Bloodied Ivy (20 page)

“I should hope so,” Wolfe remarked.

“As for what I know about
you
, sir,” Bach said, unfazed, “I confess I did some boning up for tonight. I’ve learned through sources, it doesn’t matter where, that you are one smart cookie, well-read, arrogant, tough, liberal in your politics, and that the rates you charge would make an Abu Dhabi oil sheik howl, but that your clients almost always pay up without squawking.”

I had all I could do to keep from laughing. First it was Cortland and his vocabulary, and now Bach and his candor. Wolfe never had had it laid out for him quite this way, and in his own office, no less. I almost felt like I should be paying admission.

One corner of Wolfe’s mouth twitched slightly. “I must demur on the liberal designation,” he said. “While it is true that I have espoused certain causes and principles that have come to be known popularly, if not always accurately, as ‘liberal,’ I wear no label, and never will.”

“Well said,” Bach answered promptly, taking a sip of his drink and nodding. “I don’t wear any labels myself, although it’s hardly a secret that I’m, shall we say, to the left of the yellow line. But to read some of the newspaper columnists, you’d think I was a member of the politburo. I know damn well it’s partly because of all the trips I’ve made to the U.S.S.R., and the fact that I’ve learned to get along with a lot of those people. Hell, I
like
a lot of them. And I’m proud to do business with them. And I think doing business with them is part of the bridge building that will lead to peace. The right-wingers can’t stand that kind of talk, though.”

“Including Hale Markham?”

“Very good, Mr. Wolfe, very good,” Bach said with an engaging grin. “You’re getting back to the reason we’re together, as well you should. I’m afraid it’s easy for me to get off on what Annette calls tangents, at least that’s what she always tells me,” he said, turning to his assistant, who allowed herself a faint smile. “You said on the phone that there was reason to believe Markham’s death wasn’t an accident—oh, by the way, Keith Potter
did
call me, just after you did. He was hot, called you a ‘loose cannon.’ Said he couldn’t understand why you thought Markham was shoved over that cliff. Tell you the truth, I have to take his side on that one.”

Wolfe drained the beer in his glass and opened the second bottle. “There are a number of reasons for my suspicions, but I’m not yet prepared to share them. I will say, however, that Mr. Markham did not seem to be lacking enemies, or at least detractors.”

“Ah, I get your drift, of course—I’m supposed to be one of those enemies. Well, to repeat something I already said on the phone, I’d never even met the man. But most of what I knew about him, I didn’t like.”

“For instance?”

Bach snorted. “I think you know, but of course you want to hear me say it. First off, his philosophies on government were kindergarten stuff. The guy only saw things in blacks and whites—no shadings. Second, dammit, he was a symbol of Prescott, which for my money gave the school a bad odor. Third, from all I’ve ever heard, he was a mean cuss to boot. Hell, I know folks have called me mean, too, but if anybody ever says I’m not fair, they’ve got a fight on their hands. Now Markham, he was mean
and
narrow-minded.”

“But there are a great many impassioned opinions and fiercely defended convictions in the world of higher learning,” Wolfe said. “It would appear that the significant point of contention between you was in the area of philosophy.”

“True enough.” Bach nodded. “I can’t argue that.”

“I understand there was trouble over a gift you had contemplated making to the university.”

“That’s understating it. I assume you’ve already delved into this, being a thorough detective, but let me give you my perspective. Through the years, I’ve supported Prescott financially—not with huge amounts, mind you, but steadily. I was a student there ages ago, for only a year, but it was the only college I ever had, and the place did me a hell of a lot of good, gave me some values that I like to believe I still hold. Anyway, for some time I’d been thinking about a large contribution to the school, really large. A year or so after Keith Potter became president, he and I started talking seriously about major projects, and I told him I wanted to pop for something big, felt I owed it to the place. Anyway, we met off and on for months—hell, it was more than that, it was over a year, discussing all kinds of projects. Finally I said I was prepared to give enough to build a new science building, as well as put up the seed money for a major capital campaign aimed at remodeling a whole slew of other campus buildings that had been allowed to get rundown—God knows there were plenty of them. Then—”

Wolfe held up a palm. “Mr. Bach, before you continue, a question. Is it true that you stipulated you would withhold this money as long as Hale Markham was still on the faculty?”

