She washed her face again, her lips tightening and sparks of anger snapping in her eyes at the sight of her bruised face. She would pay him back! She glanced at her watch. The whole rehearsal had taken under four hours. It was still dark outside.
She eased into bed where Ted snored unaware. In a few hours he would wake, gather her into his arms, kiss her bruises, and apologize glibly. “I’m so sorry, honey. You know I’d never hurt you if I was myself. I’m really going to stop drinking. Honest, I am. Say you forgive your old monster.”
She would swallow the bitterness in her throat and answer, “Sure, Teddie, I know you’re sorry. It’s okay, lover. Everything will be better, you’ll see.”
Mr. Strang Unlocks a Door
by William Brittain
© 1981 by William Brittain
Mr. Leonard Strang, the amateur criminologist of Aldershot High School, has been absent from our pages for more than three years. No, he hasn’t retired; the wizened, gnome-like science teacher has been on a long sabbatical — away from classrooms and crimes. And now he’s back, confronting an academic problem that has tormented teachers since time immemorial...
It was the thirtieth of May, and the sunshine was bright outside the office window. There hadn’t been a parental complaint in nearly a week; an incipient food fight in the cafeteria had been averted by the simple expedient of putting pizza back on the menu; and the school’s baseball team had won its last four games in a row. For Marvin W. Guthrey, principal of Aldershot High School, life was good. With a contented sigh he snuggled against the smooth leather of his high-backed swivel chair.
The office door flew open with a loud bang. In the opening stood the small rumpled figure of Mr. Leonard Strang, Aldershot’s veteran science teacher. He held some papers in one hand, and the other fist was tightly clenched. On the gnomelike teacher’s face was an expression of total outrage.
Mr. Strang had been at Aldershot High School for thirty-three years — sixteen more than Guthrey himself. And in all that time he’d been a stickler for politeness, for observing the amenities of civilized behavior. So Guthrey knew that for Mr. Strang to come barging unceremoniously into the principal’s office spelled trouble with a capital T.
“Leonard,” said the principal solicitously. “What’s wrong?”
“I am annoyed!” replied Mr. Strang. “More than that, I am provoked, irritated, and incensed! In all my years of teaching I have never seen such a brazen attempt—”
He stopped abruptly and made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “In!” he ordered.
Two boys slunk silently into the office. Guthrey recognized both of them. Arthur Osgood was scarcely an inch taller than Mr. Strang himself. In his green jacket, and peering about through large bulbous eyes, Arthur Osgood put the principal in mind of a myopic frog. By contrast, Ralph Milleridge was a colossus, his muscles rippling beneath a sweatshirt with ALDERSHOT ATHLETICS stenciled on it.
“Sit down!” ordered Mr. Strang. The two boys sat. The teacher looked across the desk at the astounded Mr. Guthrey.
“Today,” began Mr. Strang, “I collected the research papers from my advanced biology class. The papers were assigned last September and represent a full year’s work. Much of the final mark for the year is based on—”
“Okay, okay,” said Guthrey. “What’s the problem?”
“I glanced through the papers at lunch,” the teacher replied. “Take a look at this.” He placed a small pile of papers on Guthrey’s desk.
“It seems Arthur wrote about cloning,” said the principal. “Let me see... ‘To the average person, the word clone brings to mind images of huge monsters or zombie-like humanoids designed to do the bidding of their masters.’ ” Guthrey looked up. “Not bad so far, Leonard.”
Mr. Strang began reading from the top page of the papers still in his hand. “ ‘It should be understood, however, that at present, cloning — the use of a single cell from a living organism to produce an exact genetic duplicate of the donor — is limited to—”
Guthrey frowned and pointed to the paper on his desk. “That’s exactly what this one says, Leonard.”
“Yes,” replied the teacher. “It seems one of these two papers is itself a clone. They’re identical from beginning to end. Fourteen pages of solid research by one of these boys. And of cheating by the other.”
“But which—” Guthrey began.
“That’s what we’re here to find out,” answered Mr. Strang. “I’ll probably have to fail the cheater, and as this is a class for seniors only, he may not graduate. I thought the problem was serious enough to bring to your attention.”
“Of course,” said Guthrey. “But because it is so serious, we have to be absolutely sure who the guilty party is.”
There was a long silence. Then Arthur Osgood spoke up. “I–I know how things look, Mr. Strang,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “But that paper’s all my own work. I swear—”
“Hey, Artie,” interrupted Ralph Milleridge. “C’mon, man! You tried a little scam, and it didn’t work. Didn’t you think anybody would see that your paper’s just like the one I wrote?”
Mr. Strang and Guthrey looked at each other. The answer they were searching for wasn’t going to be found easily — if indeed it was found at all.
“Both papers typed,” murmured Mr. Strang. “Footnotes — bibliography — all identical. They were done on different machines. The quality of your typing seems to be much better than Arthur’s, Ralph.”
“My father’s got an office at home,” said Ralph. “With a computer and everything. All the latest equipment. Including one of those typewriters with a TV screen where you can correct any mistakes and then the machine makes a perfect copy. But just because Dad let me use his office doesn’t mean—”
“It isn’t neatness we’re concerned with here,” said Mr. Strang. “It’s honesty. Tell me, Ralph, when did you finish your paper?”
“About three weeks ago. It was the day of the game against Bentley High. I remember because I pitched that day.”
Guthrey consulted his calendar. “That would be May tenth — a Saturday.”
“And you?” Mr. Strang asked Arthur.
“Last weekend. Sunday afternoon.”
“You see,” said Ralph. “My paper was finished two weeks ahead of Artie’s. So he had to copy from me.”
“Perhaps,” said Mr. Strang. “I don’t suppose either of you has some kind of proof — aside from your unsupported word — that you completed the paper when you said you did.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Yes?” Mr. Strang peered at Ralph Milleridge over the tops of his black-rimmed glasses. “You can prove you finished your paper on May tenth, Ralph?”
“I sure can. I mailed myself a copy.”
“You what?”
“I sealed a carbon copy of my paper in an envelope and mailed it to myself. Dad does that sometimes when he writes something and he doesn’t want anybody else to steal his idea. The postmark tells when you did the work. Here, I’ll show you.”
Ralph leafed through the notebook in his lap. Finally he came up with a 9 x 12 inch brown manila envelope. He handed it to Mr. Strang.
“Looks like the flap is sealed with tape,” said Guthrey.
“Sealed? It’s practically bound and gagged.” The teacher examined the shiny strips that crisscrossed one another over the envelope’s flap. “And the tape’s got glass fibers running through it. The adhesive’s strong, and the tape itself can’t be broken. You would have to cut it. This flap hasn’t been tampered with, that’s for sure.”