The Luck Runs Out (20 page)

“All right,” he said, “I’ll do it for you, and I’ll try to keep your name out of it, on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re to get hold of Sergeant Lubbock and explain to him how those sunflower seeds got into Miss Flackley’s van. He’ll believe you because you left a similar bunch in his cruiser yesterday afternoon. He probably slept with them under his pillow last night, if that’s any consolation. You don’t have to say anything about Olafssen and Miss Svenson, just that you escaped from a dull lecture and sat in the van because it was handy, that you had sunflower seeds in your pocket and undoubtedly spilled some because you always do. You’re to say you’ve just heard about Professor Stott’s being arrested because he happened to scatter sunflower seeds out of his pocket today at Miss Flackley’s funeral and you’re convinced it was either a coincidence or a deliberate plant. Think you can manage that much?”

“Oh yes! How can I reach Sergeant Lubbock?”

“Call the state police. Tell them who you are, that you have evidence that may be important in the Flackley murder, and that you want Lubbock because you were with him yesterday and he’ll understand what you have to say better than anyone else. They’ll contact him for you, and you stay glued to the phone until he calls you back. Got that?”

“Yes, Professor Shandy. I’ll do it this minute.”

“Good. After you’ve told Lubbock your story, I suggest that you ask if he might spare some time for a discussion of your personal—er—aims and objectives. He had a—er—similar dilemma, he told me, so I think you’ll find the conversation—er—productive. Lubbock made Phi Beta Kappa at Dartmouth before attending the police academy, by the way.”

“Oh.”

There was some color in Miss Gables’s cheeks now. “Professor, why are you being so much kinder to me than. I deserve?”

“Let’s say I want you to have one fond memory of Balaclava. Now get cracking, young woman. You said you wanted to do something useful with your life, and you’ll never have a better opportunity.”

Matilda took off like a scared pheasant, her hair flying straight out behind her. Shandy checked the housemother’s sheet, made sure Matilda had in fact got back to her dormitory shortly after that lecture would have been over, and made his way thence to Valhalla. Again Sieglinde met him at the door.

“Where’s Birgit?” he said.

“Back in her room.”

“Which way?”

“Come.”

She led him up the handsome old staircase, down a long hallway, and knocked at the one bedroom door that was shut.

“Please go away,” a muffled voice replied.

“Birgit,” said her mother, “Professor Shandy has come to see you. You will not show discourtesy to a guest.”

The door stayed shut. Mrs. Svenson knocked more imperiously.

“Birgit!”

Shandy cleared his throat. “Er—Sieglinde, why don’t you go along downstairs and let me handle this?”

Being a wise Woman, she obeyed. Shandy opened the thinnest blade of his jackknife, did some deft work in the huge iron keyhole, opened the door, and walked in.

“Birgit,” he said to the huddle on the bed, “I came to tell you that you’ve been a dratted fool. I’m ashamed that any student of mine could jump to a false conclusion on the strength of fabricated evidence.”

That did it. Birgit shot upright, eyes blazing.

“How dare you talk to me like that in my own bedroom?”

“Where else am I supposed to talk to you if you won’t come out?” Shandy asked reasonably. “Where’s that note?”

“What note?”

“Dissimulation is not your strong suit, young woman. Hand it over.”

“I burned it,” she muttered.

“Then you did another stupid thing, and you ought to be even more ashamed of yourself. Never mind. I can approximate what it said. Something to the effect that while you knew what Olafssen was doing with you in Flackley the Farrier’s van during the lecture, you’d never guess what he was doing with whom later on, and there was no sense in asking him because he wouldn’t tell you. Right?”

Birgit did not reply.

“Answer me,” he barked.

She nodded as though her head were being shoved from behind by a stronger hand.

“More or less.”

“And because the note turned up in your pocket at the assembly, you assumed it referred to your young man’s being instrumental in stealing the van, kidnapping Belinda, and murdering Miss Flackley. Right?”

“I—I couldn’t believe—”

“Then why didn’t you say so instead of throwing a fit of the megrims and worrying your parents half to death?”

“But we—we were in the van.”

“I know you were. Doing what came naturally. Nothing criminal about that, is there?”

“Mother might not agree with you.”

