Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_03 (15 page)

Tucker's mouth stretched in a sudden smirk of satisfaction.

He knew I was afraid.

My fear amused him.

That made me mad, and suddenly I wasn't scared.

“What did you take from the tower the morning Leonard Cartwright died, Dr. Tucker?”

His eyes flared in shock.

I added swiftly, “He left a letter, didn't he?”

“Leonard Cartwright died in a very sad accident.”

“It was no accident.”

“You can't prove that.” It was as close to an admission as he would ever make.

“Don't count on it.”

“In any event”—now his eyes watched me intently—“what purpose would be served by making this kind of charge now? It would do nothing but
bring unhappiness to Leonard's family.”

“And to the family of Dean Nugent.”

He expelled a heavy breath of air.

“You see, Dr. Tucker, someone always knows something. That's what Maggie Winslow told me. And she was right.”

He rocked back on his heels, jammed his hands in his coat pockets. “I suppose you're pleased with what you're doing, Mrs. Collins. Obviously”—he paused, then picked his words carefully—“if there is any truth to the gossip you seem to have dredged up, it would appear there was a reason for Dean Nugent to disappear. I have no personal knowledge of this, of course.”

“Oh, of course not, Dr. Tucker.”

I yanked my hand out of my purse. I held the Mace canister with my thumb on the button. I raised it until it was quite visible to him.

He stared at the canister, inclined his massive head in a tiny nod. His eyes met mine. Byzantine eyes. For an instant, a chill smile touched his lips. “It's been a pleasure talking with you, Mrs. Collins.”

He turned away.

I raised my voice. “What did Leonard's suicide note say, Dr. Tucker?”

He didn't pause or look back.

“Did he tell about his relationship with Darryl Nugent?”

My only answer was the heavy thud of his footsteps, descending the stone stairs.

I waited until the sound was gone.

When I walked down the steps, I still held the Mace canister.

Damn Tucker. What did he know? That he knew much more I didn't doubt.

As I crossed the darkened campus, listening uneasily for footsteps, I was aware that I didn't know where to look next. I might be sure of what happened to Leonard Cartwright, but I still had no idea where Darryl Nugent went that March evening so many years ago.

I
have no Tuesday classes, but I got to my office shortly before eight. I had plenty on my mind. And I was coldly angry. David Tucker hadn't quite made me look a fool, but he had intimidated me. When he'd turned away from me last night in the bell tower, it was as arrogant a dismissal as I'd ever received.

I wasn't through with David Tucker.

I put my three folders, folders that were now getting dog-eared, on my desk; the Darryl Nugent file on top, the Murdoch file second, the Rosen-Voss file third.

At precisely 8
A.M.
, I picked up my phone and punched numbers I was getting to know.

“Office of the President.”

Baker, that was his secretary's name, Bernice Baker. “Bernice, this is Henrietta Collins in the Journalism School. As you will recall, I visited with Dr. Tucker last week. I just wanted to double-check. What time was it on Wednesday that he saw my student, Maggie Winslow?”

“Oh, just a moment, Mrs. Collins. Let me look at his appointments…” A pause, then her smooth, muted, efficient voice continued, “At four o'clock,
Mrs. Collins. Is that what you needed?”

“Yes, Bernice, thanks.”

I nodded in satisfaction as I hung up. It wasn't enough to order handcuffs, it wasn't enough to interest Lieutenant Urschel, but it definitely proved Maggie had talked to Tucker.

I flipped to a clean sheet in my legal pad and wrote:

 

Cartwright—suicide.

Note?

Rug missing from Nugent's office?

How could Nugent have left the building without being seen? If he got out, where did he go?

What does Tucker know???

 

I took the legal pad with me and hurried to
The Clarion
morgue. I lugged the heavy volume of bound newspapers for March 1976 to a table at the back of the room.

Leonard Cartwright's accident was the lead head on Tuesday morning, March 16:

SPRINGFIELD SENIOR DIES IN TOWER FALL

But I'd already read these stories. My objective now was photos.

A grainy two-column photo at the bottom of page I showed a stone gargoyle on the grass. The caption read:

In the photograph, the gargoyle appeared to be undamaged. I had assumed, when I saw the stone eagle in that niche, that the gargoyle had been smashed in its fall. Apparently not. Perhaps the University (And who would that be? Tucker? The Board of Governors?) had thought it inappropriate to return the gargoyle to its place even though no future accidents could occur with the window completely barred.

