City of Ghosts (A Miranda Corbie Mystery) (12 page)

She moved away from the light yellow wall, blending in with the sea of blue and gold. Pinched the end of the Chesterfield and dropped it in a trash can placed crookedly in front of an office three doors down. Pushed her way through the large door, breathing fresh-mown grass and redwood trees.

Miranda opened her purse and took out two Butter Rum Life Savers with shaking hands. Studied the map she’d bought at the station.

The College of Chemistry held faculty offices in the ten-year-old Life Sciences Building, west of the library and between Boalt and California Hall.

She watched a white, puffy morning cloud soar over blue sky and Sather Tower, the chattering of college students and the worn, soft clod of professors rising from the Faculty Glade, university noises carried by the wind.

Blowing away pain, blowing away memory.

*   *   *

The Campanile was chiming ten-thirty when she found the department office. She smoothed on a pair of white gloves and deftly removed the hat, attaching a veil she’d tucked inside the crown. Knocked on the door,
rat-tat-tat-TAT.

Muffled “Come in” response from a wheezy tenor with a cough.

The voice belonged to a red-haired man of slight build and slighter demeanor, thin hands poised above a Remington typewriter, a black telephone at his left. He was dwarfed by black Bakelite trays filled with letters and forms on an adjoining desk to his left, and the threat of large, looming bookcases falling on him from the front. Everything about him read academic department secretary, bullied, harassed, and underpaid.

Miranda gave him a smile, shifted her weight. His freckles paled.

“May I help you, Miss?”

“I’m Jean Rogers. Did you get my phone message?”

His mouth opened several times before he scrambled through a pile of yellow phone slips, his fingers slipping through the pad next to the phone, his chair threatening to topple over from the violent spins back and forth. She took a step closer.

“I’m terribly sorry to put you to this trouble—you see, I phoned yesterday—I’m writing an article for the
American Scholar
—the Phi Beta Kappa magazine—and I was hoping you’d … oh, dear, I am so very sorry.”

One of the Bakelite trays fell on top of the Remington and dislodged the carriage, bell ringing like a fire alarm. Miranda turned her back tactfully and looked around.

The room was dark, heavy, and rectangular. Eight-foot oak bookcases and the secretary’s desk set choked off any air and space. Another door with gold painted letters read
DR. RICHARD HEINSICKER, DEAN, COLLEGE OF CHEMISTRY
.

The outer door opened with a loud thump. She turned to face a beefy middle-aged man in a gray suit and bowler, eyes small, bright, and close together. He smiled, teeth unnaturally white.

The secretary’s voice warbled. “Dr. Heinsicker, this is—this is Jean Rogers from Phi Beta Kappa. She’s writing an article for the
American Scholar.
”

Miranda held out her hand, wide smile, glad she’d remembered the gloves. “I left a message yesterday. I’m hoping to write an article about some of your college’s exciting research—and the exciting men behind it.”

Heinsicker’s eyes glowed, jovial grin. Perfect model of a Tammany Hall politician, minus the cigar.

“Welcome to the University of California, Miss Rogers. First time here?”

She shook her head. “No, not at all. But about that article, Dr. Heinsicker—”

He placed a large, fatherly hand on her arm. “It would be a tremendous honor, of course, but you understand that many of our research experiments are classified. Government secrets, just like you see in the pictures. But come into my office—we’ll discuss it there.”

He twisted the knob and pushed open the heavy door, calling over his back to the secretary: “Hold all calls for fifteen minutes, Wilbur.”

Miranda settled in a large wooden chair with a black leather seat. An oil landscape—eighteenth-century French, from the style—sat on the wall above, and a Belgian tapestry hung next to an antique bookcase.

Opulent, surprisingly so.

The door swung shut, and Heinsicker slid behind his imposing desk with unexpected agility.

She crossed her legs. He noticed.

“Now, then, Miss Rogers—”

“Call me Jean.”

He dimpled. “Jean. What is the scope of your article, and when will it see print?”

She sat back, her ankle slightly bouncing. “Well, Dr. Heinsicker—”

“Please. Call me Richard.”

“A pleasure, I’m sure. As I was saying—Richard—our editor has been reading so much about Berkeley—the ‘neutron ray’ and how it might help conquer cancer, the successful treatment of leprosy, of course the famous cyclotron—and your local chapter of Phi Beta Kappa is highly active—so he suggested a story about the departments and scientists behind these tremendous achievements. Nothing top secret is necessary, I assure you.”

