Confidential, to Asst. Dean Cutter: FYEO !
Posted: May 4th, 2008, 12:11 pm
[Reading this means that I found that Carpenter lad (you know, skinny boy, glee club, sings that chimp song?), and that he actually found you with this note - I was heading over to the bicycle-courier campus office with this, but with Proctor Duryea and those fed snoops all over everywhere this afternoon, well, I figured I couldn't be too careful . . ]
Lynn, I think I've gotten most of this all figured out -
That little creep Duryea has been making a pest of himself ever since Pr. Heston's funeral . . sneakin' around, trying to cozy up to Jenksie & Bob Armstrong down in the Motor Pool, runnin' chocolates & flowers up to Eve & Thelma at the Administration office, just so he can snoop around and eavesdrop on calls . . and all the time tryin' to dream up new excuses to review personnel files up in Security, usually when Bill Hopper is out on patrol . .
And all the while, Bill & Vic McLaglen & I have been getting together nightly at the Pig & Whistle, trying to make sense between ourselves over Chuck Heston's passing . . 'cause it never added-up that he could really have demolished that old Indian motorbike like that; he'd driven Deadman's Curve plenty of times, in all sorts of weather, and Vic himself called Chuck one of the best dam' hogriders he'd ever partnered with, and he should know; and Bill opined more than once that he felt the whole "closed coffin" thing was suspect, and the way the family attorney hadn't allowed Pr. Price to be the lead mortician, as has always been CCC tradition, and how his old buddy Bob Mitchum had never turned up for the funeral, or the Campus memorial service, or the faculty Fellowship afterward . .
Anyway just 2 hours ago I got a call from old Pop Spooner down at the malt shop, that Prof MacMurray was down there on one of his caffeine binges and talkin' up some pretty strange stuff . . so I tried callin' Bill over at Security, worried that this might have to do with the whole Faylen-Flubber caper from last year . . and Bill's gal Friday, Sue-Sue, answers, and whispers to me that the whole floor is crawlin' with G-Men, and that they're seizing everything, and grilling Bill on 4 or 5 different topics . . and the line goes dead!
So I beat feet over to Spooner's myself, and there's old Fred all jumpy and jerky, rattlin' on about all his discoveries, and inventions, his Uncle Bub & his Uncle Charlie, and I do my best to calm him down, and get him switched over to water, and cool-rag his forehead, and then I start pumping him about what's going on, and I find out that it all started just after lunch, when a certain Proctor Duryea waylaid MacMurry behind the band recital stage - with a big thermos of double-strength espresso!
What a little weasel!
Anyway, I did my best then to pry loose from the Prof what it was that Duryea wanted from him; condensed version: Duryea wanted to know all about MacMurray's trip out to Utah last year, and those rumors about speed-tests on experimental cars, and why one of the Motor Pool mechanics hadn't come back East with him afterward, and why was Pr. Ankrum vacationing with several Pentagon acquaintances in Utah at the same time . . I was flabbergasted, Lynn; there was no telling what-all the Prof had blabbed - I asked him what he thought had made Duryea so suspicious about those matters, and get this- he says: "Well, I guess I might have mentioned those things in the scientific papers I published this Spring in various scientific journals . . . "
And then I remembered what a steadfast rival of MacMurray's that Pr. Lorre is, and how he often plays golf with Proctor Duryea . . and then the lights started going on! So on a hunch, I asked Fred if there was anything he hadn't told devilish Dan while on his mad caffeine jag, and he thought a bit, and then said: "Well, matter of fact, I said nothing about those German scientists who called from Lima, and wanted to invite me down to Peru for a private symposium at their special foundation for advanced physics; all expenses paid, and I'm supposed to leave . . oh, just next week . . but they said to keep the whole matter a secret!"
"And did you keep it completely secret?" I asked him.
"Well . . mostly; it was just troubling me, because, it sounded, well, sort of political; so, I turned for advice to the only one I thought could really figure it out . ."
But I was ahead of him now: "And that was Pr. Heston."
