Pretty maids all in a row

10

Over the lunch hour, in the Teachers’ Room, McDrew and Proffer spoke to the teachers. Captain Surcher had spent a good deal of what remained of the morning with Tiger—and Proffer. They had decided the best thing to do today was to talk to all the teachers, frankly, openly, and logically, not to mention intelligently. This idea had actually been proposed by Tiger, quickly seconded by Surcher, and agreed to by Proffer.

“We’re going to need every responsible person’s fullest cooperation, and no doubt about it,” Tiger had said, proposing it, “And I think we can only expect to get it if we bring them all together and brief them on everything including all you’ve told me, Captain, about your tactics, your plans for cornering the culprit. If you keep them in the dark I think I am safe in saying we can’t really expect

“Who are you?” Ponce asked.

“Is this Sawyersville two-one-one-five-six?” the voice asked, a bit peeved.

“It could be.”

“Is it or isn’t it?” The voice was somewhat more peeved.

“Who wants to know?”

“Listen, I got a right to know—” The voice sounded inside a tin can now.

“Yeh?” Ponce replied, brilliantly.

“Who the hell are you?” the voice demanded.

“That’s what Vd like to know,” Ponce responded, honestly, slamming down the phone.

He stared at it. He hoped he had made him deaf. But he was scared of it ringing again. No doubt of it. He lifted it off and laid it on the table. He heard the dial tone. Now let them try the number. He grinned at it. What a voice that was!

How would he call Tiger? He wanted more than ever to get in contact with Tiger. There was a public phone down the road in the drugstore. He would use it.

He stared out at the back yard. . . .

10

Over the lunch hour, in the Teachers’ Room, McDrew and Proffer spoke to the teachers. Captain Surcher had spent a good deal of what remained of the morning with Tiger—and Proffer. They had decided the best thing to do today was to talk to all the teachers, frankly, openly, and logically, not to mention intelligently. This idea had actually been proposed by Tiger, quickly seconded by Surcher, and agreed to by Proffer.

“We’re going to need every responsible person’s fullest cooperation, and no doubt about it,” Tiger had said, proposing it, “And I think we can only expect to get it if we bring them all together and brief them on everything including all you’ve told me, Captain, about your tactics, your plans for cornering the culprit. If you keep them in the dark I think I am safe in saying we can’t really expect others—among them Mrs. Mortlake, and Miss Craymire, he also noted. Tiger himself as a matter of fact was having no easy time going on with it, but he knew he had to, no matter what he felt. Proffer was proud of him. He couldn’t have carried on. He was thinking just now in fact about the parents and the School Board and the newspapers and other media and the State Authorities, among other things. And he saw them in his mind’s eye on a highway, packed on this highway, driving him relentlessly before them, as if he were the culprit—and he saw also, suddenly, on the horizon, a peaceful, prosperous, well-run, happy little TV and Radio store, proprietor and manager: Harry Proffer. He saw it. That's it. In bliss, within, he smiled at it. . . . Tiger went on, “Well, there’s absolutely nothing we can do for that wonderful girl now except pay our respects to her and her family—and pray for her. I'm sure a good many of you know her fine family. And find her murderer.” Again, Tiger paused. “Yes. That’s it. Help Captain Surcher here and his outstanding squad of assistants in every way we can—to find that murderer." And again he paused, visibly shaken, looking them all over. “I personally ask your fullest cooperation—on behalf of the Principal, the School Board, all of us." Pause. “Now specifically, you may ask, for this is the next logical question of course, How can I help find the murderer? Well, to tell you more about that I’m going to turn you over to Captain Surcher in just a moment, who will enlighten you on that. But may I just say to all of you, in general terms—cast your minds about, think, as I myself am doing and will be doing, and keep your eyes open, and if you come up with anything, anything at all that may be in your opinion of assistance in leading us to this killer—Please let us know about it.” He paused again, his voice dropped even lower, “You probably all suspect, as I myself do, as the Captain does, that the murderer is among us, here, in this school. Well, the chances are probably in the vicinity of ten thousand to one that we are right, he is in the school, part and parcel, one of us. I myself have no doubt of it. Among us. 1 don't mean right here, in this room of course, one of us. The chances of that are probably one million to one.’’ He paused once more. “Forget that one.” He paused again. “And remember, this is very important, you’ll have to carry on with your jobs in pretty much of a normal way, you can sec what I one-hundred-percent, ninety-percent, maybe not even seventy-percent cooperation. We’re going to need one hundred—am I right, Captain?”

That had clinched it, and now here they were.

As to the matter of possible suspects. Tiger had not been able to illuminate that totally obscure area for the Captain —as yet. But he had told him he would certainly give the matter a very, very good think—tonight—tomorrow—every day.

With regard to Saturday’s football game, Proffer had suggested it might be best to try to cancel it, in view of the circumstances, especially also as it might even coincide with the funeral of the deceased Head Cheerleader. Of course, Proffer had added, if it proved impossible to cancel, in view of the possible impossibility of arranging another date, and in view, further, of the importance of the game, it might just have to be played—with a few minutes* silence before kickoff of course, and some sort of memorial service to the girl. As for tonight’s practice, Proffer left that up entirely to Tiger, who, in fact, decided to cancel, out of respect for the girl.

As Tiger spoke to the teachers. Proffer and Surcher sat by, listening. The teachers gave their most respectful attention to the Assistant Principal, among other things, as he spoke to them, quietly, earnestly. The teachers were hushed and quiet, utterly solemn, many of them obviously in a state of dazed unbelief and bewilderment, in fact.

“I know how you all feel, because I feel pretty much the same way,” Tiger told them, ‘‘This is a horrible situation, no doubt of it, and frightening too, and it’s not going to be made any easier either for us when all the parents start bombarding us, I know. We certainly are going to be bombarded. This awful situation is particularly painful to us because of the outstanding caliber of the girl whose life has been snuffed away so brutally right under our very noses.” He paused. There were some sniffles in the room, from some of the female teachers. Tiger spoke even more quietly. “Not only was she outstanding in the academic area, but also in the personality and extracurricular areas. We all know what a wonderful, warm human being she was.” Again he paused, and the sniffles were more audible. Hetty Nectar, the Librarian, was sobbing quietly, in her handkerchief, Tiger noted. As, indeed, were several mean, while you keep your eyes and your minds open.” He paused a long moment. “Because believe me it looks like we’re up against some pretty rough weeks, maybe even months, ahead of us. Well, let’s face it and accept it and do the best we can with it. This is a time of testing for us. In one way or another, as you all know, a time like this comes to all of us. Really testing us. For the sake of our children, our school, the community—all of us—" He paused, his voice had dropped so low that only the absolute silence in the room now made it possible for it to be heard, “Do the best you can ” He went on, after another pause, in a more normal tone, “Now, Captain Surcher.” And he sat down, next to Proffer.

The Captain rose. He hadn’t been altogether idle during Proffer’s and Tiger’s remarks. His keen eyes had taken them all in, one by one, unbeknown to them, in a preliminary study of them. They had all passed this preliminary screening, but of course he was reserving judgment. Certainly, it wasn’t the end of the study.

He spoke in conversational tones to them, in his mild way.

“I’m sorry to have to make your acquaintance under such circumstances. I’ve always admired your school— from a distance. My own kids go to G.A.R.—I live in Kitston. I’ve not only admired your school building, which is very beautiful, and athletic grounds, that certainly is a fine football stadium, but also your academic record and standing among the schools in the area. And also, may I say, I’ve admired that remarkable football team of yours, and from time to time that basketball team, also—as a father with kids at G.A.R. you can understand I’m in a unique position to do so!” He paused, that little grin on his face, and from the gathering before him came a subdued but definite murmur of chuckles. Then, silence, quickly. Surcher continued, “I’m going to get to know all of you a lot better, on an individual basis—and please don’t take this the wrong way, because I don’t mean I’m going to interrogate you.” He paused again, briefly. “I only mean that I’d like to talk to each one of you and see just where it takes us in the direction, I hope, of throwing some light, any light, on the identity of the suspect. I’ll tell you right now, frankly, we don’t have any ideas in that direction. My want to talk to all the students. We want to find out just where they were when the girl was murdered. We know roughly when that was, and I’ll know more precisely later on—late this afternoon—Well, we’re going to ask you to confirm their answers. I know this may be something of a problem in some cases, but I would like you to try hard in all cases and to be as accurate as you can. We want to find out all we can about the murdered girl’s friends, her close friends, especially her boy friends. And I’m hoping to find some information that may help us when I visit her home today. I don’t think this was a random killing by some sex maniac. I think it had a motive. Maybe that surprises you. Well, there may be quite a few surprises in store for you before this is over." He paused, letting it all sink in. “Well, that's about all I have to say for now. We’re going to try very hard to conduct this investigation with the minimum of disruption to normal school activities, believe me. And a lot will depend on you, how well we do. I hope we can count on everybody here, believe me, we need your cooperation—one hundred percent of it.” He had put the papers back in his pocket. He was about to sit down.

“Are there any questions anybody wants to ask the Captain?” Tiger inquired of the gathering.

“Yes—” a female voice called out.

“Miss Nectar—” Tiger singled her out.

“Yes, Captain—I wanted to ask, when will you start talking to us—I mean, individually?”

Surcher reflected.

“My assistants will start seeing you this afternoon. I’ll probably see some of you late this afternoon. And tomorrow morning. I’m going to the girl’s house as soon as I leave here, you see.” He paused, “Unless you or anyone else has something to tell me that’s urgent, in your opinion.”

“No, it wasn’t that. Thank you. Captain. I just wanted to know," replied the Librarian, sweetly.

“Captain—” a male voice. Mr. Hinkle, the History teacher, called out, “I just wanted to ask you—How much of a part will the local Police Chief play in the investigation?”

There was a general silence, but also a few subdued titters, definitely, and many more smiles, in spite of everything.

Surcher, with that little grin, answered, promptly, “None whatever.”

“Thank you,” Hinkle told them, obviously relieved, and not attempting to conceal it.

11

Ponce felt lousy. He had walked all the way down Brit-field Avenue, across Eighth Street, and into Maple Avenue, where the nearest Public Phone was located inside Reynolds’ Drug Store, just near the entrance in fact. There were some customers in the place and Ponce was glad of it, because he could just slip into the booth without attracting too much attention, if any at all, that is. Because Ponce, somehow, just didn’t feel like attracting any more attention at all—for a long while. He thought of Decoration Day. The parade that passed this way, on that day, and on the Fourth of July. Those days. He had always been thrilled to see those parades, the Army Reserve Unit, all local boys, sharp and smart, well drilled, that had especially always thrilled him. The Fire Trucks. American Legion. The State Police. The bands. All the school kids. What parades. . . . All he wanted to do now was talk with Tiger. That’s about the only attention he wanted. And just now Ponce felt mighty lousy, because having got through to the high school, finally, that number was busier than anything this morning, he had been told by someone, he didn’t even know who it was, that all the teachers and Mr. Proffer and Mr. McDrew were having a meeting in the Teachers’ Room. And when would they be through? Who knew. That's what the answer was. Now Ponce was on his way home, having eased his way out of that Drug Store. He had left a message with whoever it was at the other end (he hadn’t inquired) for Tiger to call him. But would he get it? Ponce really felt lousy, hunched over almost, on his way back home now.

“Hello, Ponce!” he heard. Looking up, he saw Ray the mailman.

technical experts have found nothing that could help us. We were hoping to find fingerprints, any kind of a print, on a certain piece of paper, which no doubt you all know about by now. We found nothing. Of course, there is that piece of paper. That, in itself, could take us where we hope to go. We’ll have to see how things go. It could well be the armored column, let me put it that way, those of you ex-Army men will appreciate that more than others, leading us to our objective. I don’t know. I certainly hope so.” He paused. “And of course, more detailed study of the—body —” He paused again, having lowered his voice at that word, “By the Pathologist and the technical experts in the course of the—autopsy—” Again he paused, “May reveal a lot more, maybe even everything more. I don’t know. Again, I hope so. If anything along those lines develops, I’ll certainly let you know about it—in confidence, of course. You can understand that.” He paused again, looking them over. “My own hunch, and probably yours as well, is that the culprit is at this moment somewhere in this building. Where, I don’t know. Naturally, we’re checking up on all absentees, etc. What I’m trying to say is that he is a member of the school population, I’m pretty sure. If I’m right, the job of finding him will be narrowed down considerably.” He paused again. “Now, with Mr. Proffer’s and Mr. McDrew’s assistance. I’ve drawn up a plan of operations. Let me familiarize you with it. That’s important, because if it has any chance of succeeding I’m going to need your fullest cooperation.” He pulled out some sheets from his coat pocket. “On these sheets I have the names of all the students in the high school. They’re all grouped, furthermore, according to home-room teachers. Now, my assistants and I want to talk to the students, each and every one of them. Of course, with the girls it will be merely a formality—and also a way of keeping the killer off balance, making him feel safe and that he couldn't ever be detected by a bunch of chumps, namely me and my assistants, who spent time actually thinking a girl might have done it. It’s a way of making him careless and bringing him out in the open. Because another hunch I have is that’s what we’re going to have to do. d think we’re dealing with a pretty peculiar, sinister mind here. I may be wrong, but until proved otherwise—” He paused. “So as I say, we

“Hiya," he mumbled, trying to walk on.

