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  “Yes, yes,” said Todd impatiently. “That was when they were reviewing contributions. The boys here know nothing about that.”

  “Except they kept us waiting,” said Sprague petulantly. “They weren’t even here when we arrived.”

  Was he commenting unfavorably on Todd’s and Litton’s tardiness today?

  “Mr. Armitage was here,” interrupted Younger with painstaking accuracy.

  Sprague looked at him with dislike, but young Fursano broke in: “Sure. And Mr. Patterson came in right after. We didn’t wait so long, Carter.”

  Younger seemed to have a catalog mind. “We didn’t have to wait long then,” he said. “But after Mr. Dunlop and Mr. Marsden got here, they took care of something else before they got to us.”

  Sprague was not the only teenager who kept a running tally of his elders’ derelictions. It was with an effort that Captain Litton produced a smile and pushed on.

  “Right. Now I want you boys to think carefully. Let’s go over your movements after the meeting became concerned with your admission.”

  The boys agreed they had first been herded across the corridor en massse for a speech about Dartmouth.

  “You know the sort of thing,” Sprague explained. “A rather tedious description of traditions and past great men. The pines of Dartmouth and some Vice President or other.”

  “It wasn’t so bad,” Younger objected. “They told us where Dartmouth place in the Ivy League last year and who they played against.”

  Sprague had no sympathy for juvenilia. “They also emphasized their rural surroundings,” he said as one delivering a knockout punch. He still envied his classmates from St. Mark’s who were going to set up cosmopolitan apartments in Cambridge.

  But Pete Fursano was stirred to life. “It sounded pleasant,” he said simply, out of a lifetime on the symphony circuit. “I like the country.”

  Sprague subsided instantly. Carruthers, who liked to get the power hierarchy straight, saw why Sprague had chosen to sit next to Hughes. HE knew better than to pass himself off as an experienced Continental to your Fursano, who probably spoke at least five languages and had been to school everywhere.

  Captain Litton was noticeably uninterested in these asides.

  “OK,” he said heavily. “And after the joint talk, you were called in one by one. Now I want to know what happened to the rest of you during these single interviews. Did you wander off? Did you stay in the waiting room?”

  A confused jumble of recollections now surfaced. There had been visits to the men’s room, attempts to use the phone, and one mad dash down to the cigar stand in the lobby with Hughes supplying himself with the latest issue of Hot Rod. Prolonged debate was necessary before a conclusion could be reached. The conclusion was that at no time had the waiting room been vacant.

  “All right. Now we come to the end of the interviews. How did that take place?”

  It had been quite simple. Armitage had stuck his head in the door and said they were no longer needed. They proceeded to collect their belongings. Hughes left immediately, taking the elevator down before the conference room door opened. The other three boys had still been present when the Committee surged into the corridor. They could testify that Patterson had been carrying an attaché case.

  “But they all were,” contributed Younger. “I went down in the elevator with them. I noticed it because I wondered what kinds of jobs they had.”

  Only Fursano had heard Sprague ask Patterson to stay behind. He confirmed Sprague’s description of the incident.

  “Yes. Mr. Patterson said Carter could have only a few minutes because he was in a hurry. They were both sitting down on opposite sides of that little coffee table when I left.”

  So far, so good. Litton then took Sprague over the incident of the falling briefcase.

  “That’s right,” said Sprague, unutterably bored and showing it. “He was telling me he had to go and shoving everything into his briefcase, when it slipped and everything spilled out.”

  “Why was the briefcase open? Was it open when he joined you in the waiting room?”

  Sprague had to abandon nonchalance. It was only after a moment’s thought that he could reply.

  “No it wasn’t. I’d mentioned my math marks to him and he opened some folder and checked it. I think it may have been these SAT scores there’s been such a commotion about.”

  “But you didn’t see it?”

  “No.”

  “You say you helped pick up his things?”

  “Yes, naturally. He was an older man,” evoking an image of a white haired hunchback.