"Yes", MacMurray admitted; "and he said he had a special friend who would keep our secret, but help him look into it;" he started sobbing hysterically then and sputtered out: "but now he's dead!"
So at this point, looking out the window & noticing more & more black government sedans pulling-up to more & more Campus buildings, I gave Pop Spooner a couple twenties, told him to lock-up for the day & walk the Prof over to the faculty lounge at the Music & Arts Compound.
Five minutes later, I was strolling into the Pig & Whistle, when Lucius beckons me up to the bar and slips me an envelope.
"I got this today, see, and inside it says to relay the photo & note to Bill over at Security, but I understand he's a little tied up this afternoon, right? So I figgered you're the next eligible receiver!"
Lynn, I nearly passed out: the contents were a big, fresh, tourist-type b&w photo, medium close-up, glossy, you know, with the pinked edges? It clearly shows Bob Mitchum, wearing a ridiculous straw hat, standing on the beach, holding up a newspaper, his arm around his companion, none other than our own Pr. C. Heston, sporting oversized sunglasses and displaying a still-hooked tarpon. Borrowing Lucius' reading glasses from behind the bar, I magnified the paper in the photo: an English edition of the Mazatlan Mirror, dated 4 days ago - then I turned the photo over already knowing what I'd find stamped there: compliments of Morro's Lodge.
Chuck's alive! At Morro's Lodge!
Morro's Lodge: where Bob & Vince Price used to like to go holidaying with that hot-pistol Russell gal . . Morro's is in Mexico, I mused . . same place we packed Frankie F. off to, after those speed trials . . I looked at the not-so-close man in the background, behind Bob & Chuck, gazing out to sea . . hmmm, that physique did seem somewhat familiar, and the hair was thinning . .
The enclosed note read: "Having great time - wish you were here! Headed south day after tomorrow - going hunting!"
South? How far south? Peru?
And hunting what - expatriate Nazis?!!
Lynn, the east end of the quad below my office window's filling up with Government types - I just saw one of them leading Pr. Ankrum away in handcuffs - and I can't raise Dean Finnie anywhere by phone, and now Bill's been completely sequestered!
What do we do??
Faithfully, but Perplexedly Yours,
Pr. Klondike
Lynn, I think I've gotten most of this all figured out -
That little creep Duryea has been making a pest of himself ever since Pr. Heston's funeral . . sneakin' around, trying to cozy up to Jenksie & Bob Armstrong down in the Motor Pool, runnin' chocolates & flowers up to Eve & Thelma at the Administration office, just so he can snoop around and eavesdrop on calls . . and all the time tryin' to dream up new excuses to review personnel files up in Security, usually when Bill Hopper is out on patrol . .
And all the while, Bill & Vic McLaglen & I have been getting together nightly at the Pig & Whistle, trying to make sense between ourselves over Chuck Heston's passing . . 'cause it never added-up that he could really have demolished that old Indian motorbike like that; he'd driven Deadman's Curve plenty of times, in all sorts of weather, and Vic himself called Chuck one of the best dam' hogriders he'd ever partnered with, and he should know; and Bill opined more than once that he felt the whole "closed coffin" thing was suspect, and the way the family attorney hadn't allowed Pr. Price to be the lead mortician, as has always been CCC tradition, and how his old buddy Bob Mitchum had never turned up for the funeral, or the Campus memorial service, or the faculty Fellowship afterward . .
Anyway just 2 hours ago I got a call from old Pop Spooner down at the malt shop, that Prof MacMurray was down there on one of his caffeine binges and talkin' up some pretty strange stuff . . so I tried callin' Bill over at Security, worried that this might have to do with the whole Faylen-Flubber caper from last year . . and Bill's gal Friday, Sue-Sue, answers, and whispers to me that the whole floor is crawlin' with G-Men, and that they're seizing everything, and grilling Bill on 4 or 5 different topics . . and the line goes dead!