“No school today?” Ray asked, obviously innocently.

It surprised Ponce. Hadn’t the guy heard? He was a walking radio antenna, this guy, with radar thrown in, and he hadn’t yet heard? It surprised Ponce, no end. He played it dumb.

“Ah, just taking the morning off, that’s all.”

“Uh oh—not feeling good?”

“Not too good.”

“Seen a doctor? Lots of flu around.”

“Will soon.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Pain in the head.”

“Oh oh."

“See you, Ray.”

“Left a bundle of stuff at your place.”

“O.K., Ray.”

“Saw your mother.”

“Yeh. Ray?”

“On Eighth Street. Before. Guess she was out for the

groceries—”

“Guess so.”

“All set for the big game?”

“Oh yeh, well, things are moving along, Ray—”

“Ha Ha. Bet we clobber them—”

“Hope so. Well—see you, Ray—”

“Ho Kay Ponce. Take it easy, boy. See a doctor—don’t forget—”

He departed, pushing his mail transporter.

Walking along, Ponce hoped he wouldn’t bump into anyone else. Britfield Avenue wasn’t exactly bustling at this time of day, so there was a good chance he wouldn’t. He was worried about his mother though. If Ray had seen her, she might be home by now. What would she think of that phone off the hook? And had she got the news? Ponce was astounded, actually, that Ray hadn’t heard it yet. Reflecting on it, Ponce began to think: Life is full of astounding things, and no doubt of it.

All the rest of the way home, he mused over that one. In the driveway, alongside the house, there was his mother’s car. No sign of any other cars. He felt good seeing that car. But also, scared. He did and didn’t want to see her. Slowly, he walked up the three steps, crossed the porch,

Pretty Maids All in a Row 53 reached the front door, stopped, turned around, crossed the porch again, walked down the steps and around the side of the house, to the back door. She was in the kitchen, of course. She didn’t see him until he opened the door. She dropped a loaf of bread she was just unloading from the bag of groceries, and she called out to him, and Ponce knew she knew, right away—

“Ponce!” she said, “Oh how awful!” she said, “I just heard—I know all about it—” she said, putting her arms about him, holding him close to her.

He felt like crying. He buried his head in his warm, soft, sweet-smelling mother. He just wanted to cry and cry on her. He realized, suddenly, this is what he had wanted to do, all morning, without a doubt of it. He broke down.

“How come I had to find her?” He murmured to her, sobbing profusely on her.

She held him, close to her, she caressed him, tenderly, she spoke softly now, murmuring to him. . . .

12

Marjorie Evanmore, in the school cafeteria now, was just finishing her lunch, sitting at a table with a group of her pals. Two of them, Hilda Linder and Jeannie Bonni, were also Majorettes. Madge, to tell the truth, was very hungry, her appetite was at a high peak at lunchtime, especially on days when she had her favorite class, typing, and most especially on days when she had a session with Mr. McDrew, Tiger, among other things School Guidance Counselor. She felt a powerful hunger for life on such days, an incredible vigor which defied all assaults on it. She was soaring. Glowing. If the floor of the cafeteria for example had given way, if she found herself plunging downward amid tons of rubble toward the boiler room, or if in fact that battery of boilers had blown up, sending the school with all its occupants to paradise, higher than sky-high, it wouldn’t have bothered her. She was on top. Ravishingly hungry. Happy. Soaring. With Tiger. For she had him within herself, magically, wonderfully, secretly. It was their secret, she was his own, no one would know, oh no. She loved him so. She loved what he did for her so. Who in the whole of the world could so—so—She sighed, within, exquisitely alive and warm with him. She way his....

Thus it was that although the cafeteria was markedly subdued this day, with hardly any of the near-chaos of any ordinary day, and in fact there hung about it and over it a cloud of depression and fear, as well as a certain bizarre unacknowledged excitement, no less, Marjorie just couldn’t get with it. To tell the truth, she couldn’t have cared less. She was within herself. It would take a few days at least for her to really get to grips again with the world out there. And by that time she could have been to the Guidance/Counseling office again. Unless, her heart skipped, unless and if, how it skipped, the Guidance Counselor, her Tiger, sent for her sooner. She closed her eyes a moment, contemplating that happy happening. She even stopped munching a moment, and that was something.

“Gee, I dunno,” a voice drifted in to her. opening her eyes for her. It was Hilda, “I’m shook—shocked—I feel all shocked—numb—you know? I feel numb, all over.”

“I feel awful,” Jeannie Bonni informed her.

“Who would ever think—who would think—” Hilda put

in.

“I mean—^w said Jeannie, “Who can dig it?”

And they were at it again, chattering in that subdued way, about it. About and about it. Marjorie sat silently, munching again, only. She gazed at her circle of closest pals with a kind of pity almost. They were so childish. Certainly she was sorry about what had happened, and who wouldn’t be? Poor Jill was a wonderful girl, and who didn’t know it? Who could deny it? Who would dare to deny it? A good kid if ever there was one. All of Sawyersville knew that! She had been a friend, even if not one of her real close friends. Their association with one another actually was mostly connected with their mutual morale-boosting extracurricular activities. These brought them, or had brought them, closest together, actually. For of course Jill had had her own circle, mainly among the Cheerleaders—which was a clique, a world of its own, as everyone knew. Like the Majorettes, in a certain sense. Marjorie, of course, was their leader. So what could she do, Marjorie thought, enjoying her fried chicken and listening to the unceasing talk about it. They acted as if it was something that just couldn’t possibly happen in a nice school like this, a terrific place like Sawyersville. Which was crazy, Madge knew, just plain childish, she certainly very well knew, oh how childish, she would say it like that to Mr. McDrew, she made a mental note of it, next time she saw him. Life had to be accepted, Marjorie knew, paraphrasing Mr. McDrew, her Tiger Honey, not that he had to tell her. What use were these childish reactions? What were they so shocked and numbed about? Didn’t they know it was the kind of thing that could happen? Man was a few million years old, things had always happened, as Tiger had told her, and she well knew, in any event. Marjorie took a few forkfuls of broccoli, which she loved, absolutely. The cheese sauce was terrific. Tiger. A voice within her murmured sweetly, softly. She took three fast forkfuls, adoring each one.

“They’re going to question all of us,” she heard Hilda saying.

"Us?” Mary Holden exclaimed. She was a stunning fif-teen-year-old with strawberry-blond hair, long, long. "All the girls?” She said. “Why us?” She also said, not unreasonably, it seemed.

“Search me!” Jeannie said, giving a cute shrug.

“Did you see that guy?” Hilda murmured.

“What guy?” Jeannie countered.

“Well what’s his name, the State Policeman—he’s in charge of everything—” Hilda added.

“Oh—Surcher. Captain Surcher. Didn’t you hear?”

“Oh, sure I did—”

“Now you know.”

“Well, I knew—”

“Is that true?”

“You’re teasing me—”

“Well don’t say you knew—”

“I did know!”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Listen, honey bee—”

“Oh, stop it!” Marjorie uttered, suddenly, all through with her main course. “Can’t you stop it?” She said.

Surprisingly enough, they did so. But they stared at their plates, their glasses, all around them, glumly.

“I mean, the poor kid is dead,” Marjorie told them in quiet tones, like a sober mentor. “What can you do about it?” She added, buttering another roll, suddenly.

“Well why do they have to question us?” Peggy Linski asked, in very subdued tones. She was also a fifteen-year-old, but pure blond. And well formed.

“Just think about it,” Marjorie now said, munching the roll, “Can’t you just try giving a little old think about it?” She paused. “Hmmm?” She paused again, “Let’s all do that.”

“I guess,” Hilda said, after a while, “I guess they’re looking for clues,” she told them.

“Clues?” Jeannie burst out, “CluesV She threw out, “Do they think we did it?”

“Listen, no!” Hilda told her, “Are you a dodo?”

“That’s probably it,” Mary Holden said accidentally.

“What is?” Jeannie queried, not in her friendliest tone.

“Well I mean,” said Mary, “See—” Mary said.

“We might give them some cluesГ Hilda finished for her.

Jeannie stared at her.

Marjorie reached for her dessert, a healthy portion of Boston Cream Pie. She plunged into it. She loved it inside her mouth. She munched slowly. Her eyes, once again, closed for a long moment. Warm.

“If you don’t understand,” Hilda said to Jeannie, “Ask the Captain.” And she sipped her Coke.

Jeannie thought about it.

A burst of muffled laughter came from a table near them. They all turned to stare there. It died away . . . presently.

13

Tiger, back in his office of Guidance/Counseling after the very long lunch hour and urgent consultations of one kind and another throughout that hour, sat quietly, staring straight ahead, musing, as often was his custom, at this time of day, in any event. Now how would the school get over this mess? Out of it? Was there any way out of it? Would even his great talents for straightening things out

Pretty Maids A U irt a Row 57 be taxed? And how could one view such an event philosophically? The Philosophy of Education was replete with a formidable battery of responses, the most useful, of course, in the circumstances, as always, being the normal curve of probability or distribution, use the term you prefer. Would any of the others do? In the circumstances? The architects of the myriad concepts may not have envisaged such a circumstance. Tiger knew that. Let alone a way out of it. The thought muffled him. Tiger, in that moment, sat muffled by it. He struggled until he heard his voice, his train of thought, once again, within himself. He went on with it. As always, on with it. For life, he knew, and so well he knew, would be nothing, nothing at all, without it. He thought of it. Captain Surcher. He was impressed with the man. He was certainly very different from what he had expected. He was bright, his IQ certainly would register—at a very rare level, without a single doubt of it, allowing even for the usual bifurcating deviational error to a coefficient say of sigma minus twenty, no less, or more, for that matter. Allowing for that, even. Tiger murmured aloud, almost. Not only bright, but formidable. Very formidable. How was it he had never met him before? Tiger wondered. He knew practically everybody of any consequence whatever throughout the length and breadth of the entire area, Kitston included, of course, in view of his many and varied activities, at the high school, and elsewhere. How was it their paths had never crossed? Strange. Unfortunate. Very unfortunate, Tiger thought. A man worth knowing. Well, he was in charge of things and he would certainly see that everything humanly possible would be done to apprehend the culprit, to bring him to Justice, without a doubt of it. And a lot of good that would do poor Jill Fairbunn! Tiger, in a deeper mood, couldn’t help reflecting. No, it would do nothing at all for that poor, disastrously deceased, ex-Head Cheerleader. He knew. That little honey. He mused, merely using a figure of speech, a mode of expression, so to speak, for of course she was a fine size, and he knew it. That little old honey-bunch of a girl, Tiger further mused now, again figuratively. That sweetheart, further yet he mused, almost murmuring aloud. He saw her, that lovely girl. That magnificently formed girl. Never to be seen, or admired, or spoken to again. Never. That girl. Tiger floundered, hit hard by it He sighed, and shook his head, slowly. Would Surcher and his crew find the culprit? If he didn’t—what next? Or, rather, and the thought staggered, Who Next? Tiger pondered, falling further. Was he, in fact, someone from the school? A student, probably? As Surcher seemed to think? In fact, seemed just about convinced? Tiger wondered. Who could he viewed as someone capable of such a flagitious act? Again, Tiger floundered. It was some problem. He saw Jill Fairbunn as she was during football games, lively, full of energy, tremendous energy, leading those lusty cheers which always helped Sawyersville rack up the score, a lust for life, that was it, no doubt of it. Tiger thought, thinking also of his tremendous football team, admired throughout the State, no less, let alone the Conference! He saw her in the hallways, gay, full of life, swinging along so cheerfully, blooming with life, and her love of it, the most popular girl in the entire high school, and no doubt of it, with the possible exception of Marjorie —and—one or two others. He saw her in Civics class, where she was the liveliest mind of all, with the possible exception of course of Rochelle, attentive, yet full of remarks, and questions, stimulating them all to think, and examine things so often just taken for granted. He saw her in Health Education class, where she had one of the healthiest and most open attitudes toward for example sex education than any of them, an area which could certainly create problems for a lot of kids, if the class didn’t have at least a sprinkling of girls like Jill, like she had been. Tiger reminded himself. He saw her in the plays he directed, for she was quite the thespian, or had been. Tiger again had to remind himself, playing her roles with such intense realism and zest, without a doubt of it. He saw her in the Guidance/Counseling Office. Stop. Tiger’s eyes burned, he almost moaned, his head shook from side to side, he was suffering. Never, never again. It seemed incredible. Impossible. Never. He was near anguish. But never. The full impact of that hit him. It spread through him. For who, now he thought, Who—of all those who had known her, had come in contact with her, had had anything at all to do with her—including her parents without a doubt—Who knew more what that really meant—than he did? How could they? Any of them. He bore the brunt of it. Only he knew the full significance and agony of it. Gone. Forever.

