"No," he said. "I've no interest in crushing Maggie. She's been a friend. Apart from that, my loyalties to this institution are far from blind. I detest certain aspects of this place - my true home, if you will."

"Such as the Krugers?"

"Such as the environment that allows Krugers and their ilk to flourish."

He tottered, the too - large head lolling on its misshapen base.

"The choice is yours, young man. Put up or shut up."

I put up.

"Nothing in your story surprises me," he said. "I didn't know of Stuart Hickle's death nor of his sexual proclivities, but neither are shocking. He was a bad poet, Dr. Delaware, very bad - and nothing is beyond a bad poet."

I recalled the verse at the bottom of Lilah Towle's yearbook obituary. It was clear who "S" was.

"When you mentioned Timothy I became alarmed, because I didn't know if you were in the employ of the Krugers. The badge you showed me is well and fine, but such trinkets are easily counterfeited."

"Call Detective Delano Hardy at West Lost Angeles Police Division. He'll tell you what side I'm on." I hoped he wouldn't take me up on it - who knew how Hardy would react?

He looked at me thoughtfully. "No, that won't be necessary. You're a dreadful liar. I believe I can intuitively tell when you're telling the truth."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. A compliment was intended."

"Tell me about Timothy Kruger," I said.

He stood blinking, gnome like a concoction of a Hollywood special - effects lab.

"The first thing I'd like to emphasize is that the evil of the Krugers has nothing to do with wealth. They would be evil paupers - I imagine they were, at one time. If that sounds defensive, it is."

"I understand."

"The very wealthy are not evil, Bolshevist propaganda to the contrary. They are a harmless lot - overly - sheltered, reticent, destined for extinction." He took a step backward as if retreating from his own prediction.

I waited.

"Timothy Kruger," he finally said, "is a murderer, plain and simple. The fact that he was never arrested, tried or convicted does nothing to diminish his guilt in my eyes. The story goes back seven - no, eight years. There was a student here, a farm boy from Idaho. Sharp as a tack, built like Adonis. His name was Saxon. Jeffrey Saxon. He came here to study, the first of his family to finish high school, dreaming of becoming a writer.

"He was accepted on an athletic scholarship - crew, baseball, football, wrestling - and managed to excel in all of those while maintaining an A average. He majored in history and I was his faculty advisor, though by that time I wasn't teaching any more. We had many chats, up here in this room. The boy was a pleasure to converse with. He had an enthusiasm for life, a thirst for knowledge."

A tear collected in the corner of one drooping, blue eye.

"Excuse me." The old man pulled out a linen handkerchief and dabbed his cheek. "Dusty in here, must get the custodial staff to clean." He sipped his whiskey and when he spoke his voice was enfeebled by memories.

"Jeffrey Saxon had the curious, searching nature of a true scholar, Dr. Delaware. I recall the first time he came up here and saw all the books. Like a child let loose in a toy store. I lent him my finest antiquarian volumes - everything from the London edition of Josephus' Chronicles to anthropologic treatises. He devoured them. "For God's sake, Professor," he'd say, 'it would take several lifetimes to learn even a fraction of what there is to know' - that's the mark of an intellectual, in my view, becoming cognizant of one's own insignificance in relation to the accumulated mass of human knowledge.

"The others, of course, thought him a rube, a hick. They made fun of his clothes, his manner, his lack of sophistication. He spoke to me about it - I'd become a kind of surrogate grandfather I suppose - and I reassured him that he was meant for more noble company than what Jedson had to offer. In fact I'd encouraged him to put in for a transfer to an Eastern school - Yale, Princeton - where he could achieve significant intellectual growth. With his grades and a letter from me, he might have made it. But he never got a chance.

"He became attached to a young lady, one of the Two Hundred, pretty enough, but vapid. This in itself, was no error, as the heart and the gonads must be satisfied. The mistake was in choosing a female already coveted by another."

"By Tim Kruger?"

Van der Graaf nodded painfully.

"This is difficult for me, Doctor. It brings back so much."

"If it's too difficult for you, Professor, I can leave now and come back some other time."

"No, no. That would serve no purpose." He took a deep breath. "It comes down to a smarmy soap opera of a tale. Jeffrey and Kruger were interested in the same girl, they had words in public. Tempers flared, but it seemed to pass. Jeffrey visited me and vented his spleen. I played amateur psychologist - professors so often are required to provide emotional support to their students and I confess I did a fine job of it. I urged him to forget the girl, knowing her type, understanding full well that Jeffrey would be the loser in any battle of wills. The young of Jedson are homing pigeons, as predictable as their ancestors, reverting to type. The girl was meant to mate with one of her own. There were better things, finer things, awaiting Jeffrey, an entire lifetime of opportunity and adventure.

"He wouldn't listen. He was like a knight of old, imbued with the nobility of his mission. Conquer the Black Jouster, rescue the fair maiden. Total rubbish - but he was an innocent. An innocent."

Van der Graaf paused, out of breath. His face had turned a sickly greenish shade of pale and I feared for his health.

"Perhaps we should stop for the moment," I suggested. "I can return tomorrow."

"Absolutely not! I'll not be left here in solitary confinement with a poisonous lump lodged in my craw!" He cleared his throat. "I'll be on with it - you sit there and pay close attention."

"All right, Professor."

"Now then, where was I - ah, Jeffrey as a White

Knight. Foolish boy. The enmity between him and Timothy Kruger continued and festered. Jeffrey was ostracized by all the others - Kruger was a campus luminary, socially established. I became Jeffrey's sole source of support. Our conversations changed. No longer were they cerebral exchanges. Now I was conducting psychotherapy on a full - time basis - an activity with which I was most uncomfortable, but I felt I couldn't abandon the boy. I was all he had.

"It culminated in a wrestling match. Both the boys were Greco - Roman wrestlers. They agreed to meet, late at night, in the empty gymnasium, just the two of them for a grudge match. I'm no wrestler myself, for obvious reasons, but I do know that the sport is highly structured, replete with regulations, the criteria for victory clearly drawn. Jeffrey liked it for that reason - he was highly self - disciplined for one so young. He walked into that gym alive and left on a stretcher, neck and spine snapped, alive in only the most vegetative sense of the word. Three days later he died."

"And his death was ruled an accident," I said softly.

"That was the official story. Kruger said the two of them had gotten involved in a complicated series of holds and in the ensuing tangle of torsos, arms and legs, Jeffrey had been injured. And who could dispute it - accidents do occur in wrestling matches. At worst it seemed a case of two immature men behaving in an irresponsible manner. But to those of us who knew Timothy, who understood the depth of the rivalry between them, that was far from a satisfactory explanation. The college was eager to hush it up, the police all too happy to oblige - why go up against the Kruger millions when there are hundreds of poor people committing crimes?