No Stone Unturned (21 page)

My dearest Jordan,                                                 Boston, November 9, 1960

Since my last letter, I have cursed my wretchedness. My words are inadequate, weak, lacking originality and spirit. The abstract is indescribable, except in trite, worn platitudes that are no more insightful today than when they were first coined. How can I communicate the exhilaration that swells my heart when I hear your name, your voice, or see your face? I realize that my words fall like stones as I try in vain to lay them gently on paper for you to read . . .

You get the idea. Jeffrey’s letters were so dull, in fact, that I could hardly finish them. I certainly didn’t want to, but I thought there might be a reference to who Jeffrey was. In my haste in Jordan’s bedroom, I had neglected to photograph the envelopes, so I didn’t know Jeffrey’s last name or where he lived.

At five, I returned to the Engineering Department. The fifth floor had indeed emptied out, and, as far as I could tell, Phyllis and I were alone. She locked the office door behind me and offered me the last cup of coffee from the communal urn.

“So what can you tell me about Professor Jerrold?” I asked.

“I can’t give you his home phone number, if that’s what you mean. But I can say that if you were to look up his name in the Boston telephone directory, you would certainly find a David Jerrold on Massachusetts Avenue.”

I smiled. “What’s he like, this Jerrold? No departmental rules against talking about a professor, are there?”

She pursed her lips in thought. “I suppose not. He’s handsome, cultured, charming.”

“Was he involved with Jordan Shaw?”

“Not that I know. He’s happily married with a son. Did someone tell you they were seeing each other?”

I explained about Audrey Shaw’s suspicions and showed her the photograph from India. Phyllis remarked that Mr. Nichols was in the picture as well—didn’t I have any questions about him?

“I just can’t believe that he and Jordan were lovers,” I said, shaking my head. “How could I be so wrong about a man? He looks like Caspar Milquetoast. Then I’m told he’s married, dating the prettiest coed in the school on the sly, and, as graduate coordinator, he’s got the other students shaking in their boots.”

“Shaking in their boots? Who fed you that load of malarkey?”

I watched her laugh, unsure of what to say.

“Mr. Nichols may be the graduate coordinator, Miss Stone, but he hardly commands respect. It’s quite mean, actually, but the other students—even first-year plebes—walk all over him. And as for your rumor about him and Miss Shaw, that’s the first time I’ve heard it.”

Something was out of true in the Engineering Department, and someone or everyone was lying to me. At that moment, I was inclined to believe Phyllis’s version; it did, after all, match my own suspicions. I was not, however, confident enough to take her entirely at her word.

“Any chance I might sneak a look at the student files?” I asked.

Phyllis frowned and shook her head. “You know I can’t let you do that. What are you looking for anyway?”

“Is there a list of students and faculty somewhere?” I said, trying to avoid telling her what I really wanted. “That wouldn’t break any rules, would it?”

“I suppose not,” she answered, unsure.

She showed me a departmental directory that listed professors and graduate assistants, their campus phone numbers, and their office hours. I ran a finger down the list, looking not for a surname but for a first name: Jeffrey. None.

“Do you know anyone named Jeffrey?” I asked.

Phyllis shook her head. “My cousin’s name is Jeffrey.”

“What about Jerrold’s son. What’s his name?

“I don’t recall what his name is, but it’s not Jeffrey. He’s just a toddler; never been in here before.”

“And Nichols? Does he have a son?”

“I believe he does. Or is it a girl? You know, this is not a very social department. I’m embarrassed to know so little.”

“I don’t suppose you know if he has a car.”

“Not Mr. Nichols, but Dr. Jerrold has,” she said. “Everyone knows about his car. It’s his pride and joy. A sporty English job, a Jaguar, and I’ve seen it, too. Fast and very sexy.”

The undercarriage of Jerrold’s car was probably cleaner than Pukey Boyle’s.

“I was wondering about something,” I said. “How many foreigners are there in this department? It seems everyone I meet is from India.”

“Graduates? I think there are three Indians, two Germans, one Dutch, a Japanese, and several Taiwanese . . .”

“Only three from India?” I asked. “I’ve seen five already: one in here this afternoon, two in the hallway, and two in the graduate lounge.”

“Oh, no, Miss Stone. Just three.” Then she raised a finger in enlightenment. “You must be thinking of the Pakistanis. We have two of them as well. Of course, they don’t get on very well with the Indians . . . Some kind of political or religious disagreement, I think. But don’t get the wrong idea; we awarded twenty fellowships to graduate students this year, and all but three are Americans. Our foreign students are almost all supported by their own governments.”

“What about the Indians and Pakistanis?”

“Without exception, supported by their governments.”

