Where the Summer Ends Part 28

"Well, I've been up in his office before, too," Saunders recalled, "and I'd be surprised if anyone could remember what kind of order he kept his stuff in-if there was any order I don't know-maybe the thief was up on his rare books. Say he was scanning t.i.tle pages for first editions or something."

"Then he pa.s.sed up a nice copy of Lovecraft's The Outsider that would have brought him a couple hundred bucks."

"Did he? I never heard of it. I meant stuff like Hemingway and all- things you'd likely know were valuable. Or maybe he was just checking for money. Lot of people keep maybe ten or twenty dollars lying around the office for emergencies-stuck back in a drawer, behind a picture, inside a book or something."

Mandarin snorted and finished his beer. He signalled for two more despite the other's protest.

"Look, Russ," Saunders argued gently, "why are you making such a big thing out of this? So far as we can tell, nothing was taken. Just a simple case of break and enter-thief looks the place over a bit, then gives up and moves on. It's routine."

"No, it isn't." Mandarin's thin face was stubborn. "And something was missing. The place was too neat, that's the conclusion. Usually Curtiss had the place littered with notes, pieces of clippings, pages of ma.n.u.script, wadded-up rough drafts-you've seen how it is. Now his desk is clean, stuff's been picked up off the floor and shelves. All of it gone-even his wastebaskets!"

"Do you want to report a stolen wastebasket, Russ?" Saunders asked tiredly.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n it all, can't you put it together? Somebody broke into Curtiss's office, spent a good deal of time gathering up all of his notes and pages of ma.n.u.script-all of it, even the sc.r.a.p paper-then piled it into the wastebasket and walked out. Who'd stop a man who was walking down the alley with a wastebasket full of paper?"

Saunders decided he'd have that third beer-if for no better reason than to keep the psychiatrist from downing it. "Russ, it seems to me you're ignoring the obvious. Look, you've been gone for a few days, right? Now isn't it pretty' likely that Curtiss just decided to tidy the place up? So he goes through all his stuff, reorganizes things, dumps all his sc.r.a.p paper and old notes into the wastebasket, sets the wastebasket out to be picked up, and takes the stuff he's working on for the moment on home with him."

"That place hasn't been straightened out in years-since the fire inspectors got on his a.s.s."

"So he figured it was high time. Then later some punk breaks in, sees there's nothing there for him, moves on. Why not, Russ?"

Mandarin seemed to subside. "Just doesn't feel right to me, is all," he muttered.

"So why would somebody steal Curtiss's sc.r.a.p paper, can you tell me?"

Mandarin scowled at his beer.

"Morbid souvenir hunters? Spies trying to intercept secret information? Maybe it was ghosts trying to recover forbidden secrets? h.e.l.l, Russ- you've been reading too many of Stryker's old thrillers."

"Look, I don't know the motives or the logic involved," Russ admitted grandiosely. "That's why I say it isn't routine."

The detective rolled his eyes and gave it up. "All right, Russ. I can't go along with your half-a.s.sed logic, but I'll make sure the department checks into this to the best of our ability. Good enough?"

"Good enough."

Saunders grunted and glanced at his watch. "Look, Russ. I got to make a phone call before I forget. What do you say you wait around and after I get through I'll run you on back to your place?"

"My car's just over at the clinic."

"Are you sure..."

"h.e.l.l, I can drive. Few beers don't amount to anything."

"Well, wait here a minute for me," urged Saunders, deciding to argue it later. He lifted his sweaty bulk from the chair's sticky vinyl and made for the pay phone in the rear of the bar.

Mandarin swore sourly and began to stuff the rinds of pizza crust into one of the empty bottles. Heartburn, for sure. He supposed he ought to get headed home.

"Well, well, well. Dr Mandarin, I presume. This is a coincidence. Holding office hours here now, Doctor?"

Russ glowered upward. A grinning face leaned over the table. Russ continued to glower.

Natty in double-knit slacks and sportshirt, Brooke Hamilton dropped onto Saunder's vacated chair. "Rather thought I'd find you here, actually," he confided. "Believe you and the old man used to drop by here regularly, right?"

Hamilton was drinking beer in a frosted mug. It made an icy puddle on the cigarette-scarred tabletop. Mandarin had a private opinion of people who drank beer in frosted mugs.

"Really a shock hearing about old Stryker," Hamilton went on. "Really too bad-though I'm sure a man like Stryker never would have wanted to die in bed. A man of action, old Curtiss. A living legend now pa.s.sed on to the realm of legends. Yes, we're all going to miss the old man. Not many of the old pulp greats left around. Well, sic transit." He made a toast.

