Power, The by Frank M. Robinson Page A

we give them too much.” He mopped at his face with a khaki handkerchief that was too small for the job. “What are you going to do this summer, Professor?”
    Crawford had something to say but he was going to take his own sweet time in saying it, Tanner thought.
    “I was thinking of taking a short leave from the Project and going out to Colorado on a research grant. Excavation of an old Indian village.” With everything that had happened in the last few days, he knew he wasn’t going to go. But Crawford would find that out in due time.
    “You know, I rather figured that you would be doing something like that. I really did. But I guess we were both wrong.”
    Tanner studied Crawford for a moment. The man was a little too casual, he was waiting for some kind of reaction. “I don’t get you.”
    “Being curious is my job so I checked up on it. No particular reason and if you want to get sore about my snooping, I guess you’ve got a right to be. Anyway, I checked and they told me in the front office that they had taken your name off the list. Just the other day, too. They’re bringing in a professor from another university to handle it. They’d been considering him and at the last minute I guess he got it.” He located a toothpick in his pocket and absently dug at a rear tooth. “I’m surprised you didn’t know about it.”
    “I’ve got a contract,” Tanner said tightly.
    Crawford looked sympathetic. “I know people who have had contracts before, Professor. And guess what? They were no good—no good at all. I suppose you could sue but I wouldn’t want to give you odds on winning.”
    “You’re sure of this?”
    “I don’t kid people about things like this, Professor.”
    He had been going to withdraw anyway, Tanner thought. But he couldn’t understand why his name should have been taken off the list arbitrarily.
    “About John Olson,” Crawford said, changing the subject. “The other day when I was talking to you, you said you thought he’d been murdered. Anything to go on besides your own opinion? This is official—and I wouldn’t advise withholding information.”
    Tanner chose his words carefully. “Let’s just say it was a hare-brained idea of mine. There was nothing solid to it.”
    “Then you weren’t convinced to the point where you’d try playing detective?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I’ll put it this way. Sometimes a fellow dies and his friends or relatives think he was done in. And when it turns out that he wasn’t and the police close the case, they get upset and start doing some investigation of their own. Usually they don’t accomplish much but they make a lot of trouble for themselves and for the police. You understand?”
    “I’m not sure.”
    Crawford looked pained. “I think maybe they read too many books. The ones in which the police are always stupid and overlook clues that any half-wit can find. Or maybe the police just don’t want to solve it. Things aren’t like that in real life, Professor. Ninety per cent of the time, when the police close the case it’s because there’s nothing more that can be done, or needs to be done.”
    Tanner felt tired. “Let’s not beat around the bush, Lieutenant. What’re you driving at?”
    Crawford patted his face with his handkerchief again. “There’s nothing more that needs to be done with the Olson case. We’re closing it.”
    “I thought you had the idea that he was poisoned.”
    “So I was wrong. The results of the autopsy came in yesterday. There wasn’t any poison, Professor. Not a trace of it.” He smoothed out the dampened handkerchief and tucked it carefully away in a pocket. “I’ll admit that the look on his face was almost a sure tip-off for poison, though it doesn’t explain why he should’ve sat down to write you a letter rather than one to his sister, for example.”
    “Or who Adam Hart is.”
    Crawford snipped the end of a fresh cigar. “Adam Hart. I’ll admit I’m curious about him,