She sounds scared. I’m interested already. Plus, universities have money, “I’ll be over this afternoon,” right after a nap and a cold shower.
“Mr. Dueller, we’ve been waiting. Go right in to Dean Crowley’s office there.” So, ix-nay on the tective-Day; it must be serious. That better translate in billing.
“Dean Crowley? I’m Mr. Dueller. Fill me in; discretion is assumed, so tell me everything.” He won’t.
“Well, there’s not much to it,” uh-huh, “We haven’t heard from Professor Elwood Gerrits, our head of Ancient Studies, in over a week. We’d like you to find him and see that he’s alright.” He’s awfully fidgety for such a refined looking older gentleman.
I’ll dig around the side, “What have you told his students?”
“He has none, presently. He’s studying new inventory at Pickman Memorial Museum and helping catalog,” He twitched, “They haven’t seen him either, which is why I’m concerned. It’s probably nothing, but they’re displeased.”
‘Probably nothing?’ He’s down-playing it now, either for money or fear I’ll be scared off. “You call the police?”
Crowley’s composure strained, “No, for worry of media attention. Professor Gerrits has a … reserved personality.” You mean secretive. It’s not money.
This just went from interesting to exciting. “I’ll call you when I find him.” And whatever you’re hiding.
“You’ve no other questions?” He almost seems genuinely disappointed.
“None I expect you’d answer openly.” I’ll answer them myself.