David Morrell by Desperate Measures

Author:Desperate Measures [Txt] [Measures, Desperate]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

“The spring of ‘33,” Jill said-. “How on earth did you do that so fast?”

“I’ve always been good with numbers. All my money, you know,” Jill said, joking to break the tension. “Of course, Millgate might have graduated when he was seventeen.”

“And the other grand counselors aren’t all Millgate’s age. Let’s try a few years in each direction-1929 to 1936.”

“Fine with me,” Jill said. “I’ll take up to ‘32. You take the rest.”

“There’s a table over here.”

Sitting opposite each other, they stacked the yearbooks and began to read.

“At least the students are presented in alphabetical order. That’ll save time,” Jill said. Pittman turned a “We know that Millgate, Eustace Gable, and Anthony Lloyd went to school here. The other grand counselors are Winston Sloane and Victor Standish. But we also have to look for someone else.”

“Who?”

“Duncan. The way Millgate said the name … It had the same intensity as when he said ‘Grollier.’ I have to believe the two are connected. The trouble is, Duncan can be a first name as well as a last.”

“Which means we’ll have to check every student’s name in all these books.” Jill frowned toward the stack. “How large a student body did Professor Folsom say Grollier had?

Three hundred at one time? We’ve got a lot of names to read.”

They turned pages intently.

“Dead,” Pittman murmured.

Jill looked at him, puzzled.

“Old photographs always give me a chill,” he said.

“I know what you mean. Most of these students are dead by now. But here they are, in their prime.” Pittman thought of how he coveted every photograph of his dead son. His mouth felt dry.

“Eustace Gable,” Jill said. “Found him. Nineteen twenty nine. A freshman.”

“Yes, I found him as a senior in 1933. Here’s Anthony Lloyd. Nineteen thirty-three. A senior,” Pittman said.

“I’ve got him as a freshman in ‘29. And here’s Millgate.

“But that doesn’t do us any good. We already knew they went to school here. “

“Hey,” Jill said. “Got another one.”

“Who?”

“Winston Sloane. A freshman. Nineteen twenty-nine.

“So I was right. He did go to school here, but the son of a bitch didn’t include that in biographical facts he gave to researchers. He wanted it off the record.”

“Got another one,” Jill said excitedly. “Victor Standish.

“Every damned one of them.”

“We don’t need the other books,” Jill said. “The names are repeated from year to year. They entered in ‘29 and graduated in ‘33.”

“But what about Duncan? I didn’t come across even one student with a first or last name of Duncan. What was Millgate trying to tell me. What’s the connection between … ?”

A shadow loomed beyond the door’s opaque glass window. Although Pittman wasn’t looking in that direction, he sensed the brooding presence and turned just as the door came open. The stranger who entered took long, forceful steps. He wore the gray slacks, navy blazer, and red striped tie that were Grollier’s uniform. He was tall, rigidly straight, in his fifties, with a pointed jaw, a slender patrician nose, and an imperious gaze.

“Would you mind telling me what you’re doing?”

Pittman stood.

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