The Luck Runs Out (17 page)

“How sweet of him!” Helen snapped. “Mightn’t it have occurred to the man that we’d prefer to choose our own?”

“Of course not. I shouldn’t be too disturbed, my love. Goulson’s been appointed to make the choices, so I expect they’ll be more or less appropriate. Call him if you want to.”

“No, I don’t suppose it makes any difference, really. It’s not as though she had sisters and cousins and aunts who’d notice and care. I do think it’s odd that such a charming woman wound up leading such a solitary life.”

“If we’re to believe Frank Flackley’s theory—”

“Damn Frank Flackley!”

Helen almost never swore, thus the expletive emerged with special force from her lips. “Peter, you don’t for one single moment credit the notion of her cuddling with Harry Goulson among the coffins?”

“Not Goulson, no. She might have had somebody somewhere, though. I hope she did.”

“So do I.”

“Er—speaking of hidden yearnings, you wouldn’t happen to have a stray piece of that custard pie left over from last night’s dinner?”

“ ’Fraid not,” said Iduna, who was manicuring potatoes at the sink. “That nice Mr. Svenson polished it off clean as a whistle. I thought for a second there he was going to lick the plate. He looked so downhearted when I had to apologize for not having any more to offer him. I thought I hadn’t better say anything about the chocolate cream one I made today or we wouldn’t have any left for our suppers. Could I interest you in a sliver of that now?”

“I think you just possibly might,” said Shandy. “Will you ladies join me?”

“Too close to dinner for me,” said Helen. “I’ll have a cup of tea, though, to keep you company. No, please, Iduna, I’ll make it. Here, sit down and make believe you’re a guest for a change.”

Iduna pulled out a chair, albeit reluctantly. “No pie for me, thanks. I’ll just settle for one or two of those oatmeal cookies in the jar. How’d you make out with that nice young policeman?”

“We think it’s the same van. They’d run it over a banking and set fire to the wreck, so there wasn’t much to go by, but I’d tried to scratch my initials in the metal with my diamond ring, and we did find some hen scratches that looked like them.”

“There, now,” said Iduna admiringly, “who but you would think of doing a brainy thing like that? I hope you didn’t hurt that lovely ring any.”

“Not that I can see. Peter always buys top quality.” Helen leaned over and kissed her husband on the cheek. “Don’t you, dear?”

“It pays in the long run.” With his mouth full of pie and his heart full of gratitude that Helen was here beside him instead of back there in that burned-out van, Shandy was beginning to feel better. He reached for the hand that wore his ring and held it close while he finished his snack.

“That pie is sheer poetry, Iduna. What else is on the menu for tonight?”

“I thought I’d better roast that chicken we bought yesterday before it starts to spoil. Can’t trust a chicken too far, you know.”

“How well I know,” said Shandy.

He thought of the evil-minded hens he’d been forced to feed as a child back on the home farm. Then he thought of those two weepy chicks, Birgit Svenson and Matilda Gables. Matilda was one of Birgit’s Vigilant Vegetarians, and there was that damnable, irrefutable fact of the sunflower seeds scattered around Sergeant Lubbock’s cruiser exactly as they had been in Martha Flackley’s farriery van.

They in turn led him to think of Hjalmar Olafssen. He’d have to trek over to Olafssen’s dormitory after dinner. Perhaps he should call the Svensons first and make sure the love-sick swain wasn’t up there languishing outside Birgit’s bedroom window, or whatever. Perhaps he should sit here quietly for a while and have a look at the evening paper.

Half an hour later as he was nursing a preprandial Balaclava Boomerang, listening to Helen’s and Iduna’s seemingly inexhaustible flow of reminiscence about South Dakota, and realizing how tired he was, the problem of Olafssen solved itself. The handsome Junior Plowman, covered with leafmold, last year’s burdocks, and other evidences of a day in the wilds, showed up on his own hook. “Sorry to butt in on you like this, Professor.”

“Not at all,” said Shandy. “As a matter of fact, I was just wondering how to get in touch with you. I understand you came here to see me yesterday while I was out.”

“Well, yeah.”

Olafssen tripped over a footstool, set a floor lamp rocking like a kerosene lantern in the hand of a moonshiner who’d been consumer-testing his own product, got his feet snarled in a hooked rug depicting a scene from
The Peaceable Kingdom
of Edward Hicks, worked by Helen’s Great-Aunt Marguerite, but somehow managed to fetch up in the armchair not long ago vacated by the man who might or, as the situation now stood, might not become his father-in-law.

