“We’re here on behalf of his family,” I added quickly and he directed us to a dormitory building. The porter at the door was equally hesitant to let us in to talk to the young men in residence, but relented when Daniel informed him that he was a police officer from New York City.
“Such a tragedy.” The old man shook his head. “We were all stunned here, you know. I’d never have thought it of him.”
“So you wouldn’t have classed him as a wild young man, who might do something impetuous and stupid like that?”
The porter’s face became guarded. “Impetuous and stupid, maybe. I remember once he accepted a bet to walk along the parapet of the library roof. He made it too and almost got himself expelled afterward. But that’s the sort of thing one expects from students. It’s just high spirits, isn’t it? I’ve seen him come home the worse for wear, of course. And he has been caught trying to sneak in after curfew. But robbing and killing? That I can’t see.”
“We are of the same opinion,” I said. “May we have a chance to chat with some of his friends, do you think?”
The porter looked at me as if I were a talking parrot who had suddenly started spouting Shakespeare. “This is a gentleman’s hall of residence,” he said. “Young women are not allowed upstairs.”
“I run the detective agency that is looking into Mr. Halsted’s disappearance for his family,” I couldn’t resist saying.
“Detective agency. Fancy that.” The old man scratched his head. “I suppose I can’t stop the police from asking questions, but I’d have to get permission for a detective agency.” His face conveyed the unsaid “especially one run by a woman.”
“Then I’ll ask the questions,” Daniel said quickly, sensing that my Irish was in the process of being roused. “It will save you from getting permission. Correct?”
“Right, sir. Much obliged to you.” His face registered relief. He pointed up a narrow staircase. “Now if you go up to the third floor, turn left, you’ll find the young gentleman’s room is the last one on the left. The rooms on either side of his are occupied by his closest friends. From what I gather, they are as baffled as I am about this whole nasty business, but maybe one of them can tell you something that will help you with your inquiries. Although the New Haven police have certainly grilled us all enough already.”
“I don’t intend to do any grilling,” Daniel said. “Come, Molly.”
Now I was definitely annoyed. “May I remind you that this is my inquiry and that you are aiding me?” I muttered as we mounted the creaky wooden stairs.
“You saw how it is.” Daniel turned to answer me. “A lot of men don’t respond well to questions from a woman. We’re more likely to learn something if they think they are talking to someone official.”
“Then next time don’t say ‘Come, Molly’ as if I were your dog.”
“I apologize, Miss Murphy. Would you be good enough to accompany me up the stairs?” Daniel grinned as he glanced back at me. He thought the whole thing was amusing. I was beginning to think there was no getting through to men.
TWENTY-TWO
There was a distinctive smell to the building—old wood, furniture polish, and a hint of pipe tobacco. It was an old sort of smell, of a building that has existed for a hundred years or more. The upstairs hallway was narrow, wood-paneled, and dark. We made our way along it to the far end.
“Let’s see if Halsted’s room is unlocked, first,” I suggested. “He may have left a letter or note that could be a valuable clue.”
Good idea.” Daniel tried the door. It opened and we went inside. “Although I’m sure the local police will have been through his room thoroughly by now.”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean they haven’t overlooked something.” I started going through the papers on his desk. He was remarkably tidy for a young man, or perhaps the police had tidied his papers after they had examined them. There were class notes on philosophy and religion. A couple of scribbled observations led me to believe that Mr. Halsted wasn’t entirely shallow and, like a lot of boys his age, was starting to think about the meaning of life. I found myself hoping that he was alive and safe somewhere and that there was a perfectly good explanation for the crashed motor car that didn’t involve him in robbery and murder.
Tell Me, Pretty Maiden (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #7)
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