Literature
hand. “We met at church in Prussia
when we were in the nursery. I’ve
known him forever.”
“Did you know anything about any
gaming debts that he’d incurred?”
Debts? “No.”
“Do you think that gaming debts
were the cause of his beating last
week?” asked Copeland, sitting back
in his desk chair.
Wils moved to the edge of his seat.
The prügel? Last Wednesday’s fight
flashed into his mind. There had been
a heated argument between Max and
a very drunk Arnold Archer after
dinner at the Spee dining club. Max
had called him a coward for
supporting the British but not being
willing to fight for them. It wasn’t
the most sensible thing to do given
Archer ran with brawny, patriotic
friends. On Thursday at the
boathouse Max had received the
worst of a fight with Archer’s gang.
“It was a schoolboys’ fight. They
were drunk. Max was beaten because
Arnold Archer was mad about the
Germans beating the British in
Belgium. Archer couldn’t fight
because America’s neutral, so he hit
a German who wouldn’t renounce his
country. These fights break out all
the time over politics when too much
brandy gets in the way. People get
over their arguments.”
“Didn’t Max make some nationalistic
speech at the Spee Club?”
Wils’s back stiffened in indignation.
“If Max had been British it would
have gone unnoticed. But because
he was German, Archer beat him.” He
paused. “Max was going to tell the
truth as he knew it, and thugs like
Archer weren’t going to stop him.”
Copeland tapped a pencil against
his knee. “How well do you think his
strategy worked?”
Wils’s eyes widened. “Being beaten
wasn’t Max’s fault, Professor. It
was the fault of the person who
used his fists.”
“Wils, Arnold Archer’s father is
coming to see me this evening to
discuss the case. His son is under
suspicion for Max’s death.”
“I hope Arnold goes to jail.”
“Arnold may not have been
involved.”
Wils set the glass down on the
wooden desk and stood up. “He’s a
pig.” “Wils, according to Arnold, Max
tried to send sensitive information
about the Charlestown Navy Yard
to Germany.” A faint tinge of pink
briefly colored the professor’s
cheeks. “Arnold said he knew about
this and was going to go to the
police. Max may have thought that
he would go to jail for endangering
the lives of Americans and British
citizens. And if what Arnold said was
right, then Max may have faced some
very serious conse quences.”
“America’s not at war.”
The professor didn’t respond.
“Why would Max do such a thing
then?” asked Wils curtly. “Arnold
says he was blackmailed because
of his gaming debts.”
“What could Max possibly have
found? He’s incapable of
remembering to brush his hair on
most days.”
Copeland threw up his hands,
nearly tipping over a stack of books
on the desk. “I have no idea. Maybe
America’s building ships for England.
Maybe we’ve captured a German
ship. Apparently he found something.
Sometime later, Max was found by
his maid, hung with a noose
fashioned from his own necktie. His
room was a wreck.” Copeland looked
at him intently. “And now the police
don’t know if it was suicide or
murder. Arnold might have wanted to
take matters into his own hands—as
he did the other night after the Spee
Club incident.”
Wils ran his hands through his hair.
“Arnold a murderer? It just doesn’t
make sense. It was a schoolboys’
fight. And Arnold’s a fool, but
much more of a village idiot
than a schemer.”
“Don’t underestimate him, Wils.
He’s not an idiot. He’s the son of
a very powerful local politician who
wants to run for higher office. His
father holds City Hall in his pocket.”
“Are you speaking of Boston City
Hall?” “Yes.”
“I could care less about some
martinet from Boston. I’m related
to half the monarchs in Europe,”
Wils sneered.
“City Hall has more power over
you right now than some king in
a faraway land,” said Copeland.
“Arresting another German, maybe
stopping a German spy ring—that
would be exactly the thing that
could get a man like Charles Archer
elected to Congress. I’d recommend
you cooperate with City Hall on any
investigation into Max’s death. If
you have information, you will need
to share it.”
“If Arnold killed Max—” He stopped,
barely able to breathe. Max dead by
Arnold’s hand? Unthinkable. “Was
there a note?”
“No, nothing. That’s why the
Boston police may arrest Archer even
if his father does run City Hall.
Either it was a suicide and it won’t
happen again, or perhaps we need to
warn our German students about... a
problem.” Copeland’s fingers brushed
the edge of his desk. “That was the
point of my summoning you here
now. It could’ve been suicide.
