“I don’t know why you have to be so enigmatic, Nigel.” May beat her fist impatiently on the sofa. “Who is this person you’re talking about?”
“Now don’t get mad, my dear. Nigel has always had a weakness for the cryptic.”
“Well, he should try to control it,” said May tartly. “All this talking in code! I only hope you can decode it.”
The Master and Nigel were gazing at each other straightly. The Master gave him an almost imperceptible nod. Nigel said good night and left.
11 The Cup and the Lip
AND WHY HAD he talked in that riddling way? wondered Nigel as he walked toward the shops next morning. Why the reluctance to come out clear with his suspicions? Could it be that in his own mind he had begun to hedge—that the hard outlines of the case he had so confidently made to Brady were becoming blurred? True, Zeke seemed to have taken the point he’d been hinting at; and it was not desirable to set it out for May in black and white—one could never be quite sure of that unpredictable woman’s reactions—she might jump the gun in some way that would create embarrassment for Nigel.
He came to a main thoroughfare and crossed, still consciously reminding himself that the traffic would hurl itself at him from the left side first. He looked in at an antique shop window, hoping that something might take his eye which he could bring back for Clare; but the articles on display seemed as mediocre as usual. He was in a bad mood; he thought, these are the poshest shops in Cabot, yet the jewelry they exhibit looks like the stuff a street vendor drags out of an attaché case in Oxford Street. American women are too busy bossing their husbands or trotting off to their analysts’ to have any time for developing taste. All these chunky ornaments and depressing beads, t’chah! All right, I know I’m being unfair. This is only a provincial city which happens to possess a great university. Clare, I’m fed up with it, I want to come home.
A yellow bus nearly put an end forever to Nigel’s transportation problems as he started to cross the street again, against the red light. A traffic policeman high up in a sort of kiosk bawled at him. To escape the blast, he dived into a shop and bought a quantity of cookies. Outside, a group of girl students were licking at enormous chocolate ice-cream cones: the human tongue, Nigel thought, is not only an unruly member but a singularly unprepossessing one. Well, usually: Sukie’s is like a cat’s, neat and nice. And just lay off that, my boy!
It would be too soon to expect a return call from Clare today. He had told her he’d be near the telephone between 6 and 7 P.M., American time, every night till he heard from her. But she’d have to call in one of his friends at the Yard to make her investigations official; and none of these friends was exactly a man of leisure. In the meantime, Brady’s men would be pursuing the new line of inquiries at this end. One could only wait.
Nigel went next to the famous tobacconist’s shop opposite the oldest part of the university buildings. Here he ran into Charles Reilly, who was buying several packs of the Irish cigarettes which he had discovered the resourceful firm stocked.
“Hello there, Nigel.”
Nigel made his purchase and they walked out into the street together. They paused for a moment to look at photographs of the Cabot football team displayed in the tobacconist’s window.
“Did ye ever see the game?”
“Only on television. It’s confusing.”
“It’s a great spectacle. Very fierce and intellectual. Like a bloodthirsty game of chess. I have a spare ticket for Saturday—they’re playing Yale. Will you come with me?”
“Why, yes, I’d love to, Charles.”
“I was going to take Sukie, but I hear she’s in the clink.”
“She may be out by Saturday,” Nigel told him.
“So her confession’s all cod? I knew it must be. It was an eejut thing to do.”
“The Master’s going to bail her out, I think. I don’t know what the process involves over here.”
“And what about her brother?”
“Ah, that’s a different matter. He’s not clear of suspicion yet. Far from it.”
“So Sukie’s great sacrifice was in vain.”
They were walking, rather aimlessly, down a street which led to the river. Charles Reilly had the gait of a front-row forward—stocky, head down as if about to drive into the opposing scrum, slightly bandy-legged, arms held out a little from the sides, the fingers half clenched. A gorilla walk, thought Nigel; and he did not altogether care for Charles’s last remark—there had been a touch of a jeer in it. Maybe Charles, thought Nigel, in the deplorable male way, still resented Sukie’s not succumbing to his advances. Nigel’s faint disapproval must have communicated itself to Charles’s Irish intuition, for he said:
“Ah, but I’m sorry for the girl. She’s not cut out to be a Joan of Arc. She needs a man, that one.”
