Monkey Puzzle Read online

  ‘Perhaps the thief was interrupted,’ suggested Dr Coulter.

  ‘If he had time to mutilate his victim, I’d guess he had time to search him,’ Stryker said. ‘Now, you were all here last night at this meeting – ’ He stopped at their murmurs of protest.

  ‘You don’t suspect one of us, surely?’ Mark Heskell’s voice squeaked with indignation. ‘That’s ludicrous.’

  ‘No, it’s quite logical,’ said Kate, her voice slow and reflective. They all turned to look at her, Stryker with the most surprise of all. ‘Aiken had no family, Mark. We worked with him every day, we were with him last night. Except for muggings and robberies, people usually know their killers well. You have to know someone before you can hate them enough to . . .’ Her voice trailed off as she became aware of their concentrated regard. She looked up, her eyes darting from one face to another. When her gaze met Stryker’s, she blushed, deeply and uncontrollably.

  ‘Perhaps I should make it clear that I’ve asked you all to come here not for purposes of accusation, but elimination,’ Stryker said. ‘There’s no need to get uptight about it. Now, first off, I’d like to know exactly when each of you left the building last night.’

  Immediate chaos.

  They all started speaking at once – either to him, in protest, or to one another, seeking verifications. Nobody wanted to have been the last. Kate watched and listened to them in a kind of daze, then looked again at Stryker. He was watching them intently, and she could almost hear his mind clicking and ticking over. He does suspect one of us, she thought, in sudden horrified conviction. It’s true, it’s real. Look at him, he’s like a dog at a rabbit hole, waiting to see who makes a mistake, who makes a run for it. Their eyes met again, and it was his turn to look away.

  ‘People, people, please,’ he said, raising his voice. ‘Can’t we just get it together without all this cra . . . without all this confusion? All I want is a simple timetable, is that so terrible? I’ve only got one pair of ears, you know.’

  ‘Could have fooled me,’ Richard Wayland said, glancing at Toscarelli, who was taking notes so quickly it could only have been in shorthand.

  Stryker shrugged. ‘Okay, two pairs of ears. Big deal. Now – one at a time, please?’ Even down the length of the table Kate could feel the depth and quality of Stryker’s basic emotion. It was neither an intellectual fancy for puzzle-solving, nor a noble dedication to duty, nor a hunter picking up the scent.

  It was anger.

  The man was angry because someone was dead.

  But that’s how it should be, she thought, wonderingly.

  It took a while but eventually the pattern was established.

  Pete Rocheleau had left first – at a quarter to seven.

  Underhill had been next, at seven-ten.

  ‘With a flea in your ear,’ Heskell said.

  Underhill glared at his colleague. ‘Thanks a lot.’

  ‘Only trying to help,’ Heskell said lightly, gazing out of the window and ignoring Underhill’s glower. Stryker glanced at Tos, who met his eye and nodded, his pencil racing over the page.

  Jane Coulter had gone down in the lift at seven-forty, with Kate Trevorne and Richard Wayland. Heskell had just missed them and had taken the stairs, beating them to the bottom. Frank Heath and Lucy Grey-Jenner had been next, at around eight. They, too, had gone down in the lift together.

  Stark’s secretary, Karen Lasterman, had left just after them, and Stark himself, along with Fowler, had left at eight-twenty.

  And so it turned out that Edward Pinchman had been the last of the group to leave the building. At nine-thirty. And, when he’d left, Adamson had still been in his office. ‘I went by his door and said good night. He was on the telephone, but he raised a hand to acknowledge me.’

  ‘Why did you stay so long after the others, sir?’ Stryker asked.

  ‘I always do all my work here. Aiken was the same. Never took any work home. Can’t carry anything home with me because of my sticks, you see. Place was deserted when I left, except for Aiken. Even the boy had gone.’

  ‘Boy?’ Stryker asked, sharply.

  ‘Boy on the switchboard,’ Pinchman said.

  Stark explained. ‘I’d forgotten him. I’m sorry. But he went home long before we did, last night, because there were no classes . . .’

  ‘What boy?’ Stryker asked, evenly.

  ‘During the term-time we have a student on the switchboard until nine o’clock Mondays through Thursdays, and until seven on Fridays. We don’t have any evening classes on Friday, so . . .’

