Requiem for Ashes Read online

  Poor Lane.

  "You okay, Professor?"

  Jeremy Ash was shaking Albert's elbow. "What is it? You look like you swallowed something down the wrong way."

  "I think I've got it!" Albert said. "I think I've almost got it figured out."

  "You mean, who hit the inspector?"

  "It was Professor Lane."

  "Who's that?"

  Albert explained.

  "But why would he hit Naples? Unless . . .he’s the one who killed Glenly!"

  "Glenly?" Albert repeated. "No. He didn't kill Glenly. He hit the Inspector to protect someone else from something." A thought occurred to him. "But why do you protect someone from the police?"

  "Because they broke the law," said Jeremy. "Or, because they're not supposed to be somewhere, or because they're doing something wrong." The boy's mouth could barely keep pace with the possibilities.

  The Hounds of Reason collapsed upon one another and went to sleep.

  Albert asked Jeremy how he was doing, a question he never answered directly. Albert didn't press.

  "She's leaving day after tomorrow," said Jeremy Ash, nodding at Mrs. Gibson. "She's been a good one."

  "How many have you had?"

  "Seven," Jeremy replied without thinking. "I wonder if she'll come visit me. She said she would."

  "Then she will."

  The boy's slim smile was knowing beyond his years. "They all say that. You're the first one that's done it."

  Albert looked at Jeremy Ash. After a while he manufactured a feeble smile. Instinctively he put a reassuring hand where his leg should have been. There was nothing there.

  Albert didn't want to visit Inspector Naples. As he walked to Tewksbury's old room, his conscience battled the hope that the inspector was still in a coma.

  "Professor!" It was the Familiar Policeman, guarding the Inspector's door. "Hey, your hair's growing back."

  Albert ran his fingers through his hair. He nodded toward the door. "Inspector Naples?"

  “Detective,” said the policeman.

  “I know,” said Albert.

  The policeman nodded. "Happened at your place, didn't it?" he said. "Boy, what a crack!"

  "A flowerpot," Albert explained. He could imagine how it felt. He winced. "Is he going to be all right?"

  "So I hear. It was touch and go for a while there." The policeman wanted to be asked what he thought about it. "I don't know, though . . . "

  "Hmm?"

  That was good enough. "If he's really all right, you know?" He tapped his temple. Albert had never realized what a handy gesture that was, or to how many people it applied.

  "Why?"

  "Well, when he's conscious, he rambles on mumbling, you know? Like a bag lady. Nothing that makes any sense. Names. sometimes. I've heard him say your name once or twice, Professor. And Tewksbury's. Then he goes on talking about Belgian waffles, ceiling tiles, and the 1964 World's Fair. You know what I mean? That flowerpot knocked the plaster loose, if you ask me," which Albert didn't. "Lettin' a little too much sunshine in,"

  "Is he awake?"

  "No. Oh, no." said the policeman. He looked at his watch. "He's been out over an hour now. He usually comes to during the night shift. I'll be off duty then."

  "Then, I can't see him?"

  "'fraid not, Professor. I mean,I don't care, you understand. But rules are rules, you know how it is."

  God bless rules.

  "Who do you think did it, Professor?"

  Albert shrugged. "Who knows?"

  "Ceiling tiles." If Naples had gotten that far, Albert had to work fast. Something had to break somewhere . . . before the Inspector came to his senses.

  Albert didn't sleep alone that night, he was haunted by Miss Bjork . . . and Tewksbury and Jeremy Ash, Professors Lane and Alter, Mrs. Gibson, Miss Moodie, Dr. Strickland, Inspector Naples . . . on and on. And they all kept him awake until three in the morning. He half expected the neighbors to complain about the noise.

  His train of thought, however, traveled on a circular track and always brought him back to the same station; the same inescapable conclusion: Professor Lane had hit Inspector Naples on the head with a flowerpot to protect Daphne Knowlton from something.

  Something.

  Suddenly a spur opened up on the circular railway just as Albert's train of thought was passing and he rushed down it; what if Lane hadn't been protecting Daphne Knowlton, but himself? What if she knew something that he didn't want her to tell the police?

