One Coffee With (5 page)

At the moment, however, most of her attention was focused not on the plaster sculptures atop the file cabinets but on the cherubic-faced man who waited for her in front of them. He carried a folder, and past experience told her it must already hold the rough beginnings of timetables, character sketches, floor plans and anything else that had caught his attention.

“I’ve made a few notes, Lieutenant,” he said anxiously.

Detective Tildon—inevitably rechristened “Tillie the Toiler” by his colleagues—found it very difficult to make comparisons, draw parallels, formulate theories or see beyond the obvious; but to compensate for his lack of imagination, he followed the book to the letter, and he was scrupulous about detail. Tillie’s reports were sometimes officialdom’s despair, sometimes its salvation. Legend had it that he once used three sheets of paper to describe one ordinary cocktail glass found at the scene of a murder—but the detective in charge wouldn’t have thought twice about the triangular-shaped chip of glass embedded in the heel of the murderer’s shoe if he hadn’t remembered Tillie’s sketch of the cocktail glass’s missing chip.

Plowing through Detective Tilden’s mountains of verbiage could be exasperating; yet, on the whole, Sigrid approved of his thoroughness. Occasionally he was too anxious to please, and his feelings were easily hurt, but Sigrid preferred him to the hotshot macho types who bordered on insubordination when required to take orders from her.

Now Tillie described the situation to her in low undertones. He explained his sketch of the department, filled her in on the people he’d talked to so far and told why he’d detained these particular seven to wait for her questions. He had lis
ted them in order of seniority:

Prof. Oscar Nauman, Chairman, Color and Basic Design

Assoc. Prof. Albert Simpson, History of Classical Art

Assoc. Prof. Lemuel Vance, Advanced Printmaking

Asst. Prof. Piers Leyden, Life Painting

Asst. Prof. Andrea Ross, History of Medieval Art

Asst. Prof. Jake Saxer, History of Modern Art/Slide Curator

Miss Sandy Keppler, Secretary

No one was better than Detective Tildon in preliminary interviews. Witnesses were so disarmed by his cheerful, bumbling manner that they often said more than they’d intended. And Tillie wrote it all down in a neat, precise script.

Sigrid seated herself at Sandy Keppler’s desk and slowly reviewed his notes. She’d seen the raised eyebrows when Tillie called her by her title and decided the witnesses could use the extra time to get used to the idea that a female police officer would be conducting the investigation. Her height and her no-nonsense appearance helped. At fiveten, her dark hair braided into a knot at the nape of her neck and wearing a loose, rather poorly tailored pantsuit, she looked efficient and capable of command.

At last she lifted her head from Tillie’s notes and spoke in the quiet voice that always warranted attention. “My name is Lieutenant Harald, and I’ll try not to keep you any longer than necessary. First, is access to the Chemistry Department very convenient from here?”

She sat erect behind the desk, her hands neatly folded, her gray eyes watchful; and all seven—with the possible exception of Oscar Nauman—were suddenly reminded of certain teachers they’d faced in elementary school. Piers Leyden cheekily raised his hand.

“If
it’s
poisons you’re looking for, why go all the way over to Chemistry? We’ve got a decent supply of our own right downstairs.”

“State your choice,” agreed Lemuel Vance. He had exchanged his ink-stained lab coat for a disreputable brown cardigan. “I’ve got nitric, acetic, sulfuric and hydrochloric acids, as well as potassium dichromate, trisodium phosphate and sodium hydroxide.”

He had meant to be sensational; but Sigrid calmly referred to Tillie’s list and said, “Oh, yes, you must be Professor Vance.
Printmaking.”

“Which includes lithography and etching,” said Vance. “The acids and alkalis are to bite lines into metal plates.”

Tillie had already discovered that no teacher could resist an opportunity to lecture, but he was stunned. “You let kids mess around with that stuff?”

“Certainly!”
Vance said blithely. “One learns by doing, Officer. An eye here, a hand there and the students get cautious.”

“Stop being cute, Lem,” said Oscar Nauman. “It’s not as dangerous as it sounds, Detective Tildon. Our beginners work under close supervision. All chemicals are locked up except when Professor Vance or a graduate assistant is in the workshop.”

“It’s the same for photography,” Sandy volunteered helpfully. “I guess some of those developer compounds must be poisonous because they’re kept locked up, too.”

“Who has the keys?” asked Sigrid.

“I do,” said the girl. “There in the top right drawer.”

Sigrid fished them out and handed them to Tillie, who signaled to one of the lab personnel and slipped out to check on the chemical supplies.

“Who knew where the keys were kept?” asked Sigrid.

“Why, practically everybody,” Sandy replied. “Seniors and majors are supposed to work independently when classes aren’t in session, so they just reach in and take the room key they need. Of course, they’re supposed to sign for them; and as Professor Nauman said, they aren’t supposed to use any chemicals without supervision.”

Her tone implied that the rules weren’t stringently enforced, and that was confirmed when Sigrid examined the clipboard in the same drawer. It hadn’t been signed since the week before.

“1
suppose
you never lock your desk?”

“Only at night, “Sandy admitted unhappily.

Sigrid pulled a fresh sheet of paper toward her. “We’ll take it from the top, I think.”

There were groans and mutters of fatigue and hunger from her captives—all of whom had missed lunch—but Sigrid ignored them. “Now then, Miss Keppler, when you went downstairs at ten-twentyfive, who else was around?”

More than ever Sandy Keppler was reminded of a third-grade teacher who had stressed precision and accuracy. “Professors Simpson and Vance were the only ones I actually saw,” she said carefully.