  ‘He was here last night?’ Stryker interrupted.

  ‘Only until six-thirty. Registration Week isn’t exactly – ’

  ‘Name?’

  Kate spoke up. ‘Longman. His name is Jody Longman. I have him in my murder class.’ When Stryker scowled at her, she lifted her chin. ‘I teach a course on the history and development of the crime novel.’

  ‘There you are,’ Richard Wayland said, stretching luxuriously. ‘No need to worry, Lieutenant, you have a resident expert right on hand. Just ask Kate – she’ll solve it for you. No doubt the butler did it.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Kate hissed through clenched teeth. She supposed he thought he was being funny. The worse things got, the more facetious Richard became. It was an old habit.

  ‘I see.’ Stryker nodded, and he looked at Kate. ‘Of course, it’s a well-known fact that the odds on the butler having done any given homicide are three thousand, six hundred and forty-two to four against, particularly on a Friday, as I’m certain Miss Trevorne will verify. Being an expert and all. How many of you have keys to this building?’

  Silence. Then Stark spoke. ‘We all do. Why?’

  ‘According to Campus Security, this building is locked up at eleven,’ Stryker said. ‘They make a round then, another at approximately three in the morning and another at six. The Guard who made the eleven o’clock round claims there were no lights on in any of the offices, and he saw and heard nothing unusual. All of the offices up here were locked at eleven, including Adamson’s.’

  ‘So Aiken left his office before eleven?’

  ‘Presumably. Did he mention his plans for the evening to any of you?’ Stryker looked around the table. ‘No? Did he mention having an appointment or a date of any kind?’ His eyes went to Heskell. ‘That amuses you, Mr Heskell?’

  ‘Aiken would hardly confide his social schedule to one of us,’ Heskell said, uneasily. ‘We weren’t on that kind of footing with him. We were only colleagues, you see. Not friends.’

  ‘Was it a generally known fact that Professor Adamson was gay?’ Stryker asked. ‘Or was that his little secret?’

  ‘Well, really,’ Pinchman huffed. ‘I hardly think that sort of thing should be discussed here . . .’

  ‘Oh, we can take it if you can, Edward,’ Jane Coulter said. She smiled at Stryker. ‘It was generally assumed,’ she told him. ‘Nothing was ever said.’

  ‘It was none of our business,’ Fowler said, prissily. ‘The man had a right to his privacy.’

  ‘Which is more than he granted anyone else,’ Heskell snapped.

  ‘Why do you say that, Mr Heskell?’ Stryker asked.

  ‘He was a Paul Pry, a nosey-parker, he loved knowing things other people didn’t,’ Heskell said, defensively. He looked around the table at the others. ‘Well, he did, didn’t he? I don’t see any point in being mealy-mouthed about it. The man was a menace.’

  ‘Did he menace you?’ Underhill asked, leaning forward.

  ‘No. No, of course not!’ Heskell said, testily. ‘Don’t be so damn po-faced – you know what I mean. And don’t try and read anything into it, either.’ Heskell’s voice was becoming shrill as Underhill grinned maliciously at him.

  ‘Obviously he menaced someone, didn’t he?’ It was Heath’s soft, dark voice, somehow cutting across the others without
being raised at all. ‘In a manner of speaking, that is. The man’s dead, gentlemen. The man’s dead.’

  There was an odd emphasis on the last word that made the statement seem something like a warning. Both Heskell and Underhill subsided abruptly. Fowler cleared his throat, and addressed himself to Stryker, demanding his attention.

  ‘You say the Security Guard made a round at three in the morning?’

  ‘He was supposed to,’ Stryker said, irritated at Heath for distracting the others from what had promised to develop into a nice revealing little argument.

  ‘Unfortunately, it began to snow about eleven-thirty. As Miss Trevorne will no doubt verify, burglars never work in the snow. Therefore, neither do Security Guards. Not this one, anyway.’

  ‘But he did come around at six?’ Fowler pursued the details with the enthusiasm of a connoisseur.

  ‘Oh, yes. At six he came around.’

  ‘And everything was locked up, then, too?’

  ‘Everything was locked then, too.’

