The Widening Stain Read online

  “Mrs. Darrow was so genteel! She used to ask the faculty to sit-down supper in groups of twelve during the winter. She asked them alphabetically, so as to break up cliques. Of course the faculty is a lot larger now. But the President gets an allowance for entertaining, you know. My husband always reads it to me out of the Treasurer’s Report.”

  “I can’t figure out how the President spends his entertainment allowance,” broke in Mrs. Churchill. “I don’t mean to suggest there’s anything fishy at all, but I doubt if Mrs. T. is a very good manager. Now this kakemono here that they brought back from the Orient. I know something about silk, and I can tell just by feeling it that it isn’t very good silk. But I’ll bet you they paid a-plenty for it.”

  “I see people are going into the dining-room,” said Miss Churchill.

  “In President Darrow’s time,” said old Mrs. Eadie, “the dining-room was all paneled in solid mahogany. All ripped out now. To my way of thinking, that tinted wall looks downright cheap.”

  The party moved toward the dining-room.

  “Sandwiches, cakes, ice-cream, and coffee,” said Mrs. Anderson. “They look like Feltman and Gass’s cakes.”

  “They have cigars in the Blue Room,” reported Dr. Churchill, joining the group. “Just ten-centers.”

  The party mulled from room to room, testing, fingering, criticizing. Shirt-bosoms crackled, and bare bosoms itched under ticklish metals and semi-precious stones. The noise was deafening; the most intimate remarks were yelled across a two-foot gap, yet somehow they could not be heard a foot beyond the listener. It had become extremely hot.

  “Might as well have a reception in the engine room of an ocean liner,” shouted Professor Hyett to Dr. Churchill.

  “What?”

  “Might as well have a reception in the engine room of an ocean liner.”

  “What for?”

  “I mean, it’s so hot and noisy there.”

  “Well, it’s hot and noisy here too,” said Dr. Churchill, scornfully.

  Professor Hyett looked away in disgust. Delightedly he perceived Mademoiselle Coindreau. She was wearing an evening gown of shimmering black, cut low, contrasting with the shimmering white of her bosom. Her high, full breasts stood up, clearly outlined in silk. There were Minoan statuettes of women wearing just such a costume, thought Professor Hyett. Curious how, in fondling them, one could feel a thrill of desire for a woman dead four thousand years! How brief and poor a thing is life in comparison with art!

  “My dear mademoiselle!” he cried. “How beautiful you look this evening! And such an inspiring occasion! So, shall I say, uplifting! Do you, too, feel uplifted? If I may judge by a casual scrutiny of the advertising pages, uplift is the watchword of modern womanhood. And are you, too, a partisan of uplift?”

  Professor Belknap, standing beside Hyett, turned away, his face hot. He would not listen to this smutty old man, embarrassing and shaming poor Mademoiselle Coindreau. But Mademoiselle Coindreau was bearing up well, hiding her shame under a smile. Professor Belknap surreptitiously reached under his vest and gave his shirt a smart pull downwards.

  Dr. Sandys interrupted Professor Hyett in mid-persiflage. “How-de-do, Mademoiselle Coindreau? How-de-do, Hyett? Warm in here, isn’t it? Oh, by the way, Hyett, question I wanted to ask you. When your cousin was Librarian, do you know if he ever had any personal trouble with the binder—I mean, the sort of thing that wouldn’t appear in the files? I find him pretty difficult to deal with myself, and while of course the contract is all right—”

  Lucie Coindreau abstracted herself from the discussion and joined Professor Belknap.

  “Mr. Belknap, I wished to ask you something.”

  Professor Belknap looked at her in suspicious silence.

  “I have just been reading your book on the Albigensian Crusade. I found it magnificent. So profound! So understanding!”

  Belknap’s face creaked in a smile. “It is accepted, at least, as authoritative.”

  “Such breadth of conception! We have a word in French: envergure—”

  “Far-reaching, perhaps.”

  “Yes. I felt that. But there is one question of detail. You speak of Foulquet de Marseille, the Bishop of Toulouse, that cruel inquisitor. I admired especially your sketch of his early life as an amatory poet and as a person of a very relaxed morality. Your analysis of the conflict in his character was most subtle, most delicate. But you do not mention that Dante speaks of him in the Paradiso. Canto Nine.”

