An Air That Kills (14 page)

“A cap. An old cap somebody left on the beach that didn't want it any more.”

“Well, why didn't you say so before? All this fuss and fume about an old cap. Honestly, I sometimes wonder what kind of home life some of you children have that makes you afraid to speak up. Now remove the cap, and we'll leave it here on the shelf in the cloakroom, and you can take it home with you after school.”

Aggie turned her back, removed the plaid cap from under her waist blouse and handed it to Miss Barabou.

Miss Barabou appeared surprised. “‘What an odd-looking thing. I've never seen one like it. Where did you find it, Agatha?”

“Between two rocks, just sitting there. I guess somebody just threw that old cap away.”

“It isn't old. It's hardly been worn at all.”

“It looks old to me.”

But Miss Barabou seemed to have lost interest in Aggie. She was examining the inside of the cap, and when she spoke again it was more to herself than to Aggie. “There's a label. Abercrombie & Fitch, New York City. Funny. There aren't many Americans around at this time of year. The thing's new, no doubt about it. Expensive, too. Abercrombie & Fitch, I think they sell sporting goods. I wonder what kind of sport this would be worn for. Curling, perhaps, except that I've never seen a curling cap with a sun visor. Or golf. But the golf courses won't be open for ages. I'm not even sure if it's a man's cap or a woman's.”

“Miss Barabou . . .”

“You may go back to your desk, Agatha.”

“Is it my cap if I found it?”

“I can't promise you that,” Miss Barabou said thought­fully. “I better consult with Miss Wayley.”

Miss Barabou escorted Aggie back into the classroom, pro­nounced her free of disease, assured the pupils they could associate with her without fear and warned them not to start getting symptoms out of the blue. Then, leaving the class in charge of one of the seniors, she made a beeline to Miss Wayley's room next door.

Social visiting between the two teachers during school hours was forbidden by the school inspector. But the inspec­tor was miles away and not due for another month.

Miss Wayley, upon being apprised of the situation, put her entire class, including those who hadn't yet learned to write, to work on a composition entitled “How I Will Spend My Summer Vacation.” Then she and Miss Barabou retired to the tiny room at the rear of the school where they ate their lunch and made coffee during recesses and conducted their private business in general. The room was cold and cramped and ugly, but it had two distinct advantages: a lock on the door which had so far resisted even the expert picking of Boris, and a telephone installed the past winter after a bad storm left the school marooned for nearly twenty-four hours.

Miss Wayley lit a cigarette, took three quick, furtive puffs, and butted it before any of the smoke could seep under the door and cause alarm or suspicion among the students. She saved the butt in an empty Band-Aid box inside the first aid kit.

“I think,” Miss Barabou said, “we should phone some­body.”

But Miss Wayley was busy trying on the cap in front of the yellowed, broken mirror hanging on the wall, “Don't I look sporty, though? Say, this is kind of cute. I wouldn't mind having one myself. Makes me feels years younger.”

“Be serious.”

“I am.”

“It looks like a man's cap to me. Have you seen any strange men around town lately?”

“If I had,” Miss Wayley said cheerfully, “I'd be on leave of absence tracking him down, believe you me.”

“Be
serious.”

“I can't. I feel sporty. Here, you try it on, Marie.”

“I wouldn't dream of . . .”

“Go on. See how it looks. Just for fun.”

Miss Barabou took a quick glance at the door to make sure it was locked, then she, too, tried on the plaid cap. For one instant, in the cracked mirror, she did indeed look sporty, but the instant was overwhelmed by years of common sense. “It's ridiculous. I wouldn't be caught dead wearing such a thing.”

“Well, I would. I can just picture myself whizzing along in some snazzy convertible . . .”

“Why a convertible?”

“Because that's what the cap's for, riding in a convertible with the top down. I've seen them in the movies.”

“That's how it happened, then.”

“What did?”

“Someone was riding along the cliff road in a convertible and his cap blew off and landed on the beach where Agatha found it.”

“It couldn't blow off, easily, anyway. That's what the elastic band at the back is for, to keep it tight-fitting so the wind won't blow it off.”

“How odd,” Miss Barabou said, and for the first time she appeared disturbed by the possibilities. “I know it sounds silly, but—well, you don't suppose there's been a
crime
committed?”

“No such luck.”

“Please be serious.”

“I am. I said no such luck and I mean it. Nothing ever happens around here.”

“There's always a first time.”

The noise from the two unattended classes was increasing by the minute—thuds, screams, laughter, whistling—but neither of the two teachers paid any attention. Din was a part of their lives and a few decibels one way or another didn't matter.

“I'd feel like a fool,” Miss Barabou said, “if I called in the police and it turned out to be absolutely nothing.”

“Call anyway.” Miss Wayley selected one of the dozen or so cigarette butts she kept stored in the first aid kit, and lit it with a reckless air. “We might as well whip up a little excitement while the whipping's good. Here, help yourself to a butt.”

“No thanks. It wouldn't be sanitary.”

“Sorry I can't offer you a fresh one. Gee, it'd be wonderful to buy cigarettes cheap the way they do in the States.”

“I'm not sure whom to call.”

“The local constabulary. What a marvelous word, constabu­lary, isn't it?”

“The way you chatter, I can't
think.”

“You don't have to think. Let the local constabulary do the thinking. You and I, we're teachers, we don't get paid for thinking, we get paid for teaching, and what a whale of a difference there is.”

