“They're in the living room, and John …” He looked conspiratorially at him, and then apologetically at Marielle. “They're drunk as skunks, the pair of them, and she's wearing one hell of a ball gown.” He glanced at Marielle again. “I'd bet my bottom dollar it's yours and you don't know she's got it.” But all of that seemed unimportant now. The question was, where was her son, and who had him?
“Take them to the kitchen and give them as much black coffee as you can get into them till they puke, and then call me.” The policeman nodded and disappeared, as John Taylor turned his attention back to the child's mother. And then the officer returned again, as though to tell her something.
“Mrs. Patterson, we called your husband.” She wasn't sure whether to thank him or not. She felt guilty for not calling him herself, but relieved too. She had wanted to spare him the shock of hearing it from a stranger. There was no way to gentle this news, and all she could think was how much he loved Teddy.
“What did he say?” She looked terrified, as the inspector watched her reaction.
“He was very upset.” He glanced at John, and didn't tell her that her husband had cried openly on the phone, but he hadn't asked to speak to his wife. O'Connor thought that was strange, but between people of their kind, sometimes things were different. He'd seen it all before, everything from kidnappings to murders. “He said he'll be here in the morning.”
“Thank you.” She nodded as he left the room, and she looked at the FBI agent again, and as he watched her, he knew that there was more than she had told him. He wondered how straightforward he could be with her, if she would lie, or swoon, or attempt to leave the room in a rage, but she did none of those, she only listened to him. And watched him. He was a powerful, compelling, very handsome man in a rugged way, but she wasn't paying any attention to his looks, only to what he was saying.
“Mrs. Patterson, sometimes there are things we don't want to say to people we don't know, things we don't want to admit about ourselves or people we love …but in a case like this, it could make all the difference. I don't need to tell you what's at stake here. You know … we all do. Will you please give it some thought, and see if there's anything else you want to tell me?” But before she could say anything, he left the room, and promised to come back as soon as he'd spoken to Patrick and Edith. And she sat there in Malcolm's den, wondering how much she should say to him, but knowing that she had to trust him.
Both Patrick and Edith were still very drunk when he walked in, but they were coherent enough to know where they'd been, what they'd done, and who they'd been with. O'Connor wrote it all down as Taylor talked to them, and Patrick acted outraged that an APB had been put out on him, he said it could ruin his reputation, which neither O'Connor nor Taylor cared about for a single moment. They both suspected he could be a nasty piece of work, given the chance, as could Edith.
“Why were you out with him tonight?” Taylor asked her as she crossed her legs and tried to look sexy in the dress she'd stolen. It was the one Marielle had worn the night before, to the Whytes', and she had asked Edith to send it to the cleaners. She was planning to send it to them, but she had worn it first, as she had with lots of other gowns before. She just hadn't had the courage to “borrow” the ermine. “Weren't you supposed to be on duty?”
“Yeah, so what?” Patrick said. “What difference did it make who sat with the kid? So if she'd been there she'd have wound up gassed and all trussed up like a chicken. What for? For the lousy salary they give us?” He was still too drunk to realize that what he said could damn them both, but Edith was sobering fast and looking very nervous.
“I didn't know … I should have … I guess … I just thought it being almost Christmas …”
“Where did you get the dress?”
“It's mine.” She tried to brazen it out. “My sister made it.” Taylor nodded understandingly, and then sat down across from her, as though he knew her better than he did, and had no intention of buying her story.
“If I ask Mrs. Patterson to come in, will she agree with that, or is the dress hers?” The girl bowed her head and started to cry in answer, as Patrick became increasingly belligerent.
“Oh for chrissake, you sniveling bitch, cut it out … so what … so you borrowed her dress. You always give 'em back. Shit, you'd think we was working for the Virgin Mary. And listen,” he waved a finger menacingly at John Taylor, “don't you buy any of that holy Madonna crap from her. Twice this week I seen her with her boyfriend. Once she even took the kid, so don't you go insinuating it was us. You talk to her and ask her about the guy she was kissing in the church on Friday, and in the park yesterday, with Teddy.” Nothing registered on O'Connor's face as he made a note of it, and John Taylor stared at him with silent interest. He knew that if he kept his mouth shut, there would be more, and he was right, there was, less than a minute later. “The guy looks like a lunatic if you ask me, ranting and raving at her, shouting, he looked like he was threatening her, then trying to kiss her. Poor Teddy looked scared out of his wits he did, if you ask me, the bastard is crazy.”
“What makes you say that he's her boyfriend?” The voice was cool, but the eyes were icy. “Have you seen him with her before?”
Patrick thought about it and then shook his head. “No …just the other afternoon in church and yesterday in Central Park. But she could have seen him other times, and he really seemed to know her. She don't always let me drive her.”
“Does she drive herself?”
“Now and then,” he thought it out again, “she goes for walks sometimes. But she don't go out much.
Feels sorry for herself a lot, I think. She gets a lot of headaches.” It was certainly an interesting portrait he painted. Somehow, John Taylor had gotten the impression she was stronger.
