9
The door thunked shut. Pittman listened to its echo, turned to Jill, and gestured toward the stairs that led upward. “I hope he’s a slow eater.”
At the top of the stairs, the first door on the right had a frosted glass window. Pittman turned the knob, briefly worrying that Caradine had been mistaken about the door’s being unlocked, but the knob turned freely, and with relief, Pittman entered the room.
He faced an area that was larger than he had expected. Shelves lined all the walls and, in library fashion, filled the middle area. Various boxes, ledgers, and books were on the shelves. Several windows provided adequate light.
Jill shut the door and looked around. “Why don’t you check the shelves against that wall? I’ll check these.”
For the next five minutes, they searched.
“Here,” Jill said.
Pittman came over. Stooping toward where Jill pointed at lower shelves, he found several rows of thin oversized volumes, all bound in black leather, their spines stamped with gold numbers that indicated years, arranged chronologically, beginning with 1900.
“I thought Caradine said the school went back a hundred and thirty years,” Pittman said. “Where are the other yearbooks?”
“Maybe the school only started the tradition at the turn of the century.”
Pittman shrugged. “Maybe. Millgate was eighty. Assuming he graduated when he was eighteen, his last semester at Grollier would have been…”
“The spring of ’33,” Jill said.
“How on earth did you do that so fast?”
“I’ve always been good with numbers. All my money, you know,” Jill said, joking to break the tension. “Of course, Millgate might have graduated when he was seventeen.”
“And the other grand counselors aren’t all Millgate’s age. Let’s try a few years in each direction-1929 to 1936.”
“Fine with me,” Jill said. “I’ll take up to ’32. You take the rest.”
“There’s a table over here.”
Sitting opposite each other, they stacked the yearbooks and began to read.
“At least the students are presented in alphabetical order. That’ll save time,” Jill said.
Pittman turned a page. “We know that Millgate, Eustace Gable, and Anthony Lloyd went to school here. The other grand counselors are Winston Sloane and Victor Standish. But we also have to look for someone else.”
“Who?”
“Duncan. The way Millgate said the name… It had the same intensity as when he said ‘Grollier.’ I have to believe the two are connected. The trouble is, Duncan can be a first name as well as a last.”
“Which means we’ll have to check every student’s name in all these books.” Jill frowned toward the stack. “How large a student body did Professor Folsom say Grollier had? Three hundred at one time? We’ve got a lot of names to read.”
They turned pages intently.
“Dead,” Pittman murmured.
Jill looked at him, puzzled.
“Old photographs always give me a chill,” he said.
“I know what you mean. Most of these students are dead by now. But here they are, in their prime.”
Pittman thought of how he coveted every photograph of his dead son. His mouth felt dry.
“Eustace Gable,” Jill said. “Found him. Nineteen twenty-nine. A freshman.”
“Yes, I found him as a senior in 1933. Here’s Anthony Lloyd. Nineteen thirty-three. A senior,” Pittman said.
“I’ve got him as a freshman in ’29. And here’s Millgate.”
“But that doesn’t do us any good. We already knew they went to school here.”
“Hey,” Jill said. “Got another one.”
“Who?”
“Winston Sloane. A freshman. Nineteen twenty-nine.”
“So I was right. He did go to school here, but the son of a bitch didn’t include that in biographical facts he gave to researchers. He wanted it off the record.”
“Got another one,” Jill said excitedly. “Victor Standish.”
“Every damned one of them.”
“We don’t need the other books,” Jill said. “The names are repeated from year to year. They entered in ’29 and graduated in ’33.”
“But what about Duncan? I didn’t come across even one student with a first or last name of Duncan. What was Millgate trying to tell me. What’s the connection between…?”
10
A shadow loomed beyond the door’s opaque glass window. Although Pittman wasn’t looking in that direction, he sensed the brooding presence and turned just as the door came open. The stranger who entered took long, forceful steps. He wore the gray slacks, navy blazer, and red striped tie that were Grollier’s uniform. He was tall, rigidly straight, in his fifties, with a pointed jaw, a slender patrician nose, and an imperious gaze.
“Would you mind telling me what you’re doing?”
Pittman stood. “Why, yes. I’m planning to write a book about your school, and-”
“You didn’t answer my question.
Pittman looked at Jill in feigned confusion. “Research. At the moment, we’re looking at yearbooks.”
“Without permission.”
“Mr. Caradine, the librarian, said we could-”
“Mr. Caradine doesn’t have the authority to give you permission.”
“Perhaps you could tell me who-”
The man’s eyes flashed. “Only
“Ah. Mr. Bennett.” Pittman remembered the name that the boy outside had mentioned. “We wanted to speak with you, but since it was lunchtime and you weren’t in your office, we thought we’d come over here in the meanwhile.”
“It wouldn’t have done you any good. There are procedures that must be followed, letters to be submitted, applications to be filed.”
“Letters? Applications? But you just said that you’re the only one who can give permission for-”
“I said I’m the academy’s headmaster. I have a board of supervisors who must be consulted about the sort of breach of privacy you’re suggesting.”
“But my book would be for the benefit of-”
“I’m afraid I must ask you to leave.”
If he cuts off one more of my sentences… Pittman thought.
“Whatever you want,” Pittman said. “I’m sorry for the misunderstanding. Perhaps we could go back to your office and discuss the problem.”
“Yes, there
Bennett glared toward Pittman, pointing toward the open door.
“Very well.” Pittman worked to control himself. He was suddenly conscious that Jill stood next to him. “I’ll write you a letter explaining what I want.”
“I doubt that the letter will accomplish anything.”
