“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.
She had shoulder-length black hair and a thin dark Jewish face with prominent cheekbones. Tall, maybe five seven, with black eyes. It was hard to tell her age, but there was a sense about her of intelligent maturity which put her on my side of thirty.
She said, “Come in, Mr. Spenser. I’m Susan Silverman,” and came around the desk to shake hands. She was wearing a black silk blouse with belled sleeves and white slacks. The blouse was open at the throat, and there was a thin silver chain around her neck. Her breasts were good, her thighs were terrific. When she shook hands with me, I felt something click down back of my solar plexus.
I said hello without stammering and sat down.
“Why don’t you take off your coat?” she said.
“Well, it’s supposed to make me look taller,” I said.
“Sitting down?”
“No, I guess not,” I said and stood up and took it off.
She took it from me and hung it on a rack beside hers. Hers was white too, and the two coats overlapped on the rack. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.
“I don’t think you need to look taller, Mr. Spenser,” she said. When she smiled the color of her face seemed to heighten. “How tall are you?”
“Six one,” I said.
“Really? That’s surprising. I must admit you don’t look that tall.”
“Even with the raincoat?” I said.
“Even with that,” she said. “You’re so wide. Do you work with weights?”
“Yeah, some. How could you tell? Your husband lift?”
“Ex-husband,” she said. “Yes, he played tackle for Harvard and stayed with the weights afterward.”
Ex-husband! I felt the click again. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. She had red polish on her fingernails and a thin silver bracelet around her left wrist. Small coiled earrings matched the bracelet and necklace. Her eyes had a dusting of blue shadow, and her lipstick matched the nail polish. Her teeth were very even and white, slightly prominent. Her hair was shiny and done in what we called a pageboy when I was in high school. There was just the slightest suggestion of laugh lines around her mouth.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Spenser?” she asked, and I realized I’d been staring at her.
“I’m trying to find Kevin Bartlett,” I said and handed her one of my cards. “Mr. Moriarty suggested you might be able to tell me something about him.”
“Have you talked to Mr. Moriarty already?” she said.
“In a manner of speaking. He seemed a little cautious.”
“Yes, he is. Public school administrators are often cautious. What did he tell you about Kevin?”
“That he came from a good family and lived in a nice house.”
“That’s all?”
“Yeah. I think I offended him.”
“Why?”
“Because he pouted and stamped his foot and sent me down here.”
She laughed. Her laugh sounded like I’d always imagined the taste of mead. It was resonant.
“You must have teased him,” she said.
“Well, a little.”
“Arthur does not respond well to teasing. But, about Kevin,” she said. “Do you want to ask me questions, or do you want me to hold forth on what I know and think?”
“You hold forth,” I said.
“Have you met Kevin’s parents? You must have.”
“Yes.”
“What do you think?”
“Bad. Role identity is screwed up, no real communication.
Probably a lot more than that, but I only met them twice. I think they probably drink too much.”
“Okay. I’ve met them several times and we agree.