  “I was aware of it, of course. But I could not find that Dante added anything to the information given us by the chroniclers. There is a little book by Zingarelli—”

  Professor Belknap was transformed. All his clumsiness had dropped away, and he spoke firmly and trenchantly, with that contained passion which had made of him a distinguished lecturer, whose courses were highly recommended by and for serious students. He seemed to be enjoying himself. Mademoiselle Coindreau listened entranced.

  After a time they were conscious of Professor Casti by their side.

  “Good evening, mademoiselle. Good evening, Mr. Belknap.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Casti.”

  “It is quite a reception, isn’t it? Yes, quite a reception.”

  “Yes, yes. On the whole, it is.”

  “Do I interrupt an interesting conversation, perhaps?”

  “Oh, no, no,” said Professor Belknap.

  “On the contrary, I found it extremely interesting,” said Mademoiselle Coindreau.

  “Oh. Could I get you some coffee and sandwiches, mademoiselle?”

  “You are very kind. But Mr. Belknap was just going to fetch me some.”

  “Oh. Well—ah—see you again.”

  “He seems annoyed about something,” said Professor Belknap as Professor Casti moved away.

  “That is his right. It does not interest me if he is annoyed. Are you concerned?”

  “No, no. Oh no.”

  “But perhaps you had better fetch me some coffee and sandwiches.”

  “Oh yes. Of course. Certainly.” Professor Belknap steered for the dining-room. On the way he succeeded in pulling down his shirt. The voice of Mrs. Churchill clanged in his ears: “I figure they didn’t spend more than sixty dollars on food, and with maybe twenty for service that makes eighty. If they give four receptions like this, that only makes three hundred and twenty. What do they do with the rest of the entertainment allowance? Answer me that!”

  Professor Casti joined Mademoiselle Coindreau. For a time they talked, heatedly and rapidly, in French.

  Against the couple Gilda Gorham and Professor Parry were thrust by a bulging of the close-packed throng.

  “Hell-o, hello, mademoiselle,” said Parry. “Hello, Casti. Everything passing off pleasantly?”

  “Oh yes.” Mademoiselle Coindreau smiled constrainedly. Casti did not reply.

  “Well, we’re going to force a passage to the food,” said Parry. “Come on, Gilda; I’ll buck and you kick. It’s all right to strong-arm anything under an associate professor.” He sketched a half crouch and pretended to ram the assemblage. Gilda followed on his heels. After a short struggle the two found themselves in the dining-room.

  “Here, try one of these.” Parry lifted the top layer of a sandwich, gazed at it dubiously, and took a bite. While chewing, he lifted again the top layer of the remaining morsel.

  “What do you think it is?” he said. “Pemmican?”

  “Kennel-ration, I should say.”

  “No, kennel-ration is richer and has more of a tang. This has a tougher texture. Some sort of plastic, maybe. Do you know the one about the old lady in Summit?”

  “Francis! Not here!”

  “Oh, this is a clean one, for the Presidential Mansion.

  A toothless old lady of Summit

  Had to mash up her dinner and crumb it;

  And although she would groan

  When they gave her a bone,

  ‘Give it here,’ she would say, ‘and I’ll gum it.’ ”
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  “Francis!”

  “Hot in here, don’t you think? Let’s take some ice cream out on the terrace. Very warm evening for September.”

  “All right. Let’s try it, anyway.”

  As the two stepped out through the wide French windows, the great clock of the Library cleared its throat, struck ten mournful strokes, and sighed.

  “Ten o’clock,” said Parry. “How long are we supposed to stay at the President’s reception?”

  “Ten thirty. Then everyone rushes for the door, trampling on the women and children.”

  “Here’s a couple of nice chairs in the dark. Cigarette?”

  “Thanks.”

  The two settled themselves in wicker porch-chairs, which yielded with an angry groan.

  “Lovely, isn’t it?”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Gilda!”

  “Yes?”

  “We’re good friends, aren’t we?”

  “Of course we’re good friends, Francis. Always be kind to the faculty, is my motto.”

