Rose's Last Summer

by Margaret Millar

  Murphy was gone, and now Greer was gone. She was quite alone.

  She put her hand on her heart to stop its wild pound­ing. “I’ve got to go away for awhile,” Murphy had said. “You behave yourself like a good girl and I’ll be back.”

  That was the way Murphy talked to her when they were alone together, in a half-derisive, half-affectionate way which the old lady enjoyed. In front of Willett and Ethel, Murphy was always very respectful, though she fre­quently winked behind Willett’s back, or made a face, or rolled her eyes heavenward.

  “I’ve got to go away for awhile.”

  That had been at half-past one. Five minutes later she had walked down the driveway, looking very trim and brisk and impatient.

  Breathing heavily, the old lady closed the window and locked it. Then, after a minute’s hesitation, she went to the door and locked that, too.

  “Lock your door and windows,” Murphy had said.

  The locks were flimsy, but they worked. She returned to bed and lay for a long time on her right side watching the second hand of the clock on the bureau. Its movement seemed to hypnotize her and she fell into a half-doze.

  She wasn’t sure what awakened her—a troubled dream, the cry of a mockingbird, the flapping of awnings in the wind—but quite suddenly she was fully awake again.

  Someone was outside her door. The knob turned, twice, three times.

  “Are you there?” Willett said. “Are you sleeping?” A pause. “She’s got her door locked, Ethel.”

  “Then we’ll just have to wait. She’s not going to run away.”

  “I don’t trust her when she’s in one of her moods.”

  “This is a fine time to think of that.”

  “You don’t suppose—?”

  “I’m too tired to suppose anything. I’m going to bed.”

  Behind the door the old woman stared grimly at the clock wishing that morning and Murphy would arrive.

  Morning came, but not Murphy.

  16

  Greer got up early, made his own breakfast, kissed his wife goodbye, and drove downtown to the white stucco building that housed the local newspaper. In the dusty file room at the rear of the editorial offices he found what he was looking for. The newspaper was dated exactly three weeks before, and Murphy’s ad was the first one listed un­der Situations Wanted, Female:

  Refined, efficient, young woman, well-traveled and educated, wishes domestic service with adult family, pref­erably as companion to elderly, bedridden lady. Excel­lent references. Telephone Miss Murphy, 7475.

  Greer wrote the number in his notebook and left the building by the rear exit to avoid meeting anyone he knew. He took a lot of kidding from the staff about want­ing his picture in the paper, and he had become a little sensitive about it.

  At his office he checked the telephone number Murphy had given. 7475 had a multiple listing: the Deluxe Paper Company, no address, Acorn Products, no address, Mar­shall Whitney, no address, Factory Sample Shoes, no ad­dress, and Personal Services, 103 East Puenta Street.

  He picked up the phone on his desk and dialed 7475.

  A woman answered on the second ring, in a clear, youthful voice with a professional lilt to it: “This is 7475.”

  “Is Mr. Whitney in?”

  “He’s out of town. I expect him back tonight. Will you leave a message?”

  “No thanks. How about the Deluxe Paper Company?”

  “What do you mean, how about it?”

  “Acorn Products—I’m interested in raising acorns.”

  “Listen, funny man, this is a business office and I don’t go for bum jokes so early in the morning.”

  “It’s no joke. I’m trying to contact a Miss Ada Murphy who gave this number as her own.”

  “I never heard of her,” the girl said sharply. “And even if I had, why should I tell you?”

  “This is Captain Greer of the Police Department.”

  “Isn’t that just dandy. This is Ingrid Bergman. It’s been nice knowing you.”

  She broke the connection so violently that Greer’s ears throbbed. He felt a little angry, not at the girl, but at himself for setting the wrong tone for the conversation.

  Puenta Street had been named for the small bridge spanning a creek that had been dry for twenty years. 103 was a two-storied frame house. A line of wet clothes in the rear yard indicated that it was still being used as a house, but the front part had been remodeled and con­verted into a small office with brick, plate glass and a sign in neon script, Personal Services.

  The entire office was visible through the window: on the left side a switchboard, on the right an imposing oak desk. Between the two, facing the switchboard and wear­ing a pair of earphones, was a young woman with pump­kin-colored hair. She was talking into the receiver and simultaneously writing in pencil on a large yellow sheet of paper. Her face had the rapt expression of someone who is doing several things at once.

  When Greer entered she raised her hand by way of greeting and went on talking: “Sorry, Mr. Siebold, I won’t have that done until tomorrow. My assistant is home with a cold. Tomorrow at ten, four carbons. Goodbye.”

  “Miss Bergman?” Greer said.

  The girl colored. “Raffin. Irene Raffin.”

  “I’m Captain Greer.”

  “I know that now. I checked with Frank Clyde.”

  “Why Frank?”

  “Well, he knows all the nuts in town and I thought that’s who it was, some nut impersonating a police cap­tain.”

  “What did Frank say?”

  “He said it was probably you in person all right be­cause you were trying to find Ada Murphy.”

  “Frank seems to know more about other people’s busi­ness than they do themselves.”