“Oh,
stop
it, Betty.”

Miss Barabou picked up the phone.

Constable Lehman arrived at the school about nine-thirty, a small, droll-faced man in his fifties who took his work, but nothing else, quite seriously. He came in his own private car, an old Buick, a device intended to allay the curiosity of the students. Through no fault of his own the device back­fired. A good half of Miss Barabou's class, and even several members of Miss Wayley's lower grades, recognized him im­mediately and such excitement spread through the school that a recess had to be declared.

The children, with the exception of Aggie Schantz, were herded into the yard like wild ponies, and a conference was held in Miss Barabou's room with the plaid cap on exhibition on her desk. Instead of being nervous, as Miss Barabou had expected, Aggie luxuriated in the special attention she was receiving. She told her story in full detail, and Lehman, who'd had experience with children of his own, did not interrupt her even when she included such nonessentials as what she had for breakfast and how many robins she saw en route to school.

“We count robins,” Miss Barabou said by way of apology and explanation. “For the bird chart. Natural history, you know.”

Lehman's nod indicated that he understood perfectly, and was, in fact, an old hand at counting robins himself.

“I see more than anybody,” Aggie said, with becoming modesty, “mostly because I have a longer way to go to school. Boris saw an American eagle.”

Lehman pursed his lips. “Did he, now? Well, they say more and more American people are coming up this way every year, why not eagles, too, eh? Can you show me this special path you take down to the beach, Aggie?”

“I can
show
you. You can't go down it, though.”

“I can't, eh? Why not?”

“You're too old.”

“You may have something there,” Lehman said, and sighed for Aggie's benefit, and winked for Miss Barabou's.

Miss Barabou, who was not accustomed to being winked at, blushed in confusion and turned to Aggie. “Of course you'll show the Constable the path, Agatha. I'll excuse you from school for the rest of the morning. You go with Constable Lehman.”

“I don't want to.”

“Get your coat and galoshes on.”

Aggie didn't move.

“Agatha, did you hear me?”

“I don't want to go without you.”

“You know perfectly well I have to stay here and supervise my class.”

“You could send them all home,” Aggie said hopefully. “They wouldn't mind.”

“No, I'm sure they wouldn't. Neither would I, until it came time to explain to thirty howling parents. Why on earth don't you want to go with the Constable?”

“The bad men.”

“What bad men?”

“That do nasty things to little girls on beaches.”

“Oh, for heaven's
sake.
” Miss Barabou's blush had spread to the tips of her ears and down her neck to the collar of her jersey dress. “I was only trying to—oh well, it doesn't matter. I give up. I'll go along, there's no point in arguing.”

Miss Barabou sat in the back of the Buick alone, holding herself stiff and resistant to the feeling of adventure that was growing inside her with every turn of the road and every glance at the Constable's face half visible in the rear-view mirror.
He's really quite a nice man. Humorous, too. Betty said she heard he's a widower, all his children are grown and he lives by himself. He needs a haircut.

She tried to discipline her thoughts by planning the next eighth grade British History assignment, but she could not seem to concentrate properly. The scarlet pompon on the plaid cap which lay on the seat beside her seemed to be taunting her:
Come on, live now. The Magna Carta is very old; King John is very dead. Be sporty.

She looked sternly, ponderously, out of the window, though her head felt quite light and empty, as if giddy little bubbles were whirling around inside, released by some strange alchemy she did not understand.

“We're almost there.” Aggie's voice pealed with excite­ment. “Right around the next corner.”

“Roger,” Lehman said.

“What's that mean?”

“It means right-ho. Roger, dodger, you old codger, I'm a major too.”

“Oh, you make me laugh.”

“I aim to please.”

He stopped the car on the side of the road and all three of them got out, Aggie still giggling behind her hand, Miss Barabou very sober and dignified as if to make up for the levity of the others. Looking down at the water a hundred feet below, and the path by which she was expected to descend, she offered up a short silent prayer.

Lehman said to Aggie, who was impatient to start down the path, “Hold your horses a minute, lass. Now when you found the plaid cap, was it directly below here?”

“No sir. I walked along a piece first until I got tired and sat down and then I found it.”

“About how far did you walk?”

“I don't know. I can show you down there.”

“Show me up here first.”

“I don't know if I can.”

“Try. Start walking.”

They began walking single file up the road with Aggie in the lead like a general with delusions of troops.

The road was not a main one, and though it was marked on maps as “improved,” the improvements had long since disappeared in the throes of winter. The surface had buckled in places and some of the potholes were as large as Aggie's head.

Lehman appeared to be watching his footing very carefully, paying no attention to Miss Barabou struggling along in the rear. Aggie was skipping on ahead, not looking down at the road at all but avoiding every bump and hole as if she had made a complete mental map of the route and knew its every pitfall.

“I'm beginning to get tired,” Aggie said, “so I guess it was right about here.”

She looked up expectantly, as if awaiting Lehman's com­mendation, but he seemed too preoccupied to notice her. He was staring down at the mud along the side of the road, his eyes narrowed against the morning sun.

“Well?” Miss Barabou said when, out of sorts and breath, she finally caught up with the others.

“Look here, ma'am.”

“I can't see anything out of the ordinary.”

“No?”

“Some tire marks, that's all. It's a road, you'd expect to find tire marks.”