  Only one clear thought had presented itself for inspection by the time Albert went to sleep, one shabby, silly possibility in clothes that didn't fit; could Lane have killed Glenly? Lane the would-be social worker . . . with murder in his heart? and if Daphne knew; but where was she?

  All the little question marks melted into one huge interrogative club and beat Albert into a fitful semi-consciousness.

  It was late in the morning when Albert finally awoke. He'd missed his class, but apparently there were others to take his place. He wondered who. Was someone always there, waiting in some kind of musical limbo, for the chance to take his place?

  He shaved his chalky face and brushed his yellow teeth, put on some clean underwear and his wrinkled suit, and went to the bank to wire Tewksbury some money. Whatever a wire was. It promised to be an interesting morning.

  Albert hadn't slept well. His brain was still foggy, still full of half-formed thoughts as he crossed the common and walked up the steps of the bank. It was this state of mind that excused his running squarely into Dr. Strickland as the latter emerged from the bank. The impact sent Strickland's briefcase to the ground, and the leather camera bag on his shoulder dropped to the crook in his arm, knocking him briefly off balance.

  "I'm sorry," said Albert. "I wasn't looking. I was . . . "

  "Don't mention it, Professor," Strickland replied. He seemed uncharacteristically nervous; resituating his belongings and fiddling with the zipper on the bag. "I was in too much of a hurry, as usual." He noticed Albert noticing the bag. Had he seen the camera? "I'm afraid I came off the pompous idiot with you and Lane."

  Albert looked at Strickland. He felt embarrassed for him . . . even though he was the one who'd ended up with the soup in his lap.

  "Lane and I have just never . . . he was in love with the girl . . . Daphne. Imagines he's Prince Charming riding to her rescue or something." The bag and briefcase switched sides. "Anyway, she's a grown woman, right? She can take care of herself."

  The assumption was unsettling. The Daphne Knowlton Albert knew could not take care of herself. His inquiring gaze must have intensified. Strickland turned away.

  "Well, good running in to you," he said, laughing weakly. He pretended to glance at his watch. "I'm late for class. Gotta run."

  Albert watched after him as he ran across the street to his little red sports car. He dropped his bundles through the rear window and got in. He smiled and waved.

  "I'm sorry about your camera!" Albert called. "I hope it's all right."

  The smile evaporated like a liberal at a tax reduction rally. The wave wrapped itself around the wheel and the little red sports car crushed an empty beer bottle to dust as it squealed away.

  Albert recognized the bag. It was the same one Strickland had carried the first time they met in the bank. Was there a camera in it then, too?

  "May I help you, sir?" The voice belonged to a young teller with last night in her eyes.

  "I'd like a wire to send, please," Albert ventured.

  There was a bustling commotion in the region behind the counter as Mrs. Bridges breezed out of her glass-walled office.

  "Brenda!" she called as she came. "Brenda, dear. Miss Domba . . . I'll take care of this gentleman."

  "Fine," said Miss Domba, whose heart was set on four o'clock.

  "Well, Professor," said Miss Bridges. "Good to see you again. Did you get the papers I sent you?"

  "Papers?"

  "The Keogh application ." She waited for a dawn that never came. "The
Keogh account we talked about? I sent it in the mail . . . all filled out. You just had to sign it."

  Albert didn't know what she was talking about. "Oh, yes. Yes," he said. "I haven't checked the mail in a few days. I will, though."

  "I understand, Professor. Life has a way of interfering with the best-laid plans, doesn't it?"

  How did she know?

  "Well, what can I do for you today?"

  "I'd like a wire . . . I want to send money to someone."

  "You'd like to wire some money."

  "Yes!" Albert could see why Mrs. Bridges was the manager. Nevertheless, she demanded specifics; to whom was the money going?

  "To whom?" Not Tewksbury . . . it began with an "R" . . . or a "W." Robbins? Riggles? Riglins? "Rawlins!" Albert yelped. "Harold Rawlins!" That wasn't quite right. "Mr. Harold Rawlins." Neither was that. "Henry," he said softly. That was it. "Henry Rawlins."

