In the Last Analysis (18 page)

“Thank you, thank you,” Kate muttered, hanging up the phone.

Cary Grant!

Yet she managed, just barely, not to be late for the lecture.

“C
OME
into my office,” Messenger said. Jerry followed him down the hall with a certain sense of giddiness. This morning he had been talking to Kate; now, a ridiculously short time afterward (though the turning back of his watch accounted somewhat for this), he was about to talk with Messenger, although he had not the slightest idea of what he was going to say. Planning that rigmarole for the nurse had been one thing, his fumbling with Horan another, but Messenger made both of these techniques impossible. Jerry could not have named the particular quality that marked Messenger, though he recognized it. Nature had bestowed on Messenger none of her usual frivolous endowments; he had neither looks, nor any sort of physical grace, nor wit, nor superficial cleverness. He was simply himself. Jerry was to try later to explain it to Kate, with no great success. All he could think of to say was that Messenger was
there
. Most people were
a collection of mannerisms, but they were not simply
there
, themselves. In any case, Kate’s instinct had been right: only the truth was possible.

Jerry explained, therefore, about Emanuel and Kate, about himself and the job he had taken, about the trucks he had driven before and the law school he was planning to attend. “We’ve come to you for help,” Jerry said, “because you seem the one person who might possibly connect some of the odd bits and pieces that we have. Janet Harrison left you her money—that connects you with her, even if she was unknown to you. And you knew Barrister. So far, no two people in this mess connect at all, except, of course, Kate and Emanuel, and neither of them killed Janet Harrison. Perhaps, if you were to tell me something about Barrister …”

“I’m afraid the only things I could tell you about him would not be precisely useful to your purpose, which I gather is to cast Mike in the role of chief murderer. Of course, he’s probably changed somewhat; most people do. I wouldn’t have guessed that Mike would end up with a practice among rich ailing women, but I’m not surprised now that I know it. It’s very easy for doctors to make a great deal of money today, and most of them do. I don’t mean doctors are more moneygrubbing than anybody else—there are too few doctors, and many opportunities to get rich. And most doctors feel,” Messenger smiled, “that they are owed some return for what is an immensely long and expensive training. One of my young daughters thinks now she would like to be a doctor, and I’ve figured out that it would cost about $32,000 to make her one. All that this means is that the Barrister you are investigating isn’t quite the same as the Mike I knew—and I never knew him all that well. He was a reticent sort of person.”

“You’re not rich.” This was not, Jerry realized, to the point, but Messenger interested him.

“No, nor noble either. I don’t happen to be interested in most of the things that are expensive, and I’m married to a woman who finds making do a fascinating challenge. She likes to plan, to make clothes, to do things—in the old way. And she likes to have a job. I think that the work I’m doing is the most interesting, important work there is; and, to be frank, I feel sorry for everybody who isn’t doing it. But I don’t do it because it doesn’t pay all that much. I’d be doing the same thing even if it happened that doing this made me rich as Croesus.”

“Was Mike like that, when you knew him?”

“Who can tell? I’ve found that young men have ideas, and theories, but you never know what you are until you become it. Do you read C. P. Snow?” Jerry shook his head. “Interesting writer, to me, anyway; I don’t know if your Professor Fansler would agree. In one of his books, he has his narrator say that there’s only one test for discovering what you really want: it consists in what you have. But Mike was too young then to make the test; you’re too young now.

“I will say this,” Messenger continued, “though I’m afraid it won’t help you very much—quite the contrary. Mike wasn’t the sort who could kill anyone. Not possibly, in my opinion. To carry out a murder requires at least two qualities of personality, I should think. One is what we might call a streak of sadism, for lack of a better word, and the other is the ability to concentrate on what one wants to the exclusion of everything else. To see people, not as people, but as obstacles to be removed.”

“You mean he loved people, and animals, and couldn’t bear to see anyone hurt?”

