A Rare Murder In Princeton (20 page)

WHEN MCLEOD GOT home that afternoon, she bustled about preparing for Nick Perry’s visit. George came home, took a shower, shaved, and departed without noticing that she had put out cheese and crackers and was building a fire in the parlor. “Have a good time,” she had called out as he was leaving, but her voice had sounded insincere, she thought.

Nick was so late that McLeod had to go outside for more wood to keep the fire going. When he appeared, she offered him a drink, expecting him to say no.

“Yes, I will,” he said.

“Scotch? Gin?” she asked. “I don’t think we have any bourbon or vodka . . .”

“Scotch on the rocks would be fine,” he said. “I’ll get out the ice,” he added.

“Good,” she said and led the way to the kitchen.

“George not here?” he asked as he popped ice cubes out of the tray.

“He’s out. He has a date,” said McLeod.

“Oh,” said Nick. “I thought you and he—never mind.”

McLeod handed him the bottle of scotch and poured herself a glass of red wine. They went back to the parlor, and Nick began to eat crackers and cheese at a rapid rate.

“Tell me about your burglary,” he said.

“How did you know about it?”

“I’m a policeman,” he said.

“Why do you want to know about it?”

“I’m a policeman.”

“Oh, Nick, I know that, but you’re a policeman in charge of a murder investigation—what do you care about a burglary? Or maybe it’s a good thing you want to talk about the burglary, not the murder. At least you’ll have a drink. I don’t think I ever saw you have a drink before.”

“Look, I’m still investigating the murder, but I have to cover every possibility. Sergeant Popper told me he saw a breaking and entering at this address on the record and I thought I’d better look into it. I sent him home—he’s been working nonstop—and came over here to talk to you. And I’m clandestinely having a drink. Okay? Now tell me about the blooming break-in.”

“You’ve been working nonstop, too, haven’t you?” said McLeod.

“The break-in,” said Nick.

“All right, all right, I’m sorry,” said McLeod. “It happened last Thursday, the day after I found Philip Sheridan’s body.” She described the broken pane in the door and the ransacking of her room. “But nothing was taken that we know of. That’s the funny thing.”

“They were looking for something,” said Nick. “Did you bring anything home the day you found the body?”

“Not that I know of,” said McLeod. “And the funny thing is that somebody rifled my office last night.”

“Really? Did you report it?”

“Frieda, the office manager at the Humanities Council, reported it to Public Safety—you know, campus security,” said McLeod. “But I don’t suppose anybody reported it to the police.”

“McLeod, you must have something that somebody wants.”

“I can’t imagine what it is,” she said. “Another drink?”

“Yes, but I’ll make it half as big as the first one.” When they had settled down again, she asked him if Chester had identified the knife in the van Dyke box.

“He’s sure it’s the one that belonged to Sheridan,” Nick said.

“And was it the murder weapon?”

“Yes, it was. I just got the report from the state lab. That’s why I was late.”

“Does that help toward a solution?” McLeod asked.

“We knew it was somebody that works in Rare Books,” said Nick. “This is just icing on the cake.” He took a sip of his very mild drink. “Tell me, what do you think of Ledbetter?”

“I like Natty,” McLeod said. “He’s full of that ‘dear boy’ and ‘dear lady’ stuff, but he seems to care about the collections and I think he must be good at his job. He’s not a suspect, is he?”

“Everybody is a suspect,” said Nick.

“Is Chester still a suspect?”

“Everybody is a suspect,” he said. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“Are you hungry?” asked McLeod. “It’s after nine o’ clock.”

Nick looked at his watch.

Does he have to check everything I say? wondered McLeod.

“Yes, I am. I’d take you out to dinner, but to tell you the truth, I don’t think I’d better. As soon as we sat down, I’d get a call.”

“And you don’t want to be seen having dinner with a suspect, do you?” said McLeod.

He looked at her. “You’re not really a suspect, McLeod, but people might think you were. At least you’re involved; you found the body. I told you I was having a clandestine drink. The whole thing is clandestine.”

“That makes it interesting,” said McLeod, smiling happily.

“Good. Could we order in a pizza or Chinese or something ?”

“We could,” McLeod said without any enthusiasm. “Or I can make grilled cheese sandwiches or scramble some eggs or something.”

“Great,” said Nick. He did grilled cheese and bacon sandwiches while she made a salad and found an unopened bag of potato chips.

They ate at little tables in front of the parlor fire, and McLeod seized the chance to ask him questions she had always wanted to ask. Where did he grow up and where did he go to school?

“I grew up right here in Princeton,” he said. “I went to the high school and then to Yale.”

“How did you happen to become a policeman?”

“It’s a long story. My father was a lawyer—he’s retired and lives in Florida—and I thought I’d be a lawyer. I liked the idea of being a lawyer, but by the time I was a senior in college, I couldn’t stand the idea of going to law school. I decided to be a policeman. I used to read a mystery story a day. So I got a master’s in criminology at Rutgers. It wasn’t nearly as bad as law school and it only lasted half as long. Anyway, here I am—a law-and-order man in my hometown.”

“That’s great,” said McLeod.

“It’s all right,” said Nick.

They were drinking coffee before the fire when George came home. He looked in the parlor, and then came in.

“Well, Lieutenant, how do you do?” he said.

“Fine,” said Nick, getting up and shaking hands. “And you?”

“I’m good.”

“You’re home early,” said McLeod.

“So I am,” said George.

“Would you like some coffee?” asked McLeod.

“Sure, and I’ll have a brandy. Brandy, Lieutenant? McLeod?”

“I’d better not,” said Nick. “I have to start work early tomorrow.”

“Don’t we all?” said George. “McLeod?”

