Come to Dust Page 11

  “Yes?”

  The monosyllable was pleasant but slowed him down because it was daunting at that juncture.

  “A little problem has come up. The police have found a short list of classmates Elliot kept. Probably nothing special but we can’t understand what it may be for. Somebody suggested that they might have something to do with his work here.”

  “Who were they?”

  She listened as he read his list and then replied, “No I don’t think so. Leave their names and I’ll check. I don’t think any are Target accounts.”

  Ralph jotted down the four names. “So you don’t know any of them, hmm?”

  Possibly Mrs. Knightley did not like being inaccurately paraphrased. At any rate she raised her eyebrows and said, “Not Stubbins or Taine. Alec Baxter is an acquaintance of ours.” She deliberately added, “My husband is an architect.”

  Ralph never knew why he felt impelled to say, “Oh sure, Baxter’s the artist, isn’t he? Well thank you again.”

  As he rode down the elevator, Ralph reflected that a woman like Mrs. Knightley could only deal with a very strong or very weak man. Which was, it suddenly occurred to him, a new light on Patterson.

  Dunlop would have been the first to admit frankly that he was ill at ease later that afternoon. He sat at his desk staring at the phone with dislike. “I’ve got Mrs. Patterson on the line for you,” the receptionist announced.

  Beating down an impulse to bolt, he picked up the phone, “Sally? How are you? Well I am sorry to hear that. Oh I wouldn’t pay any attention to that. You know what papers are like. Your brother-in-law is 100% right.”

  He was perspiring freely now. “What I called for was this Sally. Does Elliot know a Wesley Stubbins, Christopher Taine, Henry Perkins or Alec Baxter?”

  Mrs. Patterson countered question with question.

  Dunlop cleared his throat, “Well one reason the names might be familiar is they’re all classmates of Elliot’s. We were just wondering if Elliot has kept in touch. No! Sally we just … er … came across their names. Oh you don’t think so …?”

  He mopped his brow. Sally was no longer the woman of two weeks ago. Sweet cooperation was no longer her line. Nevertheless she gave him something to think about.

  “What was that? … Oh, I see. Well thanks, Sally. We’ll be getting good news …”

  After incoherent adieux, he turned his attention to her last remarks. Was there any significance in the fact that Elliot had been eagerly planning to attend his class reunion the forthcoming weekend?

  Sally hung up the phone and turned a white lipped face to her sister and brother-in-law. “I can’t stand it.” She said flatly. “Everyone is making a mystery out of everything. They find little pieces of paper in Elliot’s files and they act as if he’d been planning a bank robbery. And none of them pay any attention when I tell them it isn’t possible. Who do they think they are? Have they been married to Elliot for 14 years?”

  Bill Consett shuffled his feet restively. He had been continuously on duty for over a week now, and he was getting sick of it. Never at his best when faced with feminine sensibilities, he felt that this much of a workout was an indulgence a man granted his wife but no one else. For years he had been telling himself that Sally and Elliot were good sorts. The patent falsity of this contention was becoming apparent.

  “Sally,” he said in a tired voice, “people can’t help thinking Elliot is up to some sort of funny business the way he’s acting.

  He wasn’t the only one who was tired. For 14 years Sally had been conscientiously reasonable, prepared to discuss any difference and thrash out a workable compromise, ready with an elaborately patronizing explanation to repress her daughters’ small mutinies. She had taken intelligent interest in all the problems of her family, from mud pies to religious awakenings. Insofar as was humanly possible, the Patterson household had been modeled on the Mother of Parliaments under an exceptional prime minister.

  And now look. What thanks did she get for this endless discipline? One betrayal after another. Elliot leading some kind of underground life for months. Saving pennies and dimes like a 10 year old planning to run off to sea. The discovery of a 15 dollar a week savings account had hurt more than anything else. As if she were the kind of wife who went through her husband’s pockets.

  “Something happened to Elliot this last year. He never would have done anything like this before. I tell you, I knew Elliot. I knew his every mood, his every thought. Goodness, we planned everything together before that, we were close to each other. I knew what he was going to say often before he did himself.”

