“Okay,” said Carmine cheerfully, “let’s go through it again, Doctor.”
That surprised Dr. Jim; clearly he had expected to tell his story and then be dismissed. Now he stared.
“Must we?”
“Oh, I think so. You haven’t mentioned John Hall and I need to know all about your previous contacts with him.”
“John?” Dr. Jim seemed astonished at this new line of questioning. “He was a friend. A true friend. We met when we enrolled in the Master’s program in biochemistry at Caltech, and I guess — no, I’m sure — he made the running. Introduced himself to Millie and me. Normally Millie and I don’t pal up with others, but somehow John got under our guard. Millie thought it was because he didn’t have any feelings about mixed marriages — black with white. He genuinely seemed to see why I loved Millie, and why Millie loved me. He was a loner, a real loner. It was a while before we realized that he had more money than he could spend — he never pushed it at us, or insulted our pride by offering to pay. I mean, we used to sit on the public beach and count our nickels and dimes to see if we had enough for a cheap boardwalk lunch, and he’d produce the same number of coins we did. He was in forestry, but his adopted father, Wendover Hall, wanted him to know all about wood biochemistry, and since it’s not a curriculum item, he did the same work we did — just advanced biochemistry. Millie, who’s a great teacher, used to translate it for him in ways he could use.” Hunter shrugged. “And that’s it, Captain. We were just — friends.”
“Equally? You and Millie, I mean, with John?” Buzz asked.
A question Dr. Jim considered carefully; he was now fully aware of the police purposes, and probably, thought Carmine, twenty paces ahead of them. He was very clever.
“No, I guess I was more committed to John than Millie was, but there was one big reason for that.” He drew an audible breath. “I wasn’t well. Over the eight years I spent in Holloman and New York City, I must have had dozens and dozens of fights. If the fight was one against one I stood in no danger — I could even hold my own two against — but my opponents weren’t honorable. I’d get jumped by up to six guys and get the shit kicked out of me. Then I’d get myself home and have to deal with Millie — crying, in despair, wanting to give up and give in — it was very hard, Captain. By the time we went to California I was moving into an age group that exacted punishment in other ways than force, so the fights ceased. Mind you, even grossly outnumbered I left a few marks on them.”
“Where was the worst damage?” Carmine asked.
“God knows what bled inside my chest and belly, but they seemed to heal, and I don’t have symptoms that suggest anyone did permanent damage. Worst was my face — the sinuses. I couldn’t breathe through my nose any more, and I used to get attacks of face pain that dropped me like a poleaxed steer — I was a mess. At the beginning of our first summer break — June of 1959— John tricked me into seeing some wizard sinus surgeon who begged to repair my sinuses for nothing — he said it was the most fantastic challenge, one he couldn’t let go. But I had a job fixed up, and I knew Millie and I wouldn’t manage unless I worked it.”
He stopped; Carmine and Buzz sat in silence, unwilling to prompt or push. When he had the next chapter assembled and sorted in his head, he’d go on.
“That’s when John confessed about having literal millions from Wendover Hall. And he begged me even harder than the surgeon to have the operation. If I wouldn’t take the money as a gift, he said, take it as a loan. One day, when I was a full chair professor, I could pay him back. I crumbled when Millie joined him in the begging, and I confess that the attacks of nerve pain were horrific. The surgeon said once he levered all the broken bones off the nerve channels, the pain would disappear. Also the threat of cerebral abscess. All up, between the operation, a week in the hospital and a summer spent recovering, I borrowed ten thousand dollars from John Hall. It weighs on me, so you have no idea how glad I was to think that at last I could pay him back. And then he died. That was not fair! Just not fair!”
Emily Tunbull walked down the short section of road between her house and Davina’s, quietly boiling. How was it that a twenty-four-year-old floozie from God knew where had danced off with Max’s house, business and fortune right under her nose? But who could have guessed it when the skinny bitch had appeared at Tunbull Printing with a portfolio of her work, fluttering her false lashes at Max as she explained that she had just opened this art design studio on the Boston Post Road, and would he be interested in putting a little work her way? And Max, stupid old goat, had whinnied, pawed the ground and deluded himself that he was not an old goat: he was a stallion in his prime.