“Isn’t love beautiful?” the boy with the sign said.
McCall entered the building. Five minutes later the President of Tisquanto State College rose from behind his gleaming desk. He did not offer to shake hands. “Well, Mr. McCall,” Wolfe Wade said. “Doesn’t the governor trust us to take care of our own affairs?”
2
Wolfe Wade was a big man, a tall man, high on beef. He looked as if he either were a heavy drinker or suffered from high blood pressure. He was smartly, even sportily, dressed in tones of gray, as if to go with his thick gray hair; there was even a certain grayness about his lips. Success spurted from every pore. But his eyes were bloodshot and there were lines of fatigue at the corners of his eyes and mouth.
McCall decided to put him on the defensive. He stuck out his hand. Wade hesitated, then shook it. The man’s hand felt cold, fat, and dry, like raw pork out of a refrigerator.
“Sit down, Mr. McCall. Cigar?”
“I’m not smoking this week, Mr. Wade,” McCall said.
“Oh.” The president of the college laughed uncertainly. “I see. Yes, I’ve had my difficulties in that direction, too. Really, Mr. McCall, I must say I’m surprised.”
“Surprised?”
“I mean, by your appearing like this. I find it hard to believe, with what’s going on all over the state, that Governor Holland is stepping into our affairs.”
“I assure you the governor sent me, if that’s what you mean, Mr. Wade.”
In the silence McCall looked about. It was an MGM version of an office, all done in high-polished ebony, straight lines, and lemon-yellow leather. The books looked out of place.
“I share your dislike,” President Wade said suddenly. “The architects hired by the state didn’t bother to consult me when they planned this building and its decor. I prefer the old-time religion, as it were. The good old days, if you’ll forgive the cliché.”
“Is it possible, Mr. Wade, that that’s what’s the matter?”
The bloodshot eyes looked wary. “I don’t follow.”
“The good old days. These aren’t the good old days. Good or bad, they’re the new days. They’re today. Maybe that’s what’s got the students up in arms.”
With all its splendor, the room exuded the faintest odor of mothballs. It puzzled McCall.
“No doubt.” President Wade had begun drumming with his manicured fingernails on the glossy desktop. “At least that’s what people keep telling me. Yet I’m convinced that the fundamentals of a college education remain constant, regardless of changing tastes and attitudes. What was your alma mater, Mr. McCall?”
“Northwestern.”
“Then you must realize what we’re trying to cope with.” Wade had a naturally heavy voice that made everything he said sound slightly threatening. “What did you study, may I ask?”
“Law.”
“And you’re from the Chicago area, am I right?”
“Yes.”
“I’m rarely wrong — detected it in your speech.” Wade’s mouth twitched in what might have been a smile. He’s stalling, McCall thought. Avoiding the issue he knows is coming. “From your build I assume you were an athlete?”
“Played a little football.”
“At what position?”
“Halfback.” McCall stared at him. “If there are no other questions about me, Mr. Wade, one of my reasons for visiting Tisquanto is Laura Thornton.”
Wolfe Wade’s face turned a shade beefier. “Laura Thornton. Yes. The girl student who’s taken off for somewhere.”
“Is that statement based on information, Mr. Wade, or is it an assumption?”
“Well, hardly information. I mean, what else could it be?”
“A great many things.”
“Yes. I suppose so. Well, I don’t know anything about it, Mr. McCall. See Miss Vance. She’s the dean of women. Aren’t the police taking care of this?”
“Are you really as indifferent as you sound, Mr. Wade? Somehow, I don’t make you out the unconcerned type.”
“I strike you as unconcerned?” Wade stared.
“You seem to me to be avoiding things.”
The heavy gray brows rose. “Really? I had no idea. I’m very much concerned, Mr. McCall. It’s just that—” he looked down at his desk — “well, I don’t like thinking the girl’s in serious trouble. There are so many changes... all this drug abuse — this preoccupation with sex... it’s got to stop. I won’t stand for rioting, I tell you! This is an institution of higher learning, not an urban ghetto!” He was almost shouting. He began to pound the desk with his puffy fist, little rigidly controlled poundings. “I know what’s best for them. Their demands are outrageous — insolent — insulting — I won’t stand for this sort of thing. They won’t trample all over me and my college! Students — junior faculty — demanding a voice in administrative affairs!” His voice, choked with impotence and rage, sputtered out.
McCall studied him. He had heard that Wolfe Wade was a hard-line educator of the old school, but watching him, listening to him across a desk, he wondered that the students didn’t tear the campus up out of sheer frustration.
“I’m sorry,” Wade said with difficulty. “My nerves these days... yes, yes, Laura Thornton. You’d be well advised to see Dean Vance, Mr. McCall. Frankly, even aside from this business of the missing student, your visit isn’t entirely unexpected. I knew the governor would be concerned. I’ve been sitting here this morning mulling things over and not liking my thoughts.” He shook his big head. “I don’t like it, Mr. McCall. I don’t like any of it.”
“I’ll run along. Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Wade.”
“Any time.”
McCall left Wade slumped behind his magnate’s desk. In the outer office the president’s secretary, a sharp-eyed woman of forty, was standing by her desk holding an open box of mothballs.
“Is President Wade all right?” she asked anxiously. “He sounds so upset. He takes these things so much to heart.” He was watching the mothballs. She was rattling them around in the box. Were they turning on with mothballs now?
McCall left and went on a hunt for the office of the dean of women. He never did find out what the mothballs were for. Probably Wade’s ideas.
“Dean Vance is busy now,” the secretary in the outer office of the dean of women said. “Oh, here’s Miss Cohan, Dean Vance’s assistant. This gentleman says he’s Mr. McCall, Miss Cohan. From the governor’s office.”
The first thing McCall noticed was that she had auburn hair — the real McCoy this time, not out of a bottle or a vegetable bin. The rich locks were shoulder length, and his first absurd impulse was to go over and bury his nose in them. It was thick, glowing, honest-to-goodness auburn hair.
The next thing was her eyes. They were a sort of Alice blue, almost violet, big and direct and... well... you had to say it. A total gas.
He completed the inventory rapidly. Pretty as sin. On the Irish side. Turned-up little nose. Lips asking for it. A good stubborn chin. Slim but shapely, good breasts, dress short but not extreme, marvelous legs. Watch your step with this babe, brother...
“I do believe I’ve heard of you, Mr. McCall,” she said, and her voice made everything perfect. Low and sexy but honestly so, a woman’s voice as it should be. “I’m Kathryn Cohan. What brings you to our little corner of hell? Don’t bother to tell me — I was almost afraid to ask. The dean’s tied up right now. We can talk over here.” She went over to a modest desk stacked with folders and papers, sat down behind it, and nodded to a plain chair nearby. “Won’t you sit?”