Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 09 (16 page)

He nodded, and we exited the john and went out past the stocky doorkeeper into the warm night; the air this close to the drainage canal seemed muggy, and there was no sign of the trade-wind breeze that made the Hawaiian heat so bearable. He leaned against a Model A and fished a pack of Chesterfields from his pocket. He shook out a smoke, then held the pack toward me.

“Want one?”

“No thanks,” I said. “It’s the only bad habit I haven’t acquired.”

He lighted up with a match. “You know, all you had to do was ask. I’m willing to help. You didn’t have to crack wise.”

I shrugged, leaned against a parked Hupmobile coupe, facing him. “I left four messages for you at Pearl—two with your captain, two with your wife. You never returned my calls. I figured maybe you were ducking me, Lieutenant.”

“I’m just busy,” he said, waving out the match.

“Is that why you didn’t testify at the Ala Moana trial?”

He blew out smoke. “Nobody asked me to testify. Besides, I was on sub duty.”

“Did somebody arrange that?”

The eyes tightened again. “What are you getting at, pal?”

“Nothing. Just, when I went over the court transcripts, you seemed like a pretty important witness to turn into the little man who wasn’t there.”

“I’ve cooperated right down the line. Tommie’s my best friend. I’d do anything for him.”

“You mean, like sleep with his wife?”

He pitched the cigarette and lurched forward, grabbing me by my parrot shirt. He was close enough I could tell it was bourbon he’d been drinking; couldn’t make out the brand, though, but definitely not home brew.

“You got a filthy mouth, Heller.”

I looked down toward his clenched fists clutching my shirt. “That’s silk. It damages easily.”

He blinked and let go. Backed off. “It’s a dirty damn lie. Thalia is a—”

“Nice girl. She loves Tommie. Quiet, though. Yeah, I heard the story. You guys all got it down pat—that’s probably why none of you were called at the first trial.”

“What are you talking about?”

“DAs don’t like it when groups of witnesses use identical language; they’re afraid some smart defense lawyer will crack through the hooey and get at the truth—like how you submariners pass your wives around like other guys pass around a ciggie or a bottle.”

He was sneering again. “You’re a cocky son of a bitch, aren’t you? You really want your teeth handed to you, don’t you?”

“You want to try, Jimmy? Or do you only break women’s jaws?”

He blinked. “Is that what you think? You think
I
hit Thalia…?”

“Lovers’ quarrel turns ugly—a girl needs somebody to blame. Who better than a bunch of ‘niggers’?”

His face was reddening. “You’re crazy—there was
nothing
between Thalia and me.

“I have witnesses that place you in Thalia’s house, last May, when her husband was away, on sub duty. Witnesses who say you also went on overnight trips to the beach.”

He was shaking his head, no, violently, no. “That’s just small filthy minds talking. Thalia and my wife Jane and Tommie and I, we’re close friends, that’s all. It was completely innocent.”

“Separate bedrooms, you mean? Now tell me about how Santa Claus is a real guy.”

“Go to hell! My wife went back home, last May, to Michigan, to take care of her sick mama. I was alone, Thalia was alone…lonely. I kept her company. Out of friendship to both her and Tommie.”

“Oh, I believe this. This sounds real likely.”

“I don’t give a damn what you believe! There was nothing between Thalia and me except friendship. And if I didn’t want to help her
and
Tommie, I wouldn’t be putting up with this horseshit interrogation!”

“Okay,” I said calmly, patting the air with my hands. “Okay. Then let’s just back up a few steps. Tell me what happened that night. The night Thalia was assaulted.”

He let out a sigh, then shrugged. “It was just another Navy Night at the Ala Wai. Dancing, drinking, laughing. Husbands and wives do tend to split up on Navy Night, go their separate ways—nothing wrong with that. We’re not swapping wives! It’s just a damn party.”

“Okay. Did you see Thalia leave?”

“No.”

“Did you leave yourself, at any time?”

“No.”

“Well, you eventually
did
leave….”

Another shrug. “Party lasted longer than usual. I even slipped a couple bucks to the orchestra to play past midnight, we were having so much fun. I took off my shoes and danced. Everybody stood around and clapped in rhythm and…”

“Everybody saw you, you mean.”

Another rifle-aim narrowing of the eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you might have slipped out, then slipped back, and made yourself conspicuously seen, to build an alibi.”