  “Please, Gilda. We get along beautifully, don’t we?”

  “Yes.”

  “We have a wonderful time together?”

  “Francis, I think I see where these leading questions are leading. And I won’t deny that I have been thinking a good deal about you lately. And one thing I think is this: that I really don’t know much of anything about you. You are frank and open, and your heart is on your sleeve, and all that. But somehow you are never indiscreet about yourself. You don’t keep other people’s secrets; but maybe you keep your own.”

  “I would tell you anything you want to know, Gilda.” Parry’s voice was low.

  “Well now, for example—last year, as you probably know, your name and that of Lucie Coindreau were, in that nice phrase, coupled. Was there anything serious between you?”

  “Would it make any difference?”

  “I don’t know. I think it might.”

  “Well then—no.”

  It seemed to Gilda that the answer came a tenth of a second too slow. She shivered.

  “You know, it is chillier here than I thought. Would you mind getting my wrap? Here’s the check.”

  “Certainly, Gilda.”

  Parry reached over and pressed her hand. Then, with his buoyant step, he entered the house. Gilda crushed out her cigarette.

  A moment later Lucie Coindreau emerged through the French windows. She had a black cloak on her arm. She glanced about and gave no sign of perceiving Gilda in her dark chair. She tossed on her cloak and went sinuously down the terrace steps to the black lawn.

  Curious, thought Gilda. It could be only a few minutes past ten. Why should Lucie be going home early? And why not go out the front door, like anyone else?

  Through the French windows came Professor Casti. He looked about the terrace and went irresolutely to the steps leading down to the lawn.

  “Lucie!” he called. “Lucie!”

  He paused a moment and re-entered the Presidential Mansion.

  Gilda shivered again. She might warm herself by walking about a bit. And if she was going to walk, she might as well walk on the lawn as anywhere else. That Lucie Coindreau! What in the world could she be up to?

  Gilda, trying to convey by her walk that she had been seized by a sudden whim, strolled down the steps and along the flagged path that led across the lawn. The path ended at a wicket-gate in the high cedar hedge protecting the Presidential grounds.

  Someone was fumbling at the wicket-gate. It was a woman’s figure in a dark and shimmering cloak. It was, in fact, Lucie Coindreau. She succeeded in opening the gate and passed through, closing it softly.

  Gilda, still determinedly following her whim, went to the gate. She saw Mademoiselle Coindreau hurrying across the campus, directly toward the University Library, some two hundred yards distant.

  “What is she up to in my Library?” thought Gilda, indignantly. All her sense of proprietorship rose up within her. A sense of duty, she would have called it herself. Without stopping to reason, she set off in pursuit of the hurrying dark figure.

  She saw the figure enter the Library door. But when Gilda reached the wide tiled lobby, Mademoiselle Coindreau had disappeared.

  And suddenly Gilda realized that all this was very undignified, to say the least; cattish, to say the most. And her own presence in the Library lobby, in evening dress, without a wrap, would seem at least curious. Fortunately the Library was almost deserted. The faculty were mostly at the President’s reception. The graduates had not yet settled down to their dissertations. The undergraduates had not received their term reading assignments, and few of them were in the mood for browsing on this warm, summer-like evening. Still, Gilda preferred not to be seen. She sought woman’s natural haven and refuge—the women’s rest room, which opens conveniently off the Library lobby.

  She looked at her watch. It was a quarter past ten. Francis was probably looking for her. Well, he could just look a little longer. Now that she was in the rest room, she might as well do a bit of primping.

  After about five minutes’ primping, she opened the door cautiously. A couple of students passed, preparing cigarettes to be lit the moment they should be outside the door. Then Dr. Sandys and Professor Casti entered. They said a word or two, and parted, Sandys turning down the short corridor that led to the Librarian’s office, Casti going in the opposite direction toward the periodical room and the language seminaries.

  This was awkward. Gilda felt very bare and shameless in her evening dress. It occurred to her that she had a raincoat in her locker in the catalogue room. If she had the raincoat she would at least look decent. And if anyone should ask her what she was doing in the Library at this time, she could answer bravely: “I was just getting my raincoat!”

