…A Dangerous Thing Read Online Free PDF

like a salesclerk in the clothing department at Sears.
    "I think I can find it," Burns said.   He didn't want anyone looking over his shoulder while he searched.
    "Just call me if you need any help," Dawn said.   "I know all about these things."   She waved a red-tipped hand at the crammed shelves.
    "Thanks," Burns said, convinced that she knew absolutely nothing at all about the contents of the catalogs.
    He waited until she had left the room before he looked for the catalog he wanted.   Since they were arranged more or less in alphabetical order, he found it easily and pulled it from the shelf.
    The spine was royal blue, as was most of the front cover, and the words CATALOGUE OF AUSTAMONT COLLEGE were printed on it in white.   The name was printed on the cover as well, along with the fancy spelling of catalog , and the academic year for which the catalog was valid was printed below the name.
    Burns sat in the student desk that was the only piece of furniture in the room and opened the catalog to the back.   He wasn't interested in the course descriptions.   He was interested in the list of faculty members.   Austamont College was one of HGC's sister denominational institutions, located in Missouri.   It was the school where Gwendolyn Partridge had been before her recent move, and hers was the first name Burns looked for.
    It was there, all right:
     
    PARTRIDGE, GWENDOLYN E.   Professor of English.   Chair,
    Division of Language and Literature.   B.A., M.A., Ph.D., Texas
    Tech University.   1977.
     
    The italicized year was the date that Dr. Partridge had joined the faculty at Austamont , and it was probably also the year she had received her final degree.   She had become a division chair at Austamont , and the next step up the ladder was a deanship, which had apparently not become available to her at that school, for whatever reason.   So she had applied for the one at HGC.
    Burns then scanned the list of faculty members for the name of someone he might know, either from graduate school or professional meetings.  
    There was only one name that was even slightly familiar, that of Barry Towson.   Burns had talked to him about paperback mystery fiction at a meeting of the Popular Culture Association in San Antonio the previous year.   They had agreed on a fondness for writers not generally much remembered by the general public, writers like J. M. Flynn, Bob McKnight, and Milton K. Ozaki.   Towson would probably remember him, Burns thought.
    Burns flipped back to the beginning of the catalog and copied down the school's area code and phone number.
    Then he replaced the Austamont Catalogue and took down the one from Claireson University, where Holt had taught before arriving at HGC.   Flipping to the faculty listing, Burns noted that Holt's degrees were from North Texas State University (now for some reason known as The University of North Texas).
    That was funny, Burns thought.   Mal Tomlin was about Holt's age, and Tomlin's degrees were from North Texas.   Yet Tomlin had never mentioned having encountered Holt there, as far as Burns knew.   Of course, in the '70s there had probably been a large number of students in pursuit of graduate degrees in English there, and Tomlin was in another department entirely, so there was nothing unusual in the fact that their paths had never crossed.
    Burns looked through the faculty listing for other names he recognized, but this time he came up with none.   Well, he could ask Tomlin to call a few of his friends from graduate school to see if they had known Holt, and there was always Tom Henderson, who thought Holt looked familiar.
    Burns returned the catalog to the shelf and left the cubbyhole.
    "Did you find what you were looking for?" Dawn Melling asked as he emerged.
    "Yes," Burns said.   "Thanks, Dawn."
    She smiled, revealing startlingly white teeth.   "Anytime.   Come back and let us service you again."
    Pondering the implications of that last statement,