“I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”

“What were you doing walking outside Thalia’s house with your fly unbuttoned, Jimmy?”

“I was a little drunk. I took a piss in the bushes. Some cops came along and I got smart with ’em and they hauled me in.”

“That’s how you became a suspect in the rape.”

He scowled. “It was just a stupid mix-up. Tommie told ’em he’d been with me all night. Thalia vouched for me, too.”

“What were you doing there? You don’t live next door to the Massies or anything.”

“Tommie and me left the Ala Wai around one o’clock; when he couldn’t find Thalia, he assumed she’d gone on to the Rigbys—it was kind of an after-party tradition to go over to Red’s for a nightcap and scrambled eggs, and when Tommie called home from the Ala Wai and got no answer, he figured Thalia must’ve caught a ride over there. Tommie drove us over to the Rigbys, but there was no Thalia. So Tommie called home again—and this time she was there, and that’s when she told him about the…you know.”

“The rape.”

“Right. Tommie rushed out and took off in his Ford, and then I started gettin’ worried…. I’d only heard his half of the phone conversation, but it was clear something was terribly wrong at home. So I walked over.”

“And stopped to take a piss along the way.”

“Yeah. And forgot to button my fly, and that’s how the stupid mix-up with the cops happened.”

“I see. Do you know anything about Thalia having an argument with Lt. Stockdale?”

He shrugged. “I was just on the fringe of that. It was nothing special.”

“What was it about?”

“I don’t really know. When people are drinking, they don’t need an excuse to bicker.”

“I guess they don’t.”

We stood staring at each other. The muffled sound of the band and the gaiety within the Ala Wai mingled with the call of birds and the rustle of trees; these sounds, which neither of us had noticed while we were talking, seemed suddenly deafening.

Finally he asked, “Is that all?”

I nodded. “Thanks for the information.”

His smile was nervous. “Look, uh…sorry I grabbed your shirt. I know you’re just doing your job.”

“Forget it. I was provoking you.”

“You admit that?”

I nodded. “I’ve been getting canned stories from everybody I talked to here, tonight. I had to find a way to cut through the bullshit, so I gave you the needle.” I held out my hand. “No hard feelings?”

He took it; we shook.

“No hard feelings,” he said.

I smiled at him, and he smiled back, but I didn’t mean it, and neither did he. This bastard had been fucking Thalia Massie, and we both knew it.

We wandered back inside together, and split off faster than the marrieds around this joint did. I went over and buttonholed the stocky doorkeeper, Joe Freitas.

“You wouldn’t happen to know Lt. Stockdale, would you, Joe?” I was asking this question over the edge of a shiny half-dollar.

Joe snatched the half-buck and jerked a thumb upward. “Booth upstairs. Tall good-lookin’ fella. Short curly yella hair.”

Stockdale was, as the doorkeeper had promised, a blond-haired bruiser, ruggedly handsome; he had a flask and two glasses, an ashtray with two burning cigarettes, and a skinny but pretty brunette he was nuzzling. Both he and his lady friend were tipsier than a three-legged table.

“Sure, I’ll talk to you!” he exploded, good-naturedly drunk. “Sit yourself down. This is Betty. She’s Bill Ransom’s wife—except for tonight.” And he let out a horse laugh and Betty’s giggle evolved into an unladylike snort.

I slid into the booth. “I hear the night Thalia Massie was assaulted, you and she had a little run-in.”

“Hey, first off,” he said, overcompensating with his enunciation in an effort to be soberly serious, “I’m as against niggers raping white women as the next guy.”

“That’s an admirable view.”

“Just because Thalia Massie is a lousy stuck-up slut is no reason niggers should go around raping her. That character, Joe Ka-ha-what’s-it?
I’da
shot that black bastard myself, if they’d invited me to the party. Tommie Massie is my pal.”

“What happened that night, Ray? Between you and Thalia, I mean.”

He shrugged. “We was eatin’, and me and the wife and another coupla couples.” He gestured vaguely off to the right. “Over in one of the private dinin’ rooms. Thalia come stumblin’ in, drunk as skunk, uninvited.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Nobody liked Thalia, snooty little bitch. Little Miss Sassiety Butter-Wouldn’t-Fucking-Melt-in-Her-Pussy.”

