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Harbinger Harrow, Dean of the McMasters Conservatory for the Applied Arts, looked down at the smiling photograph of Hollywood darling in the tabloid on his desk, and, for perhaps the thousandth time, cursed. Just above the fold in the scandal sheet was the salacious headline Fallen Film Exec! Director Dead on Set! The following article detailed the sudden demise of a director of so-called spaghetti Westerns, low-budget films hardly worth thinking of, much less watching. Accompanying the article was a photograph of one Doria Maye, alias Dulcie Mown, McMasters graduate. The paper itself even seemed out of place here in the hallowed halls of McMasters, but one of the jobs of the Dean was to make sure tabs were kept on graduates who were deemed threats to society, or worse, threats to institutional security. There was a procedure for everything at McMasters.
In the old days, a small but select force of people fanned out across the glove, following alumni into their life after graduation. Guy McMaster himself had employed a special band of Japanese ninjas to stay under cover and report any anomalies; in more recent years, the McMasters security officers had trained with the British Special Operations Executive and American Office of Strategic Services. Sadly, Harbinger Harrow faced budget cuts unknown to every previous Dean, and so he was resigned to reading the daily papers from most major cities where alumni were known to live. But he’d found that the best way to keep tabs on Doria Maye was to read the tabloids. Granted, now that Doria Maye was relegated to spaghetti Westerns and second-rate pictures, she was less likely to appear in most of the publications, but, he reasoned, no news was good news. And this death was the worst news of all.
Really, he should have made a case before the Board of Directors to keep better tabs on Miss Maye. Should have told them that the security of the Conservatory was worth more than any sum of money and insisted that the old surveillance methods were needed in this case. He should have trusted his instinct when he’d visited her following the completion of her graduation thesis, when something had seemed so amiss. If he’d trusted his instinct then and acted on his concern that Miss Maye would cross the fine line between “Oh, I could just kill him” and “Oh, I could just kill him,” then he wouldn’t be sitting here, reading an article about the death of the director of a low-budget film in which Miss Maye/Mown was starring, and knowing that, budget cuts or not, a Fifth Enquiry needed to be undertaken immediately.
The Fifth Enquiry was the procedure whereby any former McMasters pupil or associate could be dispensed with in the event that they went rogue and began using their fine education for anything other than its intended purpose. They were exceedingly rare. In fact, in the entire history of McMasters, there had been but one Fifth Enquiry undertaken, following a ghastly affair concerning one John Wilkes Booth. If anyone had ever suspected that, following his successful graduation thesis, Booth would turn the lessons imparted to him at McMasters into a plot to kill a hugely popular American President and quite probably change the course of history, he would never have been admitted to the Conservatory in the first place.
In every sense of the word, the Fifth Enquiry was the very last resort for McMasters to deal with problem alumni. They were costly, and time-consuming, and above all, very, very bad for the image of the school. And now it seemed that another one must be undertaken immediately to deal with one Miss Doria Maye. The timing could not have been worse, what with the Board already angry about the recent addition of two faculty to the McMasters roster in the persons of Miss Gemma Lindley and Mr. Clifford Iverson. But the tabloid proved that surveillance-via-headline was no longer effective. No matter the cost, the sanctity of these hallowed halls depended upon a Fifth Enquiry being taken up immediately.
Resigned, Harrow slipped into the outer office to ask Dilys to add this matter to the agenda for that afternoon’s meeting of the Board of Directors.
At precisely three in the afternoon, Dean Harbinger Harrow took his place at the ornate mahogany table of the boardroom. Early winter sunlight dappled the polished surface, bringing a cheery light to a meeting that was sure to take a dark turn quickly.
All were present and accounted for: Opposite Dean Harrow sat Erma Daimler, Assistant Dean and Chief Financial Officer. Also representing the staff, seated in chairs against the far wall, were Matias Graves, Vesta Thripper, and Father Pugh, along with Miss Lindley and Mr. Iverson, who were there for their formal introduction to the Board.
To the left of Erma Daimler was the Governor: a McMasters alumnus from decades ago whose name must be left out of even the most secret of documents, lest it ever fall within the public eye. Connected to a prominent American political dynasty, he also had the distinction of being the only McMasters alumnus who was allowed to keep a souvenir from the graduation deletion of his father’s political rival who had found out one too many of the Governor’s family secrets. He’d carried the ornate cane everywhere ever since, as if anyone needed reminding of his status. Eleven others filled the sides of the table wearing expressions that varied from hangdog to downright malicious.