  Litton was untouched by the rebuke. “Tell me what you saw, what you helped pick up.”

  “Folders, file folders,” snapped Sprague.

  How many were there?”

  Sprague looked suspiciously at the Captain. A question hovered on his lips, but he decided it was best left unspoken. Finally he answered tentatively as if afraid of giving the wrong response. “There must have been five or six.”

  “Are you sure there weren’t more?”

  Sprague was stung. “There could not possibly have been more than six. Seven at the most.”

  Litton retired into private calculations. Todd and Carruthers did not intervene. The boys looked bewildered.

  “What color were the folders,” Litton demanded.

  Sprague had learned a lesson. “They were just folders, ordinary folders. Buff or white or something.”

  And from this position he would not be budged.

  After that Litton seemed to lose interest. He formally asked Sprague if Patterson had displayed any emotion other than a desire to hurry off. He did not pretend to be very interested in Sprague’s opinions on the matter. Even his questions about the joint stroll towards Fifth Avenue where the man and boy had parted company were casual. Carruthers, who had heard Lancer’s misgivings on this subject, was prepared to protest but there was no need. By the time all four boys had been dismissed with appropriate thanks, Carruthers had not once opened his mouth.

  However, when he brought Lancer up to date, he was not overly reassuring. “I didn’t like it,” he confessed. “Litton just slid away from the whole subject of Sprague and Patterson leaving together. Obviously the police have decided to into that on their own. They aren’t going to take a chance of having us put in an oar. Smart of them.”

  George was inclined towards a more cheerful view. Two whole days without seeing one prospective entrant to the college of his choice or his parents was having a beneficial effect on his spirits.

  “Maybe they have something else to get their teeth into. Did you ever find out what all that business about the folders meant?”

  “Yes. Apparently the police have figured out why Patterson took those SAT scores with him. Or they think they have. They went through all the Dartmouth files together with the clerical staff. The Admissions folders are buff with green labels. There was one strange white folder. The contents were in Patterson’s handwriting. One of the clerks remembers finding it in the waiting room after Patterson and the boy were there.”

  “So?”

  “The assumption is that Patterson intended to leave the test scores behind but didn’t have time to take the file into the office. He left the wrong one, that’s all, a white folder instead of a buff one.”

  Lancer, in line with his new policy, did not point out that knowing why Patterson had taken the scores did not undo the damage caused by their absence. Instead he rubbed his hands together cheerfully and said, “Well things are beginning to clear up. By the way, what was in the folder he left behind?”

  “Nothing that explains anything. Just some notes he made on four of his classmates. I suppose he thought they might be good for contributions to the college.”

  Lancer stopped rubbing his hand suddenly.

  “Let’s hope he isn’t lining up prospects for a few more thefts. If it wasn’t for Mrs. Curtis, I’d be willing to forget the first round. But he can’t get any ideas about making a
career out of this.”

  If any humor was intended in George’s mock bitter lament, it went right over Carruthers head. A life in trusts and estates does not encourage lightheartedness in matters of personal property.

  “No, I don’t think it can be that, George,” he said stolidly. “None of these men sounds good for $50,000.”

  Lancer was swift to pounce. “Then he certainly wasn’t thinking in terms of donations, was he. Who were they anyway?”

  “Wesley Stubbins of Peoria; Chris Taine of McKeesport; Alex Baxter of New York City. Henry Perkins of Bethesda. Ever heard of any of them?”

  George shook his head. He did not remind Carruthers that the men with less than $50,000 whom he knew could be numbered on one hand. He didn’t have to.

  “And that’s all?” he asked.

  “By no means. There’s a lot of biographical information about each one. Here look at this one. Alex Baxter, 36, born in Forest Hills. Son of Reverend Allen Baxter, Episcopalian clergyman. Went to Episcopalian day school in Garden City, then to Dartmouth. Majored in Art, then went to Chicago for two years’ further study. Scholarship to Paris for two years. There’s a list of prizes and scholarships. Taught art at Dartmouth Had a one man show in Boston eight years ago. Then, there’s work as a commercial artist and now he seems to be a freelancer. There’s a physical description too.”