Mandarin did not join him. He had met Hamilton at various c.o.c.ktail parties and writers' symposiums around the University. He was quite popular in some circles-taught creative writing, edited several "little magazines" and writers' projects, was prominent at gatherings of regional writers and camp followers. His own writing consisted of several startlingly bad novels published by various local presses-often after Hamilton had cornered their editors at some c.o.c.ktail affair.

Stryker had loathed him-calling him at one such gathering an ingratiating, self-serving, conceited phoney. Hamilton had been within earshot, but chose not to hear. Their admiration was mutual. Since Hamilton was in the habit of referring to Stryker as an over-the-hill pulp hack, Mandarin was not moved by the man's show of grief.

"Where's the funeral, Dr Mandarin-or do you know?"

Mandarin shook his head, measuring the distance to the other man's Kirk Douglas chin. "No body found yet," he said.

"Well, I suppose they'll have some sort of memorial service before long, whatever. Give the writers' community opportunity to pay our last respects to the old man. Professor Kettering has asked me to act as spokesman for the University. A little tribute for the school paper, and I suppose I'll say a few words at the memorial service. Old Stryker is going to be missed by those of us who carry on."

"I'm sure."

"Thought I might get you to fill me in on a few details of his career, if you don't mind. After all, you saw a lot of the old man here in his last years." Hamilton glanced pointedly at the litter of beer bottles. "But I can catch you another time."

Mandarin grunted noncommittally.

"One thing I did want to ask though. Has old Stryker finished that last book he was working on?"

"No, he was still working on it last time I saw him."

"Oh, you don't think he did. Christ, isn't it tragic to think of all the unfinished work his pen will never take up again. And just when Stryker was as popular with readers as he ever was in the golden age of the pulps."

"d.a.m.n shame."

Hamilton nodded gravely. "Yes, it is a shame. You know, I was over at the Frostfire Press this morning, talking with Morris Sheldon about it. Christ, they' re all so down about it over there. But we got to talking, and Morris suddenly came out and said: 'Brooke, how'd you like to edit a memorial volume for old Stryker? ' You know, sort of an anthology of his best stuff, and I'd write the introduction-a short biography and criticism of his work. Well, I told him I'd be honored to do it for old Stryker, maybe even edit a few of his last, unfinished works for publication.

"Well, this started Morris thinking still further, and all of a sudden he came out and said: 'Brooke, there's no reason Stryker's public has to be deprived of these last few masterworks. He always made extensive notes, and you were always close to him as a writer and friend..."

"You son of a b.i.t.c.h."

"How's that?"

"You a.s.s-kissing, c.o.c.k-sucking son of a b.i.t.c.h." Mandarin's voice was thick with rage.

Hamilton drew himself up. "Now hold it there, Mandarin." In his egotism it had not occurred to him that Mandarin might resent his a.s.sumption of role as Stryker's literary heir. But he was confident of his ability to destroy the other man in any verbal duel-his wit, termed variously "acid" or "rapier," had dazzled his fans at many a social function.

Heads were turning, as both men came to their feet in an angry crouch.

"You a.s.s-licking fake! You couldn't write your name and phone number on a s.h.i.thouse wall! And after all the snotty condescension you had for Stryker, you're stealing his name and his work before his grave's even been spaded!"

"I don't have to take that-even from a drunk! " Hamilton snarled. "Although I understand I'm not likely to ever find you sober."

The distance to his movie-star chin had already been noted. Mandarin reached across the table, put a fist there.

Hamilton sat down, hard. The rickety chair cracked under him. Arms flailing, he hit the floor in a tangle of splintered wood. The beer stein smashed against the dirty concrete.

Anger burned the dazed look from his eyes. Accustomed to urbane exchanges of insults at c.o.c.ktail parties and catfights, Hamilton had not expected the manners of a barroom brawl. "You G.o.dd.a.m.n drunk!" he spat, struggling to rise.

Mandarin, who before medical school had spent a lot of Sat.u.r.day nights in Montana saloons, was not a gentleman. He waited until Hamilton had risen halfway from the wreckage of his chair, then put another straight right to his chin. Hamilton went down again.

The writer shook the stars from his head and came up frothing mad. He was only five years or so older than Mandarin and of approximate physical size. Regular workouts at the faculty health club had hardened his body into the finely tuned fighting machine of the heroes of his novels. Now he discarded his initial intent of dispatching his drunken opponent with a few precisely devastating karate blows.

The beer stein had shattered with a jagged chunk still attached to its handle. Hamilton rolled to his feet, gripping the handle in his fist like a pair of bra.s.s knuckles.

Mandarin, unhappy that he had not had more on his punches, cleared the end of the table with no apparent intention of helping the other man to his feet. Hamilton's fist with its jagged knuckleduster slashed at his face.

Rolling under the punch, Russ blocked Hamilton's arm aside and threw a shoulder into his chest. They smashed to the floor, Mandarin on top with a knee planted in the other man's belly.

