he might have prevented… what? The thought, ill-formed and obscure, skittered away from him.
He got up and went to the dark window, staring out but seeing only his own reflection, with the comfortable room behind him. Absently tossing and catching the small, heavy fossil he’d found on the beach, he tried to sort out his thoughts.
"Do I think he’s been murdered, is that it? Is that what’s bothering me? That someone killed him—Frawley? Nate, even?—flung him from the cliffs to keep him from telling me whatever secret he was going to reveal at five o’clock?" He said it aloud to see what it sounded like, and it sounded silly. There were a lot of explanations to sift through before getting to that one. Not that it was his responsibility to do any sifting. Still…
He looked in the tiny telephone book and, standing at the window, dialed the number for the county police. Inspector Bagshawe of Scotland Yard, he was told, was handling that particular case, but the inspector was gone for the day. Would he mind speaking with Sergeant Fryer?
Gideon told Sergeant Fryer as much as he remembered of his conversation with Randy, feeling more ridiculous by the second. The sergeant was courteous but not overly animated, and appeared to lose all interest when Gideon explained that it had to do with an alleged Mycenaean settlement in 1700 b.c.
"Ah," he said in his northern accent, "you’re an anthropologist yourself, are you, sir?"
"Yes."
"Oh, aye," Sergeant Fryer said, as if that explained it.
When he asked Gideon how long he would be in Char-mouth and where he could be reached afterward, Gideon could tell that he did so more out of politeness than relevance.
If he had any duty in the matter, he had now performed it, yet he still felt unsettled and on edge. He picked up the telephone book again, turned to "Hotels and Guest Houses," and began dialing. He got Nate on the third try, at the Cormorant.
"Nate, I was just calling to see if there was any news."
"News? What kind of news?"
"About Randy Alexander."
"Randy?" Nate said in a sort of disgusted disbelief. "Who knows where the schmuck is? I’ve had it with him."
"You’re not worried? The paper seemed to think he might be dead."
"Oh, come on… the
Times?
They jump on everything they can to make the dig look screwed up. I told you, they’ve got some kind of vendetta against me."
"Well, what do you think happened to him?"
"I think he just got bored and took off again. Probably
rented a motorcycle somewhere and went tooling around the country."
"
Again,
did you say?" He felt as if someone had lifted a weight from his shoulders.
"That’s what I said. He once did it for two
months,
never mind two weeks, in Missouri—had to make up a whole semester, not that he gave a damn. And then he did it for two or three days during our first week here. But this does it. He’s through. He can go find somebody else to bug. Hey, how’d you like a nice new graduate student?"
"No thanks. Nate, that same day he disappeared—"
"Took off," Nate said peevishly.
"He made an appointment with me for five o’clock that day. He said he wanted to tell me something he didn’t seem to feel comfortable talking to you about. Do you know what that was about?"
"No, what was it about?"
"That’s what I’m asking you."
"How should I know?"
"Okay, never mind. I guess I was worried about nothing."
"You sure were, buddy. Listen, Gid, this guy isn’t one of your typical graduate students. He’s a drifter, a bum. He’s just playing around in school. You know what he really wanted to be? A pitcher. The guy spent six years in the minors. He was a southpaw, supposed to have a great fast ball, until he wore his arm out. Then he was a drummer in a rock band. Then he claims he was a mercenary in Africa—"
"And now he wants to be an archaeologist?"
"Don’t ask me, man. You know what he does back home? He rides with one of these so-called outlaw gangs—all middle-aged nerds, like him. You
He got up and went to the dark window, staring out but seeing only his own reflection, with the comfortable room behind him. Absently tossing and catching the small, heavy fossil he’d found on the beach, he tried to sort out his thoughts.
"Do I think he’s been murdered, is that it? Is that what’s bothering me? That someone killed him—Frawley? Nate, even?—flung him from the cliffs to keep him from telling me whatever secret he was going to reveal at five o’clock?" He said it aloud to see what it sounded like, and it sounded silly. There were a lot of explanations to sift through before getting to that one. Not that it was his responsibility to do any sifting. Still…
He looked in the tiny telephone book and, standing at the window, dialed the number for the county police. Inspector Bagshawe of Scotland Yard, he was told, was handling that particular case, but the inspector was gone for the day. Would he mind speaking with Sergeant Fryer?
Gideon told Sergeant Fryer as much as he remembered of his conversation with Randy, feeling more ridiculous by the second. The sergeant was courteous but not overly animated, and appeared to lose all interest when Gideon explained that it had to do with an alleged Mycenaean settlement in 1700 b.c.
"Ah," he said in his northern accent, "you’re an anthropologist yourself, are you, sir?"
"Yes."
"Oh, aye," Sergeant Fryer said, as if that explained it.
When he asked Gideon how long he would be in Char-mouth and where he could be reached afterward, Gideon could tell that he did so more out of politeness than relevance.
If he had any duty in the matter, he had now performed it, yet he still felt unsettled and on edge. He picked up the telephone book again, turned to "Hotels and Guest Houses," and began dialing. He got Nate on the third try, at the Cormorant.
"Nate, I was just calling to see if there was any news."
"News? What kind of news?"
"About Randy Alexander."
"Randy?" Nate said in a sort of disgusted disbelief. "Who knows where the schmuck is? I’ve had it with him."
"You’re not worried? The paper seemed to think he might be dead."
"Oh, come on… the
Times?
They jump on everything they can to make the dig look screwed up. I told you, they’ve got some kind of vendetta against me."
"Well, what do you think happened to him?"
"I think he just got bored and took off again. Probably
rented a motorcycle somewhere and went tooling around the country."
"
Again,
did you say?" He felt as if someone had lifted a weight from his shoulders.
"That’s what I said. He once did it for two
months,
never mind two weeks, in Missouri—had to make up a whole semester, not that he gave a damn. And then he did it for two or three days during our first week here. But this does it. He’s through. He can go find somebody else to bug. Hey, how’d you like a nice new graduate student?"
"No thanks. Nate, that same day he disappeared—"
"Took off," Nate said peevishly.
"He made an appointment with me for five o’clock that day. He said he wanted to tell me something he didn’t seem to feel comfortable talking to you about. Do you know what that was about?"
"No, what was it about?"
"That’s what I’m asking you."
"How should I know?"
"Okay, never mind. I guess I was worried about nothing."
"You sure were, buddy. Listen, Gid, this guy isn’t one of your typical graduate students. He’s a drifter, a bum. He’s just playing around in school. You know what he really wanted to be? A pitcher. The guy spent six years in the minors. He was a southpaw, supposed to have a great fast ball, until he wore his arm out. Then he was a drummer in a rock band. Then he claims he was a mercenary in Africa—"
"And now he wants to be an archaeologist?"
"Don’t ask me, man. You know what he does back home? He rides with one of these so-called outlaw gangs—all middle-aged nerds, like him. You
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