Messenger smiled. “That sounds sentimental. Anyone who wants to be a doctor knows that people have to be hurt, that people suffer. People who never cause pain never cause anything else; and Mike wanted then, at least, to cause a good deal. I don’t remember what he felt about animals—certainly he never had one when I knew him. What I mean sounds overblown when you put it into words: he never caused pain for the hell of it—you know, by a triumph of wit or a clever joke. And he never withheld kindness. I don’t read poetry, but I had to listen to some in college courses; and I always remember one line which seemed to me very well to describe much of life today, perhaps always: ‘greetings where no kindness is.’ Mike didn’t go in for that sort of greeting. But you mustn’t think I’m describing a saint. Mike was very good-looking and attractive to women. He had a good time.”

Jerry looked depressed. It seemed horrible that their chief suspect should turn out to be incapable of murder. But that, after all, was Messenger’s opinion, and was Messenger all that smart? He, Jerry, had in college (just to take one instance) been party to a joke that involved an awkward, rather effeminate young man and an exceedingly slick and experienced young woman. He remembered it still with something remarkably close to pleasure. And certainly kindness was nothing to which he had given much thought—and as for this garbage about greetings.… Yet he was not capable of murder either. Not even if … well, one never really knew; that’s what it came down to. If one knew, there would be fewer unsolved murders.

Messenger seemed to read his thoughts. “I’m no authority, you know, no student of human nature. Just my impressions.”

“You shared a room when you were residents, you and Barrister. Did you know him before?”

“No. The hospital helped you find rooms, and roommates. When we were on duty, of course, we slept at the hospital, so home was really where we slept when we got the chance, and kept beer in a secondhand icebox.”

“Did you ever meet Barrister’s family?”

“He didn’t have any, to speak of. Surely the police found out all about that. In fact, the detective who came to see me mentioned it. Mike was an orphan, as he was fond of saying, with a grin. He’d been the only child of an only child, and was brought up by his grandparents; they were both dead when I knew him. I gather he had a happy childhood. You know, I remember something he said once about Lawrence, the writer, I mean. Mike was a great reader.”

“Literature seems to be following me around in this case.”

“Odd, isn’t it? I’ve already quoted poetry and Snow, and I don’t think I’ve been guilty of a literary reference in years. Perhaps it’s the influence of your Professor Fansler. I don’t know why I should think of books in connection with Mike. But the only specific thing he ever told me about his childhood had to do with D. H. Lawrence.”

“Lady Chatterley’s Lover?”
Jerry asked.

“I don’t think so; were there any children in that?”

“No,” Jerry said. “Not born yet, anyway.”

“Well, it wasn’t that then. In this book there was a little girl, frightened for some reason, and her stepfather carried her about with him while he fed the cows. I don’t really know what the connection is, because Mike’s grandfather didn’t have cows. But something about the way his grandfather comforted him, after his parents were killed—Lawrence had caught that, Mike said. It doesn’t sound
very important. I don’t know why I mention it. Anyway, Mike didn’t have much family, though there was some old lady he used to write to.”

“Did he have any special woman then?”

“Not that I know of. You’re thinking, perhaps, Janet Harrison knew him then, and I didn’t know about it. Well, it’s not impossible, I suppose. Mike didn’t talk about his women, but surely the police know where Janet Harrison was at that time.”

“Did he go away much?”

“No. When we had short vacations we slept.”

“How long were you together?”

“A year, more or less. For the length of our residency. I came to Chicago. Mike thought he might, too, but he didn’t.”

“Where did he go?”

“New York. You know that.”

“Did you hear from him in New York?”

“No. I don’t think he went there right away. He went on a vacation first, camping. We both like camping. I was supposed to go with him, but then, at the last minute, I couldn’t. He went on up to Canada—I had a card from him. I told all this to the detective. That’s the last I heard of him, except for Christmas cards. We exchanged those for a few years, later on.”

“It seems odd you never saw him in New York.”

“I’ve only been there a few times, for medical conventions. I took the family, and any spare time I had I spent with them. Once I saw Mike, but we didn’t really have time to get together. Anyway, there wouldn’t have been very much point to it.”

“It’s all clear enough, I guess, except why she left you the money. You didn’t save her life once, and forget about it?”