“She has one, hasn’t she?” Nigel asked.
“Mark do you mean? I said ‘a man.’ Sure he’s terrified of her.”
“Terrified? That’s pretty fierce.”
“Oh, sure, he’s fascinated by her, like a rabbit with a stoat. He dances to her tune all right, but he dislikes himself for doing it; so then he recoils from her and keeps a distance. He doesn’t commit himself, because he’s scared of her intensity, scared he is he’d burn up in it. He’s like a great clever moth, that knows enough about the flame to stop plunging into it, however much it fascinates him.”
“Well, now, that’s very interesting, Charles.”
They turned right, along the grassy slope by the river.
“You know, I’d have thought she might be a bit frightened of Mark,” Nigel continued. “That streak of wildness in him.”
Charles’s blue eyes, the color of the river in the sunlight, flashed at him brilliantly. “Oh, she’s frightened of no man. Unless it’s Chester.”
“Chester?”
“It surprises you, doesn’t it now? Well, Sukie told me once why she broke it off with him. It was the same thing that had first attracted her to him—a sort of cold, driving, undercover ambition. But then it began to alarm her because she felt he had it so thoroughly under control—you know, no boasting about his potentialities—just sort of a horrid, mad, wordless, armor-plated self-confidence, which peeked out at her occasionally from beneath that surface of his.”
“That’s an interesting viewpoint.”
“It is that.” Charles nodded. “She had a queer dream one night, she told me. The lass said she was in bed with Chester—in the dream, I mean—and suddenly he turned into some fancy kind of time bomb. It kept ticking away, and sure she knew it was going to go off sometime, but she couldn’t get out of the bed and run away. She woke up at last, in a cold sweat. After that, says she, she lost her nerve and swapped Chester for Mark.”
“And did Chester resent this?” Nigel asked. “Surely he must have.”
“Well, now, I don’t know. It was before I came over. Sukie says he went into his shell for a bit, and then came out again and then they got on all right in a real tepid sort of way. She doubts it meant all that much to him, and perhaps she’s right. Well, I must go back. I’ve got that Brady coming to see me at eleven. Would you know what he wants?”
“To talk to you about the Sukie-Josiah-you complex, I imagine,” Nigel said.
“Scraping the bottom of the barrel, eh? I wish the fella’d leave me alone. Oh, by the way, Nigel, I clean forgot, talking of Chester. Seems the chap’s having a bit of a party in his room tonight—half nine about. And he wants you to come.” . . .
Nigel was getting fidgety. Impossible to concentrate on the work for which he had come to Cabot. As for the investigation, it had now moved on from theory to practice, and the practical side must be left to the police—dull, slogging work which he nevertheless envied them. If the evidence they now sought were found, it would probably be found quickly and the case—so far as Nigel was concerned—would fizzle out. It would not have been necessary to drive the murderer into the open, with all the deadly dangers this implied. It
became evident to Nigel that Brady had not taken very seriously the likelihood of a second attempt by the murderer, although he was impressed by Nigel’s theory about the first one. And there was no doubt that Brady, with Papa Ahlberg on his tail, had not pursued one line of investigation nearly far enough last week.
Anyway, the battle had now moved to an area where Brady’s men must infallibly either prove a murderer’s guilt or establish a suspect’s innocence.
Nigel watched two students run across the court carrying squash rackets, saw a window on the far side of the court opened and Mark’s head poked out: Mark stayed thus a minute or two, engaged in what Nigel interpreted as deep-breathing exercises, then closed the window again. A turbojet passed over, fairly low: Nigel wondered idly if it was on the shuttle service between the city airport and LaGuardia. A gramophone on the floor above was playing La Mer. On Nigel’s desk lay a slip of paper which had been pushed under his door before lunch—Chester’s invitation to the little party that evening.
