Blunt Darts

even in the class of 1959, could touch him.”
    “Actually, Miss Pitts,” I broke in, setting my cup, saucer, and goodies on the floor, “what I’m interested in is whether anyone has touched him. In the unfriendly sense, I mean.”
    “Uh, quite,” said Miss Pitts, a bit miffed, I thought. Well, as I told Miss Jacobs this morning, two weeks ago, on the twelfth, I was taking my evening exercise. I used to call it my constitutional, but after the way some groups have twisted one meaning of that word, I nave ceased to use it at all. In any case, while I was talking down Ballard Street, I saw Stephen ahead of me, carrying his books. No doubt he was so late in heading home—it was nearly five-thirty, you see— because he had visited the library after school. Well, seeing him I was about to call to him, when a black sedan screeched to a halt on the street beside him. He took one look at the driver and was gone.”
    “Did the driver go after him?” I asked.
    “Hah, not likely. Stephen is as springy and quick as an antelope. That Gerry Blakey couldn’t have caught him on horseback, assuming a horse could bear him any better than this town can.”
    “What happened then?”
    “Well, Blakey, who’d gotten half out of the driver’s side, muttered something, slid back in, and drove off.”
    I leaned back. Miss Pitts’s eyes might be getting a little weak, but she wouldn’t be likely to mistake Stephen, and no one could mistake Blakey.
    “Why didn’t you report this to the police?” I asked. She gave me a sour look. “The police? Hmph. Will Smollett is a fool who can’t even control the teenage hoodlums in this town, much less be its chief investigative officer. Besides, he’s in the judge’s pocket. Everyone knows that. And if Blakey was chasing Stephen, the judge was likely connected with Stephen’s leaving. That’s why I decided to tell Eleanor.“
    “You mean Valerie.”
    She determinedly set down her teacup and rose. “Young man, you are smug, and you are rude. If I were to say ‘Valerie’ I would mean Miss Jacobs. When I say ‘Eleanor,’ I mean Eleanor Kinnington. I’m afraid this interview is over.”
    I glanced to my right. Valerie seemed as stunned at the reference to Mrs. Kinnington as I was.
    I stood politely and looked at our hostess. “Miss Pitts, please accept my apology. I was rude, and I assumed you were a meandering old woman who might confuse things. I was wrong. But I’ve been retained to try to find a probably terrified fourteen-year-old child, and you’re the first bright spot I’ve come across. Can we please talk a while longer?” Miss Pitts’s face softened, and she sat back down. “He is such a dear, dear boy.”
    We covered the intersections of Miss Pitts’s and Stephen’s lives during the prior six months. Nothing was produced that sounded helpful. I decided that a quiet interlude was appropriate before we moved back to tougher ground.
    “What can you tell me about Telford Kinnington, the judge’s brother?”
    Miss Pitts gave a bittersweet smile. “Ah, Telford Kinnington. He was three years younger than the judge, and enough unlike him to have been bought from the Gypsies. The judge, who went to public school here too, was a plodder. Everything seemed to come easily to Telford, though. A gifted student, a fine athlete at Harvard, and a true patriot, Mr. Cuddy. Telford didn’t just talk about this country, he died fighting for it. Only a few months after he’d been home on leave, too. In fact, I still have the newspaper account of his last battle. Just a minute.”
    She bustled over to a stuffed bookcase and levered out a scrapbook. I feared a lengthy, unproductive tangent coming on. I thought about telling her to forget it but decided I was talking to her on borrowed time as it was.
    “Let me see,” she said, turning pages with agonizing slowness. “Yes, yes, here it is.” She passed me the open book.
    There were two accounts, one from the Banner, a local paper, and one from the Globe. Both were dated April 11, 1969. According to the local paper, Captain Telford Kinnington had led his company in a counterattack from an American position against a much larger Vietcong force that was engaging a separate sector of the position. He and nearly a quarter of his company (about 40 of 160) were killed or wounded, but the VC had been annihilated. The medal he’d received, however, was, in my experience, not a very substantial award for a heroic charge.
    The Globe