In the Last Analysis (17 page)

“Are you asking for my favorite speech on advertising and the distortion of values in America? I do it very well, and have even been known to talk my future in-laws out of the purchase of an ice-crusher, which some clever ad had actually convinced them that they wanted. Perhaps if I were to begin my speech, it would stimulate your thought processes. Ready? Years ago, the objects of a man’s desire were clearly divided into two groups: those things he wanted and needed, and those things he wanted simply because they had caught his fancy. It never occurred to this man to confuse the two, or to convince himself that he needed what he merely fancied. The Puritan …”

“Can the police possibly
know
that he did not leave Chicago?”

“I’ve been wondering the same thing,” Jerry said. “His colleagues say, Yes, of course Danny boy was working in his laboratory all day; we heard him talking, or rattling test tubes, or using the typewriter, but of course there are records and tapes. Did you see the movie
Laura?
Speaking of records, don’t they keep a record of everyone who flies to New York from Chicago?”

“I rather imagine that they do. They have a passenger list for every plane.”

“Then he could give a false name, or take the train. I think our next step is to interview Dr. Daniel Messenger. Even if he turns out to be pure as the driven snow, he may tell us something about Barrister, or life, or genes. What can we lose, except the plane fare to Chicago and several days’ time?”

“I haven’t got several days’ time.”

“I know; and I haven’t got the plane fare to Chicago. I suggest we combine my time and your money, and send me off. I promise not to pull any fancy ones this time; let me get an impression of him.”

The idea had already occurred to Kate. She would have dearly loved to talk to Daniel Messenger herself. But if one thing was unarguable, it was that she had to continue in her wonted ways—to be accused of murder is one thing; to abandon one’s obligations another. Jerry had more confidence in the value of his impressions than Kate did. This was not precisely personal: as young men went, Jerry had as much sense as could reasonably be expected. The fact was that youngsters cannot judge: she had seen too many half-baked professors popular with students, too many brilliant scholars, a bit on the dull side, scorned. For the student in college there might be a certain rightness in this judgment; but, in this particular instance, Kate was
not willing to risk all on the opinion of a twenty-one-year-old who made up in brashness what he lacked in wisdom. Suppose Jerry returned with a definite impression, one way or the other? Would it be worth anything?

Perhaps not. But where was the alternative? Kate vividly remembered arguing once with Emanuel about psychoanalysis as a cure. She had pointed to the length of time it took, its great cost, the lack of control anyone—patient or analyst—had over the process of free association, etcetera, and Emanuel had denied none of it. “It’s a very clumsy tool,” he had said. “But it’s the best we have.” Jerry might not be flattered by the analogy, but Kate made it to herself, all the same. A clumsy tool Jerry certainly was, but he was all she had. In any case, apart from Jerry’s time and her money, she didn’t see what they had to lose—indeed, Jerry, with his frank, youthful masculinity, might well antagonize Messenger less than she.

“The approach, I think,” Kate said, “would be to talk to him about Barrister, not about himself. If you’re obviously trying to trick him into some dangerous admission, you’ll put him off. I know I would be put off. But if you tell him frankly we are in trouble and need his help, you may learn something of value. If he is the murderer, what you learn will not necessarily be worth anything, but then neither would it be if you had a match of wits. Jerry, what I’m saying, bluntly, is that if he’s clever enough to have done this, and to have convinced the police of his innocence, you’re not going to catch him. On the other hand, if he’s as nice as everyone seems to think, he may help us in some way we can’t even guess at. Now, I’m not going to let you go out there as Hawkshaw, the great detective, nor do I expect you to pretend to take my advice and then do just what you want.” She threw him a piercing glance that
made Jerry think of Emanuel and the park. Could she possibly know? In fact, Kate was merely drawing a bow at a venture: she had her suspicions. “Jerry, if you pull any shenanigans this time, that’s it. You’re back to driving a truck, and no bonus.”

“What do I tell Messenger? Who do I say I am?”

“Perhaps we ought to try the truth. Not that I claim any inherent value for it, God forbid; but it has, among our various techniques, the appeal of novelty. Do you need to go home for a suitcase?”

