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

tumps.’ That mean something to you? The rest of the note says, ‘Not in the dictionary.’ ”

“OK,” Craine said. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to think, but at once he felt dizzy and opened his eyes again. “Royce is really mad, eh?”

“Well, I’d avoid him.”

Craine nodded through the phone. “Can’t blame him, I guess.”

“Something else,” Meakins said. “McClaren keeps calling. At first he was crabby. Now he’s polite.”

“Sounds bad.”

“That’s what we thought.”

“All right,” Craine said, “I’ll look him up, maybe.”

“You all right, Craine?” Meakins asked.

Craine thought about it. At last he said, “Get over here as quick as you can and check on Rush. Terrance Rush. Student assistant. Check out his general feelings about Ms. Glass. Don’t be too obvious, needless to say.”

“Will do,” Meakins said.

“OK,” Craine said. “OK.” Then, thoughtfully, he hung up.

Ten feet from the phone, Craine paused, put his fist to his mouth, then turned back. He checked the phone book, then called the English Department.

“Hello. Is Janet there?” he asked.

There was a pause. “Janet?”

“I’m trying to get in touch with one of the secretaries at the English Department—young woman named Janet.”

“Oh. Janet Cizike.”

“That’s it,” Craine said, not that he knew.

“One moment please,” the voice said. A few seconds later he heard the voice of the girl who had offered to help.

“Janet?” he asked, making sure.

“This is Janet,” the voice said.

She sounded distant, oddly unfriendly, but she was the one.

“This is Gerald B. Craine,” he said. “Detective.”

“Oh, hello,” she said. Her voice was cooler than before. He decided to brave it out.

“You said you’d like to help Ira,” he said. “As it happens, there’s something you could do for me.” He waited. Nothing. He said, “I think you mentioned that you have files on the department’s graduate assistants.”

“Yes—”

“I need to see the file on Terrance Rush.”

He listened to the musical humming of the line. At last, in a changed voice, as if she were covering the receiver with her hand, she said, “Mr. Craine, our files are, you know, confidential.”

“Quite rightly!” he said. “Just as they should be!” He looked behind him, then said rapidly and softly, “Listen, one minute you say you want to help him, the next you’ve changed your mind, or somebody’s gotten to you, God knows. I try to be everywhere at once, but it’s not easy. You want to help him, help him. Otherwise—”

“I’m awfully busy right now,” she said. “If you wanted to call me at home, after five … I’m in the phone book.”

“You’ll have the file?”

“Why yes—at least I’ll try,” she said brightly.

Craine thought about it. “You’re a good girl, Janet. I’ll come over.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I hope your mother’s well?”

He smiled. “She never complains,” he said.

“I’m glad. Well, good-bye, then.”

“For now,” he said. “Thank you.”

He hung up, felt in the slot to see if his dime had come back, then hurried toward the stainless steel exit doors. He showed his empty hands to the guard, remembering only that instant the book in his overcoat lining, a plainly visible lump if the guard cared to notice; but the guard nodded and at once looked down again at the paperback he was reading. “Filth,” Craine said, smiling, pointing at the paperback. The guard glanced at him, half smiled back, and read on. Out in the sunlight, Craine pondered a moment, getting his bearings, then set off briskly in the direction of the computer center. The air was strangely warm, like the breath of a cow. Overhead, dark clouds scudded northward.

As soon as Craine opened the door he saw McClaren.

“Well, well,” McClaren said, turning to face him squarely, his smile wide and frozen, his index fingers tucked into the pockets of his sport coat.

“Detective Inspector McClaren!” Craine said, pulling his hat off and grinning like a crazy. Two uniformed policemen stood over by the window, holding Styrofoam coffee cups, Eggers and a man named Webb, skinny and nervous; even in uniform he looked like an accountant. There were desks, secretaries, reams of pale-green and white printout. Eggers smiled and nodded.

“You finally checked in at your office?” McClaren said.

Craine put on his Mickey Mouse sheepish look. “Couldn’t remember your phone number,” he said.

“Ha ha,” McClaren laughed grimly. “Well I’m glad to run into you. I’ve been trying to get in touch.”

“Some kind of trouble?” Craine asked.

McClaren just looked at him, still smiling, speechless with disgust. When Craine went on staring, his expression insisting on innocence and drunkenness, McClaren, though not buying it, finally looked down. “You acquainted around here?” he said. He flicked his eyes toward one secretary, then another. “Miss Roberts, Miss Gupta”—he flicked his eyes back toward Craine, then away—“Gerald Craine, Detective.” The secretaries, one pink, one dark brown, shyly nodded. McClaren nodded toward the open door of an inner office. “Come on in,” he said, as if the office were his own, and moved toward it. The uniformed policemen remained where they stood. Bowing, smiling like a man caught naked, moving with the troubled advertence of a drunkard, Craine followed McClaren, who stood patiently waiting while he entered, then softly closed the door.

“Well well,” McClaren said, “you do keep us guessing, Craine.” He went around behind the desk and drew the chair back, preparing to sit. He studied the chair seat, his mind somewhere else, then reached down and tested it for dust with his fingertips and, after a moment, sat. He looked at Craine in surprise. “Sit down,” he said.

“Thank you. Thank you very much,” Craine said. When he was seated, formal as a man with his psychiatrist, hands folded carefully over his knees, he said, “So what seems to be the problem?” When McClaren merely looked at him, he added with studied stupidity, “Is this your office?”

“Hardly,” McClaren said, and smiled. “It belongs to a Professor John Furth, old friend of mine—head of the computer center. He’s not in today.”

“I see.”

The office was small and astonishingly messy, computer printouts everywhere, a typewriter, apparently not used in years, piled high with books and papers,