“Have you ever seen her with other men?” He seemed sorry to admit that he hadn't, except this one. And then Taylor threw him a curve, with a question he didn't want to answer. “Have you ever seen Mr. Patterson with other women?”
There was a long, pregnant pause, when Patrick looked at the still sobbing Edith. She was sure she was going to lose her job over the dress she had taken. She was far more concerned with that than the disappearance of the little boy when she was supposed to have been there to watch him.
John Taylor repeated the question again, in case Patrick needed to be reminded. “Have you ever seen your employer with another woman?”
“Not that I can remember …” And then, “…except his secretaries of course.” But that was all information Taylor knew he could delve into later. The matter of the boyfriend, however, did intrigue him. She seemed too cool for that, too smart, too clean, and too decent. But you never knew, and now he certainly had to ask her. He hated these things, forcing answers, causing pain. But the entire situation that had brought him here was painful, and if he could help find the boy for them, then it was worth it.
He stood up and looked at the driver he had come to loathe in a single moment. They were a slimy pair.
But instinct also told him that it was unlikely they were involved in the kidnapping. It was possible they'd taken a bribe, had left a door open somewhere for a hundred bucks, but he wasn't even sure they'd done that. They were just out, taking advantage of their employers, in a purloined dress, a borrowed car, having shirked their duties to the child, but he doubted if there was more to it than that. Lucky for them, or he'd have been glad to nail them.
He went back to the library after telling O'Connor to let them go. He'd interrogate them again in the morning. They had both already insisted that they'd seen nothing unusual that night, or in the days before. The only thing unusual, Patrick repeated, was Marielle's meeting with her “boyfriend.”
“What did you make of that?” O'Connor asked in an undertone before Taylor left the kitchen.
“It's probably all lies, but I'll ask her.”
“She don't look the type.” O'Connor shook his head. Maybe the boyfriend had taken the kid. It was certainly a possib
ility if she was involved with someone other than her husband. And you never knew. It was always the quiet ones who surprised you.
“No, she doesn't look the type,” Taylor agreed almost sadly. But if it was true, he was even more anxious to talk to her before the return of her husband. As he walked into the library, he saw her sitting there, almost as though she hadn't moved, but she seemed to be shaking harder than ever. The house was warm, but she was clearly in shock, and in spite of himself, he felt sorry for her.
“Would you like a drink, or a cup of tea?”
“No, thank you,” she said sadly. “Did they know anything?” she asked him hopefully, but he shook his head. “Do you think it's possible they took him and left him somewhere, and came back?” It was a thought she'd had while he was talking to them, and she was anxious to share it.
“Possible, but not likely. I'll see them both again tomorrow morning. But I think they've probably just been out dancing and drinking.” Like her, he was disappointed. It would have been so simple if they had him.
“Neither of them is very fond of me.” Few people were, in Malcolm's house, but she was embarrassed to say it. Malcolm was their only boss, as far as they were concerned. No matter how kind she'd been to them, they were still cold and rude and surly, and more than they knew it, it hurt her.
Being married to Malcolm wasn't always the easy life it appeared. There had been many long nights when she'd been unhappy and lonely. There'd been years of them now, and yet she was faithful to him, and honorable, decent, and a good mother to Teddy. But no one gave her credit for that. Sometimes, she thought, not even Malcolm.
Taylor was watching her face then, and wondering something. “Why do you think they don't like you?” It wasn't that he disagreed with her, he had seen the hatred in Patrick's eyes, and the look on Edith's face when she talked about her dresses.
“I think they're jealous. Most of them have been here since before we were married. I was an intruder, as far as they were concerned. They had their arrangements with my husband, and suddenly there I was, and they didn't want to be bothered. Everyone has an angle in a house like this, something they're doing, something they want, something they shouldn't have done, but did, and they don't want to get found out. I'm a headache for them, and they don't like it.” Something about what she'd just said reminded him about her headaches. It was an odd thing that had stuck in his mind, and he couldn't help wondering, in light of everything else the driver had said, if she and Malcolm were happily married.
“Maybe you're right.” The investigator from the FBI was noncommittal. “What about what I asked you before I left the room?”
“I can't think of anything else.” She was still struggling with her conscience and her terrors, and her unwillingness to believe that Charles would take Teddy, no matter what he had said. He couldn't have meant it.
“You're sure?” Two uniformed policemen wandered by, and Taylor gave them a high sign and asked for a cup of tea for her, and coffee for himself, if they could find it. It was three o'clock in the morning by then, and just watching her shiver made him feel cold and tired.
“Do they have any news at all?” She had to fight back tears as she asked, and he shook his head. She still couldn't let herself believe that if she went upstairs, she wouldn't find Teddy. He had to be there …but in her heart, she knew he wasn't.
“Mrs. Patterson,” he said slowly, after the tea had arrived and the policeman who'd brought it had left again, leaving the library door ajar. Taylor stood up and strode over and closed it. “I want to tell you something your driver said. I want to discuss this with you myself. Because if the press get hold of this, it's going to make a hell of a story.” She knew before he said anything what the story was going to be, and maybe in some ways it would be a relief to tell him. “Mr. Reilly says you have a 'boyfriend.' “ His face was without expression as he said the word, and Marielle smiled. It was so absurd that she had to smile, but she also knew how vicious Patrick was, and she could imagine the story.