Breath whooshed from the writer's lips as his head cracked against the floor. Mandarin took the broken stein away from him, grinned down at his pinned opponent. Hamilton gave a hoa.r.s.e bleat of fear.

"Jesus H. Christ! Russ, stop it!"

Saunders shouldered through the crowd, caught Russ's arm in a shovel fist, hauled the two men apart. His interference was booed.

Groggily, Hamilton came to his feet, his face astonishingly pale. He glared at Mandarin, struggling to break away from the burly detective, decided not to risk a punch against him.

"Call the police!" he said shakily. "This man attacked me!"

"I'm a policeman, buddy!" Saunders growled. "What I saw was this man disarming you after you tried to jam a busted bottle in his face! Want to take out a warrant?"

The writer composed himself, ma.s.saging his bruised chin. "A policeman? Yes, I believe I recognize you now. One of the late Curtiss Stryker's night school proteges, I recall. No doubt you learned more effective ways of writing parking tickets, officer-although it's always encouraging to see one of your sort trying to improve his mind."

"Ask him if he's stolen any good wastebaskets lately," Mandarin suggested, wriggling out of the detective's grasp.

"Very clever, aren't we," Hamilton sneered. "I wonder what the state medical a.s.sociation will say about an alcoholic psychiatrist who gets into barroom brawls?"

"I wonder what the English department will say about f.a.ggot faculty members who try to chop a man's face up with a busted beer stein?" Saunders wondered.

Hamilton brushed himself off, his smile supercilious. "Well, I can see there's no point taking out a warrant when the arresting officer is a personal friend of the guilty party."

He turned to the onlookers. "You see the kind of police protection our community enjoys. I leave you to judge!"

"Hit him again, Doc!" Someone yelled from across the bar.

"We'll keep the pig from pulling you off before you're finished!"

Hamilton's face turned pale again.

"I think you'd better get going," Saunders warned. "Russ, get back here!"

"We shall, of course, take this up again when we aren't immersed in the rabble," Hamilton promised, moving for the door.

"Oh, to be sure!" Mandarin mimicked.

The writer swept out the door to a chorus of catcalls.

"OK, what started that! " Saunders demanded, picking up his coat.

The wavy-haired barmaid had brought Mandarin another beer. He was toasting her with a pleased expression on his stubbled face. Despite his annoyance, Saunders reflected that it was the first smile he'd seen from the psychiatrist since the accident.

"That son of a b.i.t.c.h Hamilton, " Mandarin informed him, "that piece of s.h.i.t-he's talked Stryker's publisher here into letting him edit Curtiss's last work-do a memorial volume and s.h.i.t like that! h.e.l.l, you know how he and Curtiss felt about each other. Ed, get your fingerprint men up to Stryker's office. You'll find Hamilton's sticky little fingers were all over the place."

"Let's not get started on that one again," Saunders told him wearily.

"Bet you dollars to dogs.h.i.t, and you can hold the stakes in your mouth."

"Come on, Russ. I'll drop you off."

Protesting, Mandarin let himself be led away.

*VII*

"What's the matter?"

Mandarin had paused with his hand on the door of Saunders' Ford. He stared out across the parking lot. "Somebody's following us. Just saw his shadow duck behind that old VW van. If it's that son of a b.i.t.c.h Hamilton looking for more trouble..."

Saunders followed Mandarin's gaze, saw nothing. "Oh h.e.l.l, get in, Russ! Jesus, you're starting to sound paranoid!"

"There's somebody there," Russ insisted. "Followed us from the Yardarm."

"Some d.a.m.n hippy afraid of a bust," Saunders scoffed. "Will you just get in!"

His expression wounded, Mandarin complied.

Backing the Ford out of the parking place, Saunders turned down Forest Avenue. Mandarin took a last swig from the Rolling Rock he had carried with him from the bar, then struck his arm out and fired the green bottle in the general direction of his imagined skulker. From the darkness came the rattle of breaking gla.s.s. "Ka-pow!" echoed Russ.

Saunders winced and drove on in silence.

"Hey, you went past the clinic," Russ protested several blocks later.

"Look, I'll run you back down in the morning."

"I can drive OK."

"Will you let me do this as a favor?" Saunders asked, not making it clear whose favor he meant it to be.

Mandarin sighed and shrugged. "Home, James."

Pressing his lips tightly, the detective turned onto Kingston Pike. After a while he said: "You know, Russ, there's several on the force who'd really like to put your a.s.s in a sling. Drunken driving is a really tough charge."

When Mandarin started to argue, Saunders shouted him down. "Look, Russ. I know this is rough on you. It is on all of us who knew Curtiss. But d.a.m.n it, this isn't going to make it any better for you. I thought you finally learned that for yourself after Alicia..."