Never again. Never! Tiger slumped back in his chair, clobbered. He sagged. A tiny voice in his head though, bizarrely enough, began singing a tune, a faraway, far-off —so far off—sort of—nursery tune. He heard the voice, he sat, utterly intrigued by the voice, he paid close attention, now he could actually make out the words of the tune —certainly, most of it—He listened, fascinated . . . cockle shells and silver bells ... It was fading, he concentrated intensely on the tiny voice, he sat utterly still . . . and pretty maids all in a row. It disappeared. Tiger listened, but there was nothing more. It was all over, it just wouldn’t come anymore. He sighed, finally, and stopped listening for more. He mused over it. Certainly, there was meaning and significance in it. He sat there, musing deeply over it. And the problem. Without a doubt an awful problem. The school had never had such a problem. How could the school ever be the same again? Especially—and Tiger sank at the thought—if the culprit wasn’t cornered. Could Surcher do it? How best could he help him do it? He searched his mind, parading dozens of names, faces, before it. He was utterly mystified. Certainly he would try. Intensely occupied though he was with all his varied and sundry activities, Tiger vowed he would help him, or try to help him, the very best he could, to the best of his abilities, such as they were. Jill Fairbunn. Tiger moved now, though he wondered how. Somehow, he pulled open one of his desk drawers, where he kept his special file. He found it and took it out. He laid it on his desk and opened the folder. Just a plain manila folder. It contained, among other things, all his master plays (and variations on) for the football team. He was constantly studying and scrutinizing these, for they weren’t static things. Tiger was a gifted football coach, and had the team to prove it. Everyone knew it. He knew it. And in football, as indeed in life itself, he well knew, things couldn’t and shouldn’t be static. Dynamic. Evolving. Ever Changing. Moving. Those were the key words, and the heart of the secret of his success, well he knew. He had been approached many times by Universities seeking to replace a worn-out or unlucky or just plain mediocre football coach. And not only these. Others. A surprising number of others, whose coaches would have been even more surprised had they known of it. Tiger turned them down. All down. For he didn’t want to go. He was happy here. He loved Sawyersville. He had a very full, creative, happy, challenging way of life here. It satisfied him.

He merely glanced at the plays now though, for he was interested just at the moment in another part of this special file. He leafed through a dozen or more papers, all concerned with different areas and aspects of his varied activities, and finally found what he was looking for.

It was simply a sheet of paper with some twenty names on it, a list, in short, and he took it in his hands and studied it. His eye ran up and down it. Up, down it. As it were, caressed it . . .

The list:

1. Jill Fairbunn

2. Marjorie Evanmore

3. Hilda Linder

4. Jeannie Bonni

5. Mary Holden

6. Peggy Linski

7. Rochelle Hudson

8. Anne Williams

9. Marie Amis

10. Sally Swink

11. Kathy Bums

12. Yvonne Mellish

13. Sandra (Sandy) Seymour

14. Alice Patmore

15. Sonya (Sonny) Swingle

16. Mona Drake

17. Barbara Brook

18. Betty Smith

19. Hetty Nectar

20. Looby Loo

21. Mrs. Mortlake (7)

His eye finally stuck at the top of the list, at Jill Fair-bunn’s name, beside which four stars, penciled in red, could be seen. And they had only been put there two weeks ago, no less. Beside no other name did such a number of stars appear. Marjorie, for instance, had only two and a half, though, if anybody, she certainly was due for a move up. Hilda, Jeannie, Mary and Peggy had one apiece. Rochelle, true, had three, but they were in blue and had a very special significance indeed, in a highly unique class of their own, and couldn’t be said to represent a challenge in any real sense of the word to Jill’s brilliant four. Anne, Sally, Yvonne, had two. Mona, for the moment, none. The rest, with the exception of Hetty, who merited one and three quarters, all had one. Of course, Looby Loo—well —there again, irrefutably, a class (and category) of its own. In fact, he would have to seriously consider: Shouldn’t she be on a separate list—on her own? Tiger mused, viewing also now the name of Mrs. Mortlake, who wasn’t as yet of course on the list at all, officially, that is, at any rate, hence the question mark. That was a problem. No doubt

Tiger sighed, his eyes almost moist, surveying that first name on the list. That was all he could do, now, of course, that would be all he could ever do, now, from now on, eternally. Gone. She was gone. Forever more. Struck down, in the flower of her life, brutally. Her stars totaling four. . . .

Tiger sighed again, his throat choking up on him, as hers, indeed—the thought hit him, an awful image filled him—might have done—His eyes burned. Insane brute! His hands on her. . . . Tiger now barely contained the hot tears massed behind his eyes. They wanted to rush out, flood everything. . . .

He picked up a pencil, black, indelible, a marking pencil, such as he used to process the Bernkrokkler. He did what had to be done, though most, most reluctantly. He drew a line through her name, with the pencil, slowly, funereally. It was the only way. ... He reached the end. He was at the stars. He was in agony. He went through them. . ..

The phone rang.

The pencil had just completed its sad journey.

The phone rang again.

His eye strayed slowly now away from the top of the list and moved down the list

He picked up the phone, murmured a dead hello into it. He held, surveyed, the list.

“Is that you, Tiger?’’ said a young male voice, in his ear.

“Right,” Tiger replied, barely.

“Gee I’m glad to find you!”

Tiger was at number eleven on the list. He lingered there.

“Who is this?” he queried, though he thought he knew.

“Ponce, Tiger! It’s me!” said the voice.

He had thought right, alright.

“Ponce! How are you?” he queried.

For he liked the boy. A most helpful boy. Sharp as a tack. Industrious too. Wanted to be a writer. Tiger grinned. A scribe. Very interested in art, music, that kind of thing. Teaching too. And football, of course. For no doubt about it, he was a sort of assistant coach to him, not just equipment manager, as he was supposed to be. College material, and how. The voice was distressed though.

“Well, not too good. Tiger, to tell you the truth,” the lad said. “In fact, pretty low,” he confessed.

Tiger nodded into the phone, understandingly, “It’s rough, I know, Ponce. A hard one,” he said to the lad.

“Gee whiz, Tiger—” The voice said, all choked up.

“Where are you?” Tiger asked, gently.

“They sent me home, Tiger.”

“Did they? Who did, Ponce?” he asked the lad.

“Uh—Mr. Proffer—and the Captain—” the answer came.

Tiger reflected.

“Well—maybe it wasn’t a bad idea, Ponce—in view of the circumstances—” he finally said.

“But I feel lousy! Lousy!” the lad blurted out. “Tiger— can I talk to you?” He shot out.

Tiger reflected again.

“Sure,” he said, “Of course you can.” He paused, a moment, “When would you like to?”

“Anytime,” the lad answered, “Right now—any time I can—” he added.

“Well—let’s see now,” Tiger told him, his eye absolutely stuck at number fifteen on that list, “Let’s just see now,” he murmured, some life flowing back into him, definitely, his right hand dropping the black pencil now, picking up a red one, straying to no. 15 and carefully inscribing a half-star beside the name, making the total there now one and a half, almost, “I guess you could walk up here in about fifteen minutes, right, Ponce? You say you’re home?” He inquired, putting some finishing touches to his artwork.

“I could make it in ten minutes, Tiger!” the boy answered, obviously pleased.

“Fine. O.K. That’s O.K. with me, Ponce,” Tiger said, still holding the pencil. His eye moved downward.

“Thanks a lot, Tiger. I appreciate it. I sure do appreciate it,” the lad said.

“Alright, Ponce,” Tiger told him.

“I’ll be there in nothing flat. I sure want to thank you, Tiger,” the lad now said, happily.

“O.K., Ponce.”

“See you!” And the lad hung up.

Tiger held on to the phone, just a moment Then he replaced it gently.

His eye, traveling downward, reached Looby Loo. Without a doubt, she should have a separate list

He gave her another full star. . . .

He sat back now, reflecting on things, everything. He looked forward to seeing Ponce, who was quite the lad. He could make his day. The only bright spot—well, practically —today. That poor kid. It certainly was a catastrophic discovery he had made. Would he ever be the same? Tiger worried. It would be one hell of a shame if he changed. Not only a shame but a blow, without a doubt, to Sawyers-ville as a whole—and in particular, the high school. Tiger knew. And what could he do? He hoped for the best. He hoped the lad had resources enough to absorb the profound shock which no doubt it was. Just a few hours ago. All told. It was a shame. A damn shame. It was life—at its rawest cold. Enough to test someone twice as old. It was rough.

The phone rang again.

Tiger picked it up and a warm, low, female voice filled his ear. Tiger loved it, climbing ever more toward the sun.

“What time, Tiger?” the voice said, only.

Rochelle Hudson. How he loved it.

His eye fell on her name on the list

“Nine-thirty?” He offered her.

“Fine, Tiger,” said the voice, even warmer.

The phone clicked and there was the dial tone, in his ear.

He replaced the receiver.

He sat there a moment.

64 Pretty Maids All in a Row What a girl.

Picking up the special blue pencil, he penciled in another half-star, beside her name. For good measure.

He awaited his visitor.

14

The story had broken and was receiving wide coverage by the media, locally and throughout the State. Also, having been picked up, it got a certain mention, or at least a glance, here and there, nationwide. But it was the local radio and TV stations that really got Chief John Poldaski down. They left him feeling profoundly frustrated, not to mention bitter, for he never once heard mentioned his name. And no matter how smoothly Surcher had done it, Poldaski was growing more and more aware that he had been elbowed completely out of the case. His role, he slowly realized, was to be that of Chief Traffic Cop, no more, no less. And he resented it. For Poldaski, among other things, had long harbored the knowledge, unbeknown and unacknowledged by others, that he was an extraordinarily gifted crime-buster, of no mean order. He was a clever, formidably astute, cunning culprit duster— and more. He was convinced of it. He had requested Proffer to call in the Staties, true, but for assistance only, not to be shoved in a corner. And, definitely, he felt bottled up in a comer, more and more, the more he thought it over. All his years of service to the community of Sawyers-ville seemed to him suddenly to have acquired a meaning bordering on meaningless, on the face of it, and in view of it. For the truth be known, the Chief had regarded this situation, this case, from the moment he had been urgently summoned into it, as the supreme test of his career, no less. He had been on the verge of tackling it, head on, with certain technical assistance from the State Police, when with a few smooth words from that Static Captain he had more or less been kicked right out of it. Definitely. And how he resented it.

Just now, in Selmo’s Tavern, next door to the high

school of course, where he had retired a short while ago for a few quick ones during his first break of the day from his traffic duties, he was fuming. The traffic, as a matter of fact, had increased significantly, the approach to the school, Washington Avenue, being fairly thick with traffic, and where this fine road ran near the school, blocked with it. The Chief had just been relieved by some State Troopers, who had, on top of everything, tried to get him to move his Squad Car out of the way, a request which had led to a fierce exchange on the pros and cons of the matter between the Chief and the Troopers, ending up in the car remaining just where it had been, and would stay, so long as John Poldaski held sway. A shot of whiskey and a beer stood before John on the bar. Quite a few of the boys were putting away generous helpings of Selmo’s delicious ravioli and spaghetti, famous far and wide. The sauce was especially alright, in fact a pure gourmet’s delight. Responsible for this was Selmo’s cute wife.

“Who the fuck those guys think they arc I dunno,” he muttered to Seimo behind the bar, and knocking off the shot, his first one, “Is the goddamn town mine—or theirs?” He added, in an afterglow of free thought and expression, not to mention association.

“I dunno, John,” said Seimo, neutrally.

“I went in right away, Jesus Christ, five minutes after the kid, soon as they called me,” the Chief went on, starting on his beer, “I talk to the kid, I question him, I get it all down, a half hour almost of stuff, and important stuff, in my notebook—” He paused, thinking of his notebook.

“That right, Chief?” Seimo said, pouring out another shot for him, and a few more for other clients about him.

“Sure that’s right.” Poldaski uttered, sipping half the beer, “You’re goddamn right that’s right,” he added, polishing off the beer, signaling to Selma for another. “A hell of a lot of important stuff—the kid gave me.” He stopped.

“No shit, John—” said Abe Muvitz, nearest him, “Was her head down the toilet?”

“Sure it was,” the Chief informed him, “Din’t I tell ya?”

“And her pants off? Her ass up in the air?” Jake Dalton queried, near the curve of the bar, not far from him. He was working on ravioli.

“Her pants wasn’t off,” the Chief told him, “Who told

you?” He paused, “Her ass, yeh, right up in the air, oh

yeh—”

“When you got there?” Ralph Delano, one of Selmo’s staunchest regulars, inquired now. He had spaghetti.

"Nah,” the Chief answered, somewhat short-tempered, “The kid found her—that’s the way the kid found her—got it now?” he told them.

“Did he find her?” Delano pressed on.

