Oh, Murderer Mine | Page 3

a sudden hunch and opened it
again very quickly. She caught Professor Sley-Mynick in the act of
crawling cautiously out from under his desk. He froze there on his
hands and knees and made wordless little pip pipping noises.
Also, he seemed to be stuck, for he was by no means a small man and
the space he was in looked to be about three sizes too small. He was fat,
as a matter of fact--fish white and jelly fat--but despite his size, the

fierce, jet-black mustache he was wearing was still too big for him and
Melissa got the impression the mustache was leading him around
willy-nilly. He was bald and wore tiny rimless spectacles so thick they
were opaque.
"Good morning, Professor," Melissa said.
"Oh," said Professor Sley-Mynick. "Yes, it is. Good, I mean. Isn't it?"
It was strange hearing such a pipsqueak voice emerge from such a
roly-poly body. By dint of great exertion, the professor extricated
himself from the trap he was in.
"What were you doing under your desk?" Melissa asked.
"Desk?" Professor Sley-Mynick repeated blankly. He spoke with an
accent that gave his words a just noticeable blubber. "Under it? Oh. My
fountain pen. I mean, it dropped and rolled, I guess. Didn't it?"
"No," said Melissa. "It didn't. You were hiding."
"I?" said Professor Sley-Mynick, amazed.
"Yes, you."
"From--from what?"
"Me."
"Why?"
"Because you are the senior professor in this building, and you are in
charge of assigning offices in it!"
"Oh, dear," said Professor Sley-Mynick.
"Just what," said Melissa, "do you mean by giving my office to that
matinee-faced moron upstairs?"

"Oh, he's not a moron. He's a meteorologist. It's the science of the
weather--storms and the climate and--and things. It's very important
work. He said."
"Never mind what he said. Answer my question. Why did you give him
my office?"
"Oh, that," said Professor Sley-Mynick. "The president! T. Ballard
Bestwyck. He's the president of the whole university. He talks to rich
people--face to face--and they often give him some of their money.
That's very vital. He wrote a letter. To me--personally. It said that the
moron--I mean, the meteorologist--was to have an office in this
building. I'll find it. The letter. It's right here. Isn't it?" He burrowed
busily among the papers on his desk.
"I don't care about the letter," Melissa told him. "Why did you have to
give this seasonal swami my office?"
"He said he wanted it."
"Oh, he did? And that was reason enough?"
"Yes," Professor Sley-Mynick admitted. "I mean, he's a very handsome
young man, but I'm afraid he's not very nice. He snarls. Doesn't he?"
"Yes," said Melissa, sighing. "All right, Professor. Have you given any
thought to finding another office for me?"
"Indeed, yes!" said Sley-Mynick. "Number 5. All your files and notes
are in there. I was very careful of them. You'll like Number 5. It's nice.
Isn't it?"
"It most certainly is not! It stinks!"
Melissa was speaking the literal truth. Number 5 occupied an unused
corner of one of the chemical labs, and its partitions were porous. It is a
moot question whether students like to make stinks because they take
chemistry or whether they take chemistry because they like to make

stinks. In any event, they invariably do.
"It's not right," said Melissa. "The whole thing is nothing but an
injustice. You know that, don't you?"
"Oh, dear," said Professor Sley-Mynick.
"And do you know what I'm going to do one of these fine days?"
"What?" Professor Sley-Mynick asked.
"I'm going to spit right in one of his beautiful eyes!"
"Oh!" said Professor Sley-Mynick, deeply shocked.
Melissa slammed his door and started down the hall in the general
direction of Number 5. She had gone about ten paces when something
stirred sluggishly in the shadows. Melissa stopped with a startled gasp.
It was too early yet for students to be lurking about, and anyway this
couldn't possibly be mistaken for one.
It was a dog. It was the most enormous dog Melissa had ever seen. It
sat right down in the hall in front of her in a leisurely and
self-possessed way and proceeded to look her over from head to foot in
a manner that was not far from insulting.
Melissa caught her breath. "H-hello," she said timidly. She snapped her
fingers in a feeble attempt at friendliness.
The dog studied her fingers as though he had never seen any before and
wouldn't care if he never did again. He was a fawn-colored Great Dane.
"Hello," said a voice.
Melissa jerked around. There was a man leaning against the wall,
watching her. He hadn't been there two seconds before. He was small
and plump and pleasant-looking. He was wearing a double-breasted
pin-striped blue suit with outsize lapels and a dark blue hat.