Was my father really the only serious suspect?”
Stella and Steve Symansky exchanged glances.
“Of course we speculated about it,” Steve Symansky said, “my first inclination was to think that maybe something had gone radically wrong with Monaghan’s involvement in the Bull project. Some form of professional jealously or dispute. But there was nothing to justify that assumption. We finally concluded that it was probably one of his students, someone he was planning to fail. I think I may have filed a report along those lines.” I suspected that he had. He would have felt the need to file something. It would have been a way of covering himself. He went on, “the police knew he was anything but popular with his students. But they chose not to pursue that line of investigation. And so the mystery, as you put it, of who really killed Professor Monaghan was just left dangling in thin air.”
“My father,” Gina persisted, “believed that someone you all knew continued to fan assumptions about his guilt even after he was released. Does anything along those lines occur to you?”
Steve Symansky gave a puzzled negative shake of his head. Stella frowned, and then shook her head as well. But Gina had noticed the slight hesitation.
“Nothing at all?” She asked Stella.
“No. Not really. Nothing that would justify what your father believed.”
“But something did occur to you.”
Stella hesitated. “Only one incident. And it was really very minor.” Gina waited. Finally Stella gave in. “It was at a party, I don’t remember whose, and Harold Hendricks, have you met him?”
We both nodded. “We’ve also touched base with Naomi Monaghan, or Bronson, as she is called now.” I added. It was not the kind of thing I had planned to mention.
“Is she still in Montreal?” Stella asked.
I nodded.
“Well, at any rate, on that particular occasion, Harold had drunk too much as usual, and he said, if my memory is correct,” she was staring thoughtfully at some point in the Persian rug, “something to the effect that given the way Monaghan had treated his wife, he had probably deserved to have his head bashed in by someone who truly loved her.” Her face reddened. “Looking back, I realize that it is possible that he was referring to your father. But at the time I didn’t think so. You see we all knew that Hendricks was pathetically infatuated with Naomi. I only saw it as a pitiful form of macho grandstanding on his part.” She thought for a moment. “I’m still inclined to put that interpretation on it.” She smiled apologetically.
I felt a need for some fresh air. The Symanskys were not my kind of people. I glanced at Gina. She nodded. “We should be going,” I said, nodding politely to each of them in turn, “if anything else occurs to you, I’d appreciate your giving me a call.”
“Yes, of course.” Stella Symansky said.
While Stella held Gina in conversation in the doorway, Steve Symansky followed me out to the car. I had the feeling there was something he wanted to say to me. He stared down the street at the campus. “If, as part of your story about Monaghan’s death, you feel you have to include my work for the CIA while I was at Winston, I’d appreciate a few hours advance notice before it appears in the paper.” I noted his careful use of the conditional. He must have known his CIA connection while in Montreal was a story in itself for almost any Canadian journalist. Still, it was an interesting opening gambit. Not a special plea to be kept out of the papers but something close to it. I responded with a gambit of my own.
“I want to try to restore Montini’s reputation, and to do that I need to find out who murdered Monaghan. And to do that I need the co-operation of those who were part of his circle then. But I’m not on a hobby horse about anything else that happened that many years ago,” I said. I saw hope briefly touch his features. “So unless what you did is a crucial
Stella and Steve Symansky exchanged glances.
“Of course we speculated about it,” Steve Symansky said, “my first inclination was to think that maybe something had gone radically wrong with Monaghan’s involvement in the Bull project. Some form of professional jealously or dispute. But there was nothing to justify that assumption. We finally concluded that it was probably one of his students, someone he was planning to fail. I think I may have filed a report along those lines.” I suspected that he had. He would have felt the need to file something. It would have been a way of covering himself. He went on, “the police knew he was anything but popular with his students. But they chose not to pursue that line of investigation. And so the mystery, as you put it, of who really killed Professor Monaghan was just left dangling in thin air.”
“My father,” Gina persisted, “believed that someone you all knew continued to fan assumptions about his guilt even after he was released. Does anything along those lines occur to you?”
Steve Symansky gave a puzzled negative shake of his head. Stella frowned, and then shook her head as well. But Gina had noticed the slight hesitation.
“Nothing at all?” She asked Stella.
“No. Not really. Nothing that would justify what your father believed.”
“But something did occur to you.”
Stella hesitated. “Only one incident. And it was really very minor.” Gina waited. Finally Stella gave in. “It was at a party, I don’t remember whose, and Harold Hendricks, have you met him?”
We both nodded. “We’ve also touched base with Naomi Monaghan, or Bronson, as she is called now.” I added. It was not the kind of thing I had planned to mention.
“Is she still in Montreal?” Stella asked.
I nodded.
“Well, at any rate, on that particular occasion, Harold had drunk too much as usual, and he said, if my memory is correct,” she was staring thoughtfully at some point in the Persian rug, “something to the effect that given the way Monaghan had treated his wife, he had probably deserved to have his head bashed in by someone who truly loved her.” Her face reddened. “Looking back, I realize that it is possible that he was referring to your father. But at the time I didn’t think so. You see we all knew that Hendricks was pathetically infatuated with Naomi. I only saw it as a pitiful form of macho grandstanding on his part.” She thought for a moment. “I’m still inclined to put that interpretation on it.” She smiled apologetically.
I felt a need for some fresh air. The Symanskys were not my kind of people. I glanced at Gina. She nodded. “We should be going,” I said, nodding politely to each of them in turn, “if anything else occurs to you, I’d appreciate your giving me a call.”
“Yes, of course.” Stella Symansky said.
While Stella held Gina in conversation in the doorway, Steve Symansky followed me out to the car. I had the feeling there was something he wanted to say to me. He stared down the street at the campus. “If, as part of your story about Monaghan’s death, you feel you have to include my work for the CIA while I was at Winston, I’d appreciate a few hours advance notice before it appears in the paper.” I noted his careful use of the conditional. He must have known his CIA connection while in Montreal was a story in itself for almost any Canadian journalist. Still, it was an interesting opening gambit. Not a special plea to be kept out of the papers but something close to it. I responded with a gambit of my own.
“I want to try to restore Montini’s reputation, and to do that I need to find out who murdered Monaghan. And to do that I need the co-operation of those who were part of his circle then. But I’m not on a hobby horse about anything else that happened that many years ago,” I said. I saw hope briefly touch his features. “So unless what you did is a crucial
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