreau said, turning instantly serious.

“Why?”

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk, and fastened those big, dark eyes on me. “Archie, I’m sure you’re aware that I knew Hale well—I like to think better than anybody at this university, or anyplace else, for that matter. And that includes poor, deluded Walter Cortland. A lot of people took issue with Hale, both for his political philosophies, not all of which I agreed with myself, and because he always said exactly what he felt. Diplomacy was not among his qualities, and his candor upset some people. But as far as somebody killing him…” She shook her head emphatically.

“Okay, since we’re on the subject, how did he happen to tumble into Caldwell’s Gash?”

Her face darkened. “I’m sure it will come as no surprise to you that I’ve thought about that a lot the last few weeks. Hale had had at least a couple of fainting spells a while back, around the beginning of summer. I tried to get him to see a doctor at the time, but he insisted it was nothing. I have to believe he may have had one of these spells when he was out on his walk…that night, and lost his balance. He often walked foolishly close to the edge of the Gash—I know, I’ve been with him occasionally on his strolls.”

“Did you ever see one of his fainting spells?”

“Umm, twice. One afternoon we were walking across campus, and he stumbled. I thought he’d tripped, but he was actually blacking out, and I caught him, more or less, and kept him from falling. He was okay after a few seconds, but he was very embarrassed about what had happened. Hale’s physical condition was a terrific source of pride to him, Archie. The other time, we were just leaving a restaurant in town after dinner, and he got dizzy on the sidewalk out in front.”

“Had he been drinking?”

“One glass of wine. That’s all he ever had. Part of his physical-fitness thing. Again, I asked him if he was all right, and he got very testy, said he hadn’t slept well the night before, or something like that.”

“Those were the only times he blacked out?”

She shrugged and straightened a pile of papers that didn’t need tidying. “As far as I know, but I doubt very much if Hale would have told me about any others. He was chagrined enough as it was.”

“Do you know if he’d had a checkup recently?”

“He had a full physical in April, and the doctor told him he’d never seen anyone his age in such good condition. Heart, lungs, blood pressure, cholesterol level, everything. And you know what else the doctor told him?” she demanded. “That he was almost a cinch to make it to ninety.”

“And he didn’t see the doctor, or any doctor, after these fainting spells?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Is suicide a possibility?”

“Not at all! Inconceivable. No reason for it. Hale was healthy, he was happy, he was reasonably fulfilled professionally—and I like to think his personal life was fulfilling, too.”

“Do you have any other theories as to what might have happened?” I asked, letting my inquiries into Markham’s personal life rest for a moment.

“No, just that he must have blacked out. As far as I’m concerned, it’s the only possible explanation. I’d like to know why Walter is so certain it’s murder.”

“I never said he was. Remember, that’s
your
scenario.”

“Oh, come on, Archie,” she said, using a voice that would have turned an iceberg into a puddle. “Can’t we toss out this silly charade?”

“Speaking of your scenario,” I said, ignoring her question, “why do you believe Cortland thinks Markham was murdered? Has he voiced any suspicions?”

“Not in so many words, but it’s the way he’s been behaving lately, the looks he gives us, as if he’s trying to peer right through us. And then some of his comments during lunch are hard to miss. For instance, a few days ago when Hale’s name came up in some context or another, as it does fairly often, of course, Walter made a remark about the
accident
. From the way he stressed the word, it was obvious he was suggesting the fall wasn’t an accident. There’ve been other occasions like that, too.”

“Who are the
us
that he gives strange looks to?”

“Oh, pretty much the ones who were at the table at lunch today.”

“Speaking of which, did Markham used to be part of that luncheon gathering?”

“Hale? No, never. He preferred to have a sandwich in his office and get a little writing done during the noon break. Besides, he didn’t much like some of the people who showed up there.”

“Such as Schmidt and Greenbaum?”

“Right.”

“How did he feel about you eating with those guys?”

“Oh, he probably didn’t much like it; but Hale knew me well enough to realize that I do whatever I please. And although I’m not wild about any of those three—including Cortland—I don’t mind eating with them.” Her dark eyes defied me to make more of it.

“Probably because you enjoy needling them. I notice that you and Cortland seemed to agree on at least one thing: President Potter.”

“Oh, you mean ‘His Eminence’?”

“I gather you don’t have a great deal of admiration for your president?”

Elena folded her arms. “He’s sort of plastic, as far as I’m concerned. I suppose he’s all right at raising money and giving speeches and putting on a good public face for the school, but we’re not talking deep thinker here. I suppose maybe it’s that he’s a little too slick for my taste.”

“What do others think about him?”

“On campus, you mean? Most of the students don’t give a damn one way or the other about who the president is—they almost never see him. As for the faculty, the vote’s mixed. A lot feel the way I do, and then there are some who seem to think he’s dynamic, probably because he’s so much younger than his predecessor. And the alumni are happy because of the way he’s increased the endowment and is planning new buildings. Alumni are always impressed by two things—football and construction. Both give them a chance to beat their chests about the old alma mater. And with the kind of football teams we invariably have, new buildings are pretty important.”

“Buildings as in Leander Bach?”

“Oh, you know about him, do you? Walter—or somebody”—her voice was sarcastic—“has done a pretty good job of briefing you. Then you probably also know that Bach had no use for Hale.”

I nodded. “To the point where he wasn’t going to crack open his checkbook while Markham was still part of the school, or so I heard.”

“You heard more or less right,” Elena replied crisply. “Bach is a blustering eccentric. Another one of those self-made millionaire pains-in-the-ass who dangle their money with all kinds of strings attached to it.”

“Did he really try to get Markham off the faculty?”

“Oh, I don’t have any doubt of it. Potter talked to Hale about three or four months back and suggested he might want to think about retirement. Bach’s name never came up in the conversation, but Hale told me he was sure that was the reason behind it. He told Potter—in effect—to stuff it, that he was happy right where he was. The subject wasn’t brought up again.”

“And now the school will get Bach’s bucks?”

“That’s what I hear,” she said, making a face.

“Which means of course that Markham’s death was a boon to Potter.”