Ah yes. As Olds had said, you make special friends on submarine duty.

“She come waltzin’ in here, and we just ignore her. She wasn’t invited! And she just stands there with her goddamn nose in the air, and clears her throat and says, ‘Don’t you know a lady’s entered the room.’ I says, ‘I don’t see any.’ About then, Jimmy Bradford comes in, lookin’ for her I guess…they used to be kind of an item, y’know. Anyway, pouty little bitch says, ‘You’re no gentleman, Lt. Stockdale,’ and Bradford says, ‘Take it easy, baby, this is a public place.’ But Miss Sassiety Bitch struts up and sticks her chin in my face and says, ‘I don’t care! You’re no gentleman, Lt. Stockdale, talkin’ to me like that!’ I says, ‘Well, Thalia, who gives a shit what a lousy slut like you thinks, anyway.’ Which is when she slapped me.”

“Slapped
you….”

This hadn’t been in the transcript material I’d been provided! No wonder Doris Olds had referred to Thalia as “slap-happy.”

“Yeah.” He touched his jaw. “She whaled me a good one.”

“Then what happened?”

He shrugged. “She stormed outa there. Good thing, too. I’da kicked her fat ass, if she hadn’t, and the other fellas hadn’t been holding me back. I was well and truly pissed off. Then, I guess somebody went looking for Tommie, to tell him what happened. He come looking for her, but she was long gone, o’ course.”

“When was this?”

“I dunno. Eleven-thirty, maybe.”

I thanked Stockdale and left him to his guzzling and nuzzling, and searched out the doorkeeper again.

“Joe, did you hear anything about a fuss upstairs involving Mrs. Massie, the night of the assault?”

“She slap some sailor, I hear.”

“Did you see her leave? I mean, did she come flying down the stairs and go rushing out?”

Joe shook his head, no. “That was a busy night. I was showin’ people to their seats, not always watchin’ the door.”

“You didn’t see her leave, sometime between eleven-thirty and midnight?”

“No…but I did see somethin’ else.”

“What?”

His smile was friendly but his eyes were mercenary. “I’m tryin’ to remember, boss.”

I dug out a dollar for him. “Does this jog it?”

“Comin’ back to me, boss. I remember her, that girl in the green dress. When her party come in that night, it was the first big party to arrive, and she walk ahead of others, with her head bent over. I thought maybe she was mad at somebody, or maybe drunk already.”

“That’s not worth a buck, Joe. Keep trying.”

“Okay. But I think maybe this is worth two dollars.”

“Try me and see.”

“Oh-kay. I remember seein’ her standin’ by the doorway about midnight, little after, maybe. She was talkin’ to Sammy.”

That perked me up. “Who’s Sammy?”

“Sammy’s worth two dollars, easy.”

“Two bucks it is. Who’s Sammy, Joe?”

“He’s a music boy.”

“What?”

“Hawaiian boy, he play music with Joe Crawford’s band, over on Maui. But when he’s home, on Oahu, he like to come over to the Ala Wai, and listen to the music, here. We always got good music here, boss.”

“What were Sammy and Mrs. Massie talking about?”

“I couldn’t hear ’em.” He shrugged. “Not even for ’nother dollar.”

“Were they friendly?”

“She seem a little worked up.”

“Arguing, then?”

“No. Jus’ talkin’, boss.”

“Has Sammy been back since?”

“Sure. Now an’ then, once in while.”

“Lately?”

“Not sure.”

“Look—this is where you can reach me.” I got out my notebook, jotted down my name and the Royal Hawaiian’s phone number, tore off the paper. “If Sammy shows up, no matter what time of day, Monday through Sunday—you call me. There’s a fin in it for you—and I don’t mean a shark, get me?”

Grinning, he snatched the slip of paper from my hands like it was the five-spot. “Got you, boss.”

The rest of the evening I spent dancing with Isabel to the syrupy but rhythmic music of the Sol Hoopii Trio.

And when we went out to the car, hand in hand, she said, “Did you find anything out?”

“Nothing particularly useful,” I said.

It was a lie, of course, but I didn’t feel like being the only guy who went to the Ala Wai Inn tonight who didn’t get laid.

