I don’t mean to sound callous—”
“I’m disgusted, Miss Bishop, by that kind of sleazy sensationalism. The invasion of my privacy is bad enough but the connection to Harvard making the kid’s life of more than passing—”
“Not his life. It’s his death we’re discussing and Boston is full of bodies, every day.” She was about to flare up, her face coloring.
“The Harvard murder, good God!” He tried to push past her but she wouldn’t move. The heat in the room was awful. He was soaking his shirt beneath all the layers of clothing.
Polly Bishop fixed him with a stern eye.
“Your name was found on a piece of notepaper in his pocket, along with your office hours … We know the secretary saw him leaving your office the day he was killed, only a few hours before he was killed—”
“Do you think I did it? Do you want me to account for my time? Well, I was at the University Theatre in Harvard Square watching a revival of Charade with Cary Grant and … Audrey Hepburn.” He cleared his throat self-consciously; “No, I wasn’t in the company of Cary and Audrey, they were in the movie. Yes, I have a witness called Brennan … He didn’t kill Bill Davis either. And now, Miss Bishop, I’ve had about enough of this interrogation—”
“Why did Bill Davis come to see you that last day, Professor?”
“Listen,” he said angrily, “what is it with you? You know why my name and hours were on his person—I was his adviser. Yes, he came to see me. No, I didn’t see him. He was late! We missed each other!” He felt the muscle flickering along his jaw. Goddamnit, woman …”
“Just not his lucky day, is that it?”
“That’s funny,” he said sourly. “Very funny.”
“Why was he coming to see you? Why did he stop and tell the secretary to have you call him? What was so important?”
Chandler threw up his hands and looked around the room: “Listen to her! Just listen to her! Miss Bishop, I don’t know what he wanted with me. I didn’t see him—can you grasp that?”
“I think there’s something you know and aren’t telling!” She bobbed her head decisively. “You’re just the type—”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” He stormed past her and charged through the doorway. Why did God make such an attractive woman so bloody irritating? Why? Chauvinism lives …
She followed him, her boots pounding along behind him. She drew near and he got a whiff of her perfume. Gardenias or something. There were dainty little crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes, little ridges of determination around the mouth. Thirty-five? Why the hell did he care?
“You may not know that you know,” she said, vaguely conciliatory. “But I’ll bet there’s something, some little thing …”
“You, lady, are pissing in the wind.”
“Smooth,” she said, “very smooth. You Harvard men …”
He went through the outside door onto the entry stairway and, as if by a bolt of lightning, he was momentarily blinded. Someone had snapped on a high intensity, handheld lamp, and Chandler realized too late that he’d been had. There was a cameraman, a light man, a guy holding a microphone and some other kind of apparatus. There was a big green numeral three inside a chocolate-brown rectangle painted on each piece of equipment. Someone was holding an umbrella over the camera and the light. Chandler turned, astonished, to Polly Bishop and dropped his umbrella which clattered down the steps. “Talk about lucky days,” he muttered.
She grabbed the microphone, struck a pose, took a signal and began talking. Chandler looked into the camera, began edging away, felt a tug on his sleeve and realized she had neatly hooked her arm through his: he was trapped and, short of striking this extraordinary woman a stunning blow, he was about to be interviewed on television. He heard her talking as the rain dripped down from the gray, spongy overcast.
“We’re in venerable old Harvard Yard, within the sound of bustling Harvard
“I’m disgusted, Miss Bishop, by that kind of sleazy sensationalism. The invasion of my privacy is bad enough but the connection to Harvard making the kid’s life of more than passing—”
“Not his life. It’s his death we’re discussing and Boston is full of bodies, every day.” She was about to flare up, her face coloring.
“The Harvard murder, good God!” He tried to push past her but she wouldn’t move. The heat in the room was awful. He was soaking his shirt beneath all the layers of clothing.
Polly Bishop fixed him with a stern eye.
“Your name was found on a piece of notepaper in his pocket, along with your office hours … We know the secretary saw him leaving your office the day he was killed, only a few hours before he was killed—”
“Do you think I did it? Do you want me to account for my time? Well, I was at the University Theatre in Harvard Square watching a revival of Charade with Cary Grant and … Audrey Hepburn.” He cleared his throat self-consciously; “No, I wasn’t in the company of Cary and Audrey, they were in the movie. Yes, I have a witness called Brennan … He didn’t kill Bill Davis either. And now, Miss Bishop, I’ve had about enough of this interrogation—”
“Why did Bill Davis come to see you that last day, Professor?”
“Listen,” he said angrily, “what is it with you? You know why my name and hours were on his person—I was his adviser. Yes, he came to see me. No, I didn’t see him. He was late! We missed each other!” He felt the muscle flickering along his jaw. Goddamnit, woman …”
“Just not his lucky day, is that it?”
“That’s funny,” he said sourly. “Very funny.”
“Why was he coming to see you? Why did he stop and tell the secretary to have you call him? What was so important?”
Chandler threw up his hands and looked around the room: “Listen to her! Just listen to her! Miss Bishop, I don’t know what he wanted with me. I didn’t see him—can you grasp that?”
“I think there’s something you know and aren’t telling!” She bobbed her head decisively. “You’re just the type—”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” He stormed past her and charged through the doorway. Why did God make such an attractive woman so bloody irritating? Why? Chauvinism lives …
She followed him, her boots pounding along behind him. She drew near and he got a whiff of her perfume. Gardenias or something. There were dainty little crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes, little ridges of determination around the mouth. Thirty-five? Why the hell did he care?
“You may not know that you know,” she said, vaguely conciliatory. “But I’ll bet there’s something, some little thing …”
“You, lady, are pissing in the wind.”
“Smooth,” she said, “very smooth. You Harvard men …”
He went through the outside door onto the entry stairway and, as if by a bolt of lightning, he was momentarily blinded. Someone had snapped on a high intensity, handheld lamp, and Chandler realized too late that he’d been had. There was a cameraman, a light man, a guy holding a microphone and some other kind of apparatus. There was a big green numeral three inside a chocolate-brown rectangle painted on each piece of equipment. Someone was holding an umbrella over the camera and the light. Chandler turned, astonished, to Polly Bishop and dropped his umbrella which clattered down the steps. “Talk about lucky days,” he muttered.
She grabbed the microphone, struck a pose, took a signal and began talking. Chandler looked into the camera, began edging away, felt a tug on his sleeve and realized she had neatly hooked her arm through his: he was trapped and, short of striking this extraordinary woman a stunning blow, he was about to be interviewed on television. He heard her talking as the rain dripped down from the gray, spongy overcast.
“We’re in venerable old Harvard Yard, within the sound of bustling Harvard
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