Stillness & Shadows by John Gardner (accelerated reader books TXT) 📕

Katz have to do with computers? I thought he was a poet.” He shot a furtive look at the man with white hair.

“Excuse me,” the man said, suddenly smiling, “perhaps I can be of help. You’re Detective Craine?”

“I am,” Craine said. It crossed his mind that he sounded like a man in a Victorian novel. The man in white hair would appreciate that; he might well be one of the few people in Carbondale who would notice. Perhaps. Craine glanced at the man’s face again, then down at his belt buckle. It said, “Colt 45.” Craine sighed.

“I’m glad to meet you,” the man said, coming toward him, sticking out his huge, clean hand. “Ira’s mentioned you. You’re neighbors, I think? Come in!” He had a grin like a baseball star.

Uneasy, against his will, Craine shook the man’s hand. When the man put his other hand gently on Craine’s back, Craine went into the office with him. Softly, the man closed the door.

“I’m Wendel Davies,” he said, “chairman of the English Department.” He gave a laugh and waved Craine toward a chair. “Sit down,” he said, “make yourself at home!” He laughed again, perfect teeth flashing, then went around, sat behind his desk, and put his feet up. He wore Wallabees. “So!” he said.

Craine studied him, lips pursed, then got his pipe out. The man sat motionless, smiling, his head thrown back. Craine nodded. He knew the type. Professor Davies was a watcher and waiter, true-born aristocrat of bureaucrats. He could sit there warmheartedly smiling all day, playing no cards, pretending time had stopped, waiting for the sweat to break out on his opponent’s forehead. Craine found his matches, lit the pipe, blew smoke out. “So you’ve heard of me,” he said.

Davies waved his hand, dismissive, then froze again, still smiling, delighted to be alive.

“Excuse me,” Craine said, and pointed the stem of his pipe at the man, “you invited me in here. If all you mean to do is just sit there grinning—”

Nothing could have prepared him for the man’s look of shock—preposterous embarrassment like a child’s. He blushed beet red and fell forward in his chair, his boyish face twisted to the expression of a man about to tumble from a cliff. “My gosh!” he began.

“Now wait a minute,” Craine said, “I don’t mean to suggest—”

The man was flailing, trying to recover himself, pushing a small stack of papers away, picking up a pencil, setting it down again. “Crazy!” Craine whispered to himself, squinting in astonishment. It was a judgment he was increasingly forced to, these days. Everybody, everywhere, crazy.

“Now listen,” Craine said, “what’s going on here?” He raised both hands. “Take it easy, take it easy!”

Now the chairman of the Department of English was laughing, one hand over his face. He was gradually regaining control.

“I startled you, is that it?” Craine asked. He leaned forward and put both hands flat on the desk. He strained his wits, studying the blush. “Ira Katz has mentioned me, you say,” he said. “I see. So you’re friends with him. Good! He’s a good man, I’m glad to see he’s friends with the boss.” He snapped his fingers as the pieces fell together—the secretary’s alarm when he’d showed her the license, her eagerness to help, then the chairman’s stepping in. Did they know about Ira and the woman named April? No doubt they’d seen the paper, or heard a newscast, knew she was dead.

Professor Davies shook his head, smiling again, ghastly. “I’ll tell you the truth,” he said.

Instantly Craine’s eyes hooded a little, all his wits on guard.

“I meant to sort of. … see what you had in mind,” he said. “I wouldn’t want you to think …” He dropped it, embarrassed. “We’re all very fond of Ira Katz around here. We’re a close group, this English Department. That might surprise you. We’re one of the largest, most powerful departments on the campus, but even so …”

“Sounds like good leadership,” Craine said, smiling so that his teeth showed, testing.

The professor hurriedly waved it away. It was probably true, Craine mused, that Davies was good at what he did. Good-looking man, boyish for all his sixty-some years and snow-white hair. Big, easy smile, broad shoulders, eyes of a man who liked to work out in the open, as no doubt he usually did; maybe that was why he’d reacted so extremely when Craine had nailed him. Also maybe not.

Now the professor was steadily meeting Craine’s eyes, his expression troubled. “You’re his neighbor, more or less his friend,” he said, “so I guess I may as well come out with it.” The eyes moved away, gazing past Craine’s ear. “I was afraid we’d find the murder of that poor young woman would have something to do with Ira.” He picked up the pencil again and with both hands nervously played with it. “As you know, there’s been a great deal of trouble in his life—another casualty of the marriage wars, and in the middle of all that his mother’s death—” He glanced up, blushed again. “All right,” he said, “I guess you caught me out. I was never a good faker. It’s characteristic of people in my profession, you’ll find—English professors. A certain childlike quality in all of us, or so it seems to me—never properly grew up.” He gave a sharp classroom laugh, ironic, and abruptly pushed back his desk chair and swivelled to the left as if thinking of rising; but he changed his mind. He tapped on the desk top with the tip of the pencil in his right hand and continued, “I take it you weren’t personally acquainted with the girl?”

“Not really,” Craine said.

Now Professor Davies did rise, still playing with the pencil, and crossed to the window, where he stood looking out. He fell silent for a moment, and Craine resisted pushing him, merely glancing over the objects on Davies’ desk. A few blue exam booklets—so chairmen taught courses, he reflected, surprised—an anthology of American literature, a dictionary, two