  Lancer rubbed his jaw. “And he’s got the same sort of material for all of them?”

  “That’s right. Stubbins is a professor in a small college. Taine runs and employment agency and Perkins works for the Commerce Department in Washington. There doesn’t seem to be any connection among them, except they are all from Patterson’s class. Then, if you can make hear or tail of it, there was a small index card clipped to the whole batch that just says ‘Father Martin’ on it.”

  I’ll bet he isn’t an old grad.”

  Carruthers shook his head dubiously. “You can never tell. But we could check it. Not that it seems to make much difference.”

  None of it makes any difference. It just proves Patterson was up to lots of things we don’t know about. And we’ve already had that hammered home. But I don’t like the sound of it. Not one single bit.”

  Chapter 11

  Numerical Grades Are Not Given

  A full report of these developments speedily reached the Committee. It added to their prevailing difficulties. Already publicity compounded by Mrs. Curtis’s martial trumpetings had made it impossible for them to meet in the usual quarters at the Club. There, the ceaseless clamor of phones, appearance of anxious adolescents accompanied by indignant mothers, and the routine descents of the police had put an end to all comfort to the unconcealed fury of those affiliated with the other colleges sharing quarters with Dartmouth.

  “I know you want to talk to someone in authority, Madam,” said a venerable graduate of Trinity College. “But I have nothing to do with Dartmouth.”

  Madam did not believe a word of this, but Dartmouth offices certainly bore him out. Three harassed women, shanghaied from the Armitage Insurance Brokerage and the Sloan, were working at desks squeezed between filing cabinets. They were typing on improvised surfaces, slitting open letters, and generally creating a paper storm. The waiting room had been designed for graciousness but an ungainly switchboard had been installed to relieve the bottleneck at the Club communication center; two more women were endlessly repeating the same message: “No, I’m afraid there’s no one in the office. If you will kindly leave your name …”

  Even the lobby, consecrated to comfort of the adult male, swarmed with suburban housewives and their offspring. “Where exactly is the Dartmouth Admission Committee?” someone snarled.

  The Manager of the Club was stampeded into the truth. “I only wish I knew.”

  The Committee in emergency session was meeting in a seminar room of the Gary Museum, thanks to Marsden being the curator. None of the members had to ask what the emergency was. No one had to.

  Nevertheless, Marsden saw Dunlop gazing at his surroundings with frank fascination as he strode up the ramp. To look at him, no one would think that Mrs. Curtis had worked everyone into an impossible corner, that the police were grilling Dartmouth applicants, or that all kinds of trouble had broken loose.

  Well, Marsden had a devastating all-purpose retort to philistinism.

  Fortunately Armitage joined them before the exchange could take place. Marsden decided Ralph was aesthetically blinded since he remained oblivious to the Gary other than congratulating Marsden for suggesting this change of venue.

  “Goodness yes,” Marsden replied. I’ve never liked the Club but not it is absolutely impossible. Do you know that some woman called me up, here, yesterday? Kept me on the phone for over 40 minutes about her little Willy.” He closed his eyes and then consciously resumed his chair. “And now this business about Patterson’s little private list of classmates pops up. What the heck was he up to?”

  Since it had already been agreed that nobody knew or cared to guess, Ralph ignored the comment. “You know, I had an idea,” he said. “Patterson must have been bonded.”

  “Say you are right,” Dunlop agreed. “Professional fundraisers must be bonded. But Ralph would the bond that covers Target do us any good? He wasn’t raising funds for Target.”

  Marsden respected money but found money making vulgar. Impatiently he pointed out that it looked as if Patterson had been raising fund for Patterson. Armitage shook his head slightly but explained that no matter what Patterson had been doing, a bonding company might quiet Mrs. Curtis.

