When the Bough Breaks (32 page)

“It’s barely noticeable.”

The island was a speck in the Pacific.

“And meant to be that way, my boy. In many of the older maps the island isn’t even labeled. Of course there’s no land access. The ferry makes one round-trip from the harbor when the weather and tides permit. It’s not unusual for a week or two to elapse without the trip being completed. Some of the residents own private airplanes and have landing strips on their properties. Most are content to remain in splendid isolation.”

“And Dr. Towle grew up there?”

“He most certainly did. I believe the ancestral digs have been sold. He was an only son and when he moved to California there seemed no reason to hold on to it—most of the homes are far larger than homes have a right to be. Architectural dinosaurs. Frightfully expensive to maintain—even the Two Hundred have to budget nowadays. Not all had ancestors as clever as Father.”

He patted his midriff in self-congratulation.

“Do you feel growing up in that kind of isolation had any effect on Dr. Towle?”

“Now you sound like a psychologist, young man.”

I smiled.

“In answer to your question: most certainly. The children of the Two Hundred were an insufferably snobbish lot—and to merit that designation at Jedson College requires extraordinary chauvinism. They were clannish, self-centered, spoiled, and not overly bright. Many had deformed siblings with chronic physical or mental problems—my remark about inbreeding was meant in all seriousness—and seemed to have been left callous and indifferent by the experience, rather than the opposite.”

“You’re using the past tense. Don’t they exist today?”

“There are amazingly few young ones left. They get a taste of the outside world and are reluctant to return to Brindamoor—it really is quite bleak, despite the indoor tennis courts and one pathetic excuse for a country club.”

To stay in character I had to defend Towle.

“Professor, I don’t know Doctor Towle well, but he’s very well spoken of. I’ve met him and he seems to be a forceful man, of strong character. Isn’t it possible that growing up in the type of environment you describe Brindamoor to be could increase one’s individuality?”

The old man looked at me with contempt.

“Rubbish! I understand you have to pretty up his image, but you’ll get nothing but the truth from me. There wasn’t an individual in the bunch from Brindamoor. Young man, solitude is the nectar of individuality. Our Willie Towle had no taste for it.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I cannot recall ever seeing him alone. He palled around with two other dullards from the island. The three of them pranced around like little dictators. The Three Heads of State they were called behind their backs—pretentious, puffed-up boys. Willie, Stu and Eddy.”

“Stu and Eddy?”

“Yes, yes, that’s what I said. Stuart Hickle and Edwin Hayden.”

At the mention of those names I gave an involuntary start. I struggled to neutralize my expression, hoping the old man hadn’t noticed the
reaction. Happily, he appeared oblivious, as he lectured in that parched voice:

“…and Hickle was a sickly, pimple-faced rotter with a spooky disposition, not a word out of him that wasn’t censored by the other two. Hayden was a mean-spirited little sneak. I caught him cheating on an exam and he attempted to bribe me out of failing him by offering to procure for me an Indian prostitute of supposedly exotic talents—can you imagine such gall, as if I were unable to fend for myself in affairs of lust! Of course I failed him and wrote a sharp letter to his parents. Got no reply—no doubt they never read it, off on some European jaunt. Do you know what became of him?” he ended rhetorically.

“No,” I lied.

“He’s now a judge—in Los Angeles. In fact I believe all three of them, the glorious Heads, moved to Los Angeles. Hickle’s some kind of chemist—wanted to be a doctor, just like Willie, and I believe he actually did begin medical school. But he was too stupid to pull through.”

“A judge,” he repeated. “What does that say about our judicial system?”

The information was pouring in fast and, like a pauper suddenly discovering a sizeable inheritance, I wasn’t sure how to deal with it. I wanted to shed my cover and wring every last bit of information out of the old man, but there was the case—and my promises to Margaret—to think about.

“I’m a nasty old bugger, am I not?” cackled Van der Graaf.

“You seem very perceptive, Professor.”

“Oh, do I?” He smiled craftily. “Any other tidbits I can toss your way?”

“I know Dr. Towle lost his wife and child several years back. What can you tell me about that?”

He stared at me, then refilled his glass and sipped. “All part of your story?”

“All part of fleshing out the portrait,” I said. It sounded feeble.

