He couldn’t sleep after the long journey home.
He slipped out of bed, grabbed the tattered old address book from his desk and crept down the hall. He heard Natalie’s harsh snoring as he went past her room and relaxed a bit. Dorning had returned to his own house for a few days, so the professor paid no attention to the empty guest bedroom as he lightly padded the rest of the way to the kitchen.
He dialed the phone by the meager light coming through the window, squinting to read the numbers on the handset and the ones he wanted from the book.
The phone on the other end rang half a dozen times before he finally heard it lifted.
“Hello?” The voice was both drowsy and annoyed.
“Hello? Is this Professor Kingston?” Marlowe asked quietly. The name sounded strange in his higher voice.
“Yes, this is he.” The long-distance call crackled with faint static.
“Professor, my name is . . . Miguel. I’m doing a homework assignment about Percival Marlowe and would like to ask you a few questions about him if you don’t mind.”
“How did you get my phone number?”
He paused to glance at the worn address book he had owned for half a century. “The university gave it to me.”
“Really? I’m surprised they did that. Actually, I guess I’m surprised I’m still in their phone directory. I retired years ago, you know.”
“Yes, sir. I know.”
“Just a minute.”
Marlowe heard fumbling on the other end, imagined his old friend sitting up and putting on his round wire-rim glasses.
“Good God. Do you know what time it is, young man? Shouldn’t you be in bed? Can’t this wait until tomorrow?”
“I’m sorry, sir. The assignment’s due tomorrow.”
He heard Kingston respond with his familiar throaty laugh. “Well, all right, as long as there aren’t too many questions. Wouldn’t want you to get a failing grade because of me. But I’m sure you’re aware you could have called much earlier.”
“Sorry, Dr. Kingston. Thank you. I was just wondering what your impressions were of Percival Marlowe.”
The professor turned around and leaned back against the cool kitchen wall.
“Impressions? Now there’s a vague question. Hmm. Impressions. Let me think.”
Marlowe hung his head, eyes closed, waiting for the answer yet half afraid to hear it.
“Well, he was easily the most brilliant mind I ever met. But I guess that goes without saying. He had a sharp wit and wasn’t afraid to use it. No one lasted long in a verbal joust with Perc, that’s for sure.”
The professor opened his eyes and smiled briefly to hear Kingston’s old nickname for him again. “I see. What else do you remember about him?”
“Well, he was a challenging teacher, brought lots of attention to the physics department—not to mention money—and he won the Nobel Prize, of course. But you probably already knew that, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir.” Marlowe took a breath and closed his eyes again. “What was he like as a person? Was he a nice man? A kind man?”
“Perc? Oh sure, sure.”
The professor waited for Kingston to say more but that was all.
“No, really. What was he like? You can tell me. This is important.”
There was a considerable pause. “Well, he’s dead now, of course, so I hate to speak ill of someone who can’t defend himself, yet I suppose it would be fair to say he could be a little difficult to deal with at times.”
The professor raised his head, his eyes wide. “What do you mean exactly?”
“Oh, I probably shouldn’t tell you this but, it was hardly a big secret on campus. He was mainly known as . . . Perc the Jerk. That may sound cruel, but it was true, so there you have it.” His laughter rumbled along. “Hope you find that funny, young man. We sure did. I don’t really want to tell you why, but we all called him Perc the Jerk.”
Marlowe took a sudden step forward, gripping the handset tighter. “Who called him that? You and the rest of the physics faculty?” His expression was nearly frantic.
“Good God, not just the physics faculty. The entire faculty, as well as the students, staff, and everyone else who knew him. As far as I know, no one ever dared say it to his face, although I nearly did once by mistake.” He laughed gruffly again.
“When was that?”
“Oh, does it really matter? Well, if you must know, it was at a faculty birthday party. Now whose party was it? All I remember is turning around, thinking the birthday boy was behind me and starting to ask where Perc the Jerk was. You can imagine my surprise when I found Marlowe standing there instead. Fortunately, I don’t think he heard me, although he did give me a very puzzled look.” His rumbling amusement followed once more. “Say, is any of this information really useful to you? What kind of assignment are you writing, anyway? Is this an exposé or something like that? I probably shouldn’t be telling you all this, but you caught me half asleep here.”
The professor didn’t answer right away. “Holloway,” he finally said.
His gaze was mournful now.
“Pardon me, young man? What did you just say?”
“It was Frank Holloway’s fiftieth birthday party,” he replied quietly.
There was only the hiss of static for a moment. “Good God. You’re right. It was Holloway’s party. How did you know that? Who is this really?”
“I’m very sorry for the way Marlowe behaved sometimes, Harold. I really am. I’m afraid he deserved the ridicule, didn’t he?”
“Who is this?” Each word was an anxious note.
“It was good to hear your voice again, Harold. I have to go now. Goodbye, my friend. Take care of yourself. And thank you for finally telling me the truth.”
“Wait! I want to know how—”
Marlowe gently hung up the phone.
He stood in the kitchen a few seconds, arms folded, then slowly walked through the semidarkness back down the hall and through his room, out onto the patio. He stood still, listening to the waves wash ashore.
It was all true, what the custodian said, he thought. They couldn’t wait until I retired. What do you think of that, Miguel?
There was only the relentless sound of the surf in reply.
He turned and went to his bed, sat down heavy in the middle of it, staring straight ahead. When sleep finally caught up to him, he drifted off right where he was, his head bowed down to his chest as if he were ashamed now even in his dreams.