  “Maybe you knew too much about him,” Karen Consett suggested. She knew what had happened to Elliot — an uncomplicated 20 year old armful of fluff who left him a little mental privacy. Poor old Elliot would have been such a pushover.

  Balefully Sally glared at her sister.

  “That’s what marriage is,” she said defiantly, nailing her colors to the sinking mast. For years she had been warning Karen that it wasn’t enough to feed a husband and take care of his laundry. You had to work at being a wife. Why, Karen and Bill had as much communication as a pair of amoebas.

  And what made it all so unfair was her sure conviction that if only Elliot had told her his troubles, they could have worked something out.

  In sharp contrast, Marsden was feeling the first purr of contentment to come his way for several days. First a series of long phone calls to well-placed friends had established one thing, certainly in his mind. Stubbins, Traine, and Perkins were nobodies; this meant roughly that they did not publish in certain periodicals, live at certain addresses, or have certain incomes.

  But at the Capricorn Gallery he struck pay dirt. A husky voice pinned down the elusive echo raised by the name Alec Baxter. Neil listened carefully until the first deep disappointment.

  “A commercial artist. You mean one of those ad hacks?”

  “No, no,” said the phone.

  Alex supported himself with commercial work on and off. But he did watercolors. Rather nice ones. Stronger than most. Lots of shadow.

  After this discussion had continued for what most people would think was too long, Marsden was startled again.

  Capricorn Gallery repeated that it had even sold some Baxters a few years back. On had been purchased for some college. Capricorn forgot which. Another…

  Another was now in the collection of George Charles Lancer.

  After effusive thanks, Marsden remained deep in thought. He was generally reckoned a wily young man with a sure touch for the ladies who sat on boards. And Lucy Lancer was an important patroness of the Gary. Normally Marsden would have jumped at an opportunity to approach her.

  Today, however, it was a full 20 minutes before he automatically straightened his tie, adopted a smile rarely seen by his assistant, and reached for the phone.

  Lancer was neither intimidated nor contented. He was uncomfortable. On the whole he enjoyed the world of affairs, arrangements, committees and public appearances. He preferred to have this activity sparked by something congenial to him, like mergers, international loans, or currency crises. Nevertheless he was willing to cooperate with Dartmouth functionaries.

  Now however they were intruding on his domestic comfort.

  “John,” he said the next day, “I hope you won’t mind lunching upstairs.”

  “Certainly not. Lucy all right? John asked civilly.

  It was one of Lancer’s small pleasures to dine at home when he chose to bring business to the lunch table. Theoretically this was to introduce privacy and relaxation to the frenzy of big business. Actually it was to exploit Matthilde to the fullest.

  “No, Lucy’s fine,” said George. “But she’s having a guest for lunch today.

  “Oh yes,” said Thatcher who had frequently dined a quatre with the Lancers and another patroness.

  “Marsden. That little twerp on the Committee,” George amplified. “We could join them but frankly I’m tired of this thing.”


  Nevertheless it remained a topic of his conversation over roast beef and potatoes in the President’s Dining Room of the Sloan. Lancer summarized the findings to date, as reported to him. Tactfully Thatcher agreed that they were indecisive. If he thought differently, he kept the opinion to himself.

  “And I can assure you, John, that I did not know that Lucy had bought a picture by this Baxter, whoever he is.”

  Thatcher grinned. “Oh come on George. This lunch isn’t that bad.”

  George acknowledged the truth of this. “You’re right. Fact is I don’t like the way things are going. I’m pinning my hopes on clearing this up soon. Maybe when Todd calls from Dartmouth this afternoon the news will be good.”

  Thatcher did not offer odds.

  Sometimes sympathies from friends outruns prudence. By the time Thatcher had regained his own office after lunch, he was encumbered by a chore for Dartmouth, namely IDing of a name in Patterson’s papers.

  “A Father Martin,” Miss Corsa asked, making a note. “What church?”

