The Geographer's Library

Jon Fasman
“Well, no. Like he carried a pistol around with him and winged a cat out
his window late one night.”
“He shot a cat?” Art cackled. “A gun-toting history professor? This just
gets stranger and stranger. You confirm it with the Wickenden police?”
“No, not yet. I was going to call them this afternoon. My professor’s
nephew, he’s a cop there.”
Art ran his hand over his head. “See, this is why we got to get you to a real
newspaper. I can tell you’re getting restless, and you’re getting curious, and
those are the two best things a reporter can be. Listen, why don’t we think on
it tonight? Tomorrow we’ll decide whether you want to keep poking around
or whether you’ll go back to the usual stuff.”
I nodded, and he got into his coat. “Hey, one other thing I forgot to mention,”
I said, “the fat cop—”
“Bert.”
“Bert, right. Bert said that they got a call about Pühapäev’s death in the
middle of the night. Someone else reported it. Any idea who?”
He stopped, one arm in and one arm out of his coat. “Good question.
You know, I have absolutely no idea.” He took his coat off. “Give me just a
sec, I’ll call the Panda.”
He put the phone on speaker, dialed, and waited until that deep, clipped
voice picked up. “Panda. You have a waiting room full of clients or you got a
second for me?”
“The world, my friend, is my waiting room full of clients. For you I anytime
have several hundred seconds.”
“I’m sitting here with Paul Tomm, ace reporter.”
“Shakespeare scholar Mr. Tomm. Is he quite fine today?”
“He isn’t complaining. How are you?”
“No complaining from me either here. What can I do for you gentlemen
this afternoon?”
Art motioned for me to stay quiet. “Panda, we’d like to know who
reported Jaan Pühapäev’s death.”
“You know this is information and a matter for police only. You know I
should not tell you anything and refer you instead to official authorities.”
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