John Gardner - Stillness & Shadows

The young secretary in the silver wig was looking out at him, smiling and nodding encouragement. He jerked forward — the glass door stood open — went up to the front of her desk, and snatched his hat off. “Good morning,” he said, slightly bowing.

She studied him, wonderfully polite but noticing the whiskey stink. “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for one of your employees,” Craine said. “Man named Ira Katz.” He smiled, head tipped. He held the hat in both hands.

Still smiling, she gave him a calculating look, seeing if he was putting her on. The secretary at another desk called over, “Ira didn’t come in today.”

“Didn’t come in?” Craine said, as if offended.

“I’m sorry,” the one in the wig said, and smiled more widely.

Craine jerked his hands out sideways, as if astonished, playing crazy. “He just ‘didn’t come in’? Didn’t call in with an excuse or anything? Just didn’t come in?”

“It must not have been one of his teaching days,” she said.

He already had his mouth set to start up his mad scene — offended taxpayer, What kind of bidness you running here? , etc. — when he was stopped by the pictures on the walls. He covered his mouth with his hand and squinted at the one over her desk, then swung around and looked at the others, one by one. They were interesting; that was what was strange about them. Not all interesting in the same way, like the pictures in the office of an art museum. They were pictures of utterly different kinds, in fact — a photograph of barns and a tree; a lithograph of ruins; a theater poster; some kind of modern-art print even Craine, for all his reading, had never seen before; a small assembly of New Yorker cartoons; a blown-up picture from some popular magazine — a bald man reading a book.

“Who did the art?” he said.

They looked at him — all three of the secretaries and the student worker who was passing through, a boy in suspenders — then the secretary in the wig began to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” he said.

“Nothing. I’m sorry!” she said and covered her mouth. She was pretty, it struck him. All three of them were pretty; so was the boy in a faggoty way. Bunch of movie stars.

“It’s not often you see interesting pictures in an office,” Craine said, moving in on her. “Very good PR. I take my hat off to whoever’s responsible.” He tapped the side of his head. “Parent comes in, sees the pictures on the walls, right off he says, ‘Cultured, very cultured’ around here! This is the place for my Deirdre.’ ”

Now the other two secretaries were smiling, watching him like something from the zoo. He began to catch on. His eyes opened wider. “Nobody did it, it just happened,” he said. “You all put up whatever you felt like, and this is the result!” He saw that it was true. “Interesting!” he said. He clasped his hands behind his back and went over to look more closely at the lithograph of ruins. “Interesting,” he said again. He took a slip of paper from his pocket and a pencil from the nearest of the desks, discovered that he’d forgotten what he meant to write down, drew a face, folded the paper, and put the pencil back. He returned to the desk of the secretary in the wig, hunted for the license in his suit coat pocket, found it, and held it out to her. “Pictures on office walls are usually pretty phony,” he said. “Nobody really notices, they wash over you like Muzak, but they always have a message. You know — these lousy crap paintings in a doctor’s office; travel-bureau posters, pictures of ducks and fish in the dentist’s office, photographs of government buildings at City Hall. — You’re sure Ira Katz isn’t in today? It’s pretty important, actually.”

She looked up from the license to his face. “I could give you his number at home, if you like.”

“Yes, good. Good idea. Maybe I could borrow your phone for a minute.”

She flipped through a file, reached for a slip of paper, and wrote down Ira’s number. “Here,” she said, “I’ll dial, if you like.” She lifted the receiver and, without listening for the dial tone, began to dial. When she was finished she handed the phone to Craine. “I hope it’s not trouble,” she said.

He gave her a vague headshake and listened. The phone rang and rang. Nothing. “Anyplace else he might be?” Craine asked.

The secretary at the desk nearest the door said, “You might try the computer center.”

The girl in the wig, Janet, nodded thoughtfully, pressed down the receiver button, and began to dial again. Behind and to the left of her an office door opened and a white-haired man looked out, concerned. He gave Craine a little nod, at the same time sliding off his glasses. Craine returned the nod, then looked down at the secretary’s dialing finger, carefully showing no expression, struggling to get his mind crystal clear. Had the man been listening? Was Ira in trouble with the department? He cleared his throat.

The secretary held up the receiver. “It’s ringing,” she said.

As soon as he had it at his ear, a voice said, “Computer center.”

“Hello,” Craine said. “Tell me, is Professor Ira Katz there, by any chance?”

There was a pause. “One moment please.” Half a minute later she was back. He wasn’t there.

Craine hung up, and glanced at the secretary. “No luck,” he said. He drew his hand back and pushed it down into his overcoat pocket. “Tell me,” he said, “what does Ira Katz have to do with computers? I thought he was a poet.” He shot a furtive look at the man with white hair.

“Excuse me,” the man said, suddenly smiling, “perhaps I can be of help. You’re Detective Craine?”

“I am,” Craine said. It crossed his mind that he sounded like a man in a Victorian novel. The man in white hair would appreciate that; he might well be one of the few people in Carbondale who would notice. Perhaps. Craine glanced at the man’s face again, then down at his belt buckle. It said, “Colt 45.” Craine sighed.

“I’m glad to meet you,” the man said, coming toward him, sticking out his huge, clean hand. “Ira’s mentioned you. You’re neighbors, I think? Come in!” He had a grin like a baseball star.

Uneasy, against his will, Craine shook the man’s hand. When the man put his other hand gently on Craine’s back, Craine went into the office with him. Softly, the man closed the door.

“I’m Wendel Davies,” he said, “chairman of the English Department.” He gave a laugh and waved Craine toward a chair. “Sit down,” he said, “make yourself at home!” He laughed again, perfect teeth flashing, then went around, sat behind his desk, and put his feet up. He wore Wallabees. “So!” he said.

Craine studied him, lips pursed, then got his pipe out. The man sat motionless, smiling, his head thrown back. Craine nodded. He knew the type. Professor Davies was a watcher and waiter, true-born aristocrat of bureaucrats. He could sit there warmheartedly smiling all day, playing no cards, pretending time had stopped, waiting for the sweat to break out on his opponent’s forehead. Craine found his matches, lit the pipe, blew smoke out. “So you’ve heard of me,” he said.

Davies waved his hand, dismissive, then froze again, still smiling, delighted to be alive.

“Excuse me,” Craine said, and pointed the stem of his pipe at the man, “you invited me in here. If all you mean to do is just sit there grinning—”

Nothing could have prepared him for the man’s look of shock — preposterous embarrassment like a child’s. He blushed beet red and fell forward in his chair, his boyish face twisted to the expression of a man about to tumble from a cliff. “My gosh!” he began.

“Now wait a minute,” Craine said, “I don’t mean to suggest—”