  Thatcher was on his way to his own desk. He answered he did not know and, without thinking, suggested a rundown of the Martins in the phone book. After that she could call it a day.

  He had reckoned without Miss Corsa’s passion for thoroughness. “Mr. Thatcher, most parishes don’t list phones in their priests’ names.”

  “Try the East Village. That’s where these artists are. And Baxter’s the only one who lives in New York. There may be a connection.”

  Miss Corsa brushed this aside. “That is, if Father Martin is a Catholic. He may be in the Episcopalian Church. Or Orthodox …”

  “Now Miss Corsa, let’s stick with statistical probabilities.”

  Miss Corsa disapproved of light dismissals.

  “Or he might be in orders, rather than in a parish …”

  “Miss Corsa …”

  She was implacable. “For that matter, Mr. Thatcher, Martin could be either a first or last name.”

  Thatcher fled.

  Miss Corsa, having shown him the vast complexity of the task he had assigned to her, would now deploy her enormous reserves of patience and expertise and unearth Father Martin who knew something about Patterson. If anyone could do it, she could.

  And what would Father Martin know?

  Thatcher ran down a list of possibilities. There was nothing in any of them to relieve the much tried Lancer. Or Dartmouth or Mrs. Patterson for that matter. Everything remained indecisive, to choose a word Thatcher had used before. What four school boys had seen, what four fellow committeemen had seen, what Patterson had said and done, and even what four classmates might know.

  Nothing yet altered the basic fact that unless Patterson turned up on the doorstep clutching the $50,000 bearer note in one hand and a file of SAT scores in the other, things were going to get worse.

  His phone rang.

  “John, George here.”

  John Putnam Thatcher did not have to ask. The news from Dartmouth had been bad.

  Chapter 12

  Commencement Address

  Probably the most active irritant in the news from Dartmouth was the disruption of Lyman Todd’s schedule.

  The Dartmouth President had been a public figure before rising to his present eminence. His doctoral thesis, suitable modified, had become a paperback bestseller in undergraduate circles, where it was viewed as a significant and cogent commentary on the role of man in urban society. While a professor at a large East Coast university he had vigorously championed the liberal arts as preparation for involvement. Subsequently his lectures on Greek patterns of personal involvement were barred to freshman. When Dartmouth aging president approached retirement, Todd became Academic Dean and made plans for his own reign. His maiden speech unveiled a two pronged attach. Students must be educated to take their place in society. Their elders must be educated to value a bigger, a better, and a wealthier Dartmouth.

  Now business people will contribute, but only on a businesslike basis. So Todd entered every office armed with graphs, charts, and financial statements. Self-made men coughing up a cool million knew where their money was going. Corporations underwriting new labs could solace themselves with Dr. Todd’s figures on the projected shortage of physicist in 25 years.

  Todd was equally successful with loftier elements. Foundations and governmental agencies were startled to find Dartmouth hurling itself into every public service project going. Poverty, racial attitudes, urban renewal, mass transit, juvenile delinquency, air and water pollution, all found a home at Dartmouth.

  Within six months The Wall Street Journal reported that here was a bonafide scholar running circle around the business school specialists currently employed by educational institutions with low endowments. After a respectful review of recent donations to Dartmouth, the Journal turned to Todd the man: “He travels an average of four or five days a week, crisscrossing the USA in the private plane reserved for his use. A tireless public speaker, he is capable of communicating his own enthusiasm for modern education, sometimes to unlikely audiences. Again and again contributors have been impressed by his encyclopaedic knowledge and his ability to back up his theories with concrete data. ‘Lyman is a human dynamo,’ commented a close associate. ‘19 hours is his idea of a normal working day.’”

  In due course Todd had read this article, as he read everything likely to be of use. Nothing if not conscientious, he accordingly embarked on a schedule featuring 19 hour days, five of them including jet trips, with disastrous consequences for his renal function.

  But these Homeric endeavors left him virtually no time for the pedestrian chores of daily administration. Mrs. Curtis, unimpressed by proof that 95% of all thefts over $25,000 are committed by college graduates, was bad enough. Parents wanting reassurance for nebulous fears were worse.