She gave her laugh a merry tinkle, hands folded in her lap. Watched him through the veil and fought the urge for a cigarette.

Heinsicker withdrew a wooden box from his desk and removed a cigar, gesticulating with it toward Miranda. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

He lit it with a Strikalite in the shape of a Scottish terrier, puffed once or twice, and sat back with another smile. Clouds of smoke rose in an arabesque. Smelled like chocolate and Spanish cedar. Quality tobacco.

“I’m curious, Jean. The achievements you mention—the cyclotron is the physics department, and so is the neutron ray. Evans in Experimental Biology is responsible for many of the medical advances … leprosy, vitamin E. Even sex hormones.”

His grin grew broader, and Miranda summoned a blush.

“Why chemistry? Not that we’re not flattered, of course, but I’m wondering how you stumbled on us.”

She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, all bluestocking earnest in an I. Magnin skirt.

“Dr. Heinsicker—Richard—everyone knows that chemistry is the mother of all other science … advances in biology and physics are, in a broad sense, yours as well. But what we were hoping for, really, is the story of the men who toil and teach, who contribute so much to our current way of life and still find the time to instill the love of learning and research in the next generation of scholar. What personal sacrifices have they endured? What are their dreams, their interests, their hobbies?”

She pointed to the landscape above his head. “Take this beautiful painting, for example. So many members of the public—even members of Phi Beta Kappa—share the mistaken notion that a scientist is humorless and inhuman. What we’re looking for is human drama, the story of the man behind the lab coat.”

The man behind the desk was obviously enjoying the view. He puffed the cigar again and finally rubbed it out in a black-and-white marble tray. Cleared his throat.

“Well, I thank you, young lady. This has the making of a truly worthwhile article, and I wouldn’t stand in your way. I can’t give you clearance on any government projects, you understand, but you can ask all the human interest questions you’d like. I do think it would be best to focus on just three or four faculty—but there, I’m lecturing again.” He leaned forward, eyes drifting down to her legs. “How and when would you like to start?”

“May I see a list of your faculty? I know there were a few professors our editor was particularly keen on me interviewing. I’d like to save you, Richard, for last.”

She chased it with one of her kilowatt smiles. Heinsicker’s teeth gleamed.

“That would be lovely, my dear. I’ve a meeting to attend, but Wilbur will give you a list. Three or four should be sufficient, don’t you think? As for my painting, I’m sure you recognize the scene: Mercury slaying Argus, Hera’s watchman. Early eighteenth century, Nicolas Bertin.”

The grin was ferocious as he led her by the elbow out of the office, gray derby in his other hand. He nodded at Wilbur. “Give Miss Rogers the list of our faculty and any assistance you can, Wilbur. Good-bye, my dear.”

“Good-bye, Dr. Heinsicker. And thank you.” She watched as the door closed behind him.

“Here you are, Miss Rogers.” The words came in a rush as the secretary handed her a sheet of mimeographed paper. “Sorry for not remembering your call earlier, and thank you for not telling Dr. Heinsicker—”

“Our secret, Wilbur.” She looked up, holding his watery blue eyes.

“I think an office tells you so much about a person—and I’d prefer to see their surroundings before I actually meet the professors. I’ll call you later to set up the interviews.” She pointed a gloved finger at “Jasper, Huntington.”

“May I see Dr. Jasper’s office? I see he’s not teaching today, and I understand he’s an art connoisseur … though that doesn’t seem quite as unusual after meeting Dr. Heinsicker.”

Wilbur snorted. “Dr. Heinsicker enjoys the finer things in life, Miss Rogers, but Dr. Jasper is the real expert.” His eyes grew big and he stared up at her in panic, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Please don’t think I intend any disrespect by that remark. Dr. Heinsicker is a great man.” He scrambled nervously for keys in a drawer and stood up, still twitching. “I’ll take you to Dr. Jasper’s office now, Miss.”

*   *   *

Light admitted from a window on the side, like her father’s office, but blinds were shut tight. Wilbur flicked the wall switch.

Chrome-and-glass desk, room sleek and streamlined. No oak. Spare, rectangular metal lamp, red Bakelite letter opener and the latest in fountain pens waiting for Jasper to sit in the wide Buck Rogers–looking aluminum chair and write a formula or an art review on the shimmering surface. No photo frames, no ashtrays.