“Why do you suppose that is?”

“I think they were sent here to learn how to make a hydrogen bomb.” She tittered then grew serious. “But they really don’t get along. Personally, I can’t see much difference between them. Just what they wear on their heads.”

“Thank you, Miss Gorman,” I said, recalling descriptions of some of the more violent episodes that accompanied the Partition of India in 1947. (I’d taken a course in post–World War II geopolitics at Barnard.) “I may drop by to see you again.”

“You’re welcome. But don’t tell anyone you spoke to me. You know how things are in an office.”

The woman who answered Jerrold’s phone asked who was calling. Somewhere inside me, a voice urged me to cut the handsome professor a break. I decided not to identify myself to his wife as a reporter investigating the murder of her husband’s former lover—or so I believed. “It’s Miss Gorman from the office, calling for Dr. Benjamin.”

She asked me to wait, covered the receiver for a moment, and I got results. I heard a second phone pick up, and David Jerrold told his wife to hang up the extension.

“Yes, Phyllis, what is it?” English accent.

“Actually, I’m not Phyllis Gorman.”

“Then who are you and what do you mean bothering me at home?”

“My name’s Eleonora Stone,” I said. “I write for a newspaper in New Holland, New York.”

“I’m impressed. Now, please, what do you want?”

“I want to talk to you about Jordan Shaw.”

“Who?”

I’ve never liked coy men, especially when they’re talking to me. Personally, I go for the direct, take-charge types.

“Save the act for your wife,” I said. “Unless you’d like me to explain it to her.”

There was a long, dead pause down the line. He was thinking it over: How could he wriggle off this hook without me making things messy for him? Sure, I was playing hunches all the way down the line, assuming he had indeed been the author of the Dear Jordan letter and that the last thing he wanted was for his wife to be reminded of his infidelity. But it seemed to be working.

“Okay,” he said finally. “I know who she is, but I can’t talk to you now; my wife’s in the next room. Ring me back later this evening, and perhaps I can meet you somewhere.”

I didn’t like giving him time to collect himself or sneak away, but I couldn’t make him talk. “I’ll call you in an hour,” I said. “Be ready to meet me then.”

Behold the motor lodge, rich relation of the lowly motel, recommended by the Automobile Club and the chamber of commerce. Anonymous, unsophisticated, and devoid of taste, the motor lodge thrives on the modern traveler’s notion that he and his family are not good enough for a proper hotel. He resigns himself, and his station wagon, to paying a comparable price for an inferior room to match his worth. I’m no different; I took a room for $6.50 at the Paul Revere Motor Lodge in downtown Cambridge.

After checking the view from my room—a car wash and a White Castle—I phoned Jerrold. The conversation was short and sweet; we agreed to meet in an hour in the Minuteman Lounge downstairs at the Revere. That gave me enough time for a shower and a quick long-distance call to Charlie Reese back in New Holland.

“Looks like you picked the wrong time to leave town,” he said. “Frank Olney arrested Julio Hernandez a couple of hours ago. They’ve charged him with first-degree murder.”

“You got a pencil, Charlie?” I asked. “I’m going to dictate your lead story for tomorrow.”

“Didn’t you hear me, Ellie? The sheriff picked up Julio. His prints were all over the motel room and the knife. You’d better drive back tonight.”

“I’m not driving back tonight. I’ve still got work to do here.”

“You’ve got some crust, Ellie. George Walsh is stealing your story. Now, I want you back here!”

I was grinning ear to ear; this was too much fun.

“Tell me if George Walsh has this, Charlie: Jordan Shaw’s roommate is dead, murdered in their shared apartment.”

Nothing but white fuzz coming down the line from New Holland. Then I heard some fumbling, and finally Charlie spoke:

“Okay, Ellie. I’ve got a pencil. Speak slowly.”

I made sure to arrive fifteen minutes before my appointment with Jerrold, intending to look around, but I ended up downing two White Labels while I waited. Jerrold was five minutes late. He looked relaxed in a jacket, open collar, and tan trousers, and I recognized him immediately as he stood in the Minuteman Lounge doorway. He was handsome all right. As he settled in at the bar and ordered a drink, I sneaked out to the parking lot. The silver Jaguar was hard to miss. I bent down to look for oil spots, still unsure of the utility of the exercise, but found nothing.

“Are you Dr. Jerrold?” I asked, taking the seat next to him at the bar. He already had a drink before him: a martini with three olives, pitted, no pimento. I notice these things.

“’Ello, ’ello,” he said in his best cockney voice, looking me up and down in a most unwholesome way. He smiled and seemed relieved. “You’re younger than I expected. Are you old enough to sit at the bar, Miss Stone?”