Harrow rapped his knuckles on the table and called the meeting to order.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the Board, if I could call your attention to the first item on today’s agenda, we must first welcome our two newest staff members, Miss Gemma Lindley and Mr. Clifford Iverson. Miss Lindley joins the Counseling Department as well as co-teaching Track and Physical Education and Mr. Iverson–”
The Governor cut him off. “Damn and blast the agenda, Harrow. We need to skip the formalities this time.”
“I see no reason why Miss Lindley and Mr. Iverson should not be afforded the same courtesies as every other new hire, Governor, no matter how serious the matters we may have to discuss later.”
“The Board will not have you treat the prospect of a Fifth Enquiry so lightly, Harrow,” spoke up Erma Daimler. “First that miserable business with young Jud Helkampf, and now this. Did you not see the signs when you visited Miss Maye after she committed her thesis?”
“I did warn the Board of the signs, if you’ll remember,” Harrow replied tightly, keeping calm in a way that should have made Guy McMaster himself proud. “I suggested that we engage the old methods of guarding Miss Maye, and was told that there was no money in the budget to do so. Since that time, I have, as instructed, been reading the Hollywood news each day.” He willed himself not to play menacingly with the fountain pen in his hand, which was loaded with ink that had been whipped up with a special ingredient from the poison garden. He longed to shove the nib of the fountain pen directly into someone’s eye, but as a McMasters-trained executor himself, he could never act with such a lack of subtlety.
“And precisely how long did you know about the need for a Fifth Enquiry before you convened the Board of Directors? It should have been done immediately.”
Once again, Harrow tried to defend himself. “The article appeared in a scandal sheet that crossed my desk not five hours ago. I fail to see how the Board could have been convened any faster than it was.”
“It is becoming apparent, Dean Harrow, that you value your title and the trappings of your post more than the sanctity of this institution.”
“As I have been trying to say for the last ten minutes, nothing is more important than the security and secrecy of McMasters. Therefore, I propose that a Fifth Enquiry regarding the actions of Doria Maye be undertaken immediately.”
“Yes, but it is apparent that you cannot serve as an impartial observer in this case, or we would not be in this position to begin with. Need we remind you that Fifth Enquiries are not only rare, but also expensive? The duties of the Dean include not only safeguarding the sanctity of the institution, but also being a good steward of its financial resources.”
The Governor finally spoke over Erma Daimler. “Assistant Dean Daimler is quite correct. A Fifth Enquiry is called for, but Dean Harrow has not shown himself able to be impartial in the case of Miss Maye. An impartial third party needs to carry out the investigation.”
“With respect, Governor, there is no money in the budget for a private investigation to be paid for,” said Daimler. “And where would we find an impartial third party to perform this investigation, without breaking the sanctity of McMasters?”
“Dean Harrow will be placed on unpaid administrative leave pending the outcome of the Fifth Enquiry. What we don’t pay him in salary, can be used to pay the cost of the investigation.”
“And where will we find an impartial investigator?”
There was a long silence while everyone in the room contemplated this. At last, Clifford Iverson spoke up from the back of the room.
“If I may, I know someone who might be able to help us here. His name is Wes Trachter, and we’ve been friends since we went to Caltech together. He works in security for an aviation company, so he is not unfamiliar with working under the utmost secrecy.”
A blonde board member regarded him over the top of her half-moon glasses. “And you know he can be trusted how?”
“Because, Ma’am, he was instrumental to my own thesis.”
Two Months Later…
Wes Trachter had never quite forgotten Cliff Iverson, whom he’d known briefly when both of them had been students at Caltech. He himself hadn’t been able to stay at Caltech for long, money troubles leading him to enlist in the Army just before Pearl Harbor, so he’d never become exactly close to Cliff, though he considered the other man a stand-up guy. So he had been shocked when a letter from Cliff had landed on his desk, postmarked from the Faroe Islands. (He’d had to find a huge atlas in a public library to work out exactly where that was.)
He’d read the letter offering him a one-time, unique surveillance job, tailing a Hollywood actress on the set of a low-budget film. At first he had hesitated to respond–private investigators who worked messy divorces were a dime a dozen–but ultimately Wes had accepted. Now, at the completion of the mission, he was more than glad to be back to AirCorps.
Seating himself at his desk, he took a pen and began to write.
February 12, 195-
Cliff:
I have recently returned from the job you sent me on. Having tailed Doria Maye all over the Italian countryside, I can assure you that, while she leaves a trail of broken hearts in her wake, there is no connection between Doria Maye and that director. He died of natural causes. Although there was no love lost between him and Miss Maye, she was seen at the Coliseum, arm in arm with another man at the time of his death. Doria Maye may not be innocent of much, but in this case, her name has been cleared beyond the shadow of a doubt.
Yours, Wes