murdered.”
“You’re entitled to your opinion, Professor. But I wouldn’t want to be too sure of it. The only person who could be sure that Olson was murdered at this stage of the game would be the murderer himself.”
“Anybody could think it was murder, Lieutenant. That’s the popular thing to think nowadays.”
“Yeah, I guess it is at that.” Crawford took out his wallet and thumbed methodically through the bills and the cards. He moistened a thumb and pulled out a small, white card. “I found this taped down to the desk top and pulled it off and took it along. I didn’t know what to make of it.”
He handed the card over. It was in Olson’s handwriting and read:
“Man is a rope stretched between the animal and the Superman—a rope over an abyss. What is great in man is that he is a bridge and not a goal … .”
It was signed: Adam Hart .
Tanner read it and handed it back. “I don’t understand. It’s a quotation from Nietzsche.”
Crawford smiled slightly. “That’s what the girl at the library said. This Adam Hart—ever hear of him, Professor?”
“No, I never heard of him before in my life.”
“That so.” Crawford gazed thoughtfully out the window and Tanner realized with a shock that the man didn’t believe him. “That kind of surprises me, Professor, it really does.” He leafed through his wallet again. “You know, I was rather glad I met you here. I was going to have to look you up later in the day, anyway. On business. You see, Olson was writing a letter when he died—he died right in the middle of it.” He paused. “It was addressed to you, Professor.”
He handed over a sheet of folded, blue writing paper and Tanner opened it. The bottom right-hand corner was crumpled, as if a hand had suddenly clutched at it. On the paper itself there was just the date and his name and one line of writing that broke off abruptly.
PROFESSOR TANNER:
I want to tell you about Adam Hart——
5
HE went home late that afternoon and discovered his apartment had been thoroughly ransacked. The janitor remembered nothing, though nobody could have gotten in without his help. And he hadn’t been bribed to forget, Tanner thought. The man honestly couldn’t remember.
The next three nights were bad. He stored most of his possessions and lived out of a suitcase, shifting hotels every night and telling nobody where he was staying. There was nobody he could trust.
He locked the doors and stuffed clay into the keyholes and jammed the spring locks so they couldn’t be forced open. Then he pulled the shades and sat in the dark and watched the streets or the courtyards through the crack between shade and window, waiting for the Enemy to show up. He cradled his service pistol in his lap, hoping for the opportunity to use it.
David and Goliath, he thought grimly, but I don’t have a chance. He would watch for an hour, then take a sleeping pill and collapse on the bed, not even bothering to turn down the sheet. Before he drifted off to sleep he usually spent an agonizing few minutes wondering what the Enemy’s next move would be. He didn’t have long to wait.
His world started to go smash Thursday morning.
He had been sitting at his desk going over his lectures for the day when Lieutenant Crawford walked in and settled in Petey’s swivel chair. He looked worn; his shirt stuck to him in huge patches where the sweat had soaked through and little tears of perspiration oozed over the ridges in his neck.
“You could have knocked.”
“Sorry, Professor—the door was open.” Crawford turned in the chair to look out the window at the students crossing the quadrangle below. “Semester’s just about over, isn’t it?”
“Next week is finals. After that they’re on their own.”
“I’ve got a boy,” Crawford mused. “He’ll be coming home then. Leech off the old man or be a beach boy for the summer. Kids nowadays—they don’t like to work any more. I guess we bring them up all wrong,
“You’re entitled to your opinion, Professor. But I wouldn’t want to be too sure of it. The only person who could be sure that Olson was murdered at this stage of the game would be the murderer himself.”
“Anybody could think it was murder, Lieutenant. That’s the popular thing to think nowadays.”
“Yeah, I guess it is at that.” Crawford took out his wallet and thumbed methodically through the bills and the cards. He moistened a thumb and pulled out a small, white card. “I found this taped down to the desk top and pulled it off and took it along. I didn’t know what to make of it.”
He handed the card over. It was in Olson’s handwriting and read:
“Man is a rope stretched between the animal and the Superman—a rope over an abyss. What is great in man is that he is a bridge and not a goal … .”
It was signed: Adam Hart .
Tanner read it and handed it back. “I don’t understand. It’s a quotation from Nietzsche.”
Crawford smiled slightly. “That’s what the girl at the library said. This Adam Hart—ever hear of him, Professor?”
“No, I never heard of him before in my life.”
“That so.” Crawford gazed thoughtfully out the window and Tanner realized with a shock that the man didn’t believe him. “That kind of surprises me, Professor, it really does.” He leafed through his wallet again. “You know, I was rather glad I met you here. I was going to have to look you up later in the day, anyway. On business. You see, Olson was writing a letter when he died—he died right in the middle of it.” He paused. “It was addressed to you, Professor.”
He handed over a sheet of folded, blue writing paper and Tanner opened it. The bottom right-hand corner was crumpled, as if a hand had suddenly clutched at it. On the paper itself there was just the date and his name and one line of writing that broke off abruptly.
PROFESSOR TANNER:
I want to tell you about Adam Hart——
5
HE went home late that afternoon and discovered his apartment had been thoroughly ransacked. The janitor remembered nothing, though nobody could have gotten in without his help. And he hadn’t been bribed to forget, Tanner thought. The man honestly couldn’t remember.
The next three nights were bad. He stored most of his possessions and lived out of a suitcase, shifting hotels every night and telling nobody where he was staying. There was nobody he could trust.
He locked the doors and stuffed clay into the keyholes and jammed the spring locks so they couldn’t be forced open. Then he pulled the shades and sat in the dark and watched the streets or the courtyards through the crack between shade and window, waiting for the Enemy to show up. He cradled his service pistol in his lap, hoping for the opportunity to use it.
David and Goliath, he thought grimly, but I don’t have a chance. He would watch for an hour, then take a sleeping pill and collapse on the bed, not even bothering to turn down the sheet. Before he drifted off to sleep he usually spent an agonizing few minutes wondering what the Enemy’s next move would be. He didn’t have long to wait.
His world started to go smash Thursday morning.
He had been sitting at his desk going over his lectures for the day when Lieutenant Crawford walked in and settled in Petey’s swivel chair. He looked worn; his shirt stuck to him in huge patches where the sweat had soaked through and little tears of perspiration oozed over the ridges in his neck.
“You could have knocked.”
“Sorry, Professor—the door was open.” Crawford turned in the chair to look out the window at the students crossing the quadrangle below. “Semester’s just about over, isn’t it?”
“Next week is finals. After that they’re on their own.”
“I’ve got a boy,” Crawford mused. “He’ll be coming home then. Leech off the old man or be a beach boy for the summer. Kids nowadays—they don’t like to work any more. I guess we bring them up all wrong,
Similar Books