“Hellfire, I wish I could have made such a stipulation,” Bach chuckled. “What with tenure, though, he could pretty much stay as long as he liked. When I complained about what Markham was doing to the school’s image, Keith Potter did tell me that he probably wouldn’t be around much longer.”

“What did you take that to mean?”

“I get your drift! Not that Keith was going to shove him over that cliff, if that’s where you’re headed. No, I took it to mean that Keith would find a way to, shall we say…
encourage
his retirement.”

“Were you willing to go ahead and make your gift while Markham was still actively teaching?”

“Reluctantly, because in any case, the guy wasn’t going to be around forever. But that was before word of the gift got out. I suppose you know about that?”

“I would like your perspective.”

“First I heard of the mess was when Keith called me at my office. He said news of the whole business had apparently leaked out, and that the school newspaper had run an interview with Markham in which that bastard said the university could do without my money, that I was a Commie, for God’s sake. With serious issues like South Africa to be concerned about, that fugitive from the Stone Age was behaving like he was Joe McCarthy on one of his witch-hunts. Anyway, I was steamed, really steamed, and I told Keith that I wouldn’t give a damn dime to the school, much as I loved it, as long as Markham was around. I told the campus paper the same thing when they called, too. And I meant it, by God.”

“With Markham gone, have you reconsidered?”

Bach crossed his legs and looked into his glass, which was almost empty. “Confidentially, yes. Keith wants to wait a decent interval after Markham’s death to trumpet it, though. Can’t say I blame him.”

“How does he define a decent interval?”

“Oh, about another month, but I think word is seeping out around the edges. It’s pretty hard to keep anything quiet at a university, as I’ve been finding out. Now I’m going to guess one of your next questions,” Bach said, leaning forward. “Where was I when Markham died? All right, what day was that?”

Wolfe turned to me, asking the question without speaking. “September twenty-third, late in the evening, or after midnight, which would have made it the twenty-fourth,” I said.

“Where was I that day?” Bach asked, addressing Annette.

She pulled a leather book from her purse and unzipped it. “On the morning of the twenty-third, you were at a meeting with the Pacific Petroleum Company executive committee in Los Angeles,” she replied in a businesslike drawl you could get used to liking. “You flew in the company plane that afternoon to Seattle, where you attended a dinner honoring Senator Beattie. You had breakfast in Seattle on the twenty-fourth with the publisher of the local newspaper, and then you flew back to New York, arriving here late in the afternoon.”

“Actually, I got back after dark,” Bach corrected. “I remember the trip now, Annette, thanks. Mr. Wolfe, plenty of people will vouch for my being at those events, not that it matters.”

The phone rang, and I picked it up at my desk while Bach went on talking. It was Cortland, who was jabbering so fast I had to ask him to slow down. He did, and I took notes on what he was telling me, working to keep my face under control. After he finished, I thanked him and said we’d be back to him soon. He was all wound up and wanted to keep going, but it was obvious he had nothing more to contribute so I cut him off.

Because Wolfe can’t read my shorthand—nobody can but me—I copied in English what Cortland had told me and got up, walking to Wolfe’s desk and putting the sheet on his blotter. “That was Mr. Wilson,” I told him, using one of our codes. “He thought you’d want to know about this.”

“…anyway,” Bach continued, “I can’t say that I’m sorry Markham is dead, but as far as murder, it seems to me that this whole thing is being dramatized. After all, who’d
really
want to kill him?”

“Apparently the same individual who pushed one of his students into Caldwell’s Gash sometime today or tonight,” Wolfe said sourly, holding the paper I’d just handed him. “The body of a young woman named Gretchen Frazier has been found at the precise spot where the corpse of Mr. Markham was discovered.”

“T
HE HELL YOU SAY!” BACH
snapped upright at Wolfe’s words, almost spilling what little water was left in his glass. “Somebody
else
is dead at Prescott?”

“So Mr. Goodwin just learned on the telephone.” Wolfe’s expression was grim. “The young woman who had been described as Mr. Markham’s outstanding graduate student.”

“When was she found? How did she die?”