  The lobby was empty. Gilda darted to the catalogue room, unlocked it, turned on the lights, found the key to her locker, and took out her raincoat with a grunt of satisfaction. She paused to think. All this raincoat business was going to be hard to explain to Francis. Perhaps— She laid the raincoat on her desk. As she pondered she heard through the open door the buzzers that rang throughout the building at ten twenty-five as a warning that the doors would be shut in five minutes.

  Immediately afterwards she heard a muffled, distant scream, or half a scream. The scream was broken in the middle by a crash. The sound came from the wing which held the Wilmerding Library.

  The Library turned slowly upside down and began to describe a spiral. Gilda opened her mouth to scream. But she remained silent, with her mouth open. “Nonsense!” she said to herself. “Someone has dropped a dictionary or something! Enough to make any woman scream!” The Library ceased to spin and returned sheepishly to its foundations.

  Still, the sounds demanded immediate investigation. A door, regularly unlocked, opened from the catalogue room to the stacks. Through this door and through the stacks Gilda hurried to the Wilmerding Library. As she entered she noticed that two or three lights were burning in the galleries. She snapped on the main overhead light.

  Crumpled on the floor, amid splinters of broken glass, lay Lucie Coindreau. About her black hair was slowly spreading an ever-widening stain.

  Chapter V

  WHEN ONE enters the main door of the Library, one finds oneself in a large marble-floored lobby. To the left one mounts a half-flight of stairs to the main reading-room, or one descends a half-flight to a corridor leading to the periodical room and several seminaries, including the French Seminary. Opposite the main entrance is a hall that gives entry to the various offices. To the right is a stairway to the wing containing the Wilmerding Collections.

  The Wilmerding is the particular pride of the Library and of the University, and Mr. Wilmerding is sanctified in the University’s annals. Mr. Wilmerding made a great many millions in railroads, during the third quarter of the last century. Retiring, by the orders of his physician, from the collection of railroads, he devoted all his magnificent energy to the collection of books. He specializ
ed in medieval manuscripts, fine bindings, philosophy, Calvinist theology, the occult, and erotica. Books finally proved more deadly than railroads. The ardor with which he collected rarities hastened, if it did not cause, his fatal cerebral hemorrhage. In his will he left his collections to the University, with an endowment for upkeep, and with the stipulation that the books should be preserved in a separate collection, to be known as the Wilmerding Library.

  His descendants later lost their fortune, which consisted mostly of railroad stock which the great financier had personally watered. Some threadbare members of the family still came occasionally to gaze vindictively at the treasures, and to tell the bored Librarian anecdotes about sitting on a Gutenberg Bible at the dinner-table when they were five years old.

  The Wilmerding Library is a great deep well. Its floor plan is roughly that of a Romanesque chapel, cruciform, with deep rounded bays serving as transepts. The room is three tall stories in height. Two railed galleries make the complete circuit of the room, following the curves of the rounded bays. The railings are of wrought iron, coiled and twisted in incoherent designs. Books line the walls, from floor to ceiling. Occasional metal-scrolled wall-brackets jut out at the height of a woman’s eye and of a man’s teeth. It is a Library joke that the janitor can never get them quite clean of bloodstains. On the brackets stand mementoes bequeathed by Mr. Wilmerding: blue Bohemian glasses with his coat of arms, Dresden china vases with his portrait, bronze statuettes, by Augustus Saint-Gaudens, of his favorite trotting horse.

  The Wilmerding Library is lit by several large ceiling lights, controlled by switches beside the main entrance door and the minor entrance from the stacks. Lights hang from cords, at five-foot intervals, along the line of the gallery rail, to aid searchers in the shadowed galleries. Spiral staircases at each corner and in the bays permit perpendicular circulation. On the ground floor of the north bay, or transept, is the main entrance. The top gallery above the door is devoted to Occulta. The three levels of the south bay, opposite, have been transformed into a locked press. Here are kept the more valuable volumes of the Wilmerding Collection and the erotica. Heavy gratings run from floor to ceiling of the locked press, flush with the main walls of the south side. The only access to the locked press is by a door on the ground floor. The two duplicate keys to the door are in the hands of the Librarian and the Assistant Librarian, one of whom is supposed to be present whenever the locked press is opened.