"Sure, he found her. Who you think found her? Seimo? Christ, boy!” Poldaski flung out.

“O.K., John,” Delano mollified him.

“And I talked to him one hell of a time, I should have taken him down the Station, that’s what. I’d still be talking to him, I’ll teU ya—” the Chief added.

“What for, John?” Asked Dutch Belmont, at his post near the middle of the bar, polishing off a long shot.

The Chief glared at him, “Wise guy?”

“Nuh, Chief. You kiddin’?” Dutch asked.

“Well what you think what foi? Huh? Just what the hell for?” Poldaski rapped out at him.

“Yeh but you talked to him—” Dutch put in.

“Not enough I didn’t talk to him!” The Chief poured on him.

A moment’s silence. Seimo filled up some glasses.

“John—” said someone, it was Jack Mizner, “Hey John —” he repeated, softly.

“Yeh?” the Chief said, gruffly, obviously deep in thought.

“Hey, listen—” Mizner told him, in that soft tone, ‘Think one of the nigs did it?” He asked, solemnly.

More silence. Poldaski knocked off another shot. Took a sip of beer. Another one.

“Huh?” He said, “Nigs?” he said, his mind suddenly, and swiftly, working, the six or seven coons or was it ten that came to the school this year from the all nig school in Caxton, the State said they should. Poldaski’s mind worked on. They didn’t even live in Sawyersville! One of them was on the football squad—Tiger gave him a break—Jim Green, yeh, that was his name. End. Big kid. Left end. Ran good. Or was it right? Left? Right? Which End? Poldaski grappled with the problem—

“Listen, buddy,” Dutch said, “Maybe you got somethin* there, and how—” And he looked around the bar, and behind the bar, and up and down the bar.

Abe Muvitz spoke up, “Ho Buddy!”

“What they let those come here for I’ll never know,” Jake Dalton said, “Black fucks,” he also said, soberly. “Whudda you think, Seimo?” Dalton put to the Proprietor in his foghorn voice.

“Ain’t thought about it,” Seimo responded, diplomatically.

“Christ, you ain’t?” Jake demanded, ready to ride him.

“Fuckin’ Seimo. Sonuvabitch. That Seimo,” Dutch Belmont kidded him. “I’ll tell ya what he thinks about—”

They all chuckled, Seimo joining them. He filled their glasses.

Poldaski was thinking very hard now, his mind working, working double overtime, while they played around, kidding Seimo, a favorite pastime.

“John, boy.” he heard one of them, Jack Mizner, through the chatter, “You want a look into that angle. You ask me, that’s some angle. Get yourself a medal, buddy!” And he laughed, highly tickled with it. He loved his humor.

Poldaski muttered, “Yeh—” Paused a moment, “Buddy —” And trailed off, knee-deep in thought, fingering another shot. . . *

15

Surcher was not happy. He had made the sad trip to Jill Fairbunn’s home, had met her stricken and bewildered parents, had taken them to the State Police morgue to identify the body (a requirement of law—Surcher didn’t like it), had returned with them to their home (with two of his senior assistants), and after dispersing the assorted collection of neighbors, relatives, curious citizens, and others, including journalists, had finally started a systematic search of the house, concentrating especially of course on the late Head Cheerleader’s room and belongings. So far, after two hours, he had found very little. She had a very attractive, very feminine room. The colors were soft, gentle, as were the furnishings. He felt like an intruder in it. But he had to be in it. He knew it. There were quite a few letters here and there, in her desk drawers, on her bedside table, and he had made a collection of them to take away, with the parents’ permission of course, and study. There was a framed photograph of the girl in her Cheerleading uniform on the dressing table. Surcher stared at it some little while, feeling very low. She certainly was beautiful, blooming with life, without a doubt of it. He tried to reconcile that picture with the spectacle he had seen in the lavatory at the high school and the lifeless form he had just viewed with her parents at the morgue. He couldn’t. He just felt very low. He would do all he could to find her killer, but nothing could ever bring about that reconciliation, he knew. That was probably the worst aspect of his work, and the one he always had to struggle with most. He turned away from the photograph, finally, to continue his search. But the letters were all he walked out of there with at the end of it. To cheer him further, a message had arrived in a State Police car for him. It was the Lab and preliminary autopsy reports. The former told him nothing, absolutely. The latter what he already knew: the girl had been strangled—but not sexually assaulted, apparently. And one thing he hadn’t exactly known: She had died about nine a.m. that morning. Or thereabouts. It all made Surcher very unhappy. He had been pinning his hopes on the lab crew picking up something. Prints on that scrap of paper, he had prayed for— anything. But it was a blank, utterly. Surcher was forlorn. Though a man of solid and steady character, he was definitely forlorn. He knew he had a job and a half on his hands, and he was up against it—already, no doubt of it He only hoped the letters would shed some little light on things. Anything. He left his two assistants and went downstairs to talk to the parents again, who were in the parlor, sitting very still, near one another, barely there.

Surcher spoke gently to them.

“There wasn’t anything. But thanks for letting me look.”

They said nothing.

“Maybe something will turn up in the letters. I’m hoping

_ _ 99

so.

Again, nothing. He felt their profound agony.

“Mrs. Fairbunn,” he said, very gently, “Did Jill keep a

diary? A record of things? Anything—Something like a diary?”

"Die stricken woman looked at him. He had to do this. Someday she might understand. Right now, he just hoped she would answer. It was hard enough asking her.

“I don’t think so,” she said, barely.

‘‘I don’t think she did,” her husband came in, adding, “You didn’t find one?’*

“We didn’t.”

“I guess she didn’t.**

“Nothing at all resembling one?”

The parents looked at one another.

“Not that we know of,” Mr. Fairbunn said.

Silence.

“Mrs. Fairbunn,” Surcher murmured, “Can I just ask you again, did Jill go steady with anyone? Was there anyone very serious about her?”

Now the woman was near tears, as she answered, “I don’t think she went steady with anyone.”

“She didn’t,” her husband put in.

“Did anyone phone her up a lot?”

“Oh God, she had lots of phone calls,” Jill’s father said.

“I can’t think of anyone, there just isn’t one single one I can think of, as I told you, Captain,” the woman said, bursting into tears. Her husband put his arms about her.

Surcher said, very quietly, “I won’t ask any more questions now. I’ll just say to you, please contact me if you remember anything, if you think of anything. Can I ask you that?”

“O.K., Captain,” he thought he heard the father say. Surcher stood there a moment longer, looking at them. Then he went upstairs to see his assistants. Soon, the three of them came downstairs, and departed.

16

“Ponce—I know how you feel,’* Tiger said to the boy, immediately seeking to establish rapport.

“I feel lousy, I never have felt so lousy in all my life,

“What about the game?” Ponce inquired. He was worried.

“We’ve been working on it. If we can squeeze it in somehow, in the middle of a week, say, probably here instead of away too, we’ll postpone it. I’ve already talked to their Coach and Principal. They’re willing to try,” he paused, “It’s not that easy to do though,” he paused again, “We’re trying, though.”

Ponce shook his head from side to side, slowly, “I don’t see the guys doing their best with a thing like this on their heads. Do you. Tiger?”

Tiger surveyed the lad, thoughtfully. He certainly was among the most psychologically astute youngsters he had ever encountered, in all his days. He would be very sorry indeed to see him graduate next year. He thought further about him. He was going to college, of course, and when he was finished? He wanted to be a writer, no less, Tiger mused, but that was alright, he could always do that, what did it matter, no matter what the nature of his primary occupation. He’d have material then, Tiger mused, maybe he could write about this, it was pretty unique. And suddenly, out of the blue, Tiger had a vision of what he’d like to see the lad do. He saw Ponce as a teacher, here, in this school. And—Assistant Football Coach. Tiger got warm about it, though of course took care not to show it. Assistant Football Coach. Why not? The lad certainly had the brains and the drive and the know-how for it, without a doubt, even now he was a hell of a lot more than Chief Water Boy and Equipment Manager, who didn’t know it? He was already practically Assistant, and unpaid for it! He helped evolve not an insignificant number of Tiger’s dazzling and intricate plays, and variations thereon, especially. He was particularly great at improvising something when the team was in trouble, he could do that beautifully, during the hectic, frantic plunge and thrust, and general madhouse atmosphere, of actual games. Tiger, sitting quietly, his thoughtful brown eyes on the boy, was getting excited about it, the more he thought about it. Why hadn’t he ever thought of it? How many games could it be said that this lad, this very lad, probably pulled out of the fire for him? Would the winning streak be what it was without his help? Consider the situation at the Franklin game only last week.

They had tried everything. But their defense had stonewalled them. And who had noticed the way the defensive safeties hesitated every time Tigers right end cut to the left for a pass? Who thereupon had improvised that brilliant variation on I-Twenty-four Pass and Run To The Left With Flanker Deployed On Three? With only five minutes to go in the game! In those five minutes, as a result, three TD’s had been scored! Tiger felt warm and glowing about his vision, newborn. Here was a boy who could step in and give him a hand. There was the future of Sawyersville High taken care of. for a long while, at least, a future Tiger was deeply concerned about, for certainly he was well aware he couldn’t last forever—even now he was pushing thirty-six, what did it matter if he didn’t look it, he was certainly beginning to feel it, and no two ways around it—he knew what the score was, what better than to start thinking ahead, seriously? In short, Tiger was thinking of a successor. A successful successor. He felt very warm toward Ponce. He was like his own son, almost, in his mind. What was his favorite subject? Literature? His thoughts flicked to that extremely gifted teacher of English and American Literature, among other things, Betty Smith, and he felt even warmer. It was something to have a highly accomplished and evolved young woman like that, of that caliber, teaching Literature, among other things, at Sawyersville High School. Tiger marveled at the good fortune. He appreciated her. He thought of her. She definitely rated another half-star, maybe more. Definitely, Tiger mused, making an indelible mental note of it. And couldn't Ponce teach Literature? Here? That would be wonderful. Tiger knew, or pretty well knew, that by the time Ponce had earned his degree, he would be Principal. Proffer was bound to have set up his emporium by then, certainly. Or been kicked out on his ass. Or the two. The combination was possible. The School Board were all crazy about Tiger, after all not only had he brought athletic fame to the community through his outstanding football squads, invincible year after year, but he saved them a not inconsiderable sum by taking on so many extra activities, among other things, for instance, Guidance/Counseling, which alone ordinarily meant the hiring of a full timer costing a pretty penny too, for certainly they didn’t come cheap, not these days, at any rate. Tiger liked the vision. He installed

that I can recall, Tiger,” Ponce unloaded, looking in fact

not too well.

“How do you think I’d have felt if I had walked in there and found her?” Tiger asked, sympathetically, studying the lad.

“I mean, it’s the kind of thing you read about, or see movies or TV about, you don’t ever expect to run into that kind of thing yourself ever, and that’s a fact—” said the

boy.

“That’s right,” Tiger agreed.

“There she was—”

“What a crunch—”

“I’ll probably see her the rest of my life. 111 dream about it—you know how scared I’ve always more or less been of the dark—Imagine Now! Wow! I’ll have to sleep with all the lights on, no kidding. I know I will,” the lad told him.

Tiger said nothing. He merely nodded, slightly, and let the boy talk. That was the way. He knew.

“How can I ever go in that lavatory again? Any of the lavatories again? Know what I mean?”

Tiger did.

“I do, Ponce,” he said.

“And that Poldaski—and that Surcher—Cripes! You’d think I’d done it! I know that Surcher’s going to talk to me again—and again—And what can I tell the guy?”

“Just the truth, Ponce, as you’ve already told them. What else?” Tiger offered.

“I hope they find the guy!”

“They will, Ponce. A thing like this isn’t something just anybody is capable of pulling off. The guy will stick out like a sore thumb, and how. A sore thumb, Ponce, and he’ll be spotted alright, sooner or later.” He paused, musing over it, “Surcher’s no dummy. I guess you already saw that. I should say no Poldaski—right, Ponce? Ha Ha.” Tiger added.

“Ha Ha Ha!” The lad laughed.

Tiger swiveled around to his right, then to his left, very slightly and gently, in his chair. It was a sort of gentle side-to-side rocking motion. Soon over.

“There’s no practice tonight, by the way,” Tiger told the boy.

it within himself, for growth and nourishment. From now on, it was part and parcel of him. And when the time came —his successor. He soared now to the most supreme point of his vision, seeing himself as Principal of the School, and Guidance/ Counselor, of course, for as long as he could usefully perform that function, and Ponce as Literature, Civics, Phys Ed, Health Ed teacher—his Assistant—and, eventually, Head Football Coach! He could do it. Certainly, Tiger knew he could do it. He had, among other things, the brains, the IQ for it—on the Stumper he had hit the highest pinnacles, only two or three before, in Tiger’s experience, had soared up there. And what a nice kid. One hell of a sweet kid. Everybody liked him. It wouldn’t be far out in fact to say they were crazy about him. Tiger knew it. There was something about him— This lad could do it.