  Indeed only one interrogation of Todd’s circuit riding was truly welcome. In alternate years, Dartmouth played its traditional football rival on home ground. This mid-October weekend always saw the foliage of the surrounding mountainside reaching a melodramatic climax. A light dusting of frost could be seen early in the morning, the smell of burning leaves was everywhere, and the air was like great wine.

  Wily college fathers, decades past, had realized that it would be flying in the face of providence to waste this powerful atmospheric stimulant to nostalgic generosity. A major reunion week had been grafted on to the festivities and was now a time honored tradition. The arrangements for this weekend were receiving Todd’s personal attention. As a result, his secretary was busy arranging audiences and denying access to the Presence.

  Among the first to be admitted was naturally enough the permanent secretary of the Alumni Association. “It’s a shame that Patterson’s class is having its 15th this year,” he said. There’s sure to be a big turnout.”

  The 15th, eh?” mused Todd, his thoughts elsewhere. “Not much leeway for donations with them, is there?”

  The secretary was prepared to look on the bright side.

  “The bachelors and the doctors do very nicely by us,” he explained. “And speaking of bachelors, I’ve got the files on the four men you wanted. The ones in Patterson’s class.”

  “I don’t want them. It is those people in New York.” Here in the safety of the Dartmouth campus Todd was inclined to lump all “those people” from New York together from Mrs. Curtis to Lancer to the four boys interviewed and the Committee itself, and even the New York Police department.

  “I suppose they have some reason for it,” he admitted. “But what do you mean about the bachelors?”

  “That’s what they all are. I didn’t catch it when Patterson asked for this material the last time he was up here. He just went through the records and then asked for everything we had on these four men — formal files, press clippings, everything. You’re getting exactly what we gave him.” He tapped the folder lightly. “Now that I’ve caught on to the bachelor bit, I think Patterson may have been trying a new fundraising scheme. Or planning one. But I
can’t imagine why he left out the fifth man.”

  Fifth man?

  “There are five bachelors recorded in Patterson’s class. He asked for material on all of them except Francis Riley.”

  “Territorial problems?” Todd hazarded. He knew there were continual screams about poaching from regional associations.

  The secretary permitted himself a smile. “That didn’t seem to bother him about the others. Alec Baxter was the only one who lived in New York. Of course as I said Patterson may have been working on some scheme he was going to present to the national board. Anyway, two of them are going to be here this weekend if Mr. Lancer wishes to speak with them.”

  “We’ll let Lancer worry about that. What I’m worried about is the press. There’s certain to be some coverage of the weekend. And someone may try to tie it with this Patterson disappearance. Is there anyone in his class who could make a nice impressive statement about having every confidence in Patterson and being unwilling to judge an individual prematurely?”

  “I’ve thought of that.” The secretary congratulated himself. “And I think I’ve got the man for you. A junior Congressman who was elected last year.”

  “A Congressman,” Todd murmured approvingly. “That always makes a good impression, especially a young one.”

  So in a comparatively relaxed frame of mind, he greeted his next visitors. They were a motley trio comprising the manager of the largest Inn in town, the head of the campus police, and a representative of the college PR office.

  “Naturally we want to cooperate with the college, said the manager of the Inn. “We are very anxious to avoid a repetition of last time.”

  “We appreciate your cooperation,” said Todd.

  His briefing for the forthcoming weekend included newspaper accounts of the riot which had nearly wrecked the Inn two years before. Dartmouth had won a rare victory over its rival and Old Grads, recapturing their youth with a vengeance, had gone on a spree necessitating reinforcements from the state police.

  The PR man decided that the courtesies had gone on long enough. It was time to get down to business. “We’ve taken precautions,” he announced. “First of all, the alumni won’t be arriving until Friday night.” Diplomatically he avoided the outright reminder that last time the loyal grads had had three clear days to get tanked up before the game. “Then we’ve made a careful selection of classes staying at the Inn. I think you’ll find that your guests this weekend will represent older, more responsible grads.”