while he was struggling into his scruffy Burberry with the frayed cuffs, floppy plaid lining, and the odd spots that clustered to him, it seemed, wherever he went. He watched her coming toward him, trying to place the face with a name: Audrey Hepburn was as close as he could come and unless his life had taken a sudden, dramatic turn for the better, it wasn’t going to turn out to be Audrey Hepburn. She spoke his name, held out her hand, which he shook awkwardly, entangled in the voluminous coat.
“I’m Polly Bishop. Channel Three News—”
“Of course,” he said, smiting his forehead, “I’ve seen you a thousand times but I—”
“That’s television, we become as familiar as the furniture …” She smiled winsomely: “And just as forgettable.”
“Like history professors, I suspect.” He began strangling himself with the scarf, wondering why he had such difficulty with apparently simple tasks.
“Here, you’re caught in the little flap,” she said, pulling the scarf loose. “Do you always have this problem?” She was smiling broadly, the corners of her wide mouth curling up.
“Not always, thank God, just usually. What exactly can I do for you, Miss Bishop?”
“You were pretty rough on us television people, Professor,” she said, ignoring his question. “Here, don’t forget your umbrella …”
“No rougher than you deserve, surely. Television has a good deal to answer for, don’t you agree?”
“Oh, it’s certainly no worse than a draw, the good and the bad.” She cocked her head, still smiling, appraising his ensemble. “Maybe we’ve even done a little better than that—”
He wasn’t overjoyed by the smile, the air of amused tolerance. “Look, you justify your existence any way you like—”
“Oho, it’s my whole existence that’s in question now … oh, dear.”
“Look, Miss Bishop, I don’t know what brings you here but surely it isn’t to badger me about my credentials as television critic … As I can tell from the look on your face, you’ve enjoyed watching me fight it out with my coat and scarf. So why don’t we get to the point or just leave it at that.” He was stuffing papers and books into his briefcase. He picked up his Boston Globe and she reached out, tapped it with a neatly manicured nail:
“That’s why I’m here.” Her smile was gone. “I’m sorry, Professor, I didn’t mean to get off to such a lousy start …”
“Bill Davis’s murder,” he said softly. The boyish, long-haired face, a typical class portrait, looked up blankly from the sheet of newsprint. His hand trembled for a moment; then he stuffed it into the bulging briefcase. “Senseless, awful thing … You just never know—” He closed the briefcase and looked down at the woman.
“I’m covering the murder … it’s a big story, ‘The Harvard Murder.’ That’s why I’m here.” She looked around the room, back to him, shrugged sheepishly. “You happened to be lecturing. I stayed.”
“I don’t understand,” he said, shook his head. “Why me? I hardly knew him—”
“You were his adviser, Professor. And you say you hardly knew him?”
“He got switched over to me this semester. We’d only met once or twice, he seemed like an independent kid, working on some things that weren’t really ready for me to see—his previous adviser had gotten Bill’s motor started and there wasn’t much for me to do yet …” He shook his head again, as if it were the only gesture left. How many ways could you exhibit futility and sorrow? “I don’t know anything about … this … what happened to Bill.”
“Well, Professor, you seem to be all we’ve got, the only lead. The police have already spoken with you and they won’t say a word … that makes you interesting to us, Professor. You seem to be the only person at Harvard they have talked to, the only link to Harvard and, quite frankly, it’s Harvard that makes this murder of more than passing interest. You understand?
“I’m Polly Bishop. Channel Three News—”
“Of course,” he said, smiting his forehead, “I’ve seen you a thousand times but I—”
“That’s television, we become as familiar as the furniture …” She smiled winsomely: “And just as forgettable.”
“Like history professors, I suspect.” He began strangling himself with the scarf, wondering why he had such difficulty with apparently simple tasks.
“Here, you’re caught in the little flap,” she said, pulling the scarf loose. “Do you always have this problem?” She was smiling broadly, the corners of her wide mouth curling up.
“Not always, thank God, just usually. What exactly can I do for you, Miss Bishop?”
“You were pretty rough on us television people, Professor,” she said, ignoring his question. “Here, don’t forget your umbrella …”
“No rougher than you deserve, surely. Television has a good deal to answer for, don’t you agree?”
“Oh, it’s certainly no worse than a draw, the good and the bad.” She cocked her head, still smiling, appraising his ensemble. “Maybe we’ve even done a little better than that—”
He wasn’t overjoyed by the smile, the air of amused tolerance. “Look, you justify your existence any way you like—”
“Oho, it’s my whole existence that’s in question now … oh, dear.”
“Look, Miss Bishop, I don’t know what brings you here but surely it isn’t to badger me about my credentials as television critic … As I can tell from the look on your face, you’ve enjoyed watching me fight it out with my coat and scarf. So why don’t we get to the point or just leave it at that.” He was stuffing papers and books into his briefcase. He picked up his Boston Globe and she reached out, tapped it with a neatly manicured nail:
“That’s why I’m here.” Her smile was gone. “I’m sorry, Professor, I didn’t mean to get off to such a lousy start …”
“Bill Davis’s murder,” he said softly. The boyish, long-haired face, a typical class portrait, looked up blankly from the sheet of newsprint. His hand trembled for a moment; then he stuffed it into the bulging briefcase. “Senseless, awful thing … You just never know—” He closed the briefcase and looked down at the woman.
“I’m covering the murder … it’s a big story, ‘The Harvard Murder.’ That’s why I’m here.” She looked around the room, back to him, shrugged sheepishly. “You happened to be lecturing. I stayed.”
“I don’t understand,” he said, shook his head. “Why me? I hardly knew him—”
“You were his adviser, Professor. And you say you hardly knew him?”
“He got switched over to me this semester. We’d only met once or twice, he seemed like an independent kid, working on some things that weren’t really ready for me to see—his previous adviser had gotten Bill’s motor started and there wasn’t much for me to do yet …” He shook his head again, as if it were the only gesture left. How many ways could you exhibit futility and sorrow? “I don’t know anything about … this … what happened to Bill.”
“Well, Professor, you seem to be all we’ve got, the only lead. The police have already spoken with you and they won’t say a word … that makes you interesting to us, Professor. You seem to be the only person at Harvard they have talked to, the only link to Harvard and, quite frankly, it’s Harvard that makes this murder of more than passing interest. You understand?
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