  “That is his business,” Miss Raffin said with a shrug. “Mine, too, in a way.”

  “I’d like to know more about yours, Miss Raffin.”

  “Ask me anything. No, hold it a sec. Here comes Frank now.”

  Greer glanced out of the window and saw Frank cross­ing the street, squinting in the early morning sun. “Quite a coincidence.”

  “Oh, it’s not a coincidence, I asked him to come. Just to pick up his typing, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “I mean it. I do a lot of typing for the clinic when they’re rushed.”

  “Does Frank usually pick it up at eight o’clock in the morning?”

  “He picks it up any time it’s ready,” Miss Raffin said with a serene smile. “Absolutely any old time.”

  “I see.”

  Frank came into the office and the two men shook hands while Miss Raffin watched them, still looking very amused.

  “It’s a small world,” Greer said. “And Miss Raffin seems determined to make it smaller.”

  Frank nodded, quite seriously. “If you don’t want me to stick around, say so and I’ll pick up my typing and leave.”

  “I’m getting a little tired of that typing gimmick. Let’s drop it.”

  “It’s not a gim—”

  “Drop it.”

  “All right.”

  “Miss Raffin,” Greer said, “was about to explain her business to me. She appears to be a very versatile young woman. She is the Deluxe Paper Company, Factory Sam­ple Shoes, Acorn Products, Marshall Whitney—have I left anything out, Miss Raffin?”

  “Oh my, yes,” the girl said briskly. “I’m also Miss Ada Murphy.”

  “That deserves an explanation.”

  “You’ll get one. First let me tell you that my business is exactly what it claims to be, personal services of all kinds. If you want a babysitter, a pair of antique candle­sticks, half a beef—or if you’re going on a holiday and want your hibiscus watered while you’re away, I’ll con­tact someone who’ll do it.”

  “That doesn’t explain A
da Murphy.”

  “It will. I also run a telephone service. Take Acorn Products as an example. They’re a firm who handle all kinds of screwy health foods. They have an office down in San Diego, but they can’t afford to keep one here, there isn’t enough business. There’s a little business, however, and that’s where I come in. I’m their La Mesa contact. Same with Mr. Whitney, who’s an author’s agent, and the Deluxe Paper Company and all the rest.”

  “Including Miss Murphy?”

  “Well, she’s a little different. When you called I couldn’t place her in my mind, but after I talked to Frank I looked up my files. She came in here three weeks ago yesterday. In my kind of business it’s awfully easy to get mixed up in shady deals unless you’re careful. I’m care­ful. At least I thought I was. If this Murphy affair turns out bad—”

  “Just tell me what happened.”

  “Well, all right. Like I said, it was three weeks ago yes­terday. When she came in, I couldn’t figure her at first. She didn’t act hesitant or nervous or anxious to please the way most girls do when they’re looking for a job. She was very sure of herself, talked pretty fancy using a lot of four-bit words. To impress me, I guess. I’m not easily im­pressed,” Miss Raffin added dryly. “She struck me as a sharp operator. Is she?”

  “I’m beginning to think so.”

  “Confidence racket?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I hope to heaven I’m not going to be dragged into anything that smells. After all, her story was plausible enough: she lived out of town, she was putting a want ad in the paper and she needed a local phone number to use since a lot of people won’t go to the trouble of writing to a box number or calling long distance. That sounds plau­sible to you, too, doesn’t it?”

  “Sure. I don’t think it was the truth, though.”

  “Well, I couldn’t be expected to know that,” the girl said sharply. “I haven’t got X-ray eyes for reading minds. To me it sounded like the truth. Naturally I asked her what kind of ad it was, since my charge would depend on the number of calls she got and the trouble I went to. She showed me a tentative copy that she’d written in pencil. I was surprised. She didn’t look like the type for a do­mestic job. She was far too—well, superior is the word. I couldn’t imagine any woman having enough courage to give her orders, if you know what I mean.”

  “I know very well,” Greer said, thinking of his own introduction to Murphy.

  “I run a small employment bureau here, too, so I asked her if she’d been trained for any other kind of work. She said certainly she had, but this happened to be what she wanted. So that was that. I charged her two bucks for the use of my services.”

  “What instructions did she give you?”

  “I was to make a record of all replies to her ad and call her if any of them were especially good.”

  “Call her where?”

  “I don’t know where, but she gave me a phone number. I have it written down somewhere—yes, here it is—22881, ask for Rose.”

  Frank made a little movement of surprise. But for Greer it was the confirmation of his own theory that the connection between Rose and the Goodfields was through Murphy.

  He said, “Did you call 22881 and ask for Rose?”

  “Certainly. I gave her the names and addresses of three people who’d phoned about the ad and she said she’d re­lay them to Miss Murphy. That’s about all I can tell you.”

  “That’s enough.” He looked at Frank. “Are you be­ginning to get a different picture of your old pal Rose?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I am. This smells to me like a con game that backfired.”

  “Rose would never have had any part in a con game. She didn’t care about money.”

  “A lot of people don’t care about money until they’re broke. Rose was good and broke.”

