Ian Caldwell - The Rule of Four

What now? I ask.

He buttons his coat, turning off the projector. I want to check Bill's desk in the library downstairs. He returns the slide machine to its shelf, trying to leave everything where he found it.

Why?

To see if anything else from the diary is there. Richard insists there was a blueprint folded inside it.

He opens the door and holds it for me, checking the room before locking it up.

You have a key for the library?

He shakes his head. Bill told me the punch code for the stairwell.

We return into the darkness of the hallway, where Paul leads me down the corridor. Orange security lights wink in the darkness like airplanes crossing at night. We come to a door leading to a stairwell. Below the knob is a box with five numbered buttons. Paul thinks for a second, then begins to punch a short sequence. As the knob unlocks in his hand, both of us freeze. In the silence we can hear something shuffling.

Go, I mouth, nudging Paul toward the library door.

A plate of security glass forms a small window in the panel, and we peek through it into the darkness of the room.

A shadow is shifting across the top of one of the private tables. The beam of a flashlight hovers across its surface. I can make out a hand reaching into one of the drawers.

That's Bill's desk , Paul whispers.

His voice carries in the stairwell. The path of the flashlight freezes, then moves in our direction.

I push Paul down below the window.

Who is that ? I ask,

I couldn't see .

We wait, listening for footsteps. When we hear them moving away into the distance, I peek into the room again. It's empty.

Paul pushes the door forward. The entire area is sunk in the long shadows of bookshelves. Moonlight presses at the sheet-glass windows to the north. The drawers of Stein's desk are still open.

''Is there another exit ? I whisper as we approach.

Paul nods and points past a series of ceiling-high shelves.

Suddenly there are footsteps again, shuffling in the direction of the exit, followed by a click. The door latches gently into place.

I move toward the sound.

What are you doing? Paul whispers. He signals me back to him, by the desk.

I peer out the security glass into the far stairwell, but I can make out nothing.

Paul is already rummaging through Stein's papers, splaying his penlight over a clutter of notes and letters. He points at a locked drawer that's been pried open. The files in it have been pulled out and scattered over the desk. Edges of paper curl up like untended grass. There seems to be a folder for every professor in the history department.

RECOMMENDATION: CHAIRMAN WORTHINGTON

REC (A-M): BAUM, CARTER, GODFREY, LI

REC (N-Z): NEWMAN, ROSSINI, SACKLER, WORTHINGTON

(PRE— GHAIR)

REC (OTHER DEPTS): CONNER, DELFOSSE, LUTKE, MASON,

QUINN

OLD CORRESPONDANCE: HARGRAVE/WILLIAMS, OXFORD

OLD CORRESPONDANCE: APPLETON, HARVARD

It means nothing to me, but Paul is fixed on them.

What's wrong? I ask.

Paul runs his flashlight across the desktop. Why does he need all these recommendations?

Two other files lie open. One is titled REC/CORRESPONDANCE: TAFT. The other is LEVERAGE/LEADS.

Taft's letter has been pushed into a corner, brushed aside. Paul rolls his shirt cuff over his fingers and yanks the paper into view.

William Stein is a competent young man. He has worked under me for five years, and has mainly been useful in matters administrative and clerical. I am confident that he will do a similar job wherever he goes.

God, Paul whispers. Vincent screwed him. He reads it again. Bill sounds like a secretary.

When Paul unfolds the dog-eared corner of the page, the date is from last month. He picks it up, revealing a handwritten postscript.

Bill: I am writing this for you in spite of everything. You deserve less. Vincent.

You bastard… Paul whispers. Bill was trying to get away from you.

He pans the flashlight over the LEVERAGE/LEADS folder. A series of Stein's letter drafts lies on top, worked over in several pens. Lines have been inserted and removed until the text is difficult to follow. As Paul reads them, I can see the penlight begin to quiver in his hand.

Don Hargrove , begins the first letter, I am pleased to inform, you that my research on the Hypnerotomachia Poliphili is complete nears completion. My results will be available by the end of April, if not sooner. I assure you they are worth the wait. As I have heard nothing from you and Master Williams since my letter of 17 January, please confirm that the professorship position we discussed remains available. My heart is with Oxford, but I may not be able to fend off other universities once my paper is published and I'm faced with new offers.

Paul flips to the following page. I can hear him breathing now.

Chairman Appleton, I write to you with good news. My work on the Hypnerotomachia draws successfully to a close. As promised, The results will cast a shadow over everything else in Renaissance historical studies-or any historical studies-this year or next. Before I publish my results, I want to confirm that the assistant professorship is still available. My heart is with Harvard, but I may not be able to fend off other temptations once my paper is published and Fm faced with new offers.

Paul reads it a second time, then a third.

He was going to try to take it from me, he whispers faintly, stepping away from the desk to lean back on the wall.

How is that possible?

Maybe he thought no one would believe it was undergraduate work.

I refocus on the letter. When did he offer to type up your thesis?

Sometime last month.

He's been meaning to take it for that long?

Paul glares at me and moves his hand across the desk. Obviously. He's been writing these people since January.

When the letters settle on the desktop, a final sheet of correspondence peeks out from behind the Oxford and Harvard letters. When Paul sees the corner of the stationery, he pulls it out.

Richard , it begins, I hope this letter finds you well. Perhaps you've had better luck in Italy than you had in New York. If not, then we both know the situation you're in. We also both know Vincent. I think it's fair to say he has plans of his own for anything that comes of this. I therefore have a proposition for you. There's more than enough here to suit both of us, and I've come up with a division of labor I think you'll find fair. Please contact me soon to discuss. Leave me your phone numbers in Florence and Rome as well-the mail over there is unreliable, and I'd prefer to straighten this out ASAP. -B.

The reply, in a different pen and a different hand, has been written on the bottom of the original letter and sent back. There are two telephone numbers, one preceded by the letter E, the other by an R. A final note is jotted afterward:

As requested. Call after business hours, my time. What about Paul? -Richard.

Paul is speechless. He rifles through the papers again, but there's nothing else. When I try to console him, he motions me off.

We should tell the dean, I say finally.

Tell him what? That we were going through Bill's stuff?

Suddenly, a bright reflection curves along the opposite wall, followed by colored lights flashing through the sheet-glass windows. A police car has arrived in the front courtyard of the museum, siren mute. Two officers emerge. The red and blue lights go dead just as a second squad car arrives and two more officers follow.

Someone must've told them we were here, I say.

The note from Curry shakes in Paul's hand. He's standing in place, watching the dark forms hurry toward the main entrance.