“Well, as a matter of fact …” Kate followed Jerry’s glance to the foyer; a suitcase stood modestly behind the table.

“Very well, I had better call to see when there is a plane to Chicago.” Kate lifted the receiver.

“Eleven-twenty-something. I’ll just make it to the airport.”

Kate hung up the phone with resignation, and went to get money for Jerry. He was almost out the door before she realized that she had only just told him about Daniel Messenger. How on earth? … She got up to ask him.

“The trouble with you,” Jerry said, “is that you don’t read the newspapers. The police have to give the reporters something, and the contents of the murdered girl’s will were just about right. I didn’t, of course,” he added with becoming modesty, “know about the picture. See you in a few days.” He disappeared, closing the door gently behind him, leaving Kate to feel, not for the first time, rather sorry for her niece.

Kate, in her turn, prepared to depart for the university. Reed would undoubtedly have a fit when he learned where Jerry had gone; but the preservation of people’s feelings
was one of the goods which had vanished with the new state of affairs. Disaster brought ruthlessness in its wake—war had always done so. It was apparently inevitable. She remembered wryly with what difficulty, in the beginning, she had brought herself to use Reed at all. But each ruthless act makes the next one not only possible but inevitable. Perhaps this was how one ended in committing murder.

But what possible series of events, then, had led to this murder? Janet Harrison had had a picture of the young Michael Barrister in her purse, carefully concealed. This seemed certainly to indicate—if one ignored for the moment the possibility of the picture’s having been placed there by the murderer—that there was some connection between Barrister and Janet Harrison. Barrister, of course, had denied it. If he had murdered her, carefully concealing the connection between them (perhaps he had searched her room to determine that no evidence of the relationship existed), what was his motive?

Kate left the apartment and went down to wait for a bus. Suppose he had known Janet Harrison when he was a young man, or suppose he had simply known her, and the only picture of him, which, in her infatuation, she could acquire, had been one of him as a young man. In any case, she had got in his hair and he had killed her. Perhaps she wanted to marry him and he didn’t care for her. But surely this was a not uncommon situation; and there are methods of getting rid of importunate young women without killing them, however appealing that solution might appear. Kate had known young women, her own contemporaries, who had become infatuated, had followed the man of their dreams about, spent hours staring up at his bedroom window, telephoned him at outrageous hours of the night.
They had appeared desperate enough, yet they were all now married to somebody else, and presumably contented. And if Barrister was the man Janet Harrison had adored, why had she left her money to Messenger, whom she had apparently never seen, whom she certainly had not adored? Or, if it did turn out that she had adored him, why had she carried a picture of Barrister? Jerry suggested that Messenger had put it in her purse, but what would have been the point of that?
No
picture would have been even more confusing than the wrong picture.

Kate arrived at the university in the state of dizziness to which she was becoming fairly accustomed. She sat for a moment in her office, opening her mail in an idle way, and staring at nothing. Her glance fell, inevitably, on the chair where Janet Harrison had sat.
Professor Fansler, could you recommend a good psychiatrist?
Now, why in the world had the girl asked
her
that question? Was she, Kate, the only older person worthy of respect to whom Janet Harrison had access? It was barely possible. Yet Kate could not help reflecting that the anonymous letter accusing her of the murder had not been as wildly improbable as in her first distress she had thought. Kate stood, somehow, at the center of the enigma. It was she who had sent Janet Harrison to Emanuel; it was there Janet Harrison had been murdered. Had Janet Harrison asked her question of some other professor, for example, she would have ended up, presumably, on some other psychiatrist’s couch. Would she have been murdered there? Well, not—Kate forced herself to face this—if Emanuel or Nicola had been the murderer. Otherwise? Well, Barrister had the office across from Emanuel’s, and his picture had been recognized by Messenger. Messenger had inherited the money. The farmer takes a wife, the wife takes a child,
the child takes a nurse … and the cheese stands alone. Who was the cheese?

She was aroused by the telephone from the contemplation of this fascinating question. “Professor Fansler?” Kate admitted it. “This is Miss Lindsay. I’m sorry to disturb you, but you seemed interested enough in the information so that I thought you wouldn’t mind. I tried to telephone you at home last night, but there wasn’t any answer. I thought you’d rather hear from me than Jackie Miller.”