But that was a vision, for the future, for growth and nourishment. Now, here, at this particular historical, psychological, and sociological juncture, not to mention statistical, Tiger saw little point in mentioning it. The time would come, as it did for all things, fully and properly ripened, and he would mention it. For when it came, when this particular juncture presented itself, Tiger would know it, as he did all things, immediately, intuitively, and take action, appropriately.

“You’re right, Ponce,” he said to the boy, “They’ll be in no great shape at all, will they?”

“Heck no! Imagine them looking at the stands, and the crowd, and the cheerleaders—and no Jill there—no kidding—”

“That’ll break them up and no kidding, you’re right on target there, alright, Ponce—”

“I sure hope it’s rescheduled!”

“We’ll try our best. I’m going to push it.”

There was silence.

Ponce stared down at his hands.

He shook his head. He spoke softly. Tiger barely heard him—

“Mom was in the kitchen when I got back from the drugstore. She’d already heard all about it. She hugged me, and I cried like a baby, on her. I cried and cried, Tiger.” He trailed off.

Tiger nodded, touching together the tips of his fingers, before him. seeing Poncd’s mother, hugging him.

“Then those guys phoning me—” the lad said.

“What guys. Ponce?” Tiger queried, gently.

“Cripes, Tiger, those newspaper guys—all those guys—^H “Did you talk to them?” Tiger queried, lowering his hands somewhat.

“The first time they phoned, boy what a wise guy, some wise guy, Tiger, I just hung up—and left the phone off the hook—”

Tiger nodded.

“Then they phoned and phoned when Mom came home and put the receiver back—”

“And did you talk to them?” Tiger asked.

“Heck no. I did the same thing. And Mom agreed with me.”

Tiger nodded.

“Then they came to the house,” the lad said.

“And what happened then?” Tiger asked.

“Try and get rid of them! Wow, Tiger! I slammed the door in their face and locked it, finally. That’s what I did.” Ponce said.

“Good boy, Ponce,” Tiger murmured.

“They went away, finally—most of them—”

“Are some still there?”

“Some are, yeh—in a car, sitting there—I had one heck of a time getting here. They’re parked near the house, waiting for me—” .

“Urn hmm,” Tiger said.

“I went the back way, you know, through the field, across the way there—I told Mom to keep the phone off the hook and the doors locked—all of them—”

“Uh huh,” Tiger said.

“And I got here. And what a jam outside here! You seen it?”

“I had a look at it.”

“That drip Poldaski out there—directing traffic! How come the Troopers don’t shove him? I mean, the guy’s plain stupid. You oughta see where his car is! Honest to God, Tiger, right in the middle of it! That's what’s really jamming everything—”

Tiger was nodding, almost smiling, thinking of John

Poldaski, “He certainly is a menace,” he paused, adding, “in certain respects.”

“Is he!”

“But nothing to worry about,” Tiger also said, “Fundamentally,” And he grinned in that friendly way of his.

Silence.

Now Ponce said, with some difficulty, and looking away, “I sure feel like a prize dope screaming that way—”

Tiger nodded. He had heard about it. That was some soundproofing, alright.

“Well, Ponce, don’t worry about it. Under the circumstances—”

He was a bit surprised, though, to tell the truth, to have heard about it. It was some reaction. Was there more to it? He wouldn’t ask the lad. If there was, maybe someday he’d hear it. That was the only way. He knew it.

“Yeh but, gee, everybody must think—” the lad halted, looking miserable.

“I’ll bet nobody mentions it. I’ll just put a bet, Ponce. How about that?”

Silence.

Tiger waited.

The lad was again looking away from him. . . .

“I sure hope you’re right, Tiger. I hope so,” he finally said.

Tiger nodded again, and just waited. The boy definitely appeared to be struggling with something. He didn’t press him.

Ponce said, after a while, once again looking at him, “I guess Surcher’s gonna talk to everybody, right, Tiger? I heard he went through Jill’s house inch by inch— I wonder if he found any clues—”

“I wonder,” Tiger answered.

Another silence.

Tiger still waited.

“What really worries me now though, Tiger, more than anything—” the lad said, “is how much they’re going to keep after me. Do you think they’ll question and question me? Like I feel, if they keep after me, I might wind up making a confession or something—that might happen— it’s one of those things that could happen—right, Tiger? Look at Korea!—All those brainwashed guys falling over of it,” he told the lad, “it’s a question that’s been occupying the whole of my mind since it happened, let me tell you.” He paused, then added, “Who knows the answer? I’ll tell you, I don’t. Not yet, anyway. Does anyone? Well, right now only one person does, on that also I’ll put a bet, and you know who that is. Don’t you?” He paused again, “But I’m not despairing. I’m not going to plunge down those stairs to the cellar of despair. As I said before, Ponce, they’ll find him, you can count on it. No doubt of it”

“But when?” Ponce asked, astutely.

Again, Tiger pondered. It was just as momentous a one. But wasn’t it. That boy was certainly all there, as always. He observed him fondly.

“That’s it isn’t it, Ponce?” He paused, a rough analogy coming to his mind, suddenly, “Just like it’s the point about Vietnam, right Ponce? When, when. That’s the important part. Will it ever? That’s it, alright, isn’t it, Ponce?”

He could see Ponce thinking about it and seeing it without a doubt.

And he heard him say, “Because the guy could do a lot more damage. Tiger—” He said it quietly.

“Could be,” Tiger told him.

“I sure hope old Surcher comes up with something at Jill’s place!”

“So do I, do I,” Tiger said.

“What a lousy mess! Poor Jill! JeepersV*

And silence fell.

Tiger kept on observing the boy.

“What are your ideas on the matter?” He asked, finally, in his quiet way, “Have you thought about it much, gone over it in your own mind, Ponce, very much? I’d like to hear your theories, if any.”

“You sound like Surcher!”

Tiger grinned, reassuringly, “I don’t mean to—I really would like to know. That’s all.”

Ponce shifted around in his chair, looked here and there. Then at Tiger.

“I’m foxed.”

Tiger heard.

“So that makes us even,” he said to the boy.

“You ought to hear though some of the stuff that’s going around, I mean, what some are saying, anyhow—I couldn’t help hearing, you know—” one another to confess things they’d never done—Heck, you know all you told me about that—”

Tiger thought about it. He thought about Korea, his little sojourn there. His company. His little medal. When and if he ever wrote his memoirs, he mused, that would certainly take up a chapter or two. At any rate. He mused quite a few moments over it. Now there was Vietnam. Uncle Sam certainly could find ways to keep his troops happy. No doubt of it.

He said at last, “Well, Ponce, I might be able to help you in that area, if you’re really that worried over it.” He paused, surveying the boy. “I’ll have a talk with that Captain—also about those reporters. I’ll do that. I think you ought to have some protection.”

The boy brightened up. “Gee!” he said, “Hey, that’s great of you, I mean really great of you. Think you can swing it?”

“Sure I do. I’ll try my damnedest.”

Ponce knew he would.

“That’s really great of you, Tiger,” he murmured, gratefully.

“You deserve it, Ponce. The least I can do for you.” Silence now. The lad sat quietly. Looking better.

Tiger found himself remembering a dream he had last night. There was a garden. There were only trees in that garden. Looby Loo was standing to the side, where a path ran. She was walking on it. Not standing. Was she walking on it? Not standing. Was she walking toward him? She war singing this tune— He was trying to make out the tune— Now, near one of the dozens of trees, Ponce stood— Was it last night?

“What do you think about the whole thing, Tiger?” He suddenly heard. “Any theories? Ideas?” The lad asked. “Who could have done it?” He heard him ask.

Tiger looked at the boy squarely, weighing the momentous question. For certainly it was just that, who could deny it, here, now, at this juncture. What Sawyersville maid would feel safe walking the streets, or the halls of the high school until that question was answered, definitely? Who would sleep peacefully in Sawyersville until the fiend was apprehended? Tiger pondered it, weighing his answer. He wished he did have an answer.

‘That’s the question of the moment, Ponce, and no doubt

The lad paused, as Tiger waited for more.

“Know what they’re saying, Tiger. Some of them, around the town?”

Ponce waited.

“What, Ponce?” Tiger queried.

"One of the colored boys did it," Ponce reported, not trying to hide his contempt for it

Tiger nodded, and sat silently. It wasn’t really news to him. Already, he had heard it hinted at, here and there, in the school, by a few teachers—a very, very few—that creep Crispwell, in particular, that lily-whitey, that Hawk, that quasi-John Bircher. It was hard to get rid of a teacher, but Tiger would find a way, he knew, once he got to be Principal. That ultrarespectable would be the first to hit the road. He hadn’t heard one student mention it though. The whispers and murmurs had come from that tiny group of teachers, three or four, headed by Crispwell, of course. No, not one student had mentioned it, that Tiger knew of. That was good. Tiger was proud of those kids, they sure showed up that tiny minority of bigots here and there. And their silent followers. For Tiger too had contempt for it. This aspect of the situation had without a doubt worried him, though he had been relieved somewhat on meeting Surcher, the man in charge of the investigation, for he certainly didn't appear to be a racialist. Or a silent follower, either. Not that Tiger could see. He thought of Jim Green, his superb right end, who one day, without a doubt, Tiger knew, would hit All-American. He was a colored boy. Tiger mused now, as he sat there, observing Ponce, over this aspect of the situation. He had been one of the first to welcome the decision to integrate a certain number of colored students from East Caxton into the Sawyersville school system. (There were no Negroes at all in Sawyersville.) It was part of the State drive to break up the “Negro ghetto schools,” so called, and Tiger had certainly welcomed it. He knew what hellholes they were. There had been a certain amount of hard talk at first and some hot feelings, that was true, but finally the situation was accepted by the school board and, as far as Tiger could tell, the town itself, especially when the insignificant number actually to be integrated became known. Certainly the overwhelming number of teachers felt pretty much like Tiger about it. And so the handful of colored students had arrived, on their special school bus. out of Caxton. There had been no ugly scenes, only a few curious citizens, including of course Selmo’s stalwarts, on those first few days, looking on at the unfamiliar sight of black faces penetrating their high school. And these youngsters had done fairly well, most of them, academically. Socially, of course, the story was different—they were more or less ordinary high school kids during school hours and mixed with all the others, but outside school hours, the barriers were as high and as solid as ever. No white girl, so far as Tiger knew, had yet dated a Negro boy, and no white boy, also so far as Tiger knew, had taken out one of the not unattractive Negro girls, four in number, to be precise, including of course Mona Drake, Tiger mused on—that honey. ... He smiled, to himself, thinking of her. She certainly was a honey. She was going to be a remarkably beautiful woman, no two ways about that, already she was almost that, and anyone could sec that. It was really surprising, he mused, that none of the white boys had dated her—or had she turned them down? He wondered about that. Suddenly, a dream he had just last night came back to him. She was in it. She was walking down the road in front of his house. He was in his study, looking out. She turned, and looked up, and their eyes met. And she blew him a kiss. And was gone. Just like that. Tiger mused over that. What was she wearing? He tried to remember that.

“Well,” Tiger said, finally, “No one knows who did it—” And he paused. “Least of all those nincompoops—” He paused again, “Do they even know the time of day, Ponce? No kidding.”

Ponce liked that one, and grinned broadly. He felt a little better, Tiger thought. Then he saw the lad go serious again.

“But think of that kind of stuff spreading around though —” Ponce told him.

Tiger shrugged, “Who’s going to listen to it? Ponce, you know how it is. How many times have we talked about this?”

The boy said, “Well, I sure hope they find the guy, Tiger —and quick.”

Tiger nodded.

“And so do I,” he said.

“Because if they don’t—” The boy held.

“I know,” Tiger told him, “In more ways than one, don’t worry, and that’s why everybody has to keep cool and cooperate fully with Surcher.”

“What do you think of him?” Ponce queried. He knew what Tiger thought of policemen in general, a view he shared fully.

Tiger answered carefully, “He strikes me, at first observation, anyway, as a fair and competent fellow.”

Ponce nodded, then said, “Even if he hit a stone wall?” Tiger pondered, ever more impressed with the boy’s astuteness. ”

“That remains to be seen. What else can I say, Ponce?” He answered, finally.

The lad shook his head, “Boy, I sure hope it doesn’t turn out to be one of them—”

Tiger mused over that one. It would be a bad one.

“It would be pretty bad,” he said, 'Bad/' he added.

“A kick in the rump” the lad said.

Tiger saw it.

“Would it,” he nodded.

“Not that I think it was,” Ponce said, “I can’t see it, I know them all pretty well by now, and I just can’t see it.” Tiger nodded, “I'd say the same.”

“I’d put all my money, not that I have any, I’d put anything at all against it,” the lad said. And fell silent.

Anything at all against it, thought Tiger, looking at him, surveying him. What a kid, thought Tiger, feeling warmer and warmer about his future hopes for the school, and the lad, and everything. What a combination they would make. He could see it. The vision was really growing.

“Can I come back to school tomorrow?” Ponce asked now, quietly.

