Oh, Murderer Mine | Page 3

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. He had a naively appealing smile and a smooth, roundly pink face. He moved his head to indicate the dog and said:
"I use him for a decoy. While people gape at him, I sneak up behind them and pinch them."
"P-pinch them?" Melissa repeated, shying away.
"A slang expression," the man explained. "I mean, I arrest them. I'm a detective. What are you?"
"An anthropologist."
"Oh," said the man. "You study apes and like that?"
"No! Certainly not! Anthropology is the study of mankind. We study apes only because you can learn a lot about