One of those scholars was Barney Robinson.
They found him on a campus bench, talking to a young brunette who had escaped from a Kerouac novel. They explained who they were and the girl excused herself. Robinson didn’t seem particularly pleased by the intrusion, or by the girl’s sudden disappearance.
“What’s this all about?” he asked. He had blue eyes and a square face, and he was wearing a sweatshirt emblazoned with the name of the university. He straddled the bench and squinted into the sun, looking up at Meyer and Carella.
“We didn’t expect to find you here today,” Carella said. “Do you always have classes on Saturday?”
“What? Oh, no. Practice.”
“What do you mean?”
“Basketball.”
“We thought you were on the baseball team.”
“I am. I’m also on the basket...” Robinson paused. “How’d you know that? What is this?”
“Anyway, we’re glad we caught you,” Carella said.
“Caught me?”
“That’s just an expression.”
“Yeah, I hope so,” Robinson said glumly.
“How tall are you, Mr. Robinson?” Meyer asked.
“Six-two.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Mr. Robinson, did you once take a class with Professor Land?”
“Yeah.” Robinson kept squinting up at the detectives, trying to understand what they were driving at. His tone was cautious but not overly wary. He seemed only to be extremely puzzled.
“When was this?”
“Last semester.”
“What was the class?”
“Logic.”
“How’d you make out?”
“I flunked.”
“Why?”
Robinson shrugged.
“Do you think you deserved to flunk?”
Robinson shrugged again.
“Well, what do you say?” Meyer asked.
“I don’t know. I flunked, that’s all.”
“Were you doing the work?”
“Sure I was doing the work.”
“Did you understand what you were doing?”
“Yeah, I thought so,” Robinson said.
“But you flunked anyway.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, how’d you feel about that?” Meyer asked. “You were doing the work, and you say you understood it, but still you flunked. How about that? How’d it make you feel?”
“Lousy — how do you think?” Robinson said. “Would you mind telling me what this is all about? Since when do detectives—”
“This is just a routine investigation,” Carella said.
“Into what?” Robinson asked.
“How’d you feel about flunking?”
“I told you. Lousy. An investigation into what?”
“Well, that’s not important, Mr. Robinson. The only—”
“What is it? Is there a fix in or something?”
“A fix?”
“Yeah. The team, is that it? Is somebody trying to fix a game?”
“Why? Have you been approached?”
“Hell, no. If there’s something going on, I don’t know anything about it.”
“Are you a good basketball player, Mr. Robinson?”
“Fair. Baseball’s my game.”
“You pitch, is that right?”
“Yeah, that’s right. You know an awful lot about me, don’t you? For a routine investigation—”
“Are you a good pitcher?”
“Yes,” Robinson answered without hesitation.
“What happened when Land flunked you?”
“I got benched.”
“For how long?”
“For the rest of the season.”
“How’d this affect the team?”
Robinson shrugged. “I don’t want to blow my own horn...”
“Go ahead,” Meyer said, “blow it.”
“We lost eight out of twelve.”
“Think you’d have won them if you were pitching?”
“Let’s put it this way,” Robinson said. “I think we’d have won some of them.”
“But, instead, you lost.”
“Yeah.”
“How’d the team feel about this?”
“Lousy. We thought we might cop the city championship. We were unbeaten until I was benched. Then we lost those eight games and we wound up in second place.”
“Well, that’s not so bad,” Carella said.
“There’s only one first place,” Robinson answered.
“Did the team feel Mr. Land had been unfair?”
“I don’t know how they felt.”
“How’d you feel?”
“Look, those are the breaks,” Robinson said.
“Yes, but how’d you feel?”
“I thought I knew the work.”
“Then why’d he flunk you?”
“Why don’t you go ask him?” Robinson said.
This was the place to say “Because he’s dead,” but neither Meyer nor Carella said the words. They watched Robinson squinting up into their faces and into the sun, and Carella said, “Where were you last night about five o’clock, Mr. Robinson?”
“Why?”
“We’d like to know.”
“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” Robinson said.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to be the judge of what’s our business or what isn’t.”
“Then maybe you better go get a warrant for my arrest,” Robinson said. “If this is as serious as all that—”
“Nobody said it was serious, Mr. Robinson.”
“No?”
“No.” Meyer paused. “Do you want us to get that warrant?”
“I don’t see why I have to tell you—”
“It might help us to clear up a few things, Mr. Robinson.”
“What things?”
“Where were you last night at five o’clock?”
“I was... I was involved in something personal.
“Like what?”
“Look, I don’t see any reason—”
“What were you involved in?”
“I was with a girl,” Robinson said, sighing.
“From what time to what time?”
“From about four... well, a little before four... my last class broke at three forty-five...”
“Yes, from three forty-five until when?”
“Until about eight.”
“Where were you?”
“At the girl’s apartment.”
“Where?”
“Downtown.”
“Where downtown?”
“For Christ’s sake...”
“Where?”
“On Tremayne Avenue. It’s in the Quarter, near Canopy.”
“You were at the apartment at four o’clock?”
“No, we must’ve got there about four-fifteen, four-thirty.”
“But you were there at five?”
“Yes.”
“What were you doing?”
“Well, you know...”
“Tell us.”
“I don’t have to tell you! You figure it out for yourself, goddamn it!”
“Okay. What’s the girl’s name?”
“Olga.”
“Olga what?”
“Olga Wittensten.”
“Was that the girl just sitting here with you?”
“Yeah. What’re you gonna do — question her, too? You gonna foul up a good thing?”