“Ah, yes, fleshing it out. Of course. Well, it was a tragedy, no two ways about it, and your doctor was rather young to be dealing with it. He was married during his sophomore year to a lovely girl from a good Portland family. Lovely, but outside his circle—the Two Hundred tended to marry each other. The engagement came as a bit of surprise. Six months later the girl gave birth to a son and that mystery was cleared up.

“For a while the trio seemed to be breaking up—Hickle and Hayden slinked off by themselves as Willie attended to the duties of a married man. Then the wife and child were killed and the Heads were reunited.
I suppose it’s natural that a man will seek the comfort of friends in the wake of such a loss.”

“How did it happen?”

He peered into his glass and downed the last few drops.

“The girl—the mother—was taking the child to the hospital. He’d woken up with the croup or some such ailment. The nearest emergency facility was at the Children’s Orthopedic Hospital, at the University. It was in the early morning hours, still dark. Her car went over the Evergreen Bridge and plunged into the lake. It was daybreak before it was found.”

“Where was Dr. Towle?”

“Studying. Burning the midnight oil. Of course this caused him to be guilt-stricken, absolutely wretched. No doubt he blamed himself for not having been there and been drowned himself. You know the type of self-flagellation embraced by the bereaved.”

“A tragic affair.”

“Oh yes. She was a lovely girl.”

“Dr. Towle keeps her picture in his office.”

“A sentimentalist, is he?”

“I suppose.” I drank some whiskey. “After the tragedy he began seeing more of his friends?”

“Yes. Though as I hear you use the term I realize something. In my concept of friendship there is implied a bond of affection, some degree of mutual admiration. Those three always looked so grim when they were together—they didn’t seem to enjoy each other’s company. I never knew what the link between them was, but it did exist. Willie went away to medical school and Stuart tagged along. Edwin Hayden attended law school at the same university. They settled in the same city. No doubt you’ll be contacting the other two in order to obtain
laudatory
quotes for your article. If there is an article.”

I struggled to remain calm.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, I think you know what I mean, my boy. I’m not going to ask you to present identification confirming you’re who you say you are—it wouldn’t prove a thing anyway—because you seem like a pleasant, intelligent young man and how many visitors to whom I can blab do you think I receive? Enough said.”

“I appreciate that, Professor.”

“And well you should. I trust you have your reasons for wanting to ask me about Willie. Undoubtedly they’re boring and I’ve no wish to know them. Have I been helpful?”

“You’ve been more than helpful.” I filled our glasses and we shared another drink, no conversation passing between us.

“Would you be willing to be a bit more helpful?” I asked.

“That depends.”

“Dr. Towle has a nephew. Timothy Kruger. I wonder if there’s anything you could tell me about him.”

Van der Graaf raised his drink to his lips with trembling hands. His face clouded.

“Kruger.” He said the name as if it were an epithet.

“Yes.”

“Cousin. Distant cousin, not nephew.”

“Cousin, then.”

“Kruger. An old family. Prussians, every one of them. Power brokers. A powerful family.” His mellifluousness was gone and he spat out the words with mechanical intonation. “Prussians.”

He took a few steps. The arachnid stagger ceased abruptly and he let his hands drop to his sides.

“This must be a police matter,” he said.

“Why do you say that?”

His face blackened with anger and he raised one fist in the air, a prophet of doom.

“Don’t trifle with me, young man! If it has something to do with Timothy Kruger there’s little else it could be!”

“It is part of a criminal investigation. I can’t go into details.”

“Oh, can’t you? I’ve wagged my tongue at you without demanding to know your true intentions. A moment ago I judged them to be boring. Now I’ve changed my mind.”

“What is it about the Kruger name that scares you so much, Professor?”

“Evil,” he said. “Evil frightens me. You say your questions are part of a criminal investigation. How do I know what side you’re on?”

“I’m working with the police. But I’m not a policeman.”

“I won’t tolerate riddles! Either be truthful or be gone!” I considered the choice.

“Margaret Dopplemeier,” I said. “I don’t want her to lose her job because of anything I tell you.”