“Don’t be tactful, my child,” said a genial Piers Leyden. “You knew Saxer and I were floating around somewhere.”

“Okay, “said Sandy, tossing back a lock of golden hair. “You both were here, too, but so far as I know, that’s all. There were a couple of
lecturers
who finished at ten, and another graduate assistant was supposed to be here; but she went home at ten, too. Do you want their names?”

“Not at the moment,” Sigrid said. She skipped to another name on Tillie’s list. “Professor Nauman was in class then, but what about you, Professor Ross?”

Sigrid recognized that she and Andrea Ross were about the same age, but the professor made more concessions to femininity. She wore a well-cut navy pantsuit and a white ruffled shirt, which softened her thin face. Her short brown hair was slightly waved, and there was a porcelain quality about her complexion.

“Did you come upstairs earlier?” Sigrid asked.

“And help myself to poison in time to get back to the snack bar for breakfast before Sandy so obligingly set her tray down on my table? Sorry, Lieutenant. I arrived here with the coffee, not before.”

Her tone was light, but Sigrid noticed her clenched hands and white knuckles as she toyed with an unopened pack of cigarettes.

“Detective Tildon has given me the gist of Miss Keppler’s conversations with Professors Vance and Simpson,” she said, “but not with you.”

“It wasn’t anything!” cried Sandy.

Andrea Ross waved off the young secretary’s quick protest.
“Never mind, Sandy.
I haven’t made a secret of my feelings,” she said. “Two days ago I learned that Professor Quinn had recommended Jake Saxer for promotion over me. You must have had similar experiences, Lieutenant. How did they make you feel?”

When Sigrid didn’t answer, Professor Ross shrugged insultingly and ripped the cellophane from the cigarette package. “Or maybe you haven’t. Maybe you’re the Police Department’s showcase model—the one they point to whenever rank-and-file women start complaining that they aren’t getting the same breaks as the men.”

Sigrid continued to gaze at her with neutral gray eyes, and Andrea Ross flushed. Her own eyes wavered for a moment, and then she said defiantly, “I have a Ph.D., seniority and better evaluations from my students; but I didn’t cozy up to Riley Quinn, and I’m not a man, so Saxer gets my promotion. And yes, I’m pretty damn bitter about it. But I didn’t slip poison into Quinn’s coffee while Sandy had her back turned. Not downstairs and not here!”

She extracted a cigarette, lighted it and inhaled deeply. Saxer’s thin lips had tightened at the implied insult, but he remained silent.

“And after you and Miss Keppler returned to this floor?”

“For what it’s worth I was in the slide room preparing for my class when the ten-o’clock lectures finished,” said Ross. “Professor Leyden was in his office when I first went past, but I’m not sure of the time.”

“Wish I could reciprocate,” Leyden said fliply, “but I never saw you, kid. My back was to the door, and I just assumed all that in-and-outing was Jake.”

“Professor Simpson?”

“I’m sorry,” apologized the elderly historian. “I was absorbed in a new book on Herculaneum, but I don’t think anyone came past my desk except Miss Keppler. Of course, someone could have entered by the other door, and I wouldn’t have seen him. The mail rack completely blocks my view of that door.”

“And you were in the inner office alone, Professor Saxer?”

The blond teacher glared at her haughtily. “I had telephone calls to make, Lieutenant. There are only two telephones on this whole floor: the one inside and Sandy’s. And you’ve seen what a crossroads of the western world this outer office is.”

“He’s right,” said Sandy in answer to Sigrid’s inquiring gaze. “Everyone phones from the inner office if it’s empty. It’s more private.”

“Anyhow,” said Saxer, “Sandy hadn’t brought the coffee up before I went inside, and she and that Harris kid were both here when I finished.”

“But you and the coffee were here alone while Sandy was in with me!” Vance chortled. “You could be the winner, Jake!”

Saxer’s pale face grew even paler with suppressed fury, but he managed a tight smile beneath his yellow beard. “And where were you when Sandy went tripping down the hall to wash her hands?”

He turned back to Sigrid. “All this talk about who could have done it is pointless. Any of us could have—even Sandy—but what about the one person we know was hanging over that bookcase? Why aren’t you questioning Leyden’s protégé?”

“Who’s that?” she asked, sorting through Tillie’s notes and wondering who was missing.

“Harley Harris, that’s
who
!”

“You gotta be kidding,” said Vance. “That kid’s too incompetent to be a poisoner. You ever see him open a tube of paint?”

Sigrid’s faith in Tillie was restored as she found his comments on the absent graduate student, his last peevish remarks and his failure. She read through them briefly and squelched Vance’s impromptu imitation of the boy by saying, “We’ll certainly want to talk with him, but in the meantime—”

“As long as you’re on who’s missing, there’s someone else,” observed Andrea Ross. “That Mike
What’s
-his-name, Karoly’s nephew.”

“Mike Szabo?” asked Leyden. “That was a lot earlier, wasn’t it?
And downstairs.
Mike wasn’t—”

“Yes, he was,” Sandy interrupted. “He came up on the elevator with Andrea and
me
to get that chair Phil and Jaime broke last week.”

“He even carried the tray,” Andrea reminded her. “Remember when it got so crowded? We had our back to him for the last three floors.”

“Could he have put something in a cup with just one hand?” Sandy asked. “Anyhow, how would he have known which was Professor Quinn’s cup? There were four coffees and Lem’s hot chocolate.”

Professor Simpson cleared his throat. “Didn’t he carry the tray into your office alone?”

“Mike wouldn’t have poisoned Riley,” Leyden objected. “Hit him over the head with a baseball bat, yes; nag him to death, yes; but poison?”