Nigel began to think again about the curious revelations Charles Reilly had made that morning. Even allowing for Charles’s usual poeticisms and hyperbole, they cast a strangely angled light upon the persons concerned—including Charles himself. Was it not odd that Sukie should have given Charles such intimate confidences? Was it after or before Josiah’s discovery of them in a compromising position that she had done so? But of course, Nigel realized, Sukie’s behavior could be boiled down simply to a girl’s gratification at adding to her collection the scalp of a distinguished Irish poet. And that of a distinguished private eye from England?
He read till 7 P.M. No telephone call from Clare. So he walked to the nearest taxi stand three minutes away, had himself conveyed to an Italian restaurant in the suburbs, and ordered lasagne, a bottle of Bardolino, and a chocolate ice cream. He had discovered on a previous visit there that a chocolate ice, consumed with Bardolino, imparted to the latter a delicious flavor of wild strawberries. This bizarre discovery, passed on to friends at Hawthorne, had resulted in a sizable accession to the restaurant’s clientele and to VIP treatment for Nigel from the proprietress.
Lingering over the meal, he suddenly realized it was well past nine. The wine, and the warmth of the restaurant, had made him sleepy. He paid his check, and decided to clear his head by walking back to Hawthorne.
When Nigel arrived at Chester’s room, it was 9:40. Mark was there already, and Charles Reilly, and the Senior Tutor, together with two Faculty members from another House. Master Edwardes might stop by later, Chester told Nigel.
The room was desperately hot. A log fire burned in the grate, and presumably the central heating was on too. Charles, Mark and one of the strangers had already taken off their coats. Chester kept his on, looking spruce but anxious.
“I would like you to know Paul Andreyevsky and Mark Blair,” Chester said as the strangers came over. “Colleagues of mine in the Business School.”
Andreyevsky, Nigel noticed, in his manner of speech and appearance bore a strong resemblance to Chester. The two men shook hands with Nigel, announcing their names loud and clear.
“Paul Andreyevsky. I am most happy to meet you.”
“Martin Blair. Nice to know you.”
“Martin. Of course. I must apologize for a slip of the tongue,” said Chester in some confusion. “Cheese? Bourbon? Something?” he offered Nigel. Chester has an owlish look, thought Nigel, accepting a cheese cracker and a drink: must be a bit pissed already: first time I’ve seen him like this. Nerves? But then, when one is a bit loaded oneself, it has the peculiar effect of making everyone else seem drunk.
Nigel stated this proposition to Blair and Andreyevsky, who received it politely and began to ask him about his reactions to the United States and Cabot.
“Entirely favorable,” answered Nigel, with a large gesture which nearly swept the bourbon off the table beside him. “A great country. A great university. Highest standards of learning, intelligence and manners. And what other nation provides toasted corn muffins for breakfast?”
“It’s very, very gratifying to have you say so,” said Andreyevsky.
“Not at all, Paul, if I may call you Paul. I fear that is not an euphonious sentence, but it speaks from the heart. I would now like to enlarge upon my approbation for the American Way of Life.” Nigel did so for some little time, far from daunted by the knowledge that he was now the center of attention. “If I have any criticism to make,” he was concluding, “it is of your failure to provide a National Health Service. Surely—”
“But our medical science is the finest in the world,” protested Martin Blair.
“You can’t be talking about those butchers over the road,” Mark began.
“Now now, Mark, that’s no way to talk about the Cabot Medical Faculty.” Zeke Edwardes had come in, unobtrusively as ever. With his entrance the party broke up and re-formed. Everyone seemed to be jockeying for a position farther from the fire.
“D’you know, the American Way of Life,” announced Charles Reilly when they seemed to have settled down slightly, “brings me out in a sweat. What with your brinkmanship and your central heating—I say, do you never open a window, Chester?”
Mark, who had been looking rather anxiously at his brother who had slumped on a sofa, went over and opened a window an inch.
“Everything’s so hot. To say nothing of being grilled by the police this morning,” Charles went on.
“Oh, Charles, for God’s sake, can’t we forget it for an hour or two?” Chester looked up. His face was desperate, or despairing—Nigel could not make out which, though the difference, he felt, was important.