  Fowler seemed confused. ‘Well – I mean to say – what made him look in Aiken’s office? He must have had to unlock the door to get in. Were the lights on?’

  ‘No, the lights were out.’

  Fowler looked around with a show of bewilderment. ‘Well, then – was he tipped off? Was there a noise? What made him investigate that particular office at six in the morning?’

  ‘Why, the blood,’ Stryker said, cheerfully. ‘The blood that was running out under the door. Wouldn’t that make you curious, Dr Fowler?’

  SIX

  The Security Guard, coming out of the Library, stopped when he saw the collection of police and official cars parked in front of Grantham Hall. He lit a cigarette, taking his time, and watched the men moving in and out. Passers-by, on foot or in cars, slowed to look and wonder.

  Well, now. What should he do?

  Of course, his duty was clear. It had been clear the previous night. He hadn’t fulfilled it then, and he was hesitating about fulfilling it now. During the course of the dawn he’d kept an eye on the events across the way, safe behind his blank windows, alone in the echoing hollow cube of the Library. Reality had come in with his relief man, at eight-thirty.

  They’d ask him why he hadn’t said anything last night. Why hadn’t he raised the alarm? There would be anger and accusation – maybe a lot of trouble.

  Some students passed him, going into the Library, buzzing about what might or might not have brought the police to Grantham Hall. One was of the opinion that a faculty member had been busted for sniffing coke, the other was certain it was murder – he’d seen the emblem of the Medical Examiner’s department on one of the cars.

  Well, the kid was right. Murder it certainly was.

  The Security Guard began to walk slowly toward Grantham Hall, crunching across the uncleared snow of the Mall and going into the side door. He went down the empty hall, his footsteps echoing off the green metal doors of the lockers. He passed the closed doors of empty classrooms, and the study area behind the lifts, without encountering anyone. But when he rounded the corner, there was Jackson in front of the lifts, and uniformed cops everywhere.

  ‘Hey, what’s going down?’

  Jackson turned, cast a wary glance at the uniformed cops and lowered his voice. Murder was going on. Upstairs, in the English Department. Adamson, the one with the limp wrist. Hell of a thing. Had he seen anything last night, for Christ’s sake?

  The Security Guard took a long last drag at his cigarette, dropped it, ground it to tatters under his heel. ‘Naw. Nothing. You?’

  ‘Nothing. Did my rounds – nothing.’ Jackson flushed. ‘Skipped my three o’clock, and didn’t they haul my ass for that? Jeesus, it was snowing. You’re all right over there. Me, I gotta go out to get here, right? It was snowing.’

  ‘They’re cruds,’ the Security Guard said, not bothering to keep his voice particularly low. ‘I wouldn’ta gone out, either.’

  ‘Well, then,’ Jackson said, self-righteously. ‘I bet I get fired. You watch. You wait – they’ll fire me.’

  ‘Talk to the Union. That three o’clock round is whadya call it – discretionary? The timing is up to you, see? They can’t do zip to you.’

  ‘No kidding?’ Jackson was mollified.

  ‘Talk to the Union,’ the Security Guard said, ‘If they try anything, I mean. You know. Like firing you.’

  ‘Okay.’

  The Security Guard left Jackson guarding the lift and walked down the hall toward the door at the far end. It would be locked, like the other secondary door, but he had a key. They all had keys.

  As he went he listened to himself, trying to figure out what he was up to, inside. He’d done it, now. Told Jackson he hadn’t seen anything. If the cops asked him, he’d have to say the same thing, wouldn’t he? Now why had he done that?

  He had seen something.

  Goddammit, he’d seen everything.

  He should tell them, they could make use of it.

  Unless, of course, he could make use of it, first.

  He paused, hand upraised with key hovering to unlock. He smiled. So that’s what his subconscious had been up to.

  The little devil.

  SEVEN

  Stryker beamed at his little group.

  ‘Now what was this meeting all about?’

  Jane Coulter stirred, releasing a waft of lilac and lavender perfume from somewhere beneath her rather worn and venerable mink coat. She shrugged it on to the seat behind her, and bent to retrieve a fur-backed mitten that fell from one pocket. She was annoyed. Since Dan was so obviously knocked over backward by all this (look at him, just sitting there!) and Arthur had begun to flutter, it was up to her as senior member of faculty (now that Aiken was out of the ranking) to take charge.