Tiger answered. “Sure. Why not?”

Ponce offered, “I don’t see why not.”

Tiger nodded.

Again, silence. The youngster was looking down at the floor. He's feeling pretty low again. Tiger thought. That really was one hell of a jolting shock, he further thought. He thought of life, what a series of jarring shocks that was, from the word go, appalling revelation after revelation piling up, finally burying one. Unless one finds a way, some way, Tiger thought. That was it, that was the key, wasn’t it? Tiger had fought hard, and worked hard. He thought he had found a way. At least it's bearable, Tiger thought. For a while, anyway. ... He had found a way. Each, he knew, in his own way. That was it. Otherwise— resignation, and a longing for release from it, totally, welcoming the burying. . . . Tiger kept his gaze on the boy. What was on his mind now? What was he holding back from him? He felt great compassion for Ponce, fond of him and full of hopes and plans for him as he was. Why did he have to find that body? If he had only got there a few minutes later it would have been Mummer. Tiger shook his head sadly, within himself, thinking of Mummer. There was another one. He would follow Crispwell— quickly, swiftly. Alright. . . . The body. That poor girl, that brutally murdered girl, that honey. Tiger grew sadder. Life, he mused now, deeply, growing up was just that though, a series of brutal discoveries—but did Ponce’s first one have to be so brutal? What would it do to him? What had it already done to him? Tiger kept on looking at him, wondering about him, feeling (hat great compassion for him, while the boy continued looking downward, down in the dumps. In time, Tiger now mused, the shock would wear off, he knew. Time was possibly the greatest and only factor, one might say healer, in such circumstances. Tiger knew it. He thought of his own life, his own jarring confrontations, step by step, all along the way, with brutal realities. He thought of Korea. He thought of Vietnam. He hoped to God Ponce would be spared that. In two years he graduated. Would it be over by then? He thought of all the boys over there now. That Great Earpuller, Old Corn-pone, was sure filling the whole place up with them. In aid of what? Tiger wondered. He just couldn’t help wondering. He never said anything, but he certainly wondered. How many others wondered? He knew Looby Loo wondered. And Betty Smith. And Hetty. Plenty of others. Tiger, now, felt a slightly sick feeling, wondering. What would Kennedy have done? Poor JFK. He certainly made a brutal discovery. . . . Tiger left it, and came back to the present, the here, the now, the boy downcast before him. Another wave of compassion hit him.

“What are you thinking?” He asked him, gently.

“I just feel rotten,” the boy murmured, without moving.

Tiger thought a moment, but it wasn’t from any careful thought process that his next words to the boy would emerge, he knew it. They would flow naturally, without his knowing it. That was the way, always. He waited for them.

‘‘She’s inside you,” he said, quietly, finally, ‘‘Poor Jill’s inside you,” he also said, “You’re mourning her.”

A pause, as he observed the boy.

“I guess that’s it,” Ponce said, from under the floorboards.

“You might feel pretty low for some time,” now Tiger said, “That’s normal.”

The boy shook his head. “I know I won't sleep tonight I know I won’t eat. I know that.” He said.

“It’s been a kick in the teeth, alright” Tiger said.

“Oh man, it has,” said the lad.

“That’s life, Ponce,” Tiger now said, very gently. “That’s how it is sometimes,” He paused, then added, “Lots of times,” more quietly than ever.

“I guess so,” the lad said, mumbling the words, and then sitting quietly, looking down still.

They sat in silence.

“You know what, Ponce?” Tiger suddenly said, after a while.

“What?” Ponce asked, more or less.

“You know that T-Fifty-four Decoy Line Buck Left And Cross Right On Three—?”

The lad looked up.

“Yeh, Tiger?”

Tiger leaned forward, flipping through his file until he found what he was looking for. He spread the diagram of the play before him on the desk. He tapped his finger on it.

“You know that shift you suggested—between left tackle and left guard—involving the quarterback and their line backers—you know that—”

The boy was looking at the diagram.

“Right, Tiger—” he said.

“Well, that’s the one I really want to work on next Practice—I don’t want any of them to know until we actually start scrimmage—I want to spring it on them— see what I mean?”

“Right, Tiger—” the boy said.

“No one knows about it, do they, Ponce?”

Pretty Maids All in a Row 83 “Not that I know of. I haven’t mentioned it. Not to anyone,” the lad said.

“Great! And that’s how we’ll keep it. Don’t mention it. I think it’s a great one. I can’t wait to spring it—”

Ponce nodded his head. He was grinning. He was emerging from under these floorboards.

“It all depends on the quarterback. The quarterback, Tiger,” the boy said.

“I know it does.”

“If he gets it—”

“Down pat, you mean—”

“That’s what I mean—”

“I can’t wait to try it! Ponce.”

Tiger said.

Ponce was nodding, grinning, still studying the diagram. ...

17

Surcher returned to the school after leaving the Fair-bunns. He had that packet of letters and he would browse through them later on today, possibly this evening, at home, at his leisure. Right now he wanted to see how his other assistants were getting along with the mass screening of all the students, and also he wanted to talk to some of Jill’s closest girl friends, whose names had been given him by her mother. He had displaced Proffer from his inner sanctum and arranged through him to see and talk to the following—today, if at all possible: Yvonne Mellish (a Senior), Sandra Seymour (also a Senior), and Alice Patmore (again, a Senior). Tomorrow, he would talk to a few more. And by then—who knows? He would have read through the letters. . . .

At the moment, the Captain had before him Yvonne Mellish, a fine figure of young womanhood if ever there was one. She had brown hair and brown eyes. She was healthy and positive. A beautiful smile. Of course, today, under the circumstances, she wasn’t oversmiling. In fact, just now, she was solemn. She listened to the Captain’s questions and tried her best to answer them. She spoke earnestly, though not without a certain charm. She had a frank, open face, and this indefinable young charm about her. Surcher liked her. It was an honest charm, no doubt of it. And he was beginning to construct a picture of Jill Fairbunn, as she had been, in his mind, no less.

“When did you actually last see Jill, Yvonne?” He asked now, in his quiet way, notebook at the ready.

“Well, let’s see,” the girl answered. “Just let me see—” The Assistant Head Cheerleader, no doubt in line for promotion now, responded, “Well—it was just about the time of Assembly—yes—just about then—Captain—” She halted.

Surcher nodded.

“That was when—Captain—” Again, she halted.

“Was she actually in Assembly? This is important, Yvonne—”

The girl shook her head, “No, definitely. That is the absolute truth. Captain. It’s a fact. I swear it.” She paused, lowering her voice. “And that’s when it happened—isn’t it—Captain?” She added.

Surcher nodded.

“We think so.”

Yvonne flew on, “That’s what I heard—what everyone’s

saying—”

The Captain nodded.

“Poor Jill—” the prospective Captain of the Cheerleaders choked, "Oh that poor kid—” She gasped and choked.

Surcher waited.

“So you never actually saw her in Assembly,” he said, finally.

“That’s right. Captain—None of us did—”

“Did that seem odd to you?”

“No, it didn’t,” Yvonne sobbed, “If we’d only known! If only we’d known!” She sobbed, profusely, yet quietly, "See, sometimes you might have something special or important to do, and so you skip Assembly. It doesn’t happen too often, because Mr. Proffer doesn’t like anybody missing Assembly—No, it didn’t seem odd, not at all—Oh Gosh! I wish it had. Captain!” The tears cascaded.

The Captain watched her, patiently, and compassionately.

“How did she seem to you when you last saw her, Yvonne?” He asked finally, quietly.

on, quietly, “111 try my best, my very best, Captain—” she paused, and Surcher nodded, “Well, there’s Dean Morgan —Phil Potter—” she began.

“Hold it—go a little slower if you would, Yvonne—”

She gave a little laugh, “Oh, you want to write them all down—’’

The Captain nodded.

“Go on—” he said.

“And, oh—Dink—Dink Reagan, Captain—he’s our quarterback, and also a terrific basketball star—oh, you probably know all that, don’t you, Captain?” She paused, as Surcher wrote down the name, giving a little nod at the same time. “And then—Art Lever—and Buzz—Buzzy Bozink—he’s so cute—and Lennie Almot—I think—”

“A-l-m-o?” The Captain spelled out.

“That’s right. Cute name, isn’t it?”

“Go on.” Said Surcher.

“And Petie Smith—” She halted, profoundly concentrating, “And that’s all, right now, well, really that’s all I can think of, I mean. There may be one or two more, you know, who took her out sometimes, but I just can’t think of them—I know for certain the ones I just gave you took her out quite a lot—dances, movies—things like that— well, we used to double date a lot, as a matter of fact, Captain—” she said.

He nodded.

He waited.

“You can’t think of any more?” He asked her. “Take your time, there’s no hurry about it,” he said.

She shook her head, “I really can’t. Not one more.”

Surcher perused the list of names.

“Did any of these boys, as far as you know, Yvonne, want to go steady with Jill? Think about it.”

She did just that.

And she said, “I don’t know. As for that, I just don’t know. Not that I was told about, or that I heard about, anyway,” She paused. “Though I guess just about any boy would have wanted to go steady with her. Really.” She added.

The Captain nodded, slightly.

“Do you go steady?” he asked now.

Yvonne seemed ruffled, slightly, she even seemed to blush, so very lightly. “No, I don’t, Captain” she said.

“She seemed fine, perfectly fine, same as ever!” Yvonne answered, through a fresh burst of tears.

“You don’t remember her saying anything to you?” The Captain queried, gently.

Yvonne shook her head, “Nothing out of the ordinary, Captain—she was just the same old Jill, the same as ever. Honest.”

Surcher nodded.

“Yvonne—” he said now, “I’d like to ask you to think about yesterday, and the day before yesterday, and weeks and months before yesterday—” He paused. “Did Jill ever talk about anything, anything at all, that seemed to be troubling her? Did she talk about boyfriend trouble, for example? Or anyone, for instance, anyone at all, in a way that made you feel there was something troubling her? I’d like to ask you that. It’s important.”

The girl gave a good think to it, dried her tears, sighed, and answered, “She didn’t. Captain. That’s the truth. Honest, she seemed real happy to me. She had this terrific personality. It was really terrific. Captain. She was the most popular girl in the whole school, I know. Ask anybody—” “Did she go steady?” Surcher queried.

“No, she didn't.”

“But she had boyfriends?”

“Oh, sure—a few of them.”

“Who were they?”

The girl reflected.

“Well, gee—I don’t know that you really could call them boyfriends, Captain—I mean, they just took her out, that’s all—” she answered.

“It might be important though, Yvonne. Who were they?”

“Well, honestly, it couldn't have been one of them— Captain—”

“I’m sure you’re right, Yvonne. But will you give me their names?”

A pause.

“Do I have to?” She asked.

“I wish you would,” Surcher said.

The girl’s big brown eyes showed all signs of concentrated thought on the issue. Surcher searched them.

“Well—” she announced, finally, “Let’s see—” she went

“Do you date any of those boys you’ve just mentioned, Yvonne?”

“Not really.”

“Do you or don’t you, Yvonne?” He pressed, gently.

“Well—Dink’s taken me out for sodas and stuff—Lennie walks me home sometimes—I’ve been to a movie or two with Petie Smith—” She paused. “That’s about all.”

“What do you think of them?” Surcher asked.

“Oh, they’re fine! They’re really fine boys, Captain, all of them! I see what you mean—” She told him, quickly.

Surcher nodded. He sat quietly. The girl touched her hair, sat back in her chair. From time to time, she turned her big brown eyes on him.

He said, finally, “Is there anything else you want to tell me, Yvonne? Anything. Anything at all that you might have on your mind, or that you may have forgotten, or overlooked, that we should know about?” He paused, looking at her, “Think about it.”

The brown eyes were on him. she seemed to be breathing a little quicker, or catching her breath a few times. She swallowed, quickly. He felt the youthful vigor and sensuousness of the girl. The warmth of her. It filled the office. A fine figure of a girl, blooming with life, fragrant with it. No doubt of it. A winner of an All-American girl, if ever there was one. Surcher couldn’t help admiring her. He thought of his own girl, fondly.

“Gosh, Captain, honestly, there just isn’t anything, not a thing, oh how I wish there was, I’d tell you,” She told him.

He nodded. He waited awhile.

“Yvonne, who do you think did it?” He asked, very quietly.

“I wish I knew! I really do!” She blurted at him.

“Do you suspect anyone? Do you have any ideas?” He went on.

“I’m just—baffledshe told him, finally, finding the word. “I just hope—” she added, “I hope you find him— Captain—” She told him.

Surcher nodded.

“Alright, Yvonne,” he said, “That’s all now. Thanks for your cooperation.” He got up, she got up, he showed her to the door. “If there’s anything else you want to tell me or talk to me about, anything at all you might recall or think about, please don’t hesitate, Yvonne. It might be important Very important. Can I count on you?”

They were at the door.

“Oh, I’d come to see you right away, Captain, don’t worry. You can count on me.”

She told him.