In a land redolent of exotic blossoms, the second floor of the old Kapiolani Building at King and Alakea streets offered a mingling of pungent cockroach-repelling creosote and stale tobacco smoke. It was not an unfamiliar bouquet. I was, after all, a Chicago copper, and this was, after all, the temporary headquarters of the Honolulu Police. The central station house at Bethel and Merchant was getting a facelift, Chang Apana had explained.

They’d moved a few things in to turn this place into headquarters—the big open room you entered had a high counter for the desk sergeant to shuffle reports behind, a handful of desks against one wall with blue-uniformed cops talking to citizens at them, a few file cabinets, a scattering of straight-back chairs. Ceiling fans whirred lazily, throwing shadows, rustling papers.

The desk sergeant told me the assembly room of the detective bureau was on the second floor. At the top of the stairs, I found Chang Apana in another big open room. The mid-morning sun was filtering in through high windows, giving a golden glaze to greenish plaster walls and hardwood floor; like a lethargic cook beating eggs, ceiling fans stirred the air. At one end, an area was set up with chairs and a blackboard for roll call, and some glassed-off offices were along the right wall. Otherwise, it was desks and one central table where cops could gather for a conference or to just shoot the bull.

At that table—which had an oddly decorative top, a dragon fashioned from black and white dominoes and mahjongg tiles—sat Chang Apana, again in white linen and black bow tie, and a swarthy hawk-faced character who was either a cop or a hood. Under the ridge of a snap-brim that would have done George Raft proud, keen dark eyes tracked me as I approached. His suit was brown and rumpled, his tie red and snug, and he wasn’t as small as Chang, but he wouldn’t have met the Chicago PD’s height requirement, or the mob’s for that matter.

They were smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. This wasn’t exactly a bustling squadroom. Only about a third of the desks were filled, and anybody who wasn’t seated wasn’t in a hurry. There was no more sense of urgency here than on the beach at the Royal Hawaiian.

On second thought, there was more urgency at the beach: that surfboard polo could get pretty intense.

Chang stood politely and, half a beat later, so did the other guy. Smiling like a skull, Chang half-bowed; his companion didn’t.

“Detective Nate Heller, Chicago police,” Chang said, with a gesture to his hawk-faced friend, “Detective John Jardine, Honolulu police.”

We shook hands; the guy had a firm grip but he didn’t overplay it. He was studying me with the cold unblinking eyes of a cop assessing a murder suspect.

Chang called a secretary over—a round-faced Hawaiian girl with a nice shape under her businesslike blouse and skirt—and instructed her to bring me some coffee. How did I want it? Chang wondered. Black, I said. She nodded and went after it.

“Whose side are you on, Detective Heller?” Jardine asked.

I pulled out a chair and sat. “Why, same as any cop—my own.”

A tiny grin flashed in the dark face. He sat, and then Chang did, too.

“This is quite a table.” I gestured to the black and white domino-mah-jongg mosaic.

“It’s Detective Apana’s handiwork,” Jardine said.

I arched an eyebrow Chang’s way. “A carpenter and a great detective?”

“I did not make table,” Chang said, lighting up a fresh cigarette. “But I provide makings.”

“This is all stuff Chang confiscated in Chinatown gambling raids,” Jardine said, with a nod toward the black and white dragon. “Like to see Charlie Chan go wading into
that
crowd.”

“Detective Jardine is too generous with praise,” Chang said. But he obviously was eating it up.

The secretary brought me the coffee. I thanked her and we exchanged smiles and I watched the hula sway of her hips as she wandered back to her desk, efficient but in no hurry. Hawaii was the most distracting damn place.

“So, Detective Jardine,” I said, “whose side are
you
on? Besides your own…in the Massie case, I mean.”

His mouth twitched; his hawkish face remained otherwise blank, though his eyes were sharp as needles. “I do my job. Gather evidence. Report what I see. It’s not up to me who gets prosecuted.”

“Would you have prosecuted the Ala Moana boys?”

Another twitch. He exhaled smoke. “Not without a better case.”

I sipped my coffee; it was hot and bitter and good. “Do you think they did it?”

A shrug. A deep suck-in on the cigarette. “I don’t know. There are some pretty persistent rumors floating around town that another gang was roving around that night.”

“Any leads on who they might be?”

Jardine shook his head, no. “But then we didn’t pursue any.”

Frowning thoughtfully, Chang said, “Something puzzling. There is saying on Islands—‘Hawaiians will talk.’”