  ‘One of our regular ritual gatherings, Lieutenant,’ she said, beaming back at him. ‘The brave, loyal band of soldiers rallying around their leader. We huddle together at irregular intervals in the face of the general animosity of the student body. It reassures us.’

  ‘We always have a meeting at the end of Registration Week to see if there are going to be any problems,’ Stark muttered.

  ‘I see. And were there any?’ Stryker asked.

  ‘Nothing important.’

  ‘I think you’d better let me – ’ Stryker began.

  ‘Be the judge of that?’ Wayland finished for him. He hugged himself. ‘How classic of you.’

  Fowler made an impatient clucking noise. ‘Pay no attention to him, Lieutenant. Ever since making a nuisance of himself over Vietnam, Richard feels compelled to argue every point, deliver judgement on every utterance, and flout every authority. He feels keenly his position as resident dissident.’

  ‘Why, Arthur, a rhyme. How delightful. Resident Dissident. I love it – quick, somebody write it down.’

  ‘Someone is writing it down, Wayland,’ Pete Rocheleau said, with a warning glance in Toscarelli’s direction. ‘Unless you’re auditioning for Aiken’s role, I’d cool it.’

  ‘Aiken’s role?’ Stryker asked, quickly.

  ‘Resident gadfly,’ Underhill explained. ‘A step up from resident dissident, perhaps . . . but without benefit of rhyme.’

  ‘And far preferable to resident hack,’ Heskell put in.

  My God, they were already becoming caricatures of themselves, and we’ve only been here ten minutes, Heskell thought. Their lives are bounded by this Department, this University, this city. It was pathetic. None of them has any idea of what life was really about. Well, he amended, maybe Kate did. What a couple they’d make. But she preferred Wayland. Wayland looked wonderful, of course. He envied him that long, lean body and that negligent charm. Having to watch your weight and all the rest of it was so wearing, but where he was headed, appearance was important. One day he’d be President of this University, and then he’d be r
eady to step on to the larger stage. Academics went into government all the time. And the money –

  ‘At least I can hack it,’ Underhill snapped. ‘I hear you can’t, anymore. True?’

  ‘Now, now children,’ Stark said. ‘Play nicely.’

  Stryker’s expression was baleful. ‘If only out of consideration for the dyslexic constabulary. Could someone define “gadfly” for me – in this context?’

  Peter Rocheleau smiled and obliged.

  ‘You’re beginning to sound like one of us, Lieutenant. Watch yourself. Aiken was a wasp, a stinger. He loved making pointed remarks, sarcasm being his strong suit. He felt it his mission in life to keep us all alert. Make a wrong attribution in a lecture or make a mis-quote in an article and he was on you instantly – preferably where the audience was large. He liked to hurt. He claimed it was all in the line of maintaining literary and academic standards. It wasn’t . . .’

  ‘He wasn’t above a personal attack, now and again, just to keep his hand in,’ Frank Heath murmured. ‘Or perhaps one should keep to the image and say proboscis.’

  ‘Was he a good teacher?’ Stryker wanted to know. He’d never had Adamson when he’d attended Grantham. If his recollection was correct, Adamson had been the kind of man who swept down a hall rather than walked, usually trailing a small convoy of students in his wake.

  ‘Yes,’ Stark volunteered. ‘Very good.’

  Heskell stirred again. ‘He required the adulation of the young. He bought it by siding with them, hating the things they hated. Playing up to them was his biggest weakness – and his marking was easy. They’re quick to spot that.’

  ‘He had the ability to impart knowledge painlessly,’ Jane Coulter said. ‘That is a gift not given to all.’

  ‘Ah, a defending voice,’ Stryker said. ‘I was beginning to despair.’

  ‘I wasn’t defending him, merely pointing out a fact,’ Dr Coulter said, imperturbably. Stryker looked at her. With her tight grey curls and apple cheeks she could have been someone’s granny. As he watched she took a small black cigar from her handbag, and leaned forward as Rocheleau lit it for her. Well, he amended, maybe not everyone’s granny.