  Miss Raffin was busy at the switchboard again, talking in clear emphatic syllables as if she thought all people who used a telephone were deaf or senile. She wheeled around suddenly in the swivel chair and said to Greer, “There’s a call for you, Captain. Are you in or out?”

  “In.”

  “You can take it at the desk.”

  Greer picked up the desk phone. “Greer speaking.”

  “Jim, this is Daley. I’ve got some dame on the wire. She insists on talking to you, says it’s very important. Shall I put her on?”

  “All right.”

  “Okay Miss, you can go ahead now.”

  Greer waited a moment and then repeated, “Greer speaking.”

  A woman spoke in a hurried breathless way. “I hate to call you so early, Captain, but I thought I’d better tell you before you went to any more trouble.”

  “Who is this, please?”

  “Heavens, that shows how rattled I am, doesn’t it. I’m Mrs. Goodfield. Ethel Goodfield.” She stumbled over her own name. “You needn’t bother looking for Murphy anymore. She’s home.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, she came home late last night. The silly girl never dreamed we’d be worried. You know how girls are.”

  “I know how some of them are.”

  “She was just out on a little fling, one of those impul­sive little flings.”

  “I see.”

  “So—well, I just thought I’d tell you that everything’s all right, everything’s fine, and you needn’t go on looking for her.”

  “Is she right there?”

  “What do you mean, right here?”

  “In the room with you. I’d like to talk to her.”

  “Oh no, she’s not right here. She’s—s-sleeping. In her own room. She’s all tired out from her—her little fling.”

  “I’d like to hear more about this little fling.”

  “I don’t know anymore.” Ethel’s voice was so shrill that both Frank and Miss Raffin could hear every word she spoke as plainly as they could hear Greer’s laconic comments.

  “She came back last night, eh?”

  “Yes. It was very late. Otherwise I’d have let you know before. But anyway, well, everything’s just fine now, and I certainly must apologize for all the trouble Murphy’s caused you.”

  “No trouble at all,” Greer said with ironic politeness. “I’m just glad to hear she’s back. I’d like to talk to her sometime.”

  “Where?”

  “Does it matter where?”

  “I only meant it seems silly for you to come all the way out here and go to all this trouble for an idiotic girl. Doesn’t it?”

  “Perhaps it does.”

  “Well, I’ll let you go now. I know what a busy man you are. I’ll—I’ll give Murphy a good scolding for you. How would that be?”

  “Oh, that would be fine.”

  “Goodbye now.”

  “Goodbye, Mrs. Goodfield.” Greer replaced the phone and turned to Frank. “You heard?”

  Frank nodded. “Yes.”

  “Murphy’s back, everything’s fine, and this is the best of all possible worlds. Quite a new twist. What do you make of it?”

  “I thought Mrs. Goodfield sounded very nervous. Maybe you ought to go out and see her.”

  “Sure. Sure, maybe I ought to go and see all the nervous women in town. Maybe I ought to hold their—”

  “It was merely a suggestion.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I have another,” Frank said. “I’ll go out and see Mrs. Goodfield.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, let’s just say that nervous women are my spe­cialty.”

  “Let’s just say that you’re the nosiest guy in town.”

  “All right, put it that way. I have your permission then?”

  “Even in this town,” Greer said, “you don’t need a per­mit to go calling on a lady.”

  17

  Night had left the garden wet,
and now, in the early morning sun, every leaf and flower glistened and looked alive. But the house itself seemed dead; all the windows were closed and the blinds drawn tight. At the back door five full bottles of milk stood like pins waiting for a bowler. Beside the bottles a black rubber doormat spelled out Welcome in large red letters.

  There was no response of any kind to Frank’s knocking. He wiped the dirt off his shoes on the welcome mat and went around the side of the house to the white stucco ga­rage. Looking through the window he could see that there was space for three cars. Only one space was occupied, by a maroon-colored Buick convertible with gaudy maroon and yellow-striped seat covers. Not the kind of car Willett would drive, though he might like to.

  “You looking for someone?”

  Frank turned around, slowly, to conceal his surprise. He had heard no one, expected no one. The man seemed to have grown out of the shrubbery as silently as a leaf.

  “I was looking for Mrs. Goodfield.”

  “She’s not here,” Ortega said.

  “I remember you from the inquest. You’re Ortega.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Frank Clyde.”

  “I know. I saw you.” Ortega sounded too weary to be interested. His eyes were bloodshot and swollen. A streak of mud zigzagged across one cheek and there was mud, too, on his levis and his heavy work boots.

  “She’s not here,” he repeated. “When I came to work I saw the two of them drive off in the Lincoln, her and her husband.”

  “When?”

  “Ten, maybe fifteen, minutes ago. They were in a hurry, didn’t notice me.” He cupped one hand over his eyes as a shield from the sun. “There’s something bad go­ing on, very bad. I don’t know what.”

  “I don’t know either.”

  “Last night there was a big quarrel, a hell of a quarrel. If it’d happened down on Mason Street where I live, the cops would of come busting in in five minutes. But out here, no. Rich people like the Goodfields can get away with murder. Maybe they did, too.”