“So I hear,” I said. “But nobody’s even
whispering
about who this second gang might be. What do you make of that?”

Jardine shrugged again, taking a sip of his coffee. “Maybe there is no second gang.”

Chang lifted a forefinger. “Confucius say, ‘Silence big sister of wisdom.’”

“You mean, anybody who knows who this second gang is,” I said, “is smart enough to keep quiet about it.”

“What happened to ‘Hawaiians will talk’?” Jardine asked grouchily.

I lifted a forefinger. “Capone say, ‘Bullet in head little brother of big mouth.’”

That made Chang smile. Smoke from the cigarette between his fingers drifted up like a question mark before his skeletal, knife-scarred face.

“Well,” Jardine said,
“somebody
took Thalia Massie to the old Animal Quarantine Station. I don’t know who it was or what they did to her, but she was there.”

“How do you know?”

“We found things of hers.”

“Oh, yeah,” I said, remembering, “some beads.”

I had dismissed this, knowing how easily they could have been planted.

“A string of jade-colored beads,” Jardine said, “and some Parrot matches and Lucky Strike cigarettes Mrs. Massie identified as hers.”

“Her purse was found, too, wasn’t it?”

“A green leather purse, yes, but not by us. The Bellingers, the couple that Mrs. Massie flagged down for a ride after it happened, found the purse on the road, later, when they were on their way home.”

I sipped my coffee, said casually, “Weren’t you one of the first detectives to talk to Thalia? Weren’t you there that night, at the house in Manoa Valley?”

Jardine nodded. “She didn’t want to get medical attention, refused to go to the hospital, really put her foot down. Of course, I knew in a rape case how important a pelvic examination was. But she wouldn’t hear of it. Finally I convinced her husband, and he convinced her.”

“What sort of shape was Tommie in?”

“Pretty well in his cups.”

Chang said, “Tell Detective Heller about Lt. Bradford.”

Jardine frowned. “You read too much into that, Chang.”

“Tell him.”

I knew Bradford’s version of the “mix-up,” but was eager to hear the cops’ side. Strangely, Jardine seemed hesitant to get into this.

“Lt. Massie corroborated Bradford’s story,” Jardine said. “Bradford spent the evening at the Ala Wai Inn in Massie’s company. He’s not a suspect in the rape and beating.”

“But you did arrest him that night,” I said.

Jardine nodded. “For mopery. He was drunk, he had his fly open, he told us to go to hell when we pulled alongside him.”

“That gets you more than arrested in Chicago,” I said.

Jardine was stabbing his cigarette out in an ashtray that sat on one of the dragon’s limbs. “He told us we should leave him alone, he was an officer with the Shore Patrol. We told him if he was in the Shore Patrol he should know better than to give another cop a hard time.”

“Tell him,” Chang said.

Jardine sighed. “When I brought Mrs. Massie out to drive her to the hospital, Bradford was being shown to a patrol wagon. They spoke. I heard her say to him, ‘Don’t worry, Jack—it’s going to be all right.’ It was…it was like
she
was comforting
him.
”

Chang looked at me with both eyebrows raised. The ceiling fans whirred above us. Jardine might have been a cigar-store Indian in a fedora, he was sitting there so motionless, so expressionless.

“Is there anything else about the case,” I asked, “you can share with me?”

Jardine shook his head, no. “I got pulled off the investigation, when Daniel Lyman and Lui Kaikapu broke out of Oahu, New Year’s Eve.”

Chang Apana’s tone was almost scolding. “How can prisoner break out of cage with no door?”

“What d’you mean?” I asked.

Chang said, “Most guards in Oahu prison, like most prisoners, are Hawaiians. Big on honor system. You in jail but have urgent business on outside, just ask for pass. You want to know how murderer Lyman and thief Kaikapu ‘broke out’? Chang will tell you: guards send them out to get big supply of
okolehao
for prison New Year’s Eve party.”

This reminded me of Cook County jail, who let the likes of the bootlegging Druggan brothers in and out at will, and neither the jailers nor the Druggans were Hawaiians.

“But the trustees didn’t bother to come back,” I said.

“Once they got out,” Jardine said, “they decided to split up and take their chances on their own. We caught Kaikapu the next day.”

“But Lyman’s still at large.”

