a glassed-in room with a sign on the door saying Administration and a smaller sign beneath saying Reception. I went in and spoke to a plump middle-aged lady with a tight permanent. I asked to see the principal.
“He’s at conference this morning,” she said. “Perhaps the assistant principal, Mr. Moriarty, can help you.” I said that Mr. Moriarty would be fine. She asked my name and disappeared into another office. She returned in a moment and gestured me in.
Mr. Moriarty was red-faced, swag-bellied, thick-necked Irish. He was wearing a dark blue sharkskin suit with natural shoulders and narrow lapels, a white shirt with button-down collar, and a thin black knit tie.
Cordovan shoes, I thought, not wing tips; plain-toed cordovan shoes and white socks. I wished there were someone there to bet with. He stood up behind his desk as I came in and put out his hand.
“I’m Mr. Moriarty, the assistant principal,” he said. We shook hands.
His hair was brown and surprisingly long, cut square in a kind of Dutch-boy bob across the forehead, completely covering his ears, and waving over his shirt collar. Modish.
I gave him my card. He read it and raised his eyebrows.
“Private investigator. Hey, I was an MP, you know. In Germany after the war; stationed in Stuttgart,” he said.
I said, “I’m looking into the disappearance of one of your students, Kevin Bartlett. I was wondering if you could tell me anything about him that might help.”
Moriarty frowned. “We’ve been through all that with Chief Trask,” he said. “I don’t know what I could add to what I told him.”
“Let’s go over what you told him,” I said. “Sometimes a fresh slant can help.”
“Does Chief Trask know you are here? I mean, I don’t want to get into some conflict of ethics on this. Chief Trask is, after all, the—um—-well—the chief.”
“He knows, and I won’t ask you to compromise your ethics. Just tell me about the kid.”
“Well, he’s quite a bright student. Good family, father runs a successful contracting firm. Good family, been in town a long time, beautiful home up in Apple Knoll.”
“I know,” I said. “I’ve been there, but I’m more interested in information about the kid. What kind of kid was he? Was he any kind of behavior problem? Did he have many friends? Who were they? What were they like? Was he using drugs? Did he drink? Did he have a girl friend?
Was there a teacher he was close to? Why would he run off?
That sort of thing. I’m glad he was from a good family, you understand; I’d just like to see about getting him back to it.”
“Well, that’s a big order,” Moriarty said. “And I question whether or not I’m authorized to discuss these matters with you.”
“Just ‘whether,’” I said.
“I beg your pardon?” he said.
“‘Whether’ implies ‘or not,’” I said.
His professional manner slipped a little. “Listen,” he said, “I don’t need my grammar corrected by some damned gumshoe. And I don’t have to tell you anything at all. You think I’ve got all day to sit around and talk, you got another think coming.”
“You’ve got a real way with the language,” I said. “But, never mind, I’m not here to fight with you. I’m looking for help. Was the kid ever in trouble?”
“Well, sometimes he got a little insolent, especially with the women teachers. He has only been up here a year. This is just the start of his second year here, and we don’t have a lot of experience with him. You might want to talk with Mr. Lee down at the junior high.” He looked at his watch. “Or perhaps while you’re here you might want to talk with Mrs. Silverman of our guidance department. She might be able to tell you something.”
Good going, Spenser. Insult the guy’s grammar so he sulks at you and won’t talk. Maybe I ought to watch my mouth as people keep telling me. Moriarty was up from his desk and walking me to the door. I glanced down. Right!
Plain-toed cordovans. Not shined. White socks too. Perfect.
“Mrs. Silverman’s office is third door down this corridor on the right. The door says Guidance on it, and you can’t miss it.” I said thank you and went where he pointed me. There were lockers along the right-hand wall and doors with frosted-glass windows in them on my left. On the third one was lettered Guidance. I went in. It was like the waiting room at a doctor’s office. Low table in the center, a rack for periodicals on one wall, a receptionist opposite, and three doors on the left wall like examining rooms. The periodical rack was filled with college catalogues, and the low table had literature about careers and health on it. The receptionist was a great improvement on Moriarty’s. She had red hair and a dark tan and a lot of good-sized bosom showing over and around a lime-green sleeveless blouse. I told her Mr. Moriarty had sent me down to talk with MrS. Silverman.
“She has a student with her now. Could you wait a moment please?”
I picked up some of the career leaflets on the table.
Nursing, Air Force, G.E. Apprentice Training; I wondered if they had one for Private Eye. I looked. They didn’t. The door to Mrs. Silverman’s office opened, and a thin boy with shoulder-length hair and acne came out.
He mumbled, “Thank you, Mrs. Silverman,” and hustled out of the office.
The secretary and her bosom got up and went into the office. In a moment they came out, and she said, “Mrs. Silverman will see you now.”
I put down my copy of Opportunities in Civil Service and went in. Susan Silverman wasn’t beautiful, but there was a tangibility about her, a physical reality, that made the secretary with the lime-green bosom seem insubstantial.