“Don’t underestimate your mother, young woman. How do you think she managed to have seven kids of her own?”

Birgit emitted a feeble giggle. The tide of battle was turning.

“If you’d used your head,” Shandy went on, “it might have occurred to you that you were observed in your—er—occupation by a fellow student who, like a good many others around here, happens to suffer an unrequited passion for Hjalmar Olafssen. This young person got into the van after you left it, and sat brooding on the injustice of a fate that threw Olafssen into your arms instead of hers. She continued to brood, probably through a more or less sleepless night, and arose in the small hours with a plan straight out of
Othello.

“She penned that clever epistle, worded so as to plant the seed of doubt, with the intention of slipping it to you whenever she got a chance. Unfortunately, opportunity presented itself before she’d had a chance to regret her crackbrained impulse. Your father called a general assembly. Did you know what it was about?”

“Yes, I did.”

Birgit was talking without reluctance now. “As you perhaps know, Professor Stott came banging on the door at some ungodly hour and woke us all up with the news that Belinda was missing. After that we didn’t sleep much. My kid sisters got to acting silly, so Mama decided we might as well go downstairs and have breakfast. Then Papa decided he’d better stroll over to the pigpens and see what was happening. A while later he phoned to say they’d found Miss Flackley dead, that he was calling a general assembly, and that I’d better show up since I’m a student. I got dressed and ran to the athletic field. Naturally, my nose started running as soon as I sat down—you know how it does when you’ve been rushing around in the cold—so I reached in my pocket hoping I’d brought a tissue, and found that note. Then I—Well, under the circumstances, what would anybody have thought?”

“I’ll grant you the timing was damnably unfortunate. The poor little jug head meant only to suggest that your boyfriend was seeing another girl. Knowing your—er—impetuous temperament, she entertained the fantasy that you’d hand him the mitten forthwith and he’d go dashing to her for solace because he’d smiled at her in the library once or twice. She stuck the note in your pocket as you were climbing into the bleachers. By the time she learned what the meeting was about and realized you might make the wrong interpretation, it was too late to take her little bombshell back. She’s horrified by what she’s done, of course.”

“She darn well ought to be,” said Birgit. “You see, Professor, the awful part of it was that Hjalmar and I had actually been joking out there in the van about stealing Belinda’s piglets and hiding them somewhere till we could train them to become useful citizens. You remember that paper he wrote?”

“I do. So when the pig disappeared, you thought he’d gone ahead and done it, eh?”

“Wouldn’t you? Hjalmar does get these sudden impulses at times. Then when I found the note and heard about Miss Flackley—well, you know what a klutz he is. I couldn’t really picture Hjalmar stuffing her body into the mash feeder and going off in the van with Belinda, but—” She flung wide her hands.

“So you thought you could solve the problem by throwing a tantrum.”

“I didn’t think at all! Not at first, anyway. I just went into shock. Then I thought I’d better stay that way. If I simply refused to say anything to anybody, I couldn’t get him into trouble.”

“Shut your mouth and pray for a miracle, eh?”

“Yes, and it worked! You’re it! Oh, Professor Shandy, how can I ever thank you?”

She hurtled from the bed, flung her arms around his neck, and gave him a tremendous smack on the cheek.

“M’ well, that ought to do for a start,” he replied. “Now I suggest you go downstairs and explain to your mother. Then you’d better patch things up with Hjalmar and go help hunt for Belinda. You—er—don’t harbor any latent destructive tendencies toward her, I trust?”

“Of course not! I’m against pork breeding on principle, but I wouldn’t harm darling Belinda for a billion dollars. Professor Stott adores her. My gosh, practically the first thing I can remember is sitting on his lap while he played ‘This little piggie goes to market with my toes. He’s marvelous with children, you know. My oldest sister, Karin, was a great friend of his daughters. Mary Beth, Julie Beth, Clara Beth, and Lily Beth were over here all the time, or else we were over at their house bumming cookies off Mrs. Stott. She was the most fabulous cook! I cried buckets at her funeral. I’ve never cried so much since, until now. And to think it was on account of some goggle-eyed little—Oh, oh! I’ll bet I can guess who she is.”

“I’ll bet you’re going to have sense enough to keep your guesses to yourself,” said Shandy. “In any event, the—er—person in question will not be among us much longer. She never belonged here in the first place.”