I wondered idly what had happened to the gargoyle.

There was no mention of the disappearance of Dean Nugent in the Tuesday-morning paper. The desk obviously had decided the story wasn't yet certain enough by the Monday-evening deadline.

Beginning Wednesday, however, the focus shifted to the missing dean. Within the next week, I found photos of Old Central with an arrow pointing to Dean Nugent's office, a front view of the main steps into Old Central, Nugent in his cap and gown in the previous year's commencement procession, Nugent and his family at an Arts and Sciences picnic, and even a picture of the door to his office.

But that was as close as I got to what I wanted.

I was ready to shelve the volume when I decided to scan it quickly one more time. That's when I found a small story on page 19 three days after Leonard's death and the dean's disappearance:

GARGOYLE TAKEN; RETURN REQUESTED

It took half an hour to skim six months' issues of
The Clarion
. The missing gargoyle was never mentioned again.

I added the missing gargoyle to my collection of little mysteries involving the missing dean. But no matter what had happened in that deadly sequence of days twenty years ago, I could count on it that the dean hadn't taken the forty-five-pound gargoyle with him when he vanished from Old Central. He hadn't even bothered to take his own suit coat.

College students have a taste for the macabre. The gargoyle could have ended up in a fraternity rec room.

I shook my head. No. Word would definitely have gotten out.

I shrugged. I doubted that now, two decades later,
I'd solve the Mystery of the Missing Gargoyle.

And it didn't matter as much as another puzzle: the Mystery of Maude's Missing Rug.

Was Nugent's secretary right and was an Oriental rug absent from its place in front of the fireplace on Tuesday morning?

Or was President Tucker correct and the rug was among the dean's personal possessions that were removed later in the week by his family?

I'd hoped for a photograph of the interior of the dean's office. It would have been a natural with a caption: “Dean Last Seen Here.” Obviously,
The Clarion
either had bowed to the dictates of taste, always doubtful, or to pressure from the University.

But there was another possibility.

 

All evidence, reports, or testimony which have been part of a court proceeding are, as a matter of law, part of the public record and, as such, are available for any reporter to see.

But of course in cases which have not been solved, the information gathered by the police is not open to the public.

However, these fine points are not always known to everyone working in a law-enforcement agency. I knew better than to try and be clever with the Derry Hills PD. I recalled Lieutenant Urschel's steady, intelligent gaze with respect. The campus patrol was, in my mind, another matter entirely. Once again
The Clarion
morgue was very useful. I found a feature written the previous year, when a new director, Roland Steele, took over. Steele was in his forties, another retired military cop.

I looked up Steele's number in the University directory. And if it took a little dissembling to gain
my objective, I was quite willing to do it.

“Chief Steele, this is Henrietta Collins in the Journalism School. I'm working on some exercises for my students in covering crime news. I'd like to do some surveys in your old files, oh, say, in the seventies, so it wouldn't be anything current, to gather some materials. Would it be convenient for your office if I dropped by in a few minutes?”

Chief Steele was pleased to be of service. In fact, he was quite genial and obliging. “Come by anytime, Mrs. Collins.”

The campus force was still housed in the basement of the stadium. My shoes echoed against the concrete runway.

Chief Steele had already given instructions to the cheerful student who was a part-time aide. She led me to a small, dingy backroom.

“Our old files are in these cabinets.” She waved toward a bank of very old-fashioned wooden cabinets.

“Thanks so much. I'll be quick.”

“Do you need—”

“No. I'm fine. I needn't take up your time.”

And I had the room to myself.

It didn't take long. The files were kept by year. Within that section, the Nugent case filled two accordion-sized folders. Each folder had a table of contents. Chief McKay, by God, had been master of his own domain.

The first folder contained what I was looking for: photographs from every angle that provided a complete record of everything visible in the office of Darryl Nugent. The photos were dated the day after his disappearance.

Thank you, Chief McKay.

There was a large—at least nine-by-twelve-foot—Oriental rug directly in front of his desk.

That was the only rug visible in the entire room.

No rug lay in front of the fireplace.

But I wanted to be sure.

There were twenty-four photos. I looked at each one slowly, carefully, thoroughly. There was one rug in the dean's office, and only one, the morning after his disappearance. The pictured rug was much too large to be the one Maude Galloway had described.

But the photos revealed more than that.