“I don’t save lives. I can’t, of course, say positively that I never laid eyes on her, but I don’t think I did, and certainly not for any length of time. It just doesn’t make any sense at all. You don’t really know, do you, that Mike ever knew her? So the fact that I once knew Mike isn’t really all that conclusive. I’d like to help you; I just can’t think of any way I can.”

“Are you going to take the money? Perhaps I haven’t any business asking you that.”

“It’s a natural enough question. I don’t know that I’ll get the money. The girl was murdered, and she has some family who might, I suppose, contest the will. But if I got the money I would take it, provided there was no one with a real claim. I could use the money—couldn’t anyone? Besides, there’s something odd about a windfall—one never expected it, and then, when one hears of it, one is convinced it was somehow deserved.”

“Did Mike know you were going into research?”

“Oh, yes, everyone knew that. Mike used to say if I was going to live the rest of my life on four thousand a year—that’s what they paid in those days—I’d better marry a rich wife or one who liked to work. I took his advice, you see—the latter part of it.”

Jerry could have spun out the questions—there were many that occurred to him, but he could guess most of the answers, and didn’t think them very important, in any case. Messenger could, of course, have been lying. He could have been in league with Barrister for years. But even if they could have concocted this murder for $25,000 between them, Messenger didn’t look capable of it. His honesty was so patent that it was, Jerry thought, impossible to be in his presence and even consider the idea of his involvement in a plot. He might be shrewd enough, but he
seemed one of those rare persons who say what they mean, and mean what they say—surely the wrong sort to plan some diabolical scheme. Jerry stood up.

“There was one other thing,” he said, “though I don’t really have to bother you with it. You’ll just save me some research. In law, you have to pass the bar exam of the state in which you intend to practice. That’s true in the East. There’s a certain reciprocity, of course, but if you practice in New York, you have to have passed the New York bar exam. If you’ve taken the New Jersey bar exam, that won’t do. Isn’t the same thing true in medicine? Did Barrister have to take the New York exam in order to practice there?”

“No. There’s something called the National Board of Medical Examiners—they give a certificate which is accepted as adequate qualification by almost all the states. There are some exceptions, I don’t remember what they are, but New York isn’t one of them. Other states require some sort of oral or written examination. But Mike had no more exams to take in order to practice in New York—probably he had to register, or something of the sort.”

“Thank you, Dr. Messenger. You’ve been very kind.”

“Not much help, I’m afraid. Let me know if anything else occurs to you. I think you’ll find, you know, that Mike didn’t do it. People leave tastes behind them; Mike didn’t leave that kind of taste.” He bowed Jerry out. Jerry, going back to the hotel to put in a long-distance call to Kate, felt that Messenger left a fine taste, no doubt of that; but the case as a whole had by now a taste that could be described only as rancid.

K
ATE
rushed away from the lecture room, leaving behind her the students who had come up to ask questions, and ignoring, outside her office, the students gathered there. She put in a call to Reed.

“I’ve found a Miss Dribble—you know, the one who talked to Jackie-wackie when there was soap in the fountain. She says he looks like Cary Grant. Is it all right to talk now?”

“My dear girl, if we are being overheard, I hope the eavesdropper understands you better than I. Shall we risk a little more clarity? Who dribbled?”

“That’s her name. Dribble. Anne Dribble. Remember, you said she would hold the key to the whole thing?”

“I don’t remember ever mentioning anyone of that name in my life. Is she someone who knew Janet Harrison? If so, she will go down in history, though it’s a pity to immortalize a name like that.”

“She knew Janet Harrison slightly; she used to live in the dorm—Dribble, I mean. Jackie Miller remembered that she, still Dribble, was the one who had told her, Jackie, that she had seen her, Janet, with a man. Apparently someone dribbled at breakfast, which reminded Jackie—there are advantages to having a verb for a name—who it was who had spoken to her of seeing Janet with a man; and she, Jackie, told her, Miss Lindsay; and she, Miss Lindsay, called me, Kate. I called her, Miss Dribble, and she said she
thought
she would recognize the man again, but if I wanted a quick description he looked like Cary Grant, good-looking and suave. You have twenty minutes; rewrite that into an acceptable English sentence.”