“Maggie?” he snorted. “Don’t worry about her, I’ve no intention of letting on the fact that she led you to me. She’s a sad girl, needs intrigue to spice up her life. I’ve spoken enough to her to know that she clings longingly to the Conspiracy Theory of Life. Dangle one before her—she’ll go for it like a trout for a lure. Kennedy assassinations, Unidentified Flying Objects, cancer, tooth decay—all the result of a grand collusion of anonymous demons. No doubt you recognized that and exploited it.”

He made it sound Machiavellian. I didn’t dispute it.

“No,” he said. “I’ve no interest in crushing Maggie. She’s been a friend. Apart from that, my loyalties to this institution are far from blind. I detest certain aspects of this place—my true home, if you will.”

“Such as the Krugers?”

“Such as the environment that allows Krugers and their ilk to flourish.”

He tottered, the too-large head lolling on its misshapen base.

“The choice is yours, young man. Put up or shut up.”

I put up.

“Nothing in your story surprises me,” he said. “I didn’t know of Stuart Hickle’s death nor of his sexual proclivities, but neither are shocking. He was a bad poet, Dr. Delaware, very bad—and nothing is beyond a bad poet.”

I recalled the verse at the bottom of Lilah Towle’s yearbook obituary. It was clear who “S” was.

“When you mentioned Timothy I became alarmed, because I didn’t know if you were in the employ of the Krugers. The badge you showed me is well and fine, but such trinkets are easily counterfeited.”

“Call Detective Delano Hardy at West Los Angeles Police Division. He’ll tell you what side I’m on.” I hoped he wouldn’t take me up on it—who knew how Hardy would react?

He looked at me thoughtfully. “No, that won’t be necessary. You’re a dreadful liar. I believe I can intuitively tell when you’re telling the truth.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. A compliment was intended.”

“Tell me about Timothy Kruger,” I said.

He stood blinking, gnomelike, a concoction of a Hollywood special-effects lab.

“The first thing I’d like to emphasize is that the evil of the Krugers has nothing to do with wealth. They would be evil paupers—I imagine they were, at one time. If that sounds defensive, it is.”

“I understand.”

“The very wealthy are not evil, Bolshevist propaganda to the contrary. They are a harmless lot—overly-sheltered, reticent, destined for extinction.” He took a step backward as if retreating from his own prediction.

I waited.

“Timothy Kruger,” he finally said, “is a murderer, plain and simple, The fact that he was never arrested, tried or convicted does nothing to diminish his guilt in my eyes. The story goes back seven—no, eight years. There was a student here, a farm boy from Idaho. Sharp as a
tack, built like Adonis. His name was Saxon. Jeffrey Saxon. He came here to study, the first of his family to finish high school, dreaming of becoming a writer.

“He was accepted on an athletic scholarship—crew, baseball, football, wrestling—and managed to excel in all of those while maintaining an A average. He majored in history and I was his faculty advisor, though by that time I wasn’t teaching any more. We had many chats, up here in this room. The boy was a pleasure to converse with. He had an enthusiasm for life, a thirst for knowledge.”

A tear collected in the corner of one drooping, blue eye.

“Excuse me.” The old man pulled out a linen handkerchief and dabbed his cheek. “Dusty in here, must get the custodial staff to clean.” He sipped his whiskey and when he spoke his voice was enfeebled by memories.

“Jeffrey Saxon had the curious, searching nature of a true scholar, Dr. Delaware. I recall the first time he came up here and saw all the books. Like a child let loose in a toy store. I lent him my finest antiquarian volumes—everything from the London edition of Josephus’
Chronicles
to anthropologic treatises. He devoured them. ‘For God’s sake, Professor,’ he’d say, ‘it would take several lifetimes to learn even a fraction of what there is to know.’—that’s the mark of an intellectual, in my view, becoming cognizant of one’s own insignificance in relation to the accumulated mass of human knowledge.

“The others, of course, thought him a rube, a hick. They made fun of his clothes, his manner, his lack of sophistication. He spoke to me about it—I’d become a kind of surrogate grandfather I suppose—and I reassured him that he was meant for more noble company than what Jedson had to offer. In fact I’d encouraged him to put in for a transfer to an Eastern school—Yale, Princeton—where he could achieve significant intellectual growth. With his grades and a letter from me, he might have made it. But he never got a chance.