Paintings lined the dun-colored walls in copper frames and mirrored metal. Books and journals filled spare blond wood shelves interspersed with small abstract sculptures in bronze and marble. A couple of hand-blown beakers, red and orange like Venetian glass, the only visual ode to his profession … and the money that paid for the room.

Miranda lifted up her veil and quickly removed a notepad and pencil from her purse. Wilbur cleared his throat.

“See what I mean, Miss Rogers? Dr. Jasper could be one of those modern art critics for the newspapers if he wanted to. You won’t see much of the old-fashioned around his office, no sirree. And a real art connoisseur. As a matter of fact, he’s the one who sold Dr. Heinsicker that painting above his desk.”

Miranda flung back sharply. “I didn’t know Dr. Jasper was an art dealer.”

The clerk made a gesture of panic. “No—no, Miss Rogers, I didn’t mean to imply that Dr. Jasper sells anything professionally. Once in a while he—well, he just knows people who know people, if you know what I mean.” Wilbur was turning red, so Miranda gave him a smile.

“Of course, Wilbur—I’m just trying to flesh him out for our readers. I think—I
know
—you could be of tremendous help, since you get to work with him so closely, day by day.”

The clerk blushed again, staring at the floor. “Thank you, Miss. Whatever I can do.”

She was walking around the office now, examining the art. A Léger and a study for Picasso’s
Red Tablecloth,
and on the wall of honor behind the stark desk, a painting of an emaciated man in yellows and reds. It was hung next to the only traditional art in the room: a small portrait of a handsome young man, probably seventeenth century.

“So when did Dr. Jasper help Dr. Heinsicker acquire his painting?”

“Last year. He came back on a trip from Mexico—he usually takes a vacation there during winter break—and I think he arranged for Dr. Heinsicker to buy it as kind of a thank-you.”

She scribbled a few notes. “What makes you say that? Did Dr. Heinsicker do him a favor?”

Wilbur tugged at his shirt collar. “I don’t really know, Miss, and it’s not my place to speculate. I just mentioned it because I thought you wanted human interest, and Dr. Jasper’s a very generous man. He brought me back a print once.”

Miranda arched her eyebrows. “How very kind of Dr. Jasper. I’d like to see that print sometime, Wilbur. Perhaps use it as an illustration for the article.”

His face glowed. “I’d be happy to show you, Miss Rogers. It’s a copy of that painting.” He pointed to the modernist work above the desk, voice proud. “That’s the
Ravens Feeding Elijah
by Christian Rohlfs.” He pronounced the German name carefully.

She could make out the black figures now, one in the foreground with a piece of bread in his beak, the starving prophet all angular lines of red and orange, face a mask of misery, body blended into the rocks.

Prophet of God, black birds of mercy, unclean and wild.

Ravens. Corbies.

Symbols of truth.

She played a hunch.

“Does Dr. Jasper usually come back from Mexico with an artwork or two?”

Wilbur looked surprised. “I guess so, Miss Rogers, though I never thought of it that way. Terms blend into terms, you know, and he takes trips down there once and sometimes twice a year. But now that you mention it, I guess he does. Dr. Jasper likes to travel whenever he can. Even now, in summer session, he’ll sometimes visit Chicago or New York. Of course, he’s always in demand as a speaker, and you’ll see why when you meet him.”

Wilbur looked at his watch nervously. “Miss Rogers, I really should be getting back to the desk…”

“I can’t thank you enough, Wilbur. You’ve been a tremendous help. Just one more question for the article…” She held the pencil poised above the notebook. “Dr. Jasper is such an interesting man, of such diverse interests. Given his taste in art and design, I would have thought he’d travel to Europe, not Mexico … I mean, before the war, of course.”

Wilbur nodded. “That’s so, Miss. He was in Germany and Switzerland for a brief time just last summer, and before that … let me see, I’ve been here for five years, and the last time I remember Dr. Jasper going to Europe was … I think it was three years ago. 1937.”

Miranda plastered a smile back on her face. “Thank you. Now, I know you have to keep the office running—after all, the men I’m writing about couldn’t accomplish what they do without your help—”

The clerk stood up straighter, red skin shining through red hair.