  Mrs. Bridges was very patient and, with diligence and quiet persistence, the form was completed, with one exception.

  "Now, Professor. How much money are we going to send?" Was she going to send some, too? The confusion that surfaced from the depths of Albert's field-mouse eyes was more than Mrs. Bridges could bear. "A hundred?" she prompted. If they'd been classmates she would have let him copy her test answers.

  Cigarettes were so expensive. Who knew how much they were in Maine.

  "Five hundred?" she suggested.

  And groceries. And clothes! Tewksbury needed new clothes. How much was a shirt? Ten dollars? Nine hundred?

  "Perhaps you could tell me what the money is for, Professor. I could . . . "

  It was too late. Albert had thought of a figure. "Ten thousand dollars," he said.

  "Oh," said Mrs. Bridges on the inhale. "Ten thousand? I see. Well, we'll need to fill out another form."

  An hour later Albert had writer's cramp but the money was on its way and Tewksbury would have beer and cigarettes enough to last, with probably enough left over for a shirt, a pair of pants, and a haircut.

  "There, Professor. That wasn't so bad, was it?" Albert thought it was hell. "Is there anything else?"

  "Yes." There was one thing. "Could you tell me . . . what is a safety posit box?"

  "A safe deposit box? Surely, Professor," Mrs. Bridges said, and she did.

  Chapter Sixteen

  A safe-deposit box was an awesome concept for Albert. A place for valuables. A little box in a bank that was almost sacrosanct; holy. And mysterious. It had two keys, and no one could touch it. Albert had felt that way about his apartment once.

  But what valuables? Sheet music? A piano? Cigarettes? Miss Bjork? Beer? (Miss Bjork had moved up in Albert's subconscious estimation.) These formed Albert's scope of things of value. And all were much too precious to be kept so far out of reach especially someplace that didn't open until 9:00 and closed at 3:00.

  Albert stopped at the Redi-Mart to get cigarettes. Some kids were playing the pinball machine, and he stopped to watch. He'd always enjoyed the lights and balls; they reminded him of music struggling toward birth, but he had never attempted to understand the game.

  It was all so clear now. The shiny metal ball was trying to find the straightest route home, while the boys joyfully, almost maniacally, pushed the buttons that flipped the flippers that sent the ball spinning back to the beginning, to attempt its perilous journey all over again.

  Often the players waited until the last millisecond to push the buttons.

  The analogy formed all by itself; the ball was Albert, bouncing from possibility to speculation, doubt to confusion on his way to the truth. Without direction, or pattern, and just when things seemed clearest, just when the end was in sight, he'd be blind sided by a fact that didn't fit. A new possibility. Some unexpected evidence that sent him spiraling back to the beginning.

  It would continue that way as long as Albert had no plan. So far, he'd just bumped and bounced from one thing to another. He needed to do something on purpose. He resolved to prove or disprove that which was closest at hand: Had Professor Lane hit Inspector Naples on the head with the flowerpot? If so, why? If not, who did?

  "Professor Lane!"

  The Professor emerged from a classroom at the far end of the hall just as Albert entered the building. Albert's voice, resounding from the cinder-block walls, arrested everyone in their tracks, including Lane, who waited until Albert caught up. They walked on together.

  "You look better without the soup."

  Albert had been plotting a way to delicately broach the subject he had in mind. "You hit Inspector Naples with the flowerpot."

  It was supposed to have been a question, but its effect as a statement was immediate and imperative. Lane grabbed Albert by the arm and pulled him into the men's room.

  "Who told you that?" His eyes flashed neon signs of guilt. He pressed Albert against the wall and spoke directly into his nose, as if it were a microphone. Maybe he was going to blow into his nostrils. ‘Testing. 1-2-3. Testing.’ He’d probably get feedback.

  "Who told you? Why did you say that?"

  "My arms hurts," Albert said. His voice sounded calm and soft, but that was only because he'd had the breath knocked out of him.

  Lane immediately released his grip and took a step back. "I'm sorry, Professor . . . Albert," he said. "You startled me." Sweat broke out on his brow and his eyes looked like a leopard on the cover of National Geographic. Albert felt like the aged wildebeest on page six hundred and eighty-four.

