Tiger flipped through the rest of the magazine, all anticlimax, of course, and threw it aside, finally, after tearing out the page which had interested him. The magazine itself he had thrown in the wastepaper basket.
He sat back in his chair, thinking, a warm smile on his face. What would Rochelle be doing? Sleeping? Dreaming? How did she feel, that astonishing girl, and what was she dreaming? Tiger wondered. He hoped she felt wonderful, he had done his best to make her feel wonderful, he knew it. He always did. What more could he do? He didn’t know it. She was a dream, he hoped she was dreaming of him. . . . Tomorrow, in Civics class, he’d be seeing her. She and his Ponce as usual sparking the class. He smiled warmly, thinking of his two bright stars of the class. Often they tangled head-on, on certain issues, and how the sparks flew. It was neck and neck, nearly always, Tiger knew. Sawyersville was lucky, having two intelligences of that order, in one class, no less. Lucky. He was proud of them, as who wouldn’t be. . . . Tomorrow would be Jill plus one also, now Tiger mused, suddenly, sadly. The great search for the culprit would be swinging into high gear, if he
Pretty Maids A tl in a Row 153 knew. He felt it, and the very best of all possible luck to the man in charge of it all, Captain Surcher, that sober, earnest, intelligent, in short, definitely competent man, Tiger felt sure. He sat in his chair awhile longer. He was thinking of Jill. Of it all. Of Rochelle. He found himself wondering, suddenly, did that dream ever caress her own breasts? Just w'hat was it like, having such marvelous breasts? Perfect. The only word for them. In bed, perhaps, sometimes, did she play with them? Tonight, maybe? Lying there, before going to sleep, thinking of him— maybe? He knew that he would, he mused, certainly, if he had them. . . . Poor Jill. . . . She wouldn’t leave him. He shook his head, he sighed. That variation by Ponce on Т-Special Twenty-four Pass On Four Decoy Left And Center was something. Something. Tomorrow, he’d try it. He couldn’t wait to try it. . . . He felt sleepy. He yawned. Time to hit the hay, definitely, he mused. . . . Looby Loo...,
27
Surcher arrived at the school bright and early the next morning, with his assistants, all of them. He had briefed them, even earlier. To his relief, there had been no further murder. Now, speed, and efficient action. For he really had something. On that letter he had found not only the deceased Head Cheerleader’s prints, but also a perfect set of others. All he had to do now was find the fellow who matched them. It shouldn’t take long—provided he showed up. And Surcher definitely felt he would be showing up. He would be that kind of character. Kid. The name suited • him, whoever he was, without a doubt of it. He and his corps of assistants tried not to betray their excitement, but it was difficult alright, no doubt of it. For they were hunters closing in on their quarry, a team on their opponents’ one-yard line—how not to show it? Surcher pictured the signed confession, for of course that's what it would have to be. Though the letter of course was the golden clue. They had no evidence that would stand up in court, so far, at any rate. A confession, the only way. Certainly, they’d get it, once they got him, he knew. State Police techniques were highly refined, and irresistible. Every criminal knew it.
He cornered Proffer and told him nonchalantly to rearrange all the previously worked out arrangements and schedules just a little bit if he would, by sending in all the colored students one by one this very morning, no less. He and his assistants would talk to them. He had decided that last night, mainly to eliminate them from further involvement in the matter, for reasons he could well appreciate. Proffer concurred. He put Miss Craymire, mostly recovered now, on to it, right away.
“We’re having a special Assembly this morning, Captain, by the way,” he told Surcher, “Will it be o.k. if you see them after it? Or do you want them during Assembly?” He asked.
Surcher thought it over.
“How long does Assembly last?” He asked.
All the doors to the school, all possible exits, were well guarded, he knew. The Troopers had been briefed too.
“Ten, fifteen minutes,” he heard.
The Captain mused.
“O.K.” He finally said.
“You and your men are welcome to attend, Captain, if you want to," Proffer said.
“Thanks—but I’ll have to say no, Mr. Proffer,” Surcher said, ‘‘I have a few little things to take care of,” he also said.
Proffer nodded, wondering what these things might be. ...
Teachers, pupils, the entire school filed silently into the auditorium. Ponce found himself sitting next to Rochelle Hudson. As always, he admired that gorgeous girl, her long dark hair. Her brain. There was a girl with a brain. He said Hi to her and she smiled at him. He knew she liked him. They got on great. Then Proffer walked onto the platform. He had a Bible in one hand. He opened it up and began reading from it. Ponce couldn’t exactly place what it was he was reading, for Proffer had a way of reading that was more like mumbling, really. Maybe those right up in the front rows heard. Of course he knew it would have to do with death, and mourning, and so he could narrow it down, for it would be among a certain select number of passages. Only. Ponce played his guessing game. Proffer read on. Five minutes later he closed the good book and started to address the Assembly. Now Ponce could hear him. Only when he was reading something did it come out mumbling. It was interesting, Ponce mused, as always, noting it. . . .
“And so we are gathered here today to pay a silent tribute to that wonderful, wonderful girl who was Jill Fairbunn, that wonderful girl whose fresh smile and wonderful personality used to make our day, the girl who was cruelly taken away from us yesterday, only yesterday. Let us bow our heads and pray. First of all.”
Ponce, not knowing why, bowed his head with everyone. And so did Rochelle, he noted. He stole a glance at her, that brilliant, beautiful girl. His heart started thumping. He felt a hot flush. What a girl. He thought of Jill. What a beautiful girl that Rochelle was. He wondered where Miss Smith was sitting. He hadn't seen her, to tell the truth. Tiger was up in the front row, he had seen him, just near the platform. Rochelle’s eyes were closed. What long lashes they were.
Proffer went on, and Ponce tagged on, . . Words are very hard to come by on so tragic and sad an occasion. Nothing I could say would bring back that wonderful girl, the one thing all of us want most of all. I can only say, and I’m sure the entire faculty would join with me in saying, let us remember that wonderful girl, as she was, let her be our standard, our guide, our ideal, in our minds, as we remember her and knew her. Let us try to emulate her love and loyalty and hard work for Sawyersville High, and community, as a whole. Let this be our memorial to her. . . .
Ponce was moved by this passage, and in fact definitely felt tears welling up in his eyes, and all around him he heard sniffles, quite a few. Proffer went on. . . .
Surcher thought it would be a good opportunity to take a look around the school while the Assembly was going on. He especially thought it might not be a bad idea at all to have a peek in that lavatory, for who could tell. He and a couple of assistants, Lieutenants Grady and Folio, strolled along the hall toward that destination. As they strolled, they took a quick look in the classrooms they passed, all empty now, of course. They slowed down as they approached the lavatory and in fact walked so carefully and ingeniously that hardly a trace of their footsteps would be heard, even in that echo chamber of a hallway, no less. When they actually reached that door they stood outside for a few moments, listening. Then, they opened it.