Jardine’s mouth twitched again. “The bastard mugged a couple out parking, tied the guy up to a fence with fishing line, raped the woman, took a buck and a quarter out of her purse, and then drove her home.”

“Thoughtful fella.”

“And he’s been leading us a goddamn merry chase ever since.”

“You’re still on the case?”

Jardine sipped his coffee. “Sort of.”

“What does that mean?”

Jardine dug in his pocket for a pack of Lucky Strikes—presumably not the ones found at the crime scene. “The governor appointed Major Ross to head up a Territorial Police Force.”

“Just to track this jailbird down?”

“No.” He lighted up the Lucky, exhaled smoke through his nose, echoing the dragon on the table. “We’re in the middle of a departmental shake-up here, most of it due to the screwups in the Massie case. Heads are rolling daily. This Territorial Force is supposed to pick up the slack.”

“Who are these temporary coppers?”

“Major Ross has a group he’s picked from his National Guard members plus some Federal Prohibition Agents and a few American Legion volunteers.”

Funny. Joe Kahahawai had served in the National Guard under Major Ross; it had been Mrs. Fortescue’s fake summons from Ross that summoned Big Joe to his death.

Jardine continued, “I’m liaison between Major Ross’s group and the PD.”

I grunted a laugh. “Only all the king’s horses and all the king’s men haven’t found this raping murderer.”

Jardine nodded. “But we’ll get him.”

“Any sightings? Any other crimes?”

“Enough sightings to believe Lyman hasn’t left the Island. No more rapes, no major thefts credited to him. He’s gone way underground. Probably in the hills.”

“Well, if you’re off the Massie case, does that mean I can’t ask you to chase down a lead for me?”

Jardine’s eyes flashed. “Not at all. What’d you come up with?”

I sat forward and smiled just a little. “Are you aware that right before she went out the Ala Wai door, Thalia had a little chat with a
kanaka
?”

Jardine frowned in interest. “New one on me. Where you’d get this?”

“I’m a detective.”

That amused Chang; at least, he smiled a little.

“His name’s Sammy,” I went on, “and he’s some kind of musician with a band on Maui.” I got out my little notepad and read off the name: “Joe Crawford’s band. Are there any coppers on Maui you can check with?”

Jardine was nodding, getting out his own notebook to write down the names.

“Excuse me,” a male voice intoned from behind us; it was deep and rang with authority.

The big man standing in the doorway of one of the glassed-in offices behind Jardine had the leanly muscular frame of a football linebacker and the pleasant, patient smile of a parish priest. Angularly handsome, kindly features rode a bucket skull, Brylcreemed black hair touched at the temples with gray. Whereas most of the detectives wandering through the Detective Bureau were Hawaiian, their ill-fitting wrinkled Western suits looking like costumes they were uneasily wearing, this guy was strictly Anglo-Saxon, and his dark brown suit looked neat and natural.

Both Chang and Jardine scooted their chairs back and stood, and I followed their lead.

“Inspector McIntosh,” Chang said, “may I introduce honorable guest from Chicago Police, Nate Heller.”

Never losing the kindly smile, he ambled over to me, held out his hand, as he said, “You’ve wandered off your beat.”

We shook; his grip was surprisingly soft, though his hand was like a catcher’s mitt.

“I do that from time to time,” I said. “Actually, Clarence Darrow is an old family friend. He’s come out of retirement for this case and doesn’t have an investigator on staff anymore, so I’m helping him out.”

“I’ll bet Mr. Darrow had to pull some strings to arrange that.”

“He knows how. I’m pleased to meet you, Inspector. I mentioned to Detective Apana that I hoped to speak with you.”

“Chang said as much. Isn’t the trial getting under way? I’d figure you to be at Mr. Darrow’s side.”

“Jury selection began Monday. I’m still doing leg work till the trial proper begins.”

“Ah.” He gestured like a gracious host. “Why don’t you step into my office, Detective Heller.” He cast his benignly beaming face upon Chang and Jardine. “I’ll speak to our guest privately.”

The two detectives nodded and sat back down.

Moments later, door shut behind us, I was taking the seat across from McIntosh’s big desk; other than filing cabinets, the oversized cubicle was bare: no photos or diplomas on the wall, only a few personal items on the desk to tide its occupant over till these temporary quarters were behind him.