He was about to open the door.

“By the way, Yvonne—” The Captain said, his hand on the handle.

“Yes?” She asked, standing before him.

“Did any of those boys you mentioned have the habit of calling Jill 'Honey'—that you know of?”

The brown eyes were really on him now, almost asking him to fall head first, into them.

“No,” she replied, “Not that I know of—”

She stood still near him. He heard her breathing. He could almost feel her heart pounding.

“Alright, Yvonne,” he said, opening the door for her, “Thank you.”

“Thank you, Captain,” she told him, in a very soft voice, a whisper almost, and smiling.

She departed, smiling.

18

Ponce, departing finally from the Guidance/Counseling office, turned left into the hallway and walked up it with something like his old steady confidence and grip on life again. He knew that would happen. That’s what a talk with Tiger would do, always, no matter the circumstances. And the long discussion, examination, and analysis of football plays had engaged him and stimulated him, profoundly, as always. He had even devised two new ones based on the special left and right decoy “I” formation. They excited him. He knew Tiger had been excited by them and would try them as soon as he could. He always did. All in all, therefore, Ponce didn’t feel too bad. Not wonderful—of course—but definitely, certainly, not bad. At all. He walked up the hallway, now deserted, to all extents and purposes, since the schoolday was over and certainly there wouldn’t be anything in the way of extracurricular activities going on tonight, of all nights. Ponce remembered his very different journey along this very same hallway earlier in the day. He cringed at the memory, though he had thoroughly discussed it with Tiger. He hadn’t been able to mention Mummer though, no matter how close he came to it several times. He just hadn’t been able to. That he was sorry about, and he resolved to tell him one day, without fail, possibly tomorrow even. He hoped secretly though he wouldn’t have to, that Surcher would have cornered the culprit by then, or before then. He hoped fervently for that. He heard his footsteps, very soft ones now of course since he had changed into a pair of suede shoes whose soles and heels were made of thick, soft rubber, or facsimile thereof, at any rate. He could creep along like a cat on them, almost. Like Peppy, almost. He grinned, thinking of his funny cat. He just loved it. What a cat. It was a cat-and-a-lialf, or more, and who didn’t know it? He thought of Tiger, he heard his voice, he saw his morale-boosting, confidence-inspiring face before him, he saw the whole of him before him, in short, Tiger internalized. He saw his mother, also, and felt her warmth, her love for him, inside him. He saw his father. And brother. That cute little Rusty Joe, what a sweet little brother, shooting questions at him a million a minute, and sometimes more, and always trying to be like him. He saw Peppy. How he loved her. Was there another cat like that in the whole world anywhere? He wondered. She could sit on the kitchen doorstep for hours, watching something, watching him, he saw her sitting there, watching him. Those big, yellow-green eyes, watching him. She loved him. He knew that cat loved him. What a purrer! The whole kitchen shook with her purring, especially at night, when he fed her, or his mother did. And held her. And stroked her. He reached the lavatory. He would have to walk past that lavatory. Where were all the Troopers? He wondered. Where had they got to? He wondered and wondered. Maybe there were some inside. That could be. Ponce’s heart started pounding, he half-expected somebody to come tearing out of there like a space shot, running, screaming, down the hallway. He braced himself, and pushed himself, hanging on to Tiger, his mother, his father, Rusty Joe, and Peppy. He heard her purring. He hung on now, to all of them, as he started to walk past that awful door. That unavoidable door. He saw Miss Smith, suddenly.

She was up ahead, just coming out of her Home Room. She had her coat on, but unbuttoned. She was about the last one to leave tonight, Ponce supposed, quivering slightly, watching her. She would go down the stairs, to her left, she probably wouldn’t even see Ponce, as a matter of fact. He could be lucky. His heart pounded hard, but in a different way now, he was very embarrassed, he just didn't want her to see him. Though he loved her. Madly. So madly in love with her. Her heels tapped in the hallway. His quivering increased. He wished he could just sink through the floor. Disappear. Anywhere. She didn’t turn to the left, she turned right, surprisingly enough, morti-fyingly enough, and headed toward him. There wasn’t any way in the world now he could avoid her—unless he took a fast dive into that lavatory, lightning fast, no less. Like ihe quarterback would have to dive on that new “I” play—

“Why, Ponce! Hello!” He heard her fabulous voice, and he halted, not that he had ever started, and nearly fell over, wishing suddenly and powerfully that he could fall into her arms, marvelously, and be swallowed up by her, completely. She approached him.

“Ponce, how are you?” She said to him, coming up to him, a fragrance like roses hitting him, all the roses in all the rose gardens of the world, plus lilacs, at least. “Oh, Ponce, you sweet kid, honestly—” She said to him, near him, in fact before him, as he stood there, paralyzed, yet throbbing. Where was his voice? He fought for it.

“H-h-H-H-Hello, Miss S-S-Smith,” He said, at last.

“What a terrible thing, oh you poor kid, I’ve been so worried about you—” She said.

“I’m—I-I-I-I’m—oooo—O.K.—Miss—Smith,” he told her.

“Are you sure? Are you alright? Oh, how awful! They sent you home, didn’t they? Did you come back? Are you alright?”

“I-I-I—think—” He faltered.

She examined him, she laid a royal hand on him.

“You poor kid,” She said, softly, passing her hand fantastically tenderly over his face, leaving roses on it, as he staggered, “Oh you poor kid, you dear kid, what a terrible thing, you poor kid, my heart goes out to you,” She murmured, looking at him.

“G-G-G Going—H-H-H-Home—Miss—S-S-S-Smith—?” He managed.

“I was just leaving, yes,” she answered, “What about you, Ponce? What are you doing here? May I ask?” She added, so softly. What held him up?

Ponce stammered, “Talking—with Tiger—Mr. McDrew—” He said.

“Mr. McDrew?” She asked him, “Is he still here, Ponce?” She also asked him, “I’m sure he helped you, he’s a wonderful person, isn’t he?”

“S-S-S-S—He—sure is—Miss—Smith—”

She kept her warm eyes on him, he was aware only of them. Where was the rest of the world? “Feel better?” She asked.

“Sure do—M-M-M-Miss—Smith,” he told her.

“I’m glad you do. That was a terrible shock, wasu’t it? It’s going to take quite some time for you really to get over it. You don’t know how I’ve been thinking of you,” she said, tenderly.

“R-R-R-Really, Miss Smith?”

“Yes. That’s so.”

“I—” he said, “I-I-I’ve been thinking—a 1-1-lot about you —too—M-M-M-M-Miss Smith—” He halted.

She smiled at him. That beautiful mouth, those lips, those perfect teeth—smiling at him.

“I’m glad, Ponce,” she said.

He stood there. Never again would he move from there. How could he? One day, he would nail a plaque here, when someone finally hauled him away from here. He still felt her magnificently marvelous hand on him, and would, forever, though she had taken it away, of course. He was enveloped by the warmth of her, as they stood there.

“Well—” she murmured, finally, “I’ve got to be running along now, Ponce—” she said.

“O-K-K-K-K—Miss Smith—” He managed.

“Are you going home now?” She inquired.

“Y-Y-Yes—Miss Smith.”

“Well, take care, won’t you, Ponce?” She said.

“You—Y-Y-You—too—I mean—I-I-I will—Miss S-Smith—”

She still stood there, looking at him. He watched with astonished eyes as her hand reached out again for him, and touched him. He closed his eyes.

“You poor kid,” she murmured.

“I'll be—alright—” His voice said.

He opened his eyes.

“Are you reading?” She asked.

“Always—M-M-Miss—Smith—” He said.

“How do you like Paradise Lost?"

“Great—” He said.

“I’d like you to write a theme on it—•”

“For when—M-M-M-Miss Smith?”

“Oh—say next week—alrighty?”

“All—right—у—” He said.

“Are you coming to school tomorrow?”

“I—think so.”

“Well, fine. I hope you do,” she said, “And if you want to talk with me about the theme, don’t be shy, Ponce—please do so.” She paused, tenderly, surveying him, “Do you want to come over to my place to do so?” She asked. “You know where I live, don’t you?” She said. “In fact, Ponce, I would like to talk with you about it.” She stopped.

Ponce stood there.

He felt a tremendous roar, he was blasted off, no doubt of it, he was outside the building now, high above it, soaring. Where was he soaring? He tried to see, he had to—

"Really?" He said, hearing a strange noise, his own voice, no less.

“Yes, really,” she said, as he soared and soared, heading far into space.

“W-W-W-When?” He said, or thought that he said.

“When would you like to?” She said.

“T-T-Tonight?” He said.

“Yes, alright,” she said.

“T-T-There’s no-no Practice—It w-w-w-would be f-fine,”

He said.

“That’s fine,” she said.

“I’ll s-s-see," He said, “I’ll t-t-try hard to m-make it,” He

said.

“Alright then. I understand. Come about seven or so, if you can.”

Tiger nodded.

“I couldn't agree more.”

Miss Smith pulled on her cigarette, held the smoke a long while, then blew it out, finally, slowly. She touched her hair. Who had such gorgeous hair? Tiger stared at it

“No practice tonight?” She asked.

“Canceled.”

“Is Saturday’s game canceled?”

“We’re working on it. We’ll know for sure tomorrow. I think it will be,” he answered.

Silence. Their eyes met. And held.

Now, “How’s Hilda?” She asked, softly.

She meant his wife, Looby Loo, of course. He shrugged, looked to the left a moment, the right, then back at her.

“Same as ever,” he told her.

“Poor old Tiger,” she said, placing her smooth, white hand on the desk, near him. He looked at it.

“What does it matter?” He told her, placing his hand on hers, “You make up for it,” he told her, "You honey—”

“Do I?” She queried.

“And how you do,” He told her, moving his hand over her wrist now, and upward, inside her arm, traveling, slowly, "But do you"

“I’m glad I do—”

“You do, you know it—”

"Poor Tiger—”

“Lock the door. Want to?” He murmured.

“Of course I want to,” She murmured.

“O.K.,” he told her, caressing her arm, his fingers lingering inside her elbow, stroking gently there, it was so warm.

“O.K.,” she whispered, blowing him a little kiss, and some smoke also, and he loved both. She rose and walked to the door. She set the lock. He was observing her. That gorgeous form. What a form. Who else had such a warm form?

She turned, faced him, walked to him. She put out the cigarette.

She sat on the desk, near him. She looked at him.

“How did you ever marry her?” She murmured to him.

“Don’t ask me. God, don’t ever ask me—O.K.? Honey?”

She leaned toward him, she placed her arms around his neck.

date of the postmark, which fortunately was legible, and concluded that the fellow could most probably be eliminated, unless he had hopped a couple of supersonic jets. And worked fast, at that. Not that Surcher seriously considered this. It just didn’t look like the work of a French Moroccan to him. No, he mused. He just couldn’t consider this. Though such was the nature of the blank wall he was up against that he was ready to consider anything. He thought back now to his interviews with Jill’s closest friends today. None had helped him much in any way. Sandra Seymour cried just about the whole interview, and though Alice Patmore had certainly tried very hard to be of help, she just had nothing much to tell. Jill had simply been too much of a healthy, wholesome, yes, All-American girl. Surcher shook his head, slowly, thinking now about the abusive phone calls he had received during the day from certain quarters. He was used to such calls, of course, for they cropped up during any investigation. He thought of the one he had taken just a half hour or so ago, here in his own home. The caller had identified himself as “an active member” of the John Birch Society. He had thereupon launched upon a vituperative assault on the lack of police activity in the matter, with special reference to their apparent failure to focus their inquiries on the most obvious immediate suspects, to wit, the “black boys” in the school. Surcher wasted no time talking to the man, of course, but before hanging up he was presented to boot with a sermon on the inherent stupidity and evil of even this kind of token “mixing of the races,” a mixing which was “against all nature,” according to his caller. Surcher was polite to him, however. He said “Thank you for calling,” before hanging up. He knew that was the way to handle such crackpots. Polite, but firm, and ignore them. It was the only way. If you handled them like they really should be handled, that is, a swift kick in the rump, they would only keep phoning, and phoning, and organize all their friends too—to do so. Surcher sighed, musing poignantly, as he often did, over the trials besetting even the most honest and dedicated policemen, in this day and age. Perhaps any age. As if the immediate task, and problem, weren’t enough. He certainly was grateful though for the excellent caliber of help he was getting from the authorities up at the

“I haven’t.”

“Sit down. Want to?”

“I think I will. Yes. I will. If you’re not too busy—”

“Take your coat off,” he said, “In a hurry? It’s warm in here—”

“O.K.—I will,” she said.

Tiger got up from his chair and moved toward Saw-yersville High’s outstanding Literature teacher. She smiled at him. He stood behind her and helped her slip out of her coat. Her unique, fresh fragrance came to him, already, in fact, it was starting to fill the office. He loved it. As the coat slipped away from her, he saw her marvelous profile, all the way down. She had on one of her sweaters. He stood there a moment, looking at her. He put the coat on the coatrack, beside his own. Then he returned to his chair behind the desk. She took a chair near the desk. She sighed. She opened her bag.

