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Authors: Thomas Gifford
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this case we’re going to find out who killed Bill Davis!” She was at the bottom of the steps looking up, the softness in her eyes replaced by an angry glitter. “Here, take your stupid umbrella.”
He took it, drew even with her: “Well, at least we agree about my television theory. You really are something, Miss Bishop, number one in Boston … I don’t doubt it for a moment, whatever it’s worth.” He pulled away, clutching his umbrella and briefcase. There was rain spattering his glasses.
“Thank you for your time, Professor. Really.” She had the most remarkable ability to switch her attitude, ignoring the previous instant. He’d never encountered anything like it. “And if you think of anything important about Bill Davis, if anything occurs to you, if anything happens—and believe me, things are always happening in murder cases …” She was following him again. “Get hold of me, at home or at the station.” She handed him her card and reflexively he took it, stood staring at the small white rectangle.
“If I were you, Miss Bishop, I wouldn’t count on me as a source.”
She smiled, unperturbed: “Well, thanks anyway. And, you know, don’t carry a grudge. It’ll wreck your stomach and you’ll wind up with an ulcer, like me.” She waved whimsically, turned back to the crew. Beyond the gates to Mass Avenue he saw a station wagon, green and brown, a 3 on the front door. The motor was running, wiper blades clicking.
Frustrated, he crumpled the small card and dropped it at his feet. Turning abruptly he brushed past the man in the porkpie hat and got out of her range as quickly as possible. God, what an irritating creature! But she was right: everything he’d said about television was proven.
Hugh Brennan hailed him as Chandler was passing alongside the dark-red brick pile that was Matthews Hall. Chandler looked up from the sidewalk which he’d been steadfastly regarding in the hope of passing out of the scene unnoticed. Brennan pulled even, a thickly constructed, rather short man whose physique matched his personality: there was something of the good-natured barnyard animal about him, a readiness to go passively along until the point when he rooted in, stood his ground, and prepared to fight to the death. He was a professor of English, specializing in the nineteenth-century novel, Trollope in particular. “What ho,” he said matter-of-factly, then flashed a quick grin which was very nearly a permanent feature of his round face. His reddish-blond hair, curly, was plastered against his head by the rain.
“You weren’t a witness to this television mockery, I hope.”
“Ah, but I was … There you were, bathed in light, a resolute though peevish look on your face, a veritable budding star—a Galbraith, an Arthur Schlesinger—and the girl! A looker.” He saw Chandler’s grimace. “So what the hell was it all about?” His chins overhung the heavy cableknit turtleneck, giving the impression that his head rested directly upon his shoulders. They fell into step, skulked out of the Yard into the Square. Drivers were turning headlamps on. The rain continued, steadily drizzling, blowing.
Chandler described the television interview, concluded: “She just disregarded what I’d told her, what she knew to be the truth, so she’d have a good question to start off with—was I the last one to see Bill Davis alive … Goddamn show business crap!”
Brennan’s grin faded, his eyes went flat, as gray as the sky: “Did you really know the kid?”
“No, not really, you know how it is … he struck me as bright, kind of an introvert. I talked to him a couple of times, briefly, but no, I didn’t know him.”
Brennan nodded: “Well, why did he come around to see you? The day he got killed?”
“Beats me. Said he had something to show me, never said what it was.”
“The cops did talk to you, though?”
“Sure, they found my name on him, they followed it up, but it was nothing, ten minutes
He took it, drew even with her: “Well, at least we agree about my television theory. You really are something, Miss Bishop, number one in Boston … I don’t doubt it for a moment, whatever it’s worth.” He pulled away, clutching his umbrella and briefcase. There was rain spattering his glasses.
“Thank you for your time, Professor. Really.” She had the most remarkable ability to switch her attitude, ignoring the previous instant. He’d never encountered anything like it. “And if you think of anything important about Bill Davis, if anything occurs to you, if anything happens—and believe me, things are always happening in murder cases …” She was following him again. “Get hold of me, at home or at the station.” She handed him her card and reflexively he took it, stood staring at the small white rectangle.
“If I were you, Miss Bishop, I wouldn’t count on me as a source.”
She smiled, unperturbed: “Well, thanks anyway. And, you know, don’t carry a grudge. It’ll wreck your stomach and you’ll wind up with an ulcer, like me.” She waved whimsically, turned back to the crew. Beyond the gates to Mass Avenue he saw a station wagon, green and brown, a 3 on the front door. The motor was running, wiper blades clicking.
Frustrated, he crumpled the small card and dropped it at his feet. Turning abruptly he brushed past the man in the porkpie hat and got out of her range as quickly as possible. God, what an irritating creature! But she was right: everything he’d said about television was proven.
Hugh Brennan hailed him as Chandler was passing alongside the dark-red brick pile that was Matthews Hall. Chandler looked up from the sidewalk which he’d been steadfastly regarding in the hope of passing out of the scene unnoticed. Brennan pulled even, a thickly constructed, rather short man whose physique matched his personality: there was something of the good-natured barnyard animal about him, a readiness to go passively along until the point when he rooted in, stood his ground, and prepared to fight to the death. He was a professor of English, specializing in the nineteenth-century novel, Trollope in particular. “What ho,” he said matter-of-factly, then flashed a quick grin which was very nearly a permanent feature of his round face. His reddish-blond hair, curly, was plastered against his head by the rain.
“You weren’t a witness to this television mockery, I hope.”
“Ah, but I was … There you were, bathed in light, a resolute though peevish look on your face, a veritable budding star—a Galbraith, an Arthur Schlesinger—and the girl! A looker.” He saw Chandler’s grimace. “So what the hell was it all about?” His chins overhung the heavy cableknit turtleneck, giving the impression that his head rested directly upon his shoulders. They fell into step, skulked out of the Yard into the Square. Drivers were turning headlamps on. The rain continued, steadily drizzling, blowing.
Chandler described the television interview, concluded: “She just disregarded what I’d told her, what she knew to be the truth, so she’d have a good question to start off with—was I the last one to see Bill Davis alive … Goddamn show business crap!”
Brennan’s grin faded, his eyes went flat, as gray as the sky: “Did you really know the kid?”
“No, not really, you know how it is … he struck me as bright, kind of an introvert. I talked to him a couple of times, briefly, but no, I didn’t know him.”
Brennan nodded: “Well, why did he come around to see you? The day he got killed?”
“Beats me. Said he had something to show me, never said what it was.”
“The cops did talk to you, though?”
“Sure, they found my name on him, they followed it up, but it was nothing, ten minutes
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