'It would help if you did.'
'No. They're very fine and gentle people, and I don't want them bothered with this sort of thing.'
'Martel used them as a reference. They might not approve of that. They may not even know him.'
'I'm sure they do.'
'Did they give him a letter of introduction?'
'No.'
'Then all you have is his word?'
'It seems - it seemed to be enough. He talked very freely and fully about them.'
But the doubt with which she regarded me was spreading and deepening, undercutting her confidence in her own judgment. 'Do you seriously believe he's some sort of impostor?'
'My mind is open on the subject. I'm trying to open yours.'
'And pry a name out of me,' she said rather grimly.
'I don't need the name if you'll help.'
'How can I help?'
'Call your Georgetown friends and ask them what they know about Martel.'
She lifted her head. 'I may do that.'
'Please do. They're the only real lead I have.'
'I will. Tonight.'
'May I check with you later then?'
'I suppose you may.'
'I'm sorry if I've upset you.'
'You haven't. It's the moral question, really. Did I do right or wrong? Of course if we stopped to consider the possible consequences of everything we do, we'd end up doing nothing.'
'How soon is he leaving?'
'Immediately, I think. Today or tomorrow.'
'Did he say why?'
'No. He's very reticent. But I know why. Everyone's suspicious of him. He's made no friends here.'
'Except Ginny.'
'He didn't mention her.'
'Or say where he was going?'
'No.'
7
PETER MET ME at the gate in the picket fence. Professor Tappinger was home now, and would see us.
He lived in the adjoining harbor city, in a rather rundown tract whose one obvious advantage was a view of the ocean. The sun, heavy and red, was almost down on the horizon now. Its image floated like spilled fire on the water.
The Tappinger house was a green stucco cottage, which except for its color duplicated every third house in the block. The cement walk which led up to the front door was an obstacle course of roller skates, a bicycle, a tricycle. A girl of six or seven answered the door. She had a Dutch bob and enormous watching eyes.
'Daddy says that you can join him in the study.'
She led us through the trampled-looking living room into the kitchen. A woman was bowed over the sink in a passive-aggressive attitude, peeling potatoes. A boy of about three was butting her in the legs and chortling. She paid no attention to him and very little to us. She was a good-looking woman no more than thirty, with a youthful ponytail, and blue eyes, which passed over me coolly.
'He's in the study,' she said, and gestured with one elbow toward a door.
It let us into a converted garage lined with bookshelves. A fluorescent fixture hung on a chain over a work table cluttered with open books and papers. The professor was seated there with his back to us. He didn't turn around when Peter spoke to him. The implication seemed to be that we were interrupting important brainwork.
'Professor Tappinger?' Peter said again.
'I hear you.'
His voice was impatient. 'Excuse me for another minute, please. I'm trying to finish a sentence.'
He scratched at his head with the blunt end of his pen, and jotted something down. His coppery brown hair had a frost of gray at the edges. I saw what he eventually got up that he was a short man, and at least ten years older than his handsome wife. He had probably been handsome, too, with his sensitive mouth and clean features. But he looked as if he had had a recent illness, and the eyes behind his reading glasses were haunted by the memory of it. His handshake was cold.
'How are you, Mr. Archer? How are you, Peter? Forgive me for keeping you waiting. I snatch these precious moments of concentration from the Bergsonian flux. With a twelve-hour teaching load and all the preparation it entails, it isn't easy to get anything written. I envy Flaubert the luxury he had of spending whole days in search of the right world, le mot juste-'
Tappinger seemed to have the professional habit of non-stop talking. I interrupted him: 'What are you working on?'
'A book, if I can ever get the time to do it. My subject is the French influence on modern American literature - at the moment I'm studying the vexed question of Stephen Crane. But that wouldn't interest you. Peter tells me you're a detective.'
'Yes. I'm trying to get some information about a man named Francis Martel. Have you run into him? 'I doubt it, but his name is certainly interesting. It's one of the ancient names of France.'
'Martel is supposed to be a Frenchman. His story is that he's a political refugee.'
'How old is he?'
'About thirty.'
I described him: 'He's a man of medium height, trim and fast on his feet. Black hair, black eyes, dark complexion. He has a French accent which varies from strong to weak.'
'And you think he's putting it on?'
'I don't know. If he's a phony, he's fooled quite a few people. I'm trying to find out who and what he really is.'
'Reality is an illusive thing,' Tappinger said sententiously. 'What do you want me to do - listen to his French and pronounce on its authenticity?'
He was only half serious, but I answered him seriously: 'That might be a good idea, if we could work it out. But Martel is on the point of leaving town. I thought if you could provide me with a few questions that only an educated Frenchman could answer -'
'You wish me to prepare a test, is that it?'
'With the answers.'
'I suppose I can do that. When do you need it? Tomorrow?'
'Right now.'
'That's simply impossible.'
'But he may be leaving any minute.'
'I can't help that!'
Tappinger's voice had risen womanishly. 'I have forty papers to read tonight - those bureaucrats at the college don't even provide me with a student reader. I have no time for my own children -'
I said: 'Okay, we'll skip it. It wasn't a very good idea in the first place.'
'But we have to do something,' Peter said. 'I'll be glad to pay you for your time, professor.'
'I don't want your money. All I want is the free use of my own days.'
Tappinger was practically wailing.
His wife opened the kitchen door and looked out. Her face was set in a look of concern, which somehow gave the impression that it had been blunted by use.
'What's the trouble, Daddy?'
'Nothing, and don't call me Daddy. I'm not that much older than you are.'