“Does Papa know?”

“He soon will. Now go and apologize to your parents for being such a—er—klutz. If any of your classmates should ask embarrassing questions, I’d—invent a slight case of wheat germ poisoning or something of the sort to account for your recent inactivity. You are now fully recovered and ready to do your share. There’s plenty to do. You may not be aware that Professor Stott has been detained for questioning in the death of Miss Flackley.”

“Professor Stott? But that’s crazy! We’ll picket the jail till they let him out.”

“Atta girl,” said Shandy. “Well, then, I’ll—er—leave you to it.”

S
IEGLINDE WAS STANDING AT
the foot of the stairs, her face strained.

“Well, Peter?”

“Birgit will be down in a minute. She’s just going to dab a little cold water on her eyes, then organize a posse to march on the county hoosegow and liberate Stott.”

“Ah, then she is back to normal and will no doubt be in jail herself by nightfall. Thank you, Peter.”

“My pleasure. If you need bail money, let me know.”

“Will you not stay for coffee?”

“Thanks, but I’d better organize a march on my wife and explain why I left her waiting at the church.”

Shandy left Valhalla and took the long path that led down through the campus to the Crescent. There was hardly anybody around. The students, once Professor Stott’s calamity had become public knowledge, had surged forth with renewed fervor to find his pig for him. One belated searcher, struggling into his mackinaw even as he spoke, explained prevailing student opinion to Shandy in a few trenchant words:

“I mean, jeez, we’ve got oddballs around here I wouldn’t let within ten feet of me with a salad fork, but Old Lardface—I mean Professor Stott—I mean, jeez!”

“Those sentiments do you credit, young man,” Shandy had replied. “Carry on with all zeal, and may your efforts be rewarded.”

His next encounter was less welcome. Mirelle Feldster, tippytoeing up the path in high-heeled boots that must have put a severe strain on her pudgy ankles, managed to spread herself so he couldn’t possibly get by without knocking her down.

“Oh, Peter,” she cried, “isn’t this too dreadful for words! Do you think they’ll have restored the death penalty before he comes to trial, or will he get away with life imprisonment?”

“If you’re talking about the person who planted that false evidence on Stott this morning,” he replied levelly, “I daresay the sentence will be somewhat less drastic. I shouldn’t be too worried if I were you, Mirelle.”

He left her, for once, speechless and went on his way. As he walked, he began to wonder. He’d meant only to wipe that smirk off her silly face and shut her up. In that effort, he’d miraculously succeeded, but perhaps he’d done something more.

Jim Feldster had been connected with Balaclava for a great many years, much longer than Peter Shandy. He’d come there as a teaching fellow in Fundamentals of Dairy Management. He was now a full professor, still teaching Fundamentals of Dairy Management. He taught the subject ably, conscientiously, and, as far as anybody knew, contentedly.

Feldster was no nonentity in his profession. He had published a meticulously researched monograph on The History of Cream Separation. He had delivered a paper to the National Dairymen’s Association, excerpts from which were printed in the
Balaclava County Weekly Fane and Pennon,
along with a picture of Professor Feldster being congratulated by several dairy dignitaries for his significant contribution to the subject of Butterfat Content.

In his younger days, Jim had won firsts in several important milking contests. Now it was his pleasure to stand nearby beaming with quiet pride as his students in turn basked in their moment of teat-stripping glory. He was withal as good a teacher of Fundamentals of Dairy Management as any institution of higher learning could want. On the few occasions when he’d been asked to do anything else, he’d been an utter washout.

Notwithstanding his years of seniority and his respected position in the college community, Jim Feldster had about as much chance of taking over Stott’s job as Shandy had of being elected Pope. Why should Jim have wanted it? He had his cows and his clubs. He knew more passwords, rituals, and secret handshakes than anybody else in Balaclava County, with the possible exception of Harry Goulson. He’d carved out his niche, and Shandy would have sworn he was content to stay in it.

Not so his wife. If Jim had reached the pinnacle of his ambition, Mirelle assuredly had not. She craved more than a polite greeting at a faculty banquet. She wanted to be up there in the receiving line, right next to Sieglinde Svenson.