Clear Proof

My name is Dutch, just like the ex-president. I live with my wife, Lauraine Colson, on Amsterdam Avenue in New York City.

Frederick Lawrence left a message on my answering machine in the room Lauraine set aside for my office. I returned the call immediately to a receptionist at the Landers’ Landing Mississippi River Urology Clinic. She put me through to a gravely voice, “Lawrence.”

“This is Dutch. You called?”

“Hell, yes. You’re the closest private eye to Morningside University, aren’t you?”

“I’m across the street from the dorm.”

“What do you charge to find someone and report to me?”

“A hundred fifty an hour plus expenses.”

“Do you have a minimum?”

“Time spent.”

“I want you to locate my son. He’s enrolled at the college. He transferred from Our Lady University this past summer, a sophomore concentrating in French.”

“Why do you think he’s missing?”

“I haven’t heard from him for six weeks. I’ll send you some stuff, a photo. Get back to me as soon as you can. I’ll include my e-mail address in an overnight package.”

The overnight also contained a letter, the photo and a birth certificate. Of all the things I never thought to doubt, it was the boy’s parentage. In this age of identity theft, the proffering of proof of the boy’s birth seemed defensive. The letter described what a nice boy Herbie Lawrence was.

I opened a file, dropped in the material, grabbed my old camera and went the college’s registrar’s office. I picked up a campus map, a pass and a copy of Herbie’s schedule. I studied the schedule. One class was advanced French. On the campus map, I noticed that Morningside University had an entire house devoted to student French clubs.

I visited this haunt, which was three blocks off the main university’s campus, one block from steps leading down to Morningside Park at 116^th Street.

There was some activity in the afternoon. Several painters were applying brushes to the scrubbed walls of the reception room. They worked, from the looks of their marked coveralls, with authority provided by the university.

I asked for the director. He came from an office behind the reception desk and looked puzzled, a dainty little man about fifty.

I showed him my license. He brushed both sides of a groomed, pencil mustache and introduced himself as Henri Sank.

The idea of the French House clubs was to converse in French with Frenchmen.

“Do you know any French?” he said.

“Some, but not the kind you speak. I’m looking for a student named Herbie Lawrence.”

Henri looked responsive. “I like Herbie,” he said. “Very bright in a competitive atmosphere.”

I noticed that his eyes got watery. These were the tears of someone close. I was curious.

“Competitive?”

“I mean brutal. Some of these kids from Brooklyn read Balzac for breakfast.”

“I suppose that’s why he’s at Morningside.”

“I’d like to think so. I’m his brother.”

That’s odd, I thought. Lawrence might have contacted him instead of dangling money in front of me. Lawrence must be estranged from Henri.

“Do you have any idea where he might be?”

“He should be at the club toni