David Morrell - Desperate Measures

The man scrunched his eyebrows together and nodded. “There is no better preparatory education in America. What sort of research did you intend to do?”

“Well, for starters, Mr….?”

“Caradine. I’m chief librarian.”

“Naturally I’ll devote a considerable portion of the book to Grollier’s educational theory. But I’ll also need to supply a historical perspective. When the academy was founded. By whom. How it grew. The famous students who passed through here. So, for starters, I thought that a general immersion in your archives would be helpful. The yearbooks, for example. Their photographs will show how the campus changed over the years. And I might discover that Grollier had many more famous graduates than I was aware of. I want to skim the surface, so to speak, before I plunge into the depths.”

“A sensible method. The archives are…” Caradine glanced at his watch. “I’m sorry. I have a lunch meeting with the library committee, and I’m already late. I’m afraid I can’t show you through the archives. If you come back at one o’clock… The head of the refectory will, I’m sure, be pleased to provide you with lunch.”

“Thanks, Mr. Caradine, but my assistant and I had a late breakfast and… To tell the truth, I’m anxious to get started. Perhaps you could let us into the archives and we can familiarize ourselves with the research materials while you’re at your meeting. I had hoped not to inconvenience you. I’m sure you have better things to do than watch us read journals.”

Caradine glanced at his watch again. “I really have to be at… Very well. I don’t see the harm. The archives are on the next level. The first door on your right at the top of the stairs.”

“I appreciate this, Mr. Caradine. If you’ll unlock the door, we’ll do our best not to trouble you for a while.”

“Just go up.” Caradine started past them toward the stairs. “The door isn’t locked. Almost none of the doors at Grollier are locked. This is a school for gentlemen. We depend on the honor system. In its entire one-hundred-and-thirty-year history, there has never been an instance of thievery on this campus.”

“Exactly what I was getting at earlier. This school is a model. I’ll be sure to put what you just told me into my book.”

Caradine nodded, fidgeting with his hands, saying, “I’m terribly late.” He hurried down the stairs and left the building.

The door thunked shut. Pittman listened to its echo, turned to Jill, and gestured toward the stairs that led upward. “I hope he’s a slow eater.”

At the top of the stairs, the first door on the right had a frosted glass window. Pittman turned the knob, briefly worrying that Caradine had been mistaken about the door’s being unlocked, but the knob turned freely, and with relief, Pittman entered the room.

He faced an area that was larger than he had expected. Shelves lined all the walls and, in library fashion, filled the middle area. Various boxes, ledgers, and books were on the shelves. Several windows provided adequate light.

Jill shut the door and looked around. “Why don’t you check the shelves against that wall? I’ll check these.”

For the next five minutes, they searched.

“Here,” Jill said.

Pittman came over. Stooping toward where Jill pointed at lower shelves, he found several rows of thin oversized volumes, all bound in black leather, their spines stamped with gold numbers that indicated years, arranged chronologically, beginning with 1900.

“I thought Caradine said the school went back a hundred and thirty years,” Pittman said. “Where are the other yearbooks?”

“Maybe the school only started the tradition at the turn of the century.”

Pittman shrugged. “Maybe. Millgate was eighty. Assuming he graduated when he was eighteen, his last semester at Grollier would have been…”

“The spring of ’33,” Jill said.

“How on earth did you do that so fast?”

“I’ve always been good with numbers. All my money, you know,” Jill said, joking to break the tension. “Of course, Millgate might have graduated when he was seventeen.”

“And the other grand counselors aren’t all Millgate’s age. Let’s try a few years in each direction-1929 to 1936.”

“Fine with me,” Jill said. “I’ll take up to ’32. You take the rest.”

“There’s a table over here.”

Sitting opposite each other, they stacked the yearbooks and began to read.

“At least the students are presented in alphabetical order. That’ll save time,” Jill said.

Pittman turned a page. “We know that Millgate, Eustace Gable, and Anthony Lloyd went to school here. The other grand counselors are Winston Sloane and Victor Standish. But we also have to look for someone else.”

“Who?”

“Duncan. The way Millgate said the name… It had the same intensity as when he said ‘Grollier.’ I have to believe the two are connected. The trouble is, Duncan can be a first name as well as a last.”

“Which means we’ll have to check every student’s name in all these books.” Jill frowned toward the stack. “How large a student body did Professor Folsom say Grollier had? Three hundred at one time? We’ve got a lot of names to read.”

They turned pages intently.

“Dead,” Pittman murmured.

Jill looked at him, puzzled.

“Old photographs always give me a chill,” he said.

“I know what you mean. Most of these students are dead by now. But here they are, in their prime.”

Pittman thought of how he coveted every photograph of his dead son. His mouth felt dry.

“Eustace Gable,” Jill said. “Found him. Nineteen twenty-nine. A freshman.”

“Yes, I found him as a senior in 1933. Here’s Anthony Lloyd. Nineteen thirty-three. A senior,” Pittman said.

“I’ve got him as a freshman in ’29. And here’s Millgate.”

“But that doesn’t do us any good. We already knew they went to school here.”

“Hey,” Jill said. “Got another one.”

“Who?”

“Winston Sloane. A freshman. Nineteen twenty-nine.”

“So I was right. He did go to school here, but the son of a bitch didn’t include that in biographical facts he gave to researchers. He wanted it off the record.”

“Got another one,” Jill said excitedly. “Victor Standish.”

“Every damned one of them.”

“We don’t need the other books,” Jill said. “The names are repeated from year to year. They entered in ’29 and graduated in ’33.”

“But what about Duncan? I didn’t come across even one student with a first or last name of Duncan. What was Millgate trying to tell me. What’s the connection between…?”

A shadow loomed beyond the door’s opaque glass window. Although Pittman wasn’t looking in that direction, he sensed the brooding presence and turned just as the door came open. The stranger who entered took long, forceful steps. He wore the gray slacks, navy blazer, and red striped tie that were Grollier’s uniform. He was tall, rigidly straight, in his fifties, with a pointed jaw, a slender patrician nose, and an imperious gaze.

“Would you mind telling me what you’re doing?”

Pittman stood. “Why, yes. I’m planning to write a book about your school, and-”

“You didn’t answer my question. What are you doing? ”

Pittman looked at Jill in feigned confusion. “Research. At the moment, we’re looking at yearbooks.”

“Without permission.”

“Mr. Caradine, the librarian, said we could-”

“Mr. Caradine doesn’t have the authority to give you permission.”

“Perhaps you could tell me who-”

The man’s eyes flashed. “Only I can. I’m the academy’s headmaster.”