“Cigarette?” She said, pulling out a fresh pack.

“Don’t mind ii I do,” Tiger said, grinning, and reaching for one.

“You don’t inhale much, do you?” She said, lighting them up.

“I try not to,” Tiger said.

“Of course that takes all the fun out of it,” Miss Smith said, with another soft laugh.

“True, true,” Tiger said, “But what can you do?”

“You want to live too long, Mr. Tiger McDrew, that’s your trouble, I think—”

Tiger shook his head, slowly, “Oh man, man, have I got troubles—”

“Haven’t we all—” Miss Smith told him, taking a long drag on her cigarette, “Ummmm—so good—”

“So—what’s new?” Tiger asked, admiring the view, “You’re working overtime tonight, my bonnie lass, aren’t you?”

Miss Smith blew out a long cloud of smoke, slowly. Tiger caught it as it came drifting by him. He loved it. It smelled good, doubly good, having been inside her.

“I could say the same for you—Mr. McDrew—"

“And—in view of the circumstances—my lass—”

“God! The circumstances! Tiger, did you ever think we had a lunatic loose in the school?”

“O.K.”

“Sure you know where I live?”

“Elmwood Avenue—”

“That’s right.”

“O.K.”

She smiled again. Her hand left him.

“Don’t forget now,” she said.

“I won’t—Miss Smith—”

She stood there a moment looking at him. He was there, but a few million light years away, also.

“Alright, Ponce,” she said.

“Bye, Miss Smith—•”

“See you later—” she said.

“O.k!, Miss Smith—”

She walked away, down the hallway, her heels tapping away. Ponce, trembling violently now, watched her.

She disappeared down the hallway.

19

Somehow, Ponce left the building, soon after, but the English Literature teacher didn’t. She got as far as the Guidance/Counseling office, stopped, touched her hair, and tapped gently on the door, twice. She waited a moment, then entered. She closed the door behind her. She looked around the office, she looked at the desk, she looked at the chair behind the desk—she looked at Tiger.

“Hi,” She said, feeling a distinct, warm flush.

“Well Hi,” he said, lifting his head from a mass of papers, “You look great,” He said, “You are the greatest,” He said, “know it?”

She laughed softly, moving deeper into the room.

“That’s what you tell them all,” she said.

“Don’t I,” he chuckled.

She approached the desk. He grinned now, sitting back in his chair, surveying her.

“What a day, what a day,” he said.

“Wasn’t it!"

“Ever been through such a day?” school. He was particularly impressed with that Assistant Principal, Mr. Mike McDrew, who of course was known throughout the entire State for his football-coaching activities, his amazing teams. The Principal himself, Mr. Proffer, wasn’t anywhere near as impressive, but at least he didn’t create any problems, and certainly cooperated, in every way. Surcher felt sorry for him. He certainly had a mess and a half on his hands. Imagine some of the phone calls he would be getting tonight—from parents, mainly. Surcher sighed again, and opened a letter. It was from a magazine.

Dear Jill,

Thanks a lot for telling me about the plans for the Carverton game. It was awfully nice of you. I want to do the nicest article on you and your Cheerleaders for the next issue, as you know, and so I’ll certainly be there to meet you. It will be a tremendously popular article, I’m sure, for there is great interest, as I’m sure you know, in the extraordinary football teams of Sawyersville High School, and naturally, in the wonderful Cheerleading squad that so loyally and effectively supports them. I’m going to be bringing along a really first-rate photographer to take a lot of shots of you and the rest of the girls, in action. They will make a wonderful splash beside the article. The Editor has already told me I can have at least four pages. And I’m telling you now!

Looking forward to seeing you,

Janet Lance (Features Writer)

Surcher sadly laid that one aside. How many similar ones would he have to read through? He tried another one. His eyes were getting a little blurry and tired now, for it was his forty-fifth one, at least, some of them ten pages long, no less.

—Honey—

It began.

Surcher sprang to attention.

—You honey you, let me tell you, I’m true blue,

“Honey—” she whispered, “Oh you honey—” she also whispered.

His hands touched her waist, he pushed his chair back and brought her in one deft movement onto his lap. She gave a little sigh, and made a cooing sound. He moved his hands up toward her breasts, he stroked them, gently, he fondled them, through that soft sweater. He loved them.

“Darling—” She said, “Tiger—” She said, searching for his mouth with her open lips, her eyes closing.

“Don’t ever talk about her,” he murmured, kissing her, “Will you—”

They kissed a long time, she sighed, she murmured and moaned, softly, she caressed his neck, his face, she held close to him.

She felt his arms about her, now one of his hands was straying under her sweater, her blouse, and upward. She felt his hand on her breasts, her brief bra pulled away from them. He fondled them, marvelously, stroking their firm tips. . . .

She came up for air, finally. “Let me help you,” she murmured to him, “Will you let me” she told him. . . .

He murmured, “I want you to—”

20

At home in his little den, Captain Surcher was having a very interesting, though so far unfruitful, time with the late head Cheerleader’s ample package of letters. She certainly was an avid correspondent, if the letters she had received were anything to go by. They came from points far and wide, including Morocco, no less. There was actually a letter from some individual in Morocco, yes. And how had she ever met him? A pen pal? Purely? Out of her early girlhood? Surcher felt a fond surge, thinking of his own twelve-year-old, who had pen pals, gleaned out of

some kid’s magazine or other, all over the globe. This

particular letter was in French, actually, and in an almost indecipherable hand, to boot, and so of course meant

absolutely nothing to him. Or next to. He looked at the

“Psychopath, Miss Smith. That would be the correct appellation.”

“Well, whatever. I’m glad those State Policemen are all around the building anyway. I never thought I’d be one to be grateful for their presence! Let me tell you."

“There you are—” Tiger said, “A place for everyone, in life—Didn’t Plato say that?”

“Sounds more like the Founding Fathers—” Betty Smith said, with her soft laugh.

“Any particular one?” Tiger asked.

“I wonder—”

“Those Founding Fathers—” Tiger murmured, chuckling also.

Betty Smith crossed her legs. Tiger noticed. She pulled again on her cigarette. Tiger noted. The sweater was a pale, pale blue. Gorgeous. Without a doubt, a gorgeous one. He couldn’t help admiring it. He dragged on his cigarette, inhaling almost.

“How are you?” Tiger asked, in his friendly way.

“Very, very upset about this whole thing,” she confided.

Tiger nodded, “And so am I. Believe me. It’s a hell of a thing. What a thing.” He was gazing at her. “A real piperoo of a thing, a hell of a screwy thing, if ever there was one,” he added, quietly. “How was she in Lit?” He asked her.

“Well—” Miss Smith replied, “I couldn’t honestly say she was outstanding—however, she certainly took an interest in it—”

Tiger nodded, “She was very good in Languages, and Social Studies, that I know,” He told her, still looking at her, “I’m going to miss that kid. No kidding.”

“Her poor parents!”

“What a thing.”

“I’m impressed with this State Police Captain—what’s his name?”

“Surcher—”

“I’m certainly glad he’s handling it. I was afraid our— esteemed Chief of Police—”

Tiger nodded, grinning.

Miss Smith continued, “It’s an awful feeling, Tiger, in front of a class now—wondering if this—psychopath—is sitting there, in front of you, laughing at you, inside himself. It's not going to be the same around here for a long while—certainly, not until they’ve found the creature—”

and I’m sold on you. How about it? Coming through soon? When? You peachy honey. You’re the top of the charts! All the charts! You know it. What’s up? Hup? You don’t like my color? See you in class, lass. So long for now—honey. . . .

—Kid

Surcher was riveted. His head was spinning. His eyes came to life again, he could see perfectly. Could it be true? He poured over the letter again, ecstatically, almost Was it really true? It was one of those rare, rare occasions which set his heart pounding, his temperature rising. Pure Gold. Discovery.

“Ding dong!” he said out loud, clapping the desk with his hand. “Diggidy dong!” He also said, slightly rephrasing it

So long . . . Honey . . .

His eyes nearly burned a hole through it. He didn’t know quite what to do with it. He had of course been very careful handling all the letters, tfot wishing of course to smudge up or otherwise mess up any and all possible fingerprints. In fact he wore gloves. A thin, white pair, specially made for the job. Now he handled the letter as if it were the world’s most fragile, priceless piece of glassware. He hardly dared breathe on it.

“Son of a pup,” he murmured, two or three times aloud, from a high, billowing cloud.

Now, the next move. What a move. Who best to get hold of? Who, up there at that school, would help him most? Who had the best, the most intimate knowledge of all the kids in the school? It might be a good idea to get hold of the three young maids he had interrogated, so to speak, earlier today, they might well be able to illuminate things, right away, or—McDrewJ That sharp fellow would probably be his best bet. On the other hand, Surcher’s mind clicked, why not just interrogate the twelve or thirteen Negro kids in the school? And tell nobody a thing! That might just be the way. Certainly, Kid was among them— unless he came from another school. And if he was among them—

That was the course the Captain decided on. It was, in his studied view, far and away the best. Now he had two choices before him on how to go about this. (1) Have all the Negro kids picked up tonight and start working on them, or, (2) Hold everything until tomorrow morning, when he arrived bright and early at the school. His first impulse leaned toward alternative (1), but on reflection, in spite of the risks, the circumstances, he considered (2) would be the best way to tackle the problem. Certainly it would mean he would be getting very little sleep tonight, itching as he was for action, and worried about the culprit taking off or even pulling a carbon copy. For he was capable of it. Surcher was quite convinced the criminal, however young he might be, was certainly capable of it. Nevertheless, he decided on that course, he would just have to risk it. And he hoped to God he wouldn’t regret it—later.

He still held the letter, very carefully, one might say exquisitely, in his gloved fingers. He read it over and over again, six times at least, and finally put it down all on its own, on his desk, so very carefully. He would carry out tests for prints himself—later.

Meantime, there were still some half dozen letters to investigate, and though he didn’t have much heart for them, Surcher knew he had a duty to them, and he got to them, however reluctantly. He knew, or was almost sure, it would be all anticlimax now.

The first one was from a girl friend, obviously. He noted the feminine paper and handwriting, the slight trace of fragrance, perfume, powder, or similar item. It came from New Jersey.

—Jill Honey—

Surcher halted, jogged by it! Then he smiled. He had after all run across this sort of opening on a few other letters, mostly from girl friends or female relations, far and near. All perfectly innocent, innocuous, to a fault, in fact. He kept on smiling, and read on:

—And how’s everything with you, lovely? Still cheering on that fab, that mad, Sawyersville club? Are they a club! Listen, hon, next time you come over to see me, next summer will it be, I want you to tell me all about them. I mean: How do they do it? (Oh, I know you’ll be graduated by then!) Is it Tiger? (Don’t tell, but I go for that throbber!) (Oh Harbor!) Seriously, though, what fun is it to be Captain of the Cheer Leaders at a school like mine? Oh Gee! Do you know how many times, no, how many games (pardon me) we’ve won in the past two years? I won’t tell you! Listen, nobody goes to the games anymore. Know that? It’s heartbreaking! I tell you! What’s the news? Any news? How’s the love life? (You’ll make a fine wife!) I’m a poet! Listen, Jilly, who was your favorite, really, at Asbury? I mean, every time I saw you on the beach I wondered who it would be—today, that is. That day, I mean. See what I mean? (English was never my strong point!) Did I tell you I just about made the grade? I prayed. Old man Bane. Oh what a pain! Ha Ha! Am 1 funny? Be a bunny: I’m on the hop —blame me? And which was your favorite group? I mean the dances on the jetty, the dance hall there, that is! I mean that one. Well, I liked The Giggles. Oh, they were great! Great! I thought honestly I would find them all kid stuff, but I was in the mood, and the rhythm is just terrific anyway—isn’t it? And . . .

Surcher halted there, observing there were ten more pages of this. He wasn’t a martyr, after all. He felt he could in all fairness and without any prejudice or damage whatsoever to his cause—his reputation, his profession, skip the rest. And he did. He just turned to the last page, which was written in a sloping, cockeyed, downhill and uphill manner, as if the writer had just had a fix, or was profoundly sleepy, at least, and the signature, illegible, alas. Though, hazarding a rough guess, Surcher mentally wrote down: "Ribby."

And on to the next one:

My Dear Jill,

I’m so glad you were accepted. I think this is a piece of news all of us can’t help but be very, very happy about. I know you will be very happy here, and of course we shall be only too glad to see you.. . .

Surcher skipped the rest, four pages of it, though he made a mental note to possibly inquire just what it was about, this acceptance. It was signed, "Martha" Simply.

Taking a deep breath, thinking of Dolly, his wife, wondering if she had yet gone to bed, he went on to the next

And the next.

His eyes starting to burn again, he gazed at the heap of

letters beside him. He turned, he looked at the single,

solitary, glittering scrap of a letter on the corner of his

desk—

He blew a kiss at it.