So I beat feet over to Spooner's myself, and there's old Fred all jumpy and jerky, rattlin' on about all his discoveries, and inventions, his Uncle Bub & his Uncle Charlie, and I do my best to calm him down, and get him switched over to water, and cool-rag his forehead, and then I start pumping him about what's going on, and I find out that it all started just after lunch, when a certain Proctor Duryea waylaid MacMurry behind the band recital stage - with a big thermos of double-strength espresso!
What a little weasel!
Anyway, I did my best then to pry loose from the Prof what it was that Duryea wanted from him; condensed version: Duryea wanted to know all about MacMurray's trip out to Utah last year, and those rumors about speed-tests on experimental cars, and why one of the Motor Pool mechanics hadn't come back East with him afterward, and why was Pr. Ankrum vacationing with several Pentagon acquaintances in Utah at the same time . . I was flabbergasted, Lynn; there was no telling what-all the Prof had blabbed - I asked him what he thought had made Duryea so suspicious about those matters, and get this- he says: "Well, I guess I might have mentioned those things in the scientific papers I published this Spring in various scientific journals . . . "
And then I remembered what a steadfast rival of MacMurray's that Pr. Lorre is, and how he often plays golf with Proctor Duryea . . and then the lights started going on! So on a hunch, I asked Fred if there was anything he hadn't told devilish Dan while on his mad caffeine jag, and he thought a bit, and then said: "Well, matter of fact, I said nothing about those German scientists who called from Lima, and wanted to invite me down to Peru for a private symposium at their special foundation for advanced physics; all expenses paid, and I'm supposed to leave . . oh, just next week . . but they said to keep the whole matter a secret!"
"And did you keep it completely secret?" I asked him.
"Well . . mostly; it was just troubling me, because, it sounded, well, sort of political; so, I turned for advice to the only one I thought could really figure it out . ."
But I was ahead of him now: "And that was Pr. Heston."
"Yes", MacMurray admitted; "and he said he had a special friend who would keep our secret, but help him look into it;" he started sobbing hysterically then and sputtered out: "but now he's dead!"
So at this point, looking out the window & noticing more & more black government sedans pulling-up to more & more Campus buildings, I gave Pop Spooner a couple twenties, told him to lock-up for the day & walk the Prof over to the faculty lounge at the Music & Arts Compound.
Five minutes later, I was strolling into the Pig & Whistle, when Lucius beckons me up to the bar and slips me an envelope.
"I got this today, see, and inside it says to relay the photo & note to Bill over at Security, but I understand he's a little tied up this afternoon, right? So I figgered you're the next eligible receiver!"
Lynn, I nearly passed out: the contents were a big, fresh, tourist-type b&w photo, medium close-up, glossy, you know, with the pinked edges? It clearly shows Bob Mitchum, wearing a ridiculous straw hat, standing on the beach, holding up a newspaper, his arm around his companion, none other than our own Pr. C. Heston, sporting oversized sunglasses and displaying a still-hooked tarpon. Borrowing Lucius' reading glasses from behind the bar, I magnified the paper in the photo: an English edition of the Mazatlan Mirror, dated 4 days ago - then I turned the photo over already knowing what I'd find stamped there: compliments of Morro's Lodge.
Chuck's alive! At Morro's Lodge!
Morro's Lodge: where Bob & Vince Price used to like to go holidaying with that hot-pistol Russell gal . . Morro's is in Mexico, I mused . . same place we packed Frankie F. off to, after those speed trials . . I looked at the not-so-close man in the background, behind Bob & Chuck, gazing out to sea . . hmmm, that physique did seem somewhat familiar, and the hair was thinning . .
The enclosed note read: "Having great time - wish you were here! Headed south day after tomorrow - going hunting!"
South? How far south? Peru?
And hunting what - expatriate Nazis?!!
Lynn, the east end of the quad below my office window's filling up with Government types - I just saw one of them leading Pr. Ankrum away in handcuffs - and I can't raise Dean Finnie anywhere by phone, and now Bill's been completely sequestered!
What do we do??
Faithfully, but Perplexedly Yours,
Pr. Klondike