The door of the Interrogation Room swung open and Fosse entered, jerking his thumb toward the hallway outside. “C’mon,” he said to Strang tersely.
The detective led the little old science teacher along a dirty hallway that had been painted a mal-de-mer green around the turn of the century and into another, larger room. Inside the room was a long table with three men seated along one side. The little ferret-faced one with the gray Vandyke beard was John Kitrich, the manager of Aldershot Home Furnishings, and the redhead with the squinty eyes was Dan MacIver, who worked in the office of the village sanitation department. The third, a lanky blond youth with several days’ growth of stubble on his chin, was unknown to the teacher.
On the opposite side of the table was a huge man with curly black hair and a full bristling beard which swept in ebony waves about his head and face, giving him the appearance of a satanic Santa Claus. And then, looking around the man’s massive body, Mr. Strang caught sight of Detective Paul Roberts.
“Paul!” Mr. Strang felt distinctly relieved. Here at last was a friend, someone who could explain what was going on. “I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my life.”
“Sit down, Mr. Strang,” said Roberts with a smile, motioning to a chair next to Kitrich. “Now that we’re all here, I’d like to remind everybody that this is Detective Fosse’s case.”
“Case? What case?” Kitrich was on his feet, waving a finger at Roberts. “I was called down here to make a statement about where I was yesterday evening. Now that I’ve made it I want to go home.” There were murmurs of agreement from MacIver and the other man.
Fosse strode to the head of the table and rapped his knuckles against its surface. Immediately the room became ominously quiet. Quickly the detective made the necessary introductions. Mr. Strang learned that the blond young man was Willard Quinn, a bakery truck driver and sometime college student. The bearded colossus next to Roberts was Victor Wilson, who’d been on duty checking out books at the library the previous evening.
“I’d like to start,” said Fosse, peering out from between twin thickets of eyebrows, “by apologizing to three of you four men. You’re here needlessly. The trouble is, I don’t know which three.”
He leaned forward, resting his weight on slabs of hands. “Right now,” he continued, “there’s a man named Clifford Berlinger lying in the hospital with a broken jaw, possible skull fracture, three cracked ribs, multiple bruises and contusions — you name it.”
“Cliff?” said Mr. Strang involuntarily. “But I saw him just last night at the—”
Fosse nodded. “The library. I thought you’d know him, Mr. Strang.”
“Of course I know him. He’s taught American history at the high school for almost as many years as I’ve been there.”
“Do you happen to know what he was doing at the library?”
“Oh.” The teacher thought for a moment. “Cliff spends a lot of his spare time writing articles for obscure little history magazines. The one he’s researching now is — let me see — ‘Southern Colonial Coastal Shipping, 1670 to 1720.’ I remember kidding him that he’d probably have a readership of about six.”
“So that’s why we’re here,” said MacIver. “We were all at the library last evening.”
As Fosse nodded, Quinn shifted in his chair and ran a hand across his unshaved chin. “Man, this is really somethin’ else, you know?” he said, shaking his head. “Sure I was in the library. There was at least fifteen people there, so why pick on us four? Or maybe we’re the only ones who look like we get our kicks out of beating up old men.”
“Berlinger wasn’t beaten up.” Fosse was visibly restraining himself from launching an attack on Quinn. “It was a hit-and-run. Right in the library driveway. Berlinger must have been standing there when the car struck him. He was thrown against the side of the building.”
There was a low buzz of voices as the four men absorbed this information. “Mister Fosse.” Dan MacIver’s voice had the trace of a Scotsman’s burr. “I don’t go along with the young man’s probable opinion of the police, but his question was a good one. So would you mind telling us why of all the people in the library you selected the four of us as suspects?”
“Nothing’s been said about suspects, Mr. MacIver. We’ve just asked for statements from you, that’s all.”
“D’ye take me for a loony, sir? You didn’t draw our names out of hats. Come now. Why us?”
Suddenly Mr. Strang shot to his feet. “Paul,” he said, his eyes blazing at the detective seated across from him, “I don’t like the way this thing is being handled!”
Fosse started to interrupt, but Roberts waved him to silence. “What do you mean, Mr. Strang?” he asked.
The teacher removed his glasses and placed them in a jacket pocket. “I feel as if I were doing a science experiment with only half the necessary chemicals. First, out of all the people in the library you choose the four of us to come down and make statements without a word about what they were for. All right, we’ve made them. Now you bring us all here together. Why? We’re being spoon-fed information a little at a time, Paul, and I don’t like it. Either tell us what information you have — all of it — or I, for one, am going home.”
As he stood looking down at the two detectives, they both began to feel a little like schoolboys who’d just received a scolding.
Fosse’s face became fiery red. “I don’t have to—”
“Come on, Walt,” said Roberts. “He’s got a point, admit it. Open up. What’s the harm?”
“And while you’re at it,” added the teacher, “you might tell us what he’s doing here.” He pointed a gaunt finger at Victor Wilson. “He’s obviously not a suspect. Wrong side of the table.”
Fosse’s eyes locked with those of Roberts, and it was Fosse who glanced down first. “Okay,” he said finally. “We’d like to wrap this case up quick. We — that is, I — thought we’d get you in here and pick your brains to see if we could come up with something that would throw a little light on what really happened last night. If you have any objections to our handling things this way, you’re free to walk out. Officially we wouldn’t question the motive of anyone who did. Unofficially—” He shrugged bulky shoulders. “We’d be forced to draw some unpleasant conclusions.”
“I for one wish to contact my lawyer before saying another word,” said Kitrich.
“That’s your privilege,” said Roberts. “But remember, Mr. Kitrich, nobody’s accused you of any thing.” A puckish smile came across his face. “Yet,” he added.
“As for me,” said MacIver, “I’m not guilty of anything, and I’d like to say so out loud. But if you don’t mind, Mr. Strang here has a brain that seems a bit more organized than mine. I’ll let him do the talking for me.”
“Right on, man,” said Quinn. He turned to Mr. Strang, holding a clenched fist high. “Go to it, teach. Put the screws to the screws!”
“Okay,” said Fosse quickly. “What do you want to know, Mr. Strang?”
“Everything,” was the reply. “A friend of mine has been badly injured. That’s shock enough for one day. But on top of that I find myself as one of four suspected of the crime. And I don’t mind telling you the situation has me scared stiff. So could you stop being mysterious and tell us in detail just exactly what we’re suspected of?”
“Let’s take it from the top,” said Fosse. He turned toward Victor Wilson. “You want to start?”