“Yes, of course,” Kate said, “it’s very nice of you to call. I’m afraid I didn’t come away with a very favorable impression of Jackie Miller in her extraordinary pajamas. Are you about to tell me that I am now in her debt?”

“I don’t know. But you did seem anxious about the name of the person who had seen Janet Harrison with a man, and the other evening Jackie Miller remembered it. She turned to me and suggested that—um—I might want to tell you what it was.” Kate could well imagine what Jackie had said: “You’re her pet pigeon, why don’t you call her up and tell her?” “Ordinarily,” Miss Lindsay went on, “I wouldn’t think of bothering you at home, but under the circumstances … Of course, as it turned out, I didn’t bother you.”

“I’m very grateful to you. What’s the name? It will all probably turn out to be a mare’s nest, but we might as well know.”

“Her name is Dribble. Anne Dribble.”

“Can anybody possibly be named Dribble?”

“It is unlikely, but that seems to be her name. Jackie thought of it because someone mentioned dribbling. She lived in the dorm here for a short time last semester, but
she didn’t like it, and moved out soon after. She isn’t in the phone book. I’m afraid this isn’t very much help.”

“On the contrary, I’m very grateful to you. Did you know Miss Dribble at all, well enough, I mean, to decide if she’s at all reliable?”

“I didn’t know her well, no; barely at all, in fact. But she wasn’t—she wasn’t Jackie’s sort.”

“Thank you very much, Miss Lindsay. I expect I can trace her through the university’s records. I appreciate your calling.” Reed had said that the key to the whole thing might well be here. Probably, however, they would just get another lead that would peter out in some dead end. Kate’s class was in fifteen minutes. She called the registrar and requested the address and telephone number of Anne Dribble, who had been registered last semester, possibly this. She was asked to hold on, and did so, not for long. The voice returned to say that Anne Dribble had registered this semester but withdrawn because of illness (this, Kate knew, meant anything from appendicitis to a love affair). Her address was something Waverly Place, and her telephone number … Kate wrote it down, and hung up after expressing thanks.

Well, carpe diem. She dialed, first for an outside line, then the number. The phone rang at least six times before it was answered by a female clearly aroused from sleep. “May I please speak to Miss Anne Dribble?” Kate asked.

“Speaking.” Kate had been certain it would not be this simple. She was going to be late for her lecture.

“Miss Dribble, forgive me for disturbing you, but I think you might be able to help. You know, I’m sure, about the death of Janet Harrison. We have discovered, quite inadvertently, that you saw her in a restaurant some months
ago with a man. I wonder if by any chance you know who the man was?”

“Good Lord, I’d forgotten. How in the world …?”

“Miss Dribble, the point is this. Would you recognize that man if you saw him again?”

“Oh, yes, I think so.” Kate’s heart gave a leap. “They were in a small Czechoslovakian restaurant; I happened to go there because I was visiting a friend who lived down the block from it. Janet Harrison and the man were at the other end, and I had the feeling they didn’t want to be approached. But I did look at him. You know, one is curious about the men one’s acquaintances go about with, and Janet had always been so mysterious. I think I might recognize him.” Kate had not seen Horan; but she thought of Sparks, of Emanuel, of Messenger (who was homely)—could the girl describe the man sufficiently on the phone?

“Miss Dribble, put it this way. If that man were to be lined up with, say, six other men who resembled him superficially, could you pick him out?”

There was a moment’s silence. She is going to ask who the hell I am, Kate thought. But all Miss Dribble said was: “I’m not certain. I
think
I would know him again, but I saw him only from a distance in a restaurant. Who … ?”

“Miss Dribble, could you give me a quick description of him? Tall, short, fat, thin, dark, fair?” (Emanuel’s light hair was now mixed with gray, and looked lighter.) “What sort of person was he?”

“He was sitting down, of course. It’s probably quite inaccurate, but if you want a general sort of description, he reminded me of Cary Grant. Good-looking, you know, and suave. I remember being rather surprised that Janet Harrison … she was attractive, of course, but this man …”