“That's an interesting term.”
“Is it accurate?” She could feel him pressuring her. He wanted to know everything about her, for the sake of her child's life. And if he had to, no matter how pretty he thought she was, he would be ruthless.
She sighed, and looked at him. “No, it's not accurate.” It was almost funny to even think of Charles as her “boyfriend.” “He's my ex-husband, and I hadn't seen him in almost seven years until two days ago. We ran into each other at Saint Patrick's Cathedral.”
“Was the meeting prearranged?”
She shook her head solemnly, and the way she looked at him, he believed her. Her eyes were full of grief, and he sensed that behind the new sorrow was old grief.
“It was totally coincidental that we met. He's been living in Spain …fighting against Franco.”
“Oh Christ, one of those.” Taylor took a long sip of coffee. It had already been a long night, but he needed to be alert as the night grew longer. He wanted to talk to her himself, and to hear her story before her husband came home. “Is he a Commie?”
She smiled again. That was another funny word to apply to Charles, although nothing was funny now. Now that Teddy was gone, nothing would ever be funny again … or happy … or nice … or even worth staying alive for …but he would return. It would be different this time. It had to be. The story would have a happy ending. “I don't think he's actually political. He just spends his life tilting at windmills. He's an idealist and a dreamer and writer. He's gone to Pamplona to run with the bulls. He's close to Hemingway. I think he just saw a fight in Spain, and he went to fight it. I don't know. I haven't seen him in years. I haven't spent any real time with him since 1929 … I haven't seen him at all since 1932 when I came back to the States, and married Malcolm.”
“And why now? Why is he suddenly here? To see you?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Family obligations. His father is very old, and probably dying, or close to it.”
“Did he call you when he arrived, or write to you?” She shook her head. “Do you think he followed you? Is he angry at your remarriage?”
She sighed and looked at the inspector long and hard. £? don't know if he has followed me, I don't think so. He hasn't called …and yes … I think he is angry at my remarriage …and about Teddy … he didn't know. I told him on Friday that I'd remarried, but I didn't …say anything …about Teddy. And then yesterday, he saw him.”
“Yesterday?” John Taylor looked intrigued as she continued.
“In Central Park. We went to the boat pond, but it was frozen.” Taylor nodded and wondered about the second meeting.
“Did you agree to meet him there?”
“It was coincidence again. His home is just outside the park, at the level of the boat pond.”
“Did you want to meet him there?”
“I never thought about it.” She looked straight at him, and she was still trembling.
“Did you think about him?”
She nodded, her eyes boring holes in his. She had thought about nothing but since she'd seen him at Saint Patrick's.
“Don't you think that two coincidental meetings is a bit much to believe after seven years? You don't see him in seven years, and suddenly there he is twice in two days. Don't you think he was looking for you on purpose?”
“Perhaps.” It was possible. She had asked herself the same questions.
“Did he want anything from you?” Taylor's eyes searched everything about her.
She hesitated, and then nodded. “Yes … he wanted to see me.”
“Why?”
“I'm not sure … to talk … to talk about things that no longer matter. It's all over now …it's gone … it was a long time ago. I've been married to Malcolm …my husband … for six years …” Her words drifted off as she looked sorrowfully at John Taylor. He had come into her life at a terrible time, and she barely saw him. She saw his face and heard his voice but she didn't know who he was, she didn't know anyt
hing. She felt numb, and desperately frightened every time she thought of Teddy.
“When were you married to him?” His voice droned on, gentle but ever probing.
“In 1926 …when I was eighteen …” She looked at him very hard then, and decided that she had to tell him. “My husband doesn't know about this, Inspector. He believes that I 'misbehaved' in Europe when I was eighteen. I think my father implied to all his friends that I had a 'serious flirtation with an inappropriate suitor.' Nothing more. My father was a dreamer. The truth was, as my father well knew, that I was married for five years, and we lived in Europe. I tried to tell Malcolm that when he asked me to marry him, but he didn't want to hear it. He said we each had a past, and it was better left untouched and undisclosed. What he had heard was the story my father had circulated to save himself embarrassment, I don't think he ever admitted to any of his friends that Charles and I were married. We lived in France …” There was a faraway look in her eyes …”And we were very happy.” She looked even more beautiful as she said it.
“And what changed that?” His voice was deep and husky as he asked, trying not to be distracted by her.
“A number of things.” She was evading him and he immediately sensed it. Only one thing had happened to shatter their dream. One thing. One hideous afternoon, from which neither of them had ever recovered.
“Mrs. Patterson …Marielle … I need to know what happened … for your sake … for Teddy's.” What he said went straight to her heart, and tears filled her eyes as she looked at him.
“I can't talk about it now. I never have …” except with her doctor at the clinic.
“You have to.” He was determined and powerful, but she continued to resist him.
“I can't.” She got up and walked around the room, and for a long time she stood and stared out the window. There was darkness outside, and somewhere out in that darkness, there was Teddy. She turned to look at the inspector then, and he had never seen so much pain in his life. More than ever, he wanted to reach out and touch her.
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