Brady moistened his lips. “It’s a story some writer dreamed up out of his head. You know — writers and their imaginations. It’s just coincidence.”
“Coincidence?” The chief made a wry face. “The officer planned the whole thing, Brady. There was a B-and-E, all right, but it was committed by the patrolman on the beat. Pretty neatly too. He expects the burglar alarm to go off when the door is broken open, so — very cagily — he reports a B-and-E before he has even touched the door, knowing he has only about four or five minutes until reinforcements are due to arrive.
“He breaks open the door, dashes into the store, grabs the stamp album, runs to his car, which is parked close by, and stashes the album. When his colleagues arrive, he is waiting for them at the store, all innocence.”
Brady swallowed. “Coincidence,” he said.
“Possibly,” the Chief said, his mouth tightening, “except for one thing. You’ll be interested to learn that the author is Jonathan Haines. Oh, yes,” he further enlightened Brady. “Mr. Sampson’s grandson.”
Brady stared at the chief.
“When I read the story I requestioned Mr. Haines and he said he had written it out of frustration. He has never bought the theory advanced by the police that the burglar alarm malfunctioned when the door was broken open and then went off accidentally afterward.”
Cort stood. “And neither do I,” he snapped. “I want the truth, Brady. The real story this time!”
Furberry’s Banana
by M. G. Frost
Sophie wanted Furberry to give up the banana...
I now have the office in the English Department of Poverton College that used to be Furberry’s office. The room is not spacious nor particularly well lit, and its decorations are few. One really cannot call framed certificates of degree decorations at all, I suppose, more just professional convention. There is certainly nothing on my wall to match Furberry’s banana.
The banana had been a prominent decoration in Professor Furberry’s office, its yellow velour plumpness forming a crescent shape on the wall above his desk, much like that of fighting fish often found in the offices of business executives. It was certainly what people call a “conversation piece.”
Neither a fighting fish nor a banana would be appropriate to my walls, for I am not forceful and businesslike, nor am I light-hearted, sophisticated, and a social lion like Furberry. I admit I envied him the bright attentions his suave presence evoked at faculty meetings and parties. I envied the gay repartee that issued from his office when, prodded, he referred to himself as “top banana in the English show” here at Poverton. I envied him the blushing oh-you-naughty-man attentions of visiting females and new office staff.
Repartee about the banana often seemed to bring “naughty man” responses and, once in a while, Professor Furberry would wink at me over the shoulder of some giggling lady as if to say, “We men, Poffering, we men — like old Lord Byron, you know — are dashing devils to be reckoned with!” And I would grin back at him, rather foolishly, I fear, yet feeling for that moment just such a devil indeed.
Furberry encouraged face-to-face speculation about the banana’s origin, and he even gave some credence to one behind-the-back one. A lady faculty member, miffed over some disagreement with Furberry, once declared that she expected any day a raid by some angry Carmen Miranda type intent on refurbishing her headpiece. “Close,” grinned Furberry when the theory got back to him, “close.” Less flattering theories, even if he heard them, he chose to ignore.
The banana, as you see, contributed greatly to Furberry’s chosen life style. It had benefits, and yet the possession of such an unusual objet d’art can, it seems, lead to certain difficulties.
Furberry’s difficulties, at least my first knowledge of them, began one day when I had been working late, grading papers in my little office adjacent to his. Furberry entered the outer office. I was very surprised to see him so late in the afternoon, for his classes were arranged to his liking early in the day, other faculty members being forced to arrange their schedules around his, which was inflexible.
I was surprised too at Furberry’s appearance. His hairpiece was just a little askew — obvious — as it seldom was even to his familiars. His face was flushed, and missing was his usual affable, thirty-two-force grin of ivory and gold. He stalked into his office without a word to me (my door was open and I was in full view) or to Miss Hagachoff, who was always the last to leave the office on any day. Miss Hagachoff looked alarmed and upset, and a few minutes later, when a loud groan was heard within Furberry’s sanctum, she got up and nervously but deliberately moved her sensible oxfords toward his door. She didn’t get there.
“Stop, Hagachoff! Oh, Hagachoff, do go home! Stop that incessant pencil-pushing and paper-rattling. Out!” said Furberry.
I couldn’t see Miss Hagachoff’s face, but I could imagine it. When Hagachoff was upset, the thin paleness of her face turned into a ski slope down which her wire-rimmed glasses threatened to plunge as into an abyss. A look at that face did temper Furberry’s violence, for I heard the usual suave Furberry saying, “Please, my dear, forgive my harsh words. You work too hard, dear Miss Hagachoff, and you are thoughtful and kind besides. But do go home, to your well earned evening’s rest.”
“Are you sure? Are you—” Miss Hagachoff’s small voice and small protestations faded as Professor Furberry gallantly pressed her handbag and coat upon her and guided her firmly out the door.
The lady out, he turned and faced me. “Oh world, oh life, oh time, Poffering! Oh false womankind! Poffering, never, never marry. Never, never have anything at all to do with women!”
I had hoped to pretend I’d observed nothing and go on grading my papers, but of course, that now was not to be. He advanced into my office (that never happened before) and flopped into the straight-backed visitor’s chair in front of my desk (that was incredible). I blinked and tried to find something to say, but that wasn’t necessary — a blessing, since I quite often have difficulty synchronizing reaction with speech.
“Poffering, I need a drink,” he said. “And I need a bit of companionship. Come on, old boy, leave off the labor and let us adjourn to Paco’s. Have you got your car?”
“Well—” I hesitated. I don’t drink, but I did have my car.
“Right on, then!” he said without waiting for my answer, and soon we were in my 1964 Fairlane and at a location not far from campus in miles, yet one totally unfamiliar to me. I parked at his direction on the street near a small unprepossessing establishment, over the door of which was stated in as yet unlit neon, PACO’S. I was very nervous. The streetlight on this suspicious-looking street was half a block away, and Furberry hardly waited for me to lock my car door after we stepped out.
It was black in Paco’s. Going in was like entering a movie theater out of bright sunlight. There were low murmurs and clinks of glassware, and a chunk-kachunka noise I later learned came from the pinball machines at the back. Furberry seemed to know his way, and I kept him in earshot, if not in sight, until we slipped into a now twilit booth, my eyesight beginning to return.
Furberry did know the way and the bartender as well, and we soon had two tall Tio Pacos before us. Furberry swallowed long, slumped, and sighed.
“Have you ever been in love, Poffering?” he asked, and as usual didn’t pause for an answer. “Sophie, Poffering, thinks love is a once-in-a-lifetime thing, but then—” he hesitated, as if reflecting “—it is, it is ‘of man’s life a thing apart’ and ‘woman’s whole existence.’ Right?”