“No, thanks,” she said.

When George returned with his brandy and coffee, he sat down with them, and said to McLeod. “Well, I saw my treasure today.”

At first she thought he meant Polly What’s-her-name and then realized what he was talking about. “Natty told me,” she said. “Were you impressed?”

“Very. I wish I’d known about it sooner, though.”

Oh dear, he was still cross, thought McLeod.

“What treasure is this?” asked Nick.

“So tell him about it,” said George.

McLeod went through the story one more time—cleaning out the garage, the box of old dresses, Clark Powell, the discovery of the book and crucifix and ivory box and turning them over to Rare Books for safekeeping.

“Let me get this straight,” said Nick. “You and Dante Immordino—I know him—cleaned out the garage, and you salvaged a box of old clothes because you thought your student might be able to use them for a play, and you took the clothes to campus and opened the box and found a valuable book and relics in them. You locked them in your file cabinet on Thursday and then yesterday you took them to the library. Is that right?”

“That’s right,” said McLeod.

“And the drawer of your file cabinet was jimmied last night?”

“That’s right.”

“Don’t you see?” said Nick. “Somebody is after these things.”

McLeod and George looked at each other and then at Nick, who stared back. “It’s plain, isn’t it?”

“Plain as day,” said McLeod weakly. “Now that you point it out so clearly.”

Nick smiled, and started asking questions, taking them back over every detail of the break-in and going over McLeod’s activities with the carton of dresses.

“I would have given you a ride to campus so you didn’t have to get that carton from the garage up to Joseph Henry House,” said George.

“Oh, you had already left for work before I even remembered to take the box,” she said.

Nick ignored this interchange and went on with his questions. “Don’t you see you got the carton out of the house just before Mr. X came in after it?” he said. “And you must have a guardian angel. You got it out of your office just before X came in there.” He paused. “You know, I think I’ll have someone ask Dante Immordino a few questions.”

“Dante’s so nice. You don’t think he was trying to steal something, do you?” said McLeod.

“I don’t know,” said Nick. “I just think somebody should ask him some questions.”

“Do you think this has anything to do with the murder?” George asked.

“I don’t know, but I’m glad I came by here tonight. It was an impulse this morning when I asked you if I could come, McLeod. I thought you could tell me more about some of the people involved—you do get a lot out of people. But this is news. I’ll find out if it has anything to do with the murder. And now I’d better go.” He stood up, thanked them both, and departed.

“I’m sorry I drove your beau away,” said George.

“He’s not my beau,” said McLeod. “Why are you home so early? What happened to your girl date?”

“She had a headache,” said George, and grinned. “I’m glad I came home early, though, and mentioned the treasure. Good for Perry. I feel stupid that I didn’t make the connection.”

“What about me?” said McLeod. “You just found out about it yesterday but I’ve known since—”

“You just found out about your office this morning,” George reminded her.

“And I did keep forgetting about that stuff. I know it’s hard to understand, but—”

“I understand,” said George.

McLeod was suddenly feeling better about everything.

GEORGE CALLED HER from his office before she left the house on Wednesday. “I just wanted to confirm that we’re going to Dodo’s house for dinner tonight,” he said. “What time?”

“Let me look. It’s late—seven-thirty. And that probably means we won’t eat until nine or nine-thirty.”

“I’ll be home in time to get there at seven-thirty. See you.”

McLeod had several conferences scheduled with students, but she could spend some time that morning in Rare Books. She could find out if anything new had happened, and there was one question she wanted to clear up.

Molly said she didn’t know of anything new, so McLeod signed in so she could go back to the Reading Room and call up another van Dyke box.

Miss Swallow looked up from the large book she was perusing, stood, and beckoned her out of the Reading Room. “I just wanted to tell you that yesterday afternoon sometime after I got back from lunch I made a point of getting close to Miss Mobley and I smelled alcohol!” she said in a low, conspiratorial voice.

“In the afternoon! Then you were right,” said McLeod. “Do you think she drinks enough for it to interfere with her job?”

“I don’t think so,” said Miss Swallow. “She seems very competent to me, but—well, volatile.”

“Yes. That’s very interesting. Thanks for telling me.”

“And another thing,” Miss Swallow was saying, “Nathaniel Ledbetter came in this morning and told me he had heard about my distress over the missing orchid prints and he said that he personally was going to make a special effort to find them for me. He said, ‘I have an idea where they might be. I’ll check and get back to you.’ I thought that was very nice of him.”

“He’s a very nice man,” said McLeod.

Miss Swallow agreed, said she had to get back to work, and McLeod followed her into the Reading Room. She worked on a new box of papers and was charmed by an anecdote she read. After van Dyke resigned as ambassador to the Netherlands during World War I, he went to see his old friend, Josephus Daniel, Secretary of the Navy, and asked, “How old do you think I am?” “You look about thirty-five to me,” said Daniels. “If you say I’m thirty-five, I am.” He became a Navy chaplain and traveled the country urging its entry into the “righteous” war. He contributed his salary to the United States Naval Academy, which used the money to endow a prize for the best patriotic paper by a midshipman each year.

This was fairly interesting, but McLeod couldn’t keep her mind on it. She left and stuck her head in Natty’s office.

“Come in, come in, dear lady,” said Natty, standing up as he always did.

McLeod sat down, as she always did, so Natty would sit down. “One thing’s been bothering me, Natty,” she said. “I know Philip Sheridan left Chester some money. What about his bequest to the university? It’s safe and sound for Princeton, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes, dear lady. Philip was a man of his word. All of his incomparable collection belongs to Princeton University —or it will as soon as the will is probated. It’s a magnificent gift.”