“Oh, that miserable rug,” said Helen, tactfully rescuing her treasured family heirloom. “It’s always getting in somebody’s way. Could we offer you a Boomerang, Olafssen?”

Her suggestion was in accordance with faculty etiquette. Freshmen were served such beverages as sweet cider, hot chocolate with marshmallows, or iced lemonade, as the season dictated. Sophomores were gravely asked if they preferred tea or coffee. Juniors might be invited to partake of beer or a light wine. Seniors could have whatever the host cared to serve.

Thus a pattern was set for the entire college. Since the upper-class members were jealous of their prerogatives, any tendency to intemperance among the lowlier ranks was quickly squashed. Nobody was forced by peer pressure to imbibe what he wasn’t yet ready to handle, and what could be a serious problem in other institutions simply did not exist at Balaclava.

“A Boomerang would be fine,” said Olafssen. “I could sure use a pick-me-up.”

It was a stricken giant who sat dripping peat moss on The Peaceable Kingdom. The student looked as if he hadn’t been sleeping. His face, which should have been given no more than a healthy glow by two days of scrambling among the foothills of Old Bareface, showed an exhaustion that could not be merely physical. Decidedly, Olafssen had something on his mind.

Shandy waited till his guest had gulped half a glassful of hard cider and cherry brandy in one mighty swallow and got his eyes back into, their sockets and his breathing under control. Then he asked quietly, “What’s the matter, Olafssen?”

“Gosh, I—Oh, beck! Since I came to tell you, I s’pose I might as well. It’s about Miss Flackley’s van.”

The young man stared moodily at the remaining half of his Balaclava Boomerang until Shandy had to prompt him again.

“What about Miss Flackley’s van?”

“Well—see—I was in it.”

“Oh, Christ! When?”

“The night before she was killed, when she was having dinner with you folks. See, there was this talk at the auditorium.”

“There often is.”

“Well, this one was about peddling in the early days, so Birgit and I decided to take it in. We’d been reading
Yankee Peddlers.
¹

Again Olafssen lapsed into moody silence. Again Shandy had to prod him.

“Nothing incriminating in that, so far. I’ve read
Yankee Peddlers
myself. So has Mrs. Shandy.”

“Well, sure, everybody has. I mean, you’d have to have rocks in your head not to, wouldn’t you?”

“You’d miss a rewarding experience, certainly.”

“Well, see, that was the problem. The book, moved along fast, kept you interested, but this speaker didn’t. He was showing a bunch of slides that were enough to put you to sleep, so Birgit and I sneaked out and—well, we thought we might as well find someplace where we could—”

“Sit down and compare notes on the lecture?”

“Yeah, that’s right. Well, see, there weren’t hardly any cars in the lot. Most people walked down, I guess. But Flackley the Farrier’s van was sitting there—”

“Unlocked?”

“Well, sure. Nobody bothers much about locking cars around here, except during the Illumination. You know that. Anyway, we figured she wouldn’t mind if we sat in it for a while. So anyway, we—well, we sat in it for a while.”

“And then what?”

Olafssen shrugged. “Then when we figured it was about time for the guy to turn the lights back on, we sneaked back into the hall.”

“And that was all?”

“That was all. Only Birgit hasn’t spoken to me since.”

“Would you care to tell me what went on in the van?”

“Well, heck, nothing out of the ordinary.”

“The ordinary being what?”

The young man blushed. “Well, heck, I mean, weren’t you ever alone in a parked car with a girl you were crazy about?”

“Wasn’t he ever?” Helen murmured.

Shandy ignored her. “You didn’t—er—attempt any undue liberties?”

“Are you kidding? In the Home Arts parking lot? With the President’s daughter? You think I want to get stomped to a bloody pulp? Anyway, I respect Birgit.”

“So you parted on—er—respectful terms?”

Olafssen grinned through his blushes. “I guess you could call it that. Anyhow, I was all set to walk her home, but the speaker asked me to help carry stuff out to his car and I was feeling kind of a skunk for ducking out on him, so I didn’t like to refuse. I asked Birgit if she’d mind waiting a minute, but Miss Wrenne and Miss Waggoner and a few others were walking back up to Valhalla, so she said she might as well go with them. But she was perfectly okay about it. I mean, she gave me a little peck on the cheek right in front of Miss Wrenne and told me not to bust a leg on the way back to my dorm.”

