that was less appropriate.
Why?
I batted that problem around in my head all day Saturday, and Saturday night too. Don't ask me what I expected to prove. I felt that there had to be some kind of meaning to it all, and I wanted to find out as much as I could about Dorothy's state of mind at the time. Like poking a bad tooth with your tongue, I guess.
I'd have to write reams to tell you all the mental steps I went through, searching for some relationship among the four rejected items. Price, where they came from, and a thousand other thoughts, but nothing made sense. The same thing happened when I tried to get common characteristics in the wrong things she had actually worn. I even took sheets of paper and headed them Gloves, Handkerchief, Blouse, and Belt, and put down everything I knew about each, looking for a meaning. Apparently, there just wasn't a meaning. Size, age, ownership, cost, color, quality, place of purchase-none of the significant characteristics appeared on all four lists. I tore up the papers and went to bed. You can't figure a suicide.
It came to me about an hour later, so startlingly that I shot up straight in bed, suddenly cold. The out-of-style blouse, the gloves she'd bought that morning. Annabelle Koch's belt, the turquoise handkerchief... Something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue.
It might-I keep telling myself-be a coincidence. But in my heart I don't believe that.
Dorothy went to the Municipal Building, not because it is the tallest building in Blue River, but because a Municipal Building is where you go when you want to get married. She wore something old, something new, something borrowed and something blue -poor romantic Dorothy-and she carried her birth certificate with her to prove she was over eighteen. And you don't make a trip like that alone. Dorothy can only have gone with one person-the man who made her pregnant, the man she'd been going with for a long time, the man she loved-the handsome blue-eyed blond of her fall English class. He got her up to the roof somehow. I'm almost certain that's the way it was.
The note? All it said was 'I hope you will forgive me for the unhappiness I will cause. There is nothing else that I can do.' Where is there mention of suicide? She was referring to the marriage! She knew Father would disapprove of a hasty step like that, but there was nothing else she could do because she was pregnant. The police were right when they said the stilted tone was the result of strain, only it was the strain of an eloping bride, not of a person contemplating suicide.
'Something old, something new' was enough to set me going, but it would never be enough to make the police reclassify a suicide with note as an unsolved murder, especially when they would be prejudiced against me- the crank who pestered them last year. You know that's true. So I'm going to find this man and do some very cautious Sherlocking. As soon as I turn up anything that supports my suspicions, anything strong enough to interest the police, I promise to go straight to them. I've seen too many movies where the heroine accuses the murderer in his soundproof penthouse and he says 'Yes, I did it, but you'll never live to tell the tale.' So don't worry about me, and don't get impatient, and don't write my father as he would probably explode. Maybe it is 'crazy and impulsive' to rush into it this way, but how can I sit and wait when I know what has to be done and there is no one else to do it?
Perfect timing. We're just entering Blue River now. I can see the Municipal Building from the window. I'll wind this letter up later in the day, when I'll be able to tell you where I'm staying and what progress, if any, I've made. Even though Stoddard is ten times as big as Caldwell, I have a pretty good idea of how to begin. Wish me luck...
Dean Welch was plump, with round gray eyes like buttons pressed into the shiny pink clay of his face. He favored suits of clergy-black flannel, single breasted so as to expose his Phi Beta Kappa key. His office was dim and chapel-like, with dark wood and draperies and, in its center, a broad field of meticulously accoutred desktop.
After releasing the button on the inter-office speaker, the Dean rose and faced the door, his customary moist-lipped smile replaced by an expression of solemnity suitable for greeting a girl whose sister had taken her own life while nominally under his care. The ponderous notes of the noonday carillon floated into the chamber, muffled by distance and draperies. The door opened and Ellen Kingship entered.
By the time she had closed the door and approached his desk, the Dean of Students had measured and evaluated her with the complacent certainty of one who has dealt with younger people for many years. She was neat; he liked that And quite pretty. Red-brown hair in thick bangs, brown eyes, a smile whose restraint acknowledged the unfortunate past... Determined looking. Probably not brilliant, but a plodder... second quarter of her class. Her coat and dress were shades of dark blue, a pleasant contrast to the usual student polychrome. She seemed a bit nervous, but then, weren't they all?
'Miss Kingship...' he murmured with a nod, indicating the visitor's chair. They sat. The Dean folded his pink hands. 'Your father is well, I hope.'
''Very well, thank you.' Her voice was low-pitched and breathy.
The Dean said, 'I had the pleasure of meeting him... last year.' There was a moment of silence. 'If there's anything I can do for you...'
She shifted in the stiff-backed chair. 'We-my father and I-are trying to locate a certain man, a student here.' The Dean's eyebrows lifted in polite curiosity. 'He lent my sister a fairly large sum of money a few weeks before her death. She wrote me about it. I happened to come across her checkbook last week and it reminded me of the incident. There's nothing in the checkbook to indicate that she ever repaid the debt, and we thought he might have felt awkward about claiming it.' The Dean nodded.
'The only trouble,' Ellen said, 'is that I don't recall his name. But I do remember Dorothy mentioning that he was in her English class during the fall semester, and that he was blond. We thought perhaps you could help us locate him. It was a fairly large sum of money...' She took a deep breath.
'I see,' said the Dean. He pressed his hands together as though comparing their size. His lips smiled at Ellen. 'Can do,' he snapped with military briskness. He held the pose for an instant, then jabbed one of the buttons on the inter-office speaker. 'Miss Platt,' he snapped, and released the button.
He brought his chair into more perfect alignment with the desk, as if be were preparing for a long campaign.
The door opened and a pale efficient-looking woman stepped into the room. The Dean nodded at her and then leaned back in his chair and stared at the wall beyond Ellen's head, mapping his strategy. Several moments passed before he spoke. 'Get the program card of Kingship, Dorothy, fall semester, nineteen forty-nine. See which English section she was in and get the enrollment list for that section. Bring me the folders of all the male students whose names appear on the list' He looked at the secretary. 'Got that?'
'Yes, sir.'
He made her repeat the instructions. 'Fine,' he said. She went out. 'On the double,' he said to the closed door. He turned back to Ellen and smiled complacently. She returned the smile.
By degrees the air of military efficiency faded, giving way to one of avuncular solicitude. The Dean leaned forward, his fingers softly clustered on the desk. 'Surely you haven't come to Blue River solely for this purpose,' he said. 'I'm visiting friends.'
'Ahh.'
Ellen opened her handbag. 'May I smoke?'
'By all means.' He pushed a crystal ashtray to her side of the desk. 'I smoke myself,' he admitted graciously. Ellen offered him a cigarette, but he demurred. She lit hers with a match drawn from a white folder on which Ellen Kingship was printed in copper letters.
The Dean regarded the matchbook thoughtfully. 'Your conscientiousness in financial matters is admirable,' he said, smiling. 'If only everyone we dealt with were similarly conscientious.' He examined a bronze letter opener. 'We are at present beginning the construction of a new gymnasium and fieldhouse. Several people who pledged contributions have failed to live up to their words.' Ellen shook her head sympathetically, 'Perhaps your father would be interested in making a contrubiton,' the Dean speculated. 'A memorial to your sister...'
'I'll be glad to mention it to him.'
'Would you? I would certainly appreciate that' He replaced tide letter opener. 'Such contributions are tax- deductible,' he added.
A few minutes later the secretary entered with a stack of Manila folders in her arm. She set them before the Dean. 'English fifty-one,' she said, 'section six. Seventeen male students.'
'Fine,' said the Dean. As the secretary left he straightened his chair and rubbed his hands, the military man
