And that reminded Leyden: "I told Jake Saxer I'd pick up the files on the book so he can keep working on it without disturbing you."
Doris had been examining her exquisite pink nails, wondering if she should change the enamel to a deeper red, or if peach would be more appropriate? Now she looked at Leyden with puzzlement. "But I thought after that fight he and Riley had that Jake didn't want to have anything more to do with the book."
"Fight? When?"
"Why, night before last. I could hardly hear my television for all the yelling going on down in Riley's study. Jake shouted something about taking Riley to court, and Riley said that if that was the way Jake felt about it, he could go to hell before he got an inch of credit. And then Jake yelled that they'd just see who went to hell first and slammed out of the house. So I thought maybe I'd ask Uncle Duncan if he knows somebody who could finish it."
"Oh, I wouldn't do that," Leyden said silkily. "I'm sure that fight meant nothing. Bringing in somebody new would take longer. Anyhow, Jake's familiar with all the material and knows Riley's style. He'll have the book finished and the royalties in your pocket before you know it."
It took several passionate kisses to distract Doris and remove any lingering hesitation; but when Leyden left the brownstone that morning shortly before eight, he left with the manuscript of Riley Quinn's last book under his arm.
Jake Saxer finished trimming his Vandyke beard and examined the results petulantly. He still wasn't convinced it did as much for his appearance as he'd hoped when he grew it. Maybe because he was too fair haired? Dark men always looked better in beards for some reason. More saturnine and incisive.
His hand hesitated over a razor, but in the end he decided against removal. After things settled down perhaps, not now. The beard was a disappointment, yet he felt safer behind it. Less chance for an expression to betray him.
He had chosen a carefully casual rust brown suit to wear today, which struck a note midway between Riley Quinn's sartorial elegance and David Wade's graduate sloppiness. After combing his hair, he gave it an artful mussing with his fingers, then nodded in satisfaction. He looked intellectual and reliable but still hip. Of the arts but not too arty.
Only his eyes betrayed a shifting fear and indecision. Had the police heard about his fight with Quinn? Should he bring it up himself? Wouldn't that make it look as if he attached no importance to it, and that it hadn't been a serious thing? On the other hand, if Quinn hadn't mentioned it to anyone, and if Doris Quinn hadn't overheard them, maybe nobody ever had to hear about it. What the police didn't know certainly couldn't hurt him.
Riley Quinn! That double-dyed bastard! After all the work he'd done! The insults he'd swallowed from other faculty members. As if he could be fobbed off with an associate professorship when he'd been promised!. And damned if Quinn hadn't threatened during their fight to renege on his backing with the college's promotions committee.
Remembered rage held him rigid until he reminded himself that rage was unnecessary now. Riley Quinn was dead. The book would be half his now and carry his name, too, after all; and unless Oscar Nauman suddenly became involved in the departmental politics and actively opposed him, his promotion would go on through automatically.
Everything was set. All he had to do now was recast that chapter that had Leyden lumped-rather wittily, too, because say what you will, Riley Quinn had possessed a devastating way with words-with other artists who'd earned Quinn's displeasure or scorn. He could slip Leyden over three chapters and add a couple of paragraphs about him somewhere between Andy Warhol and Chuck Close. That should satisfy Piers Leyden.
14
WHEN Sigrid Harald arrived at headquarters shortly before eight, she found Detective Tildon in her small office with more coffee and the morning papers. The News had devoted a full page to Riley Quinn's death, complete with photographs and sensational insinuations about the possible motives behind the poisoning.
The Times account was brief, factual and referred its readers to the obituary section where, freed of strict news guidelines, it became gossipy and intimate. In proper order were listed Quinn's degrees, books he'd written and his major pronouncements therein ('Art is not artful for the sake of Art') and the half-dozen artists whose reputations he had personally furthered.
A graceful paragraph commended him for the safe haven he'd provided Janos Karoly after the Hungarian uprising and with unintentional irony went on to say, 'Dr. Quinn was the acknowledged authority on Karoly and also the most extensive collector of his works.'
In detailing Quinn's career, the article managed, unfortunately, to make his debut in The Loaded Brush and his marriage to J. Duncan Sylvester's niece seem as if one were contingent upon the other instead of the happy coincidence Quinn had always insisted on; but it compensated for that by dignifying his running battle with the Friedinger Museum. Quinn's more vituperous remarks had been edited until his attack on that collection sounded objective and Olympian and not at all like the gutter fight it had really been.
Characteristically Detective Tildon had compiled the names of those artists Quinn had-in print and at scurrilous lengths-sneered at the Friedinger for acquiring; unhappily, none were known to have been near Vanderlyn College yesterday morning.
Sigrid accepted his list of improbable poisoners gravely and added it to the pile of data they were amassing on this case. "I don't suppose the lab came up with any prints on Quinn's cup?"
Tillie's cherubic face was glum. "Just smudges. That foam doesn't take prints so good. I did notice something with the lids, though," he said, brightening.
He poked through the box that held most of the physical evidence gathered at the college the day before, which the lab had now finished processing, and fished out two round white plastic lids. Each had an identifying tag, and Tillie checked with his master list to be certain he had the correct ones.
Sigrid cradled her own coffee mug in slender fingers and leaned back in her chair, prepared to be instructed.
"This is the lid from Nauman's cup," the detective said. "See how the Keppler girl marked it?"
Sigrid duly noted the C/w/SUG on Nauman's cup.
Her eyes narrowed as she examined the second lid: C/W/SUG. Identical except that the W on the lid from the poisoned cup seemed to be capitalized, while Nauman's was lowercase. Coincidence or significant difference? A way of distinguishing the cups?
"What about the other lids?" she asked, searching through Tillie's voluminous notes.
"Didn't one of the others have coffee with sugar? Here it is: Professor Albert Simpson. Did you happen to bring along his lid for comparison?"
Tillie was embarrassed. "I didn't think about it," he confessed. "We just took the contents of the waste-baskets in the main office."
He looked so stricken over the lapse that Sigrid said kindly, "Don't worry about it, Tillie. You could hardly bring in the whole Art Department. If we're over there later, just check out how she does it ordinarily. See if there's any pattern."
She studied the lids closely and noticed that the letters were slightly smudged on both. The thin plastic was almost mirror smooth. "These should have taken prints readily," she mused.