Family photographs took pride of place on Nugent's desk. I counted eight. The desktop was bare of papers. A lovely old conference table sat in one corner of the room. Roses filled an elegant cut-glass vase. The blooms drooped. On the west side of the room, a circular iron staircase rose to a narrow balcony. Filing cabinets filled the balcony. The dean's suit jacket hung from a coat tree tucked between the spiral staircase and a glass-fronted bookcase. Huge casement windows, eight to ten feet tall, were in the west and south walls. Heavy draperies were looped to each side of the windows.

Except for one window.

In the west window nearest the circular staircase, the draperies hung straight. I glanced from that window to the next one. Yes, those draperies were looped, held in place with long braided ties.

I found the photo of the south wall and saw four casement windows with draperies looped to each side. I estimated each tie to be at least four feet in length, more likely six. Two ties knotted together would afford a piece of cord eight to twelve feet in length.

Then I studied the photo of the balcony. It was an old-fashioned balcony enclosed by a balustrade.

One of the photos showed that corner of the room. The floor was parquet.

It was a floor I wanted to see.

 

Charlotte Abney rose to greet me. “Henrie O, what a pleasure to see you!”

Charlotte and I often played tennis together, but I'd never dropped by her office unannounced.

“What can I do for you?” There was the faintest hint of reserve in her tone.

“Actually, Charlotte, will you permit me to roam around your office for a few minutes?”

Charlotte is slim and attractive, with a vibrant face that mirrors her enthusiasms. This morning, however, she looked aloof and thoughtful. There was an instant's hesitation before she replied, “Certainly.”

I walked to the windows. The draperies were a stiff red brocade, the ties gold cords with two-inch tassels at the ends. I unlooped a tie. A chair scraped. Charlotte joined me at the window. “I've heard some gossip.” Her voice was crisp.

I held the cord up. Yes, it was fully six feet long. “I'll bet you have.” I pressed the braided cord between my fingers. It felt strong.

“Henrie O, they say you're in trouble.” Her tone was distant.

I relooped the tie, pulling the stiff drapery back in its customary place. “My husband always insisted that trouble was my middle name.”

Charlotte leaned against the mantel, her arms crossed. She looked especially striking, her crimson
blazer crisp, her black skirt short and fashionable. She also looked wary.

I patted her shoulder as I turned toward the corner of the room and the winding stairs. “Don't be worried on my account, Charlotte. I'll survive, one way or another. Here, or somewhere else.”

I looked up at the balcony. It ran the length of the room, which I estimated to be about thirty feet. The staircase was in the northwest corner. The police photographs showed Nugent's desk to be midway between the staircase and the east wall.

I walked to a spot halfway between the staircase and where Nugent's desk had sat. The floor was bare of carpet now, as it had been then.

Charlotte followed me.

I knelt and began to study the parquet flooring.

Charlotte stood with her hands on her hips. “Henrie O, what in the world are you doing?”

But her words seemed to come from a long distance. I traced the long scar that had at one time—but I knew when—been gouged into the wood.

I looked up. The balcony was directly above me. I stood, glanced around, pulled a Windsor chair to that spot.

I could see two ways the chair could have scored the wood.

In a struggle, a chair could have been violently shoved. That was one way.

Or—I stepped up onto the seat. I looked at the balustrade above. Then I looked thoughtfully at the draperies.

Charlotte drew her breath in sharply. She stared at me with shocked eyes. “Jesus Christ, Henrie O!”

 

I didn't yet know exactly what had happened between five and six o'clock on the evening of March 15, 1976, but I knew enough to have a very interesting talk with President Tucker. However, I didn't go to his office.

Instead, I nosed around the rear of Old Central's ornate main lobby. An inconspicuous door opened onto steep narrow stairs.

The basement was painted gray and was a repository of folded tables, stacked chairs, and discarded furniture. There were several even more subterranean rooms, but I was interested in the dark and shadowy north side, where a huge unused coal furnace sat. The modern heating system, all gleaming metal and softly humming machinery, was along the east wall.

At the very far end of the basement, past the unused furnace, I found a wide wooden overhead door. I stood on tiptoe, peered out of dirt-crusted windows and saw the sloping concrete drive of the service entrance.

It would have been easy for someone who knew the building well to move the gargoyle, temporarily placed here, out of the basement and into a waiting car—the gargoyle and anything else that required disposal.

Why the gargoyle?

So far I could imagine, but no farther.

I walked out of Old Central, circled around the building.