  “Who've you been listening to?" Lane said with a forced grin.

  A smiling leopard was no comfort. He paced quickly up and down in front of the stalls, checking under each one.

  "Nobody," said Albert. "I just figured it out."

  Lane spun on his heel and glanced at Albert who had compressed himself against the wall involuntarily. "You did?" he said. He took Albert by the arm and squeezed hard.

  At that moment one of Albert's graduate students entered. Albert recognized him, Peterson . . . or Ginsberg.

  "Professor," Peterson or Ginsberg acknowledged. Lane nodded and tightened his grip on Albert's arm. "Professor." The student looked sidelong at Albert as he passed. Albert closed his eyes, broke out in a sweat, and nodded.

  "Is everything all right?" the boy asked.

  "Fine," said Lane. Squeeze. "Fine."

  The following silence was broken only by the gentle flow of nature, which did nothing to relieve the tension. The student left.

  "Let go of my arm," Albert said quite commandingly. Again, Lane complied.

  "I'm sorry, Albert . . . but . . . what you're saying. Why did you say that?”

  "You did it," said Albert. "You were following Daphne Knowlton when she came to see me."

  Lane forgot to prevaricate. "Why did she go to see you?" Lane demanded. "You don’t even know her, do you?"

  "No," Albert replied. Lane had hit Inspector Naples. Mission accomplished. Another plan would have to be made if Albert got out of the men's room alive. He peeled himself off the wall. "She came to apologize." Now that was something, wasn't it? Did Lane know it was Daphne Knowlton who had put Albert in the hospital?

  "Apologize for what?"

  "She's the one who knocked me down that night . . . in the hall."

  Albert had recently seen a young man hit in the groin with a snowball. Lane wore a similar expression. He hadn't known.

  "What are you talking about? Daphne? Knock you down? You're crazy." Lane leaned against the opposite wall. "She wasn't even in town."

  "She was," said Albert. "She said so."

  "She doesn't know what she's saying," Lane replied with enough spark to straw the fire that was smoldering just below the surface. "She's not well."

  "Maybe so," said Albert cautiously. He took a step toward the door. "But she was in town that night. She was here. She knocked me down."

  Lane nudged himself away from the wall. "Why was shehere? It was after hours. What would she have been doing here at that time of night?"

  The
answer jumped feet first into Albert's brain, though he hadn't given it a thought since he'd heard it.

  "She was after some papers."

  "Papers? What papers?"

  "I don't know. I just remembered, she said something about getting papers. That's why she was here."

  "From where?"

  "I don't know," said Albert. "It was . . . she was outside Tewksbury's office when, when she . . . "

  "Tewksbury's office," said Lane aloud to himself. "Papers from Tewksbury's office?" He looked at Albert. The leopard was gone. A bewildered kitten had taken its place. "What papers? Why?"

  Albert shrugged. What papers would Tewksbury have had in his office? "Archaeological papers?"

  "What?"

  "That's what Tewksbury would have in his office. Archaeology. Archaeological papers," said Albert. "He's an archaeologist."

  "Archaeology?" Lane echoed. "What's that got to do with anything? What archaeological papers? Daphne doesn't know anything about archaeology."

  "I don't know," said Albert, just as the light of his inner eye fell on a vague possibility. There was only one connection between Daphne and archaeology. At least, only one that was apparent.

  "Unless . . . " His eyes came to rest on Lane. "Strickland . . . "

  The flame was passed. Albert watched it catch fire in Lane's eyes. "Strickland," he said. "Strickland." He strained the word through clenched teeth. "You mean, she was getting something for him? From Tewksbury's office?"

  Yes, that is what Albert would have meant if he'd had time to think about it. "Would she have done that for him?"

  Lane slowly lowered his head. "She'd've done anything for that manipulating son of a sodomite."

  "But what was it?" said Albert, formulating the next step of his plan simultaneously.

  Lane shrugged. "Assuming there's anything to what you say . . . I can't imagine what it was." He glanced at his watch. "l'm late for class."