Therefore, the police want to
talk with you before innocent people
are accused, and I’d recommend
you do it.”
But Wils had already taken the bait.
“Innocent people? Arnold Archer?
Is this a joke?” asked Wils.
“He may not be guilty.”
Wils paused. “I’m not sure how
much money his father’s giving
Harvard, but it had better be a lot.”
“That’s most uncharitable!”
“And so is the possible murder of
a decent human! Where’s Professor
Francke? I’d like to speak with him.
He is a great German leader here on
campus whom everyone respects.
He’ll know how to advise me.”
“You are right. Professor Francke
is a moderate, respected voice of
reason. But he’s German and the
police questioned him this morning.
He is cooperating. His ties to the
kaiser have naturally brought him
under suspicion. City Hall thinks he
could be a ringleader of a band of
German spies. The dean of students
asked me to speak with you and a
few others prior to your discussions
with the police. They should contact
you shortly regarding this
unpleasantness.”
“If that is all—” Wils bowed his
head to leave, anger rising in his
throat from the injustice of what
he’d heard. First murder and now
harassment were being committed
against his countrymen, and
somehow they were to blame for it?
Not possible. Professor Francke was
one of the most generous and
beloved professors at Harvard. Max
was a harmless soul.
“Wils, you had said you wished to
ask me about something.”
Wils thought back to his mother’s
telegram. Perhaps she’d been right
to demand his return after all. He
looked up at Copeland, sitting under
an image of an old Spanish peasant.
He seemed to have shrunk in his
large desk chair.
“No, Professor. Nothing at all.
Good day.”
Copeland didn’t rise as Wils turned
to enter the dimly lit hallway. As his
eyes adjusted, a famous poem
Copeland had taught him in class
came to him. Wils turned back to
his teacher and said:
“For the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of
dreams, So various, so beautiful,
so new, Hath really neither joy, nor
love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor
peace, nor help for pain; And we
are here as on a darkling plain—”
Copeland brightened. “Swept with
confused alarms of struggle and
flight, where ignorant armies clash
by night,” they finished together.
113
Wils nodded, unable to speak
further.
“Matthew Arnold has his moments.
Do take care, Wils. Stay alert. I am
concerned about you and want you
to be safe. The world is becoming
darker just now. Your intellectual
light is one worth preserving. Now
please close the door from the
outside.” Copeland looked down
again, and the interview was over.
The rain had driven the students
inside their dormitories and flooded
the walkways in Harvard Yard. As
Wils left Hollis Hall, he removed his
tie and pushed it into his pocket. The
damned Americans talk brotherhood,
he thought, but if you’re from the
wrong side of Europe you’re no
brother to them.
Max dead. Arnold Archer under
suspicion. And what was all of that
ridiculous nonsense about the
Charlestown Navy Yard, he
wondered, deep in thought, nearly
walking into a large blue mailbox.
He crossed the busy street and
walked toward his room in Beck Hall.
In his mind, he saw Max trading
barbs at the dinner table and
laughing at the jests of Wils’s
roommate, Riley, an inveterate
prankster. And how happy Max had
been when Felicity, his girlfriend
from Radcliffe College, had agreed to
go with him to a dance. But he’d been
utterly heartbroken when she
deserted him last year for a senior.
This past summer Wils and Max had
walked along the banks of the Baltic,
when they were back in Europe for
summer vacation. He said he would
never get over her and he never really
had. So what had happened to him?
Anger at the injustice of Max’s
dea th welled up inside Wils as he
opened the arched door of Beck Hall
and walked quickly past Mr. Burton’s
desk. The housemaster didn’t look up
from his reading. Wils shut the door
to his room behind him. His breath
was short. His hands hadn’t stopped
trembling. He had to find Riley and
discuss what to do about Arnold.
What was happening to his world?
His beautiful, carefully built world
was cracking. Germany and Britain
at war? Max dead? Professor
Francke hauled in and questioned?
Wils felt a strange fury welling up
inside of him. He wanted something
to hurt as badly as he did. He picked
up a porcelain vase and hurled it
against the brick fireplace. It
crashed and shattered, the blue-andwhite shards scattering over the
crimson rug.
To learn more about the author go
to www.allegrajordan.com.