  “I repeat, what good will a bond do?” Marsden said. “We’ve got a lion by the tail. The whole world thinks that something very peculiar is going on at Dartmouth. And for all I know they may be right.”

  These sentiments were still bouncing off the aggressively unpainted concrete walls when Lancer entered. Lancer looked pained but determined.

  Ralph greeted him and said, “George, I thought of approaching Gabe. We might be able to get some coverage from Patterson’s bond. That way we could get Mrs. Curtis off our necks.”

  Before Lancer could reply, Marsden objected again. “What good will that do with the police? he demanded. “They’re the ones who are after the boys.”

  Ralph was not easily shaken. “That won’t do any harm,” he said reasonably. “We all knew Patterson better than those boys. And there was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary about him that last day, as we all told the police.”

  There was a confused murmur of assent. Marsden again waded in.

  “Unless Sprague knows more than he’s telling. I’d like to know what the police know, or suspect, about that kid.”

  The distasteful implications of this made Lancer plunge ahead more abruptly than he had intended. “Do any of you know anything about Alec Baxter, Wesley Stubbins, Christopher Traine or Henry Perkins?”

  “Who? Oh, Elliot’s classmates,” said Ralph. “Heck, I don’t know why everyone has gotten so nervous about that list. Elliot might have planned to raise money from them. Maybe they were just friends he wanted to look up during the reunion.”

  Dunlop nodded. “Probably that’s what the police are assuming. They’ll check them out as a formality. But since none of us can think of any reason for Elliot to make that detailed list, well …”

  Suddenly Marsden snapped his fingers. “I thought I recalled one name, Baxter. Alec Baxter. He’s an artist. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen watercolors of his.

  With a grin, Ralph pointed out that knocked out any theory about potential donors. This was the last smile of the meeting.

  “I think it would be wise to see what we can find out about these men. Baxter of course is our best hope since he’s local,” said George with a frown. “Should we uncover anything of importance we’ll inform the authorities, but with any luck, we’ll simply be able to clear away some red herrings.”

  With rare unanimity, the Committee agreed with him and adjourned.

  Ralph strolled out of the Gary,
refused a ride with George, who was getting in his limousine. Preoccupied, he checked his watch. A quick lunch and he could get back to his own desk. Dartmouth and Patterson were taking too much time and attention from his insurance business.

  Still, he had agreed to discharge a number of tasks. Characteristically, he decided to get things over. 10 minutes later he was in the Target offices. Although he was not consciously aware of it, they were a far more congenial background for him than the Gary.

  Gabe was on a business trip to Utica. Mrs. Knightley was at her desk. She came to their waiting room to greet him. “It’s about Patterson,” Ralph said.

  “I thought it must be,” she replied. I recognized your name, Mr. Armitage. Come in, won’t you?”

  Usually Ralph found businesswomen irritating or embarrassing. Marian Knightley was neither. She had a calm air of repose about her that discouraged superfluities. In less time than usual, Ralph was broaching the subject of Patterson’s bond.

  “Yes, of course,” said Mrs. Knightley. “And if we could convince the bonding company that this is a legitimate claim, it would help solve some of your problems wouldn’t it? I understand Mrs. Curtis insists on police action.”

  Ralph admitted as much. With rather grim amusement he countered by suggesting that it would do Target no harm. Unpleasant speculation about Patterson’s fund raising was doing his firm no good. Unruffled Mrs. Knightley agreed and promised to put the matter to Gabe upon his return. Without in any way committing herself, she left Ralph feeling that she was favorably inclined towards his suggestion.

  Ralph was not unduly impressionable but he registered something else as their conversation continued. Mrs. Knightley was not interested in discussing the Patterson mystery. She was friendly but firm. Not until the end of his visit did he reveal his second reason for approaching Target.

  “Well, let’s hope we can work something out. By the way Mrs. Knightley …”