“Our report is incomplete, although Mr. Goodwin may have something to add to the message he handed me.”

“Not really,” I said. “As Mr. Wolfe told you, Gretchen Frazier’s body apparently was found not long ago at the bottom of Caldwell’s Gash, right where Markham’s body had been discovered. It appears that she, like Markham, went over the edge.”

“That’s hideous—it sounds like ritual killings.” It was Annette Carswell, with shock in her soft drawl. She fastened her eyes on Wolfe and then on me, as if demanding an explanation.

“Whatever it is, that should end everyone’s doubts as to whether Markham was murdered,” I observed.

“Incredible,” Bach said, his voice an octave higher. “This is a terrible thing for the school, damned terrible.”

“And not so great for either Markham or Gretchen Frazier,” I said.

“Oh, of course, of course, I didn’t mean to sound callous,” the old tycoon put in quickly. “Who called you?” It was more like a demand than a question.

“A source whom Mr. Goodwin and I consider to be reliable,” Wolfe snapped.

“All right, all right, I don’t blame you for not wanting to answer. Confidentiality between practitioner and client and all that,” Bach conceded. “I’ll assume it’s that professor that Keith Potter told me about—what’s his name?—Cortland. The one who was such a close friend of Markham’s and was sure he was murdered, so he paid you to find out. I don’t know what you’re charging him, but it can’t be all that much, given faculty salaries. I’ll triple whatever it is and hire you to do the same thing—find who killed both Markham and that girl. It must be the same person.”

“What is your sudden interest?” Wolfe’s eyes narrowed. “Just minutes ago, you were arguing that Markham’s death wasn’t murder.”

“That was before we heard about the girl, and what happened must be more than a coincidence. Okay, it looks like you were right. As to why the interest, I’ve told you how I feel about Prescott. The longer these deaths go on unsolved without somebody getting nailed, the worse the school looks. Don’t you agree?”

“I do, sir. As you have observed, though, I already am engaged in determining the truth. Do you feel that I would increase my efforts if my compensation were greater?”

“Money sets the world in motion.” Bach clearly expected no argument on that.

“So Publilius Syrus wrote. And it would be fatuous of me to gainsay my fondness for monetary reward. However, changing clients in midcourse is a dubious practice for a number of reasons, most of which I’m sure you recognize and sympathize with.”

Bach yanked at his tie and folded his arms across his chest. “Point taken. Well, regardless of who the client is, you’re on this thing. Good. And so, I would hope, are the local cops.”

“I won’t presume to speak for them, sir,” Wolfe said, “but it seems likely they now will find themselves under considerable pressure.”

“Hah—I should think so. Well, I’ll take no more of your time; you’ve got more important things to do than to humor me,” Bach said good-naturedly as he got to his feet. His personal assistant stood, too. Our eyes met and I smiled, but got nothing in return except a cool green glance. I walked them to the front hall and helped Annette with her coat while Bach, ever independent, tugged his own on hurriedly. “Mr. Goodwin,” he said, shaking my hand firmly, “I hope Wolfe gets this thing untangled fast. I frankly don’t put much stock in the Prescott police. Thanks for the drink and the hospitality. Good night.” Annette shook hands, too, but only nodded after I warmly wished her a good evening. She might have done all right in the looks segment of a beauty pageant, but she would have washed out in the Miss Congeniality competition.

When I got back to the office after bolting the front door behind our guests, I found Wolfe sitting with his eyes closed. “Well, what now?” I asked. I got no answer, and after a full minute of silence I tried again.

“Okay, now I understand. We do nothing, right? We wait for the bodies to pile up at the bottom of Caldwell’s Gash and eventually the only one left alive is the murderer, is that it? Sorry I’m so slow on the uptake. All that driving up to Prescott and back must have dulled my senses.”

“So that’s the explanation,” Wolfe said, opening his eyes and glaring at the empty glass on his blotter. “I need beer.”

“Normally I’d tell you to get it yourself, but I know the strain you’ve been under,” I told him, pushing to my feet and heading for the kitchen. I returned with two chilled bottles and set them down in front of him. “Service with a smile,” I said, returning to my desk the long way, via the makeshift bar, where I mixed myself another Scotch.