Power, The by Frank M. Robinson Read Free Book Online

emptied but not washed so a fine crust of gray ash still clung to the bottom.
    A desk stood by the fourth wall, under guard of a straight-backed, wooden chair with a hand-hooked woolen seat cushion of roses against a background of blue. Next to the desk, along the wall, was a radiator with a tin cover, green paint peeling in spots. A small coffee tin of stagnant water stood on top of it.
    A lived-in, rumpled room that somehow reminded Tanner of Susan Van Zandt herself.
    She had let him in, smiled a dutiful smile, and relaxed gratefully back on the couch. She still had her bathrobe on and Tanner knew there would be dust on the mantel, dishes in the sink, and an icebox full of slowly souring leftovers. Her thick, brown hair wasn’t brushed and her eyes had the faintest suggestion of circles beneath them. She had been slim and attractive at one time, he thought, but after marriage she had slipped easily into an early middle age and had let motherhood coarsen her. She hadn’t regretted either one.
    “I don’t think John ever roomed anyplace else,” she said nervously. “Central Housing sent him over here as soon as he showed up on campus. I think he always liked it here.” She waved her hand around the room. “It’s comfortable and then he had his own key and could come and go as he pleased.”
    “Did he ever go out much?” Tanner asked. “Did he ever have any friends that he went out drinking with, anything like that?”
    “No, he never had many friends.”
    He lit his pipe and toyed with the match a moment before letting it fall into the tray. “The night he died. Had he had any visitors earlier that evening? Anybody who might have stayed behind for a good part of the night?”
    “No, I don’t recall any. He went out for a walk and when he came in he told Harold and myself that he was tired, that he was going to do some reading and write a letter or two.”
    “Sue.” He hesitated a moment, wondering how he should phrase it. “Do you know if anybody on campus hated him enough to kill him?”
    The heavy-lidded eyes flew open. “Oh, no. He wasn’t killed. The police said there were no signs of a struggle or a fight. He had been writing a letter when it … happened.”
    “Can I see the room?”
    She pulled her faded bathrobe tighter around her stomach and led the way to the second floor. Olson’s room was a door down from the bathroom. She worked a key in the lock. “I don’t know why I keep it locked up like this but the police asked me not to touch anything and I guess this is the best way.” She was suddenly doubtful. “Maybe I shouldn’t let you in.”
    “Don’t worry, Sue, I won’t disturb anything.”
    She opened the door and he walked in. The windows were closed and the room smelled a little musty. Sunlight slanted through faded curtains, highlighting a miniature of the downstairs rug and a small, blue throw rug by the side of the bed. The bed was neatly made, the pink, tufted chenille spread smooth and unwrinkled.
    “Did you make up the bed?”
    “No, I guess he just didn’t sleep in it.”
    “About what time did he get in?”
    “About an hour after you called. Midnight, I guess. Van and I were watching TV”
    John Olson had come in at midnight and died at three, Tanner reasoned. For three hours he had sat in his room—doing what? And then he had put on his bathrobe and sat down to write a letter. To whom? And what about?
    One thing was almost certain, however. He could eliminate Van. It was hardly likely that Olson would be living in the same house if Van …
    Or was it? Van Zandt had been watching Olson like an eagle in the seminar room. Waiting for Olson to say something? To give him away?
    He glanced at his watch and breathed a little easier. Van Zandt had classes all afternoon; he wouldn’t be around.
    “Is the letter still here, Sue?”
    “No, the police lieutenant has it. I … never got a look at it.”
    He glanced around the room again. A small, oak bureau with a dust-soiled