I told Captain Lighthouse in the Alumni Office that I was doing background for an arts-page feature in theEdgerton Echo concerning the world's most extensive H. P. Lovecraft collection. For a sidebar tracing the history of the cornerstone of the great collection, a first edition ofThe Dunwich Horror, I wished to speak to its original owner, W. Wilson Fletcher, who had inscribed the book with his name, the name of the academy, and the year 1941.
"Sir, did Fletcher inscribe his name without indication of rank?"
"Just his name."
"Then he was a pledge. Let me check the Alumni Directory." He put me on hold. "W. Wilson Fletcher is not listed in the Directory, which means one of two things. Either he is deceased, or he fell through the cracks, which is something we don't like to happen. 1941, you said?"
"Right." I resisted the temptation to say "Affirmative."
“I'll look up the class lists for 1941 and the years on either side."
I asked Lighthouse if he was an academy graduate.
"Affirmative," he said. "Class of 1970. Did my twenty years and came back to help out my old school. I love this place, I really do. Let's see, now. 1941, no, not there. Maybe he was Artillery that year, which would put him in the class of '42. Yep, there he is, Wilbur
Wilson Fletcher, class of 1942. No wonder he used the W. I take it that you will be mentioning the academy in your article?"
"Of course," I said.
“If you don't mind being put on hold again, I want to check a few other sources. The Fortress Academy Roll of Honor will tell us if Fletcher was killed in action during his military service. If that fails, I'll try Major Audrey Arndt, the Academy's executive secretary. The major has been here since 1938, and she remembers everything and everybody. This place could hardly run without her. Do you mind waiting?"
"Not at all. I'm surprised you're still on the campus."
"My job goes year-round, and the major doesn't believe in vacations. Hold on, sir."
Captain Lighthouse kept me on hold for ten minutes. It seemed like enough time to wallpaper my room. I gathered that Wilbur had not helped raise the flag at Iwo Jima or won the Congressional Medal of Honor. I carried the telephone to the table and for the first time noticed that someone had carved, with a careful, almost witty precision, his initials and a date into its surface. P.D. 10/17/58. P.D. had done an elegant job. The almost calligraphically incised letters and numbers ran in an arc along the table's edge, so small as to go unnoticed unless you were looking directly at them. P.D., I gathered, had been excruciatingly bored. I wondered if he had been a musician waiting for the start of a concert.
The line clicked, and a muted Captain Lighthouse told me, "Major Arndt is on the line." Another click.
An authoritative female voice said, "Major Arndt here, Mr. Dunstan. Please explain your interest in Pledge Fletcher."
I repeated my story. “I was hoping to talk to Mr. Fletcher, and I thought the academy could give me his telephone number."
"Mr. Dunstan, the Fortress Military Academy is pleased to cooperate with the press, but cooperation works both ways. I want your assurance that what I am about to tell you will be handled discreetly and tastefully. And you will agree to fax me a draft of your article previous to publication."
My skin prickled. "Agreed."
"Unwittingly, I assume, Mr. Dunstan, you refer to the single unhappiest incident in the history of the Fortress Academy. Artillery Pledge Fletcher died as the result of an assault by an intruder shortly before the Christmas break of 1941. His assailant was never identified. As a result, this fine institution was subjected to a great deal of unwelcome publicity."
"You don't say."
“I would prefer that you make no mention of Artillery Pledge Fletcher's death in your article. More realistically, I ask you to describe it as an unfortunate tragedy, and leave it at that."
"Major Arndt," I said, "nothing in my piece requires me to dig up a fifty-year-old scandal. There is one more favor I'd like to ask, and I promise you, the same conditions will apply."
"Proceed," she said.
"Pledge Fletcher can't tell me how he acquired or disposed of the book, but some of his classmates may be able to fill in the gaps. If you would consent to fax me the 1939 to 1941 class lists from the Alumni Directory, I can take it from there. Nothing I might hear about the circumstances of Fletcher's demise will appear in the article. I'm only interested in the fate of the book."
"You are going to squander a great deal of time, Mr. Dunstan."
"Here at theEcho, Major, we practically eat time," I said.
• 111
•A Ford identical to mine drifted toward the long line of cars on the shimmering drive. Attired in a charcoal-gray wool suit and a gray felt hat, C. Clayton Creech took in the assembled gathering with his customary matchless cool. I glanced at the headstone next to Toby's grave.HENRIETTA "QUEENIE" DUNSTAN KRAFT, 1914-1964,A VIRTUOSO NEVER TO BE SURPASSED.
"Between you and me," I said to Creech, "how much of a crook was Toby, actually?"
“Indicted only once," Creech drawled. "Bum rap."
Down the slope, my Taurus's doppelganger parked at the end of the row of cars. Mr. Tite emerged from the driver's seat and opened the door for Helen Janette.
"Had nothing to do with the adoption business," I said.
"Hazel kept her mouth shut." Creech had not so much as glanced down the slope.
"What was it, then?"
"Jive bullshit."
Helen Janette and her guard dog reached the top of the slope. Frank Tite pretended not to notice that Helen was walking toward me.
The lawyer tipped his hat. "Good day, Mrs. Janette."
"Mr. Creech, I have something to say to your friend." She motioned me aside. “I want to apologize for the way I behaved the night of the fire. I was a miserable old woman, and I couldn't think straight."
“It must have been terrible for you," I said.
"Lose everything you own, you'll learn the meaning of terrible. I don't understand why that La Chapelle boy went so crazy."
"You knew him?"
"Frenchy grew up right around the corner. Him and Clyde Prentiss, knee-deep in trouble from day one."
The last of the mourners joined the throng behind Toby's grave. All but two or three of them were black, and everyone had dressed for the occasion.
“It starts withHatchtown," said Helen Janette. "Who needs a convention center? Stewart Hatch should tear down the whole place, rebuild it from the ground up. Or at least fix those properties. Your family would be happy to see some work done on Cherry Street, too, wouldn't they?"
"With them, you never know," I said. "But why would Hatch have anything to do with it?"
She said, "Okay, never mind," and left me.
Mr. Spaulding stationed himself beside the open grave. The quiet hum of conversation from the mourners ceased.
"Dear friends and neighbors, Mr. Kraft declined the services of a clergyman at his last rites, but he welcomed spontaneous reflections from those who have assembled here. If you care to express your feelings, step up and speak from the heart."
A little stir came from the crowd, and an elderly woman came forward. She raised her head, and sunlight sparkled off her glasses.
"Toby Kraft was not what I could call a close, personal friend, but I appreciated the man. He was honest with his customers. He treated a person with respect. He had a generous heart, too. Toby had a rough side, but I know there were times he offered a helping hand to lots of us here today." The crowd murmured affirmation. “In my opinion, Toby Kraft was a man who made a contribution. That's all I have to say."