The Committee - Sterling Watson

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Negro had closed the door, Stall said, “Work with them?”

      Connor lifted his chin in confusion.

      “You said the Committee thinks I’ll work with them. What does that mean?”

      “It means do their bidding. Work for them.” Connor waited, as though an explanation of this should come from Stall.

      “Jim, I . . .”

      “You can’t think of any reason for this?”

      “None.”

      “Well, Tom, it has to do in some fashion with this young man, Vane. His father is rich as Croesus. He’s given generously to this institution. I don’t know the man well, or his political leanings, but I assume he is, like most north Florida businessmen, conservative.”

      “You mean he’ll like what the Committee wants to do?”

      “I mean I don’t know, but it seems likely.”

      “And his son? Frank Vane? I knew him as a boy in a hospital in France. A nineteen-year-old PFC with half his arm shot off.”

      “I don’t know how he fits into this picture.” The president tapped his forefinger twice, on the picture and on the subpoena. “The more pressing point is that for some reason this Cyrus Tate thinks the Committee can work your connection to Frank Vane to their advantage, and we need to know why.” Connor waited.

      God, this is Byzantine. It came to Stall that now he was expected to supply a reason for the murky workings of the diseased minds of the Johns Committee. The Frank Vane he had known for only a few weeks thirteen years ago was a decent, intelligent, and cultured boy, or as much of one as a rich kid from Jacksonville could become before he was shipped out to Germany and the hell of the Hürtgen Forest. Even more astonishing to Stall was that he had been asked by the president of his university to spy on his colleagues, and now, apparently, the Committee which was the brainchild of a semiliterate accidental governor had told that same president that they expected Stall to spy for them.

      “So,” Connor said, “we have a quandary. We are caught between Scylla and Charybdis, or as the plainer folk I grew up among say, between a rock and a hard place.”

      Now the entire, awful absurdity of this thing lay plain before Stall. “You’re saying I have to work for you or you’ll suspect me of working for the Committee?”

      “Let’s just say I know whose side you’re really on, and it wouldn’t hurt the right side if you pretended to warm up to the wrong one. If you see what I mean.” Connor’s smile was droll, and Stall knew that he wouldn’t be smiling if he didn’t think he had Stall’s balls in a vise. The game was joined, and President Connor had more than an ordinary man’s avidity for games. In this one, Stall was to be his pawn.

      Stall said, more to himself than to Connor, “If my colleagues, my friends, get the idea I’m some kind of informer, they’ll shun me. I’ll have no chance of becoming chairman. Hell, I’ll have to leave town under cover of darkness.”

      “Tom, you have a flair for the dramatic. It won’t be as bad as all that. I’ll take care of you. What will be bad, what could be a disaster, is what Charley Johns wants to do to this university. He’d like to turn the whole state system into a Baptist seminary with compulsory chapel, a curfew, a dress code, and loyalty oaths. The best faculty we have will leave for places where this kind of stupidity is laughed at. We’ll be censured by any number of professional organizations. It could take this state fifty years to recover from the kind of damage Johns can do.”

      Ezra knocked again, and this time entered without being bidden. He served the two bourbons from a silver tray and left as quietly as he had entered.

      Connor raised his glass to Stall. “Well then, to our arrangement?”

      Stall lifted his glass in silence and drank the bitter potion.

      NINE

      Stall arrived early for the meeting with Jack Leaf’s class in Murphree Hall armed with the copy of Leaf’s syllabus he had obtained from Helen Markham. The syllabus called for a final exam and a research paper to be turned in on the last day of class. Stall had also used the department’s passkey to unlock Jack Leaf’s office and search for his grade book. The book now lay open on the desk in front of Stall as the first students drifted into the classroom with looks of apprehension and even fear on their faces. It was just human nature, Stall supposed, that these ambitious boys (the Grinds of Summer, he called them) should worry more about their grades than about the death of a professor. There were only five of them, and when they were all seated (all on time, as he had expected), Stall called the roll.

      As was his practice when he called a roll, he looked at each face as though memorizing its features. He had found that this pleased the students. He wants to know me. The roll finished, he composed his own face in sadness for Jack Leaf and concern for the apprehensions of these students. “Well, I’m pretty sure you’ve all heard about what happened to Professor Leaf.” He waited while some nodded solemnly and a few mumbled, “Yes.” A boy in the back said, “Can you tell us any more than what we’ve read in the papers?” The boy’s tone was not solemn.

      Stall had come here planning to make short work of this penultimate class of a dreary summer term. To tell them how they’d finish their academic work and then get back to his own more pressing business. “Sorry, what’s your name, young man?” Stall looked down at the grade book while the boy said, “Martin Levy.” In the book, a row of As flowed from the name. Stall raised his eyes to the class again. “Thank you for the question, Mr. Levy. I don’t know any more than what has been reported in the papers. It was either an accident or it was intentional. The medical examiner will make his decision based on the testimony of eyewitnesses, all students.”

      Stall thought it right to leave the best possible impression of Jack Leaf in the minds of these students. They had spent a summer with the man, and Stall assumed they liked him. Most people did. He said, “Now, let me tell you how I think we should go about finishing this term in the most efficient and equitable way. I’m going to cancel the final.” He waited for what he was sure would be expressions of approval—muted, of course, given the circumstances. Canceling the final was the efficient part of his plan. Next came the equitable part. “I will grade your research papers. I’ve taught this course a number of times, and I believe I’m qualified to evaluate them carefully and fairly. I will—”

      “What about the two men who were seen leaving the building just before Professor Leaf jumped?” It was Martin Levy again.

      Stall didn’t like to be interrupted by anyone and certainly not by a student. He took a long breath to master the annoyance that had lit up his chest. “I’ve told you all I know, and everything I know has been in the papers. Students reported seeing the two men. Who may or may not have had anything to do with Professor Leaf and what happened.”

      “I’ve heard that the English Department knows more about this than the papers are reporting.”

      Stall was angry now and sure that his face showed it. “Heard from whom? Give me a name, and I’ll speak to this person and let you know what I find out. Will that satisfy you, Mr. Levy?”

      One or two students turned and peered back at Martin Levy as though they thought his questions might complicate the very good deal they were getting with a canceled final exam. Levy looked at his classmates and raised his chin an inch. The gesture said, Make something of it.

      Stall said, “Mr. Levy, may I continue to explain how we will finish our work?”

      “By all means, sir. Pardon my interruption.”

      “As I was saying, I’ll grade your research papers, and I’ll weight them to offset the elimination of the final. I’ve checked Professor Leaf’s grade book, and it seems you’re all doing very good work, so I don’t foresee any problems . . .” Stall tried for some levity: “Unless you bomb the paper.”

      A

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