“Cupid could hardly have expected more from Psyche,” said Shandy. “Then what?”

“Then, foof! That’s just it, Professor, not one darn thing. I try to call her and she won’t come to the phone. I go up there and she hides in her room with the door locked. I yell through the keyhole and she doesn’t even yell back.”

“All this since night before last?”

“Yeah. I did see her at the assembly yesterday morning, but I was stuck up in back with a bunch of the guys and she was down front at the other end of the bleachers. I saw her looking around once, so I waved and yelled, ‘Hey, Birgie, up here,’ you know how you do, but I don’t know if she heard me or what. She never looked in my direction again, and when we broke up I lost her in the crowd. I kept looking for Birgie in the cafeteria and everywhere, but she was nowhere in sight, so I figured she must have gone to change her clothes, or something.”

“But she shouldn’t have had to,” Helen pointed out. “Since she lives at home, she must have got a special message about the meeting or she wouldn’t have shown up at all. Birgit would surely have put on boots and a warm jacket to come down from Valhalla. You don’t recall what she was wearing?”

“I do,” said Shandy suddenly. “I remember seeing her run down the path among the last lot to arrive and crowd in on the front end of the bleachers, as Olafssen says. She had on a bright purple jacket with a hood, and I believe pants to match. At least I have a general impression of—er—allover purpleness. She reminded me of Portulaca Purple Passion, which I suppose is why the picture sticks in my mind.”

“That would be her cross-country ski suit,” said Helen, “warm, windproof, lightweight, and easy to get about in. A very sensible choice for pig-hunting. So we can infer that she came dressed and ready to go, but never went. I wonder what happened to change her mind.”

“I’m wondering why neither she nor Olafssen mentioned having been there when President Svenson asked whether anybody could shed light on the events of the previous night,” Shandy said.

Olafssen looked uncomfortable. “Well, you already knew the van had been parked in the Home Arts lot. All we did was sit in it from maybe half-past eight till a little before nine o’clock. Miss Flackley was still with you then, wasn’t she?”

He glanced around half fearfully, as if he thought the shade of the demised farrier might be lurking in some corner of the living room.

“And, heck, you know the Svensons. They’re the greatest people in the world, but they’re—well, sort of heavy on proper conduct. Birgit’s supposed to set an example, and all that jazz.”

“And sneaking out on a visiting lecturer to canoodle in the farrier’s van wouldn’t constitute the right sort of example, is that what you’re getting at?”

“Well, I had a feeling her folks wouldn’t think so. Anyway, I didn’t want to say anything to her father before I’d cleared it with Birgit, only I never got the chance. It didn’t seem right not to tell somebody, though, and I thought you’d be the safest. I mean, you’re sort of officially involved, but I figured I could trust you not to get Birgit in Dutch with her folks.”

“Olafssen, are you sure that’s all you wanted to tell me?”

“That’s it, Professor. Thanks for listening. And thanks for the Boomerang, Mrs. Shandy.”

¹
It is assumed that Olafssen was referring to
The Yankee Peddlers of Early America,
by J. R. Dolan. Dr. Porble reports that the library’s copy has been sent out for rebinding.

“P
ETER, DO YOU THINK
he was telling the truth?” said Helen as they sat down to roast stuffed chicken and baked squash.

“I’m ready to believe what he told was the truth,” Shandy replied. “I’m wondering if he did in fact tell the whole truth. It made sense to come forward with that information about his little necking party with Birgit because no doubt at least one other couple had the same idea and looked in to see who’d beaten them to the van. I presume he went back to his dorm when he said he did, and that Birgit walked up to Valhalla with Shirley Wrenne and Pam Waggoner because it would be ridiculous to lie about something so easy to check him up on. The question is, did both of them stay put once they’d got where they went?”

“Well, if you want my opinion for what it’s worth, I’d say he was telling the plain, unvarnished truth,” Iduna put in. “He was blushing like a girl on her first date, and he wasn’t trying to look you square in the eye. It’s been my experience, and Lord knows I’ve had enough of it renting rooms to students back home, that a good liar looks you straight in the eye and doesn’t bat an eyelash and a bad liar at least tries to look you in the eye and maybe turns kind of red in the face, but he didn’t and he did, if you get what I’m driving at.”