“Yes, we should!” said the Master. “We have other troubles, such as this row over the General Education proposals.”
Andreyevsky and Blair looked slightly shocked at that. The Master, Nigel realized, had had an unfortunate relapse into the old Oxford manner. However, the company in general welcomed his diversion as a way out of an embarrassing subject, and soon several of them were launched on the General Education controversy. Under cover of their discussion, Nigel moved over to the corner of the window where Charles Reilly sat, mopping his red face.
“Brady gave you a bad time?”
“Bad time, is it? He put me through the mangle. And he a fellow Irishman too!” muttered Charles. “Made me try to remember all my movements for days after the murder. As if I could! As if it was of the least importance. Obviously he need only have been concerned with the one night.”
“Why?”
“Because if I’d shot the fella, I would have gone out to get rid of the gun as soon as possible. How could I have known John Tate would come along and hide the body for me, so that I could have several days’ grace? And anyway,” said Charles with an impish look, “I haven’t got a gun. I gave up the dreadful things thirty years ago.”
“So then?” asked Nigel.
“So then the fella raked up all the little episode you know of. Had not Josiah threatened to expose it? And he had not. Did Sukie ever tell me he’d tried it on with her? She did not. On and on and on. They certainly earn their salaries. Of course he was waiting for me to contradict myself. Discrepancies in my evidence! Too bad I couldn’t supply him with any.” Charles sighed. “You know, Nigel, Josiah was a man without generosity: but he was no blackmailer, it wasn’t in his nature.” Charles sighed again, and swiveled a blue eye at Chester. “Lookit, over there, the little fella has drink taken? Will you look at him?”
Chester was still lolling on the sofa at the other side of the room, his face white and perspiring, paying little heed to the academic controversy raging around him. Somebody asked him a question, to which he only grunted a monosyllabic reply. Just then Mark moved to his brother with obvious solicitude, and spoke a word in his ear: Chester, eyes shut, shook his head; he looked like a man waiting for news, who cannot abide any interruption of his expectant state of mind.
Nigel watched for a moment, then thoughtfully retired to the bathroom. Inquisitive as eve
r, he poked about. It was a small room, and it too was stiflingly hot. A shower behind a curtain; a basin, a mirror, the lavatory bowl: a sumptuous Turkish bath towel was the only article there different from the stock Hawthorne issue. Nigel opened the medicine cupboard above the washbasin. It was crammed with bottles and boxes of all sizes. One might have known Chester was a hypochondriac. There were palliatives against wind, for instance, influenza cure, sleeping pills, sedative and stimulant drugs, pile ointment, iodine, cough mixture, bandages, adhesive tape, two thermometers, a bottles of tables labeled “Phenergan,” a plastic bottle of Gly-Oxide and a large bottle of some sort of cleaning fluid. Nigel stopped a general search and looked for Disprin, but could not find any: instead, he thoughtfully dissolved two tablets of Alka-Seltzer and drank them from the tooth tumbler, to take the edge off the hangover which was no doubt impending.
Returning finally, he found his hypochondriac host in a state of febrile aggressiveness. He was by then, of all things, giving the company a blow-by-blow account of the practical jokes he had suffered from. His speech was slurred, but the gravamen of his complaint was clearly directed against the Master and the Senior Tutor: in a properly disciplined community, he was saying, that sort of outrage could never happen. The two visiting instructors were highly embarrassed, the Senior Tutor more sardonic than ever. Zeke Edwardes was listening to the tirade with his usual courteousness.
“The first thing students should learn is to respect authority,” Chester was saying. “Do you or do you not agree, Senior Tutor?”
“The first thing they should learn is to grow up. And that does not apply to students only,” was the acrid reply. “Growing up means coming to see things in proportion.”
“Now you talk just like my late lamented brother Josiah. Are you suggesting that I—?”
“I say take it easy, Chester,” said Zeke. “Growing up is finding the limits of freedom—personal freedom—and balancing it against the rightful demands of the community. There are bound to be casualties on the way.”