There was a light behind the bamboo blinds at Bobbie’s house: She didn’t open the door, at first. Her voice cooed through the wood to find out who was there.
‘It’s Matt Cuneen, Mrs Hopkins. I’ve brought my mother to see you.’
‘Oh, for pity’s sake!’ Bobbie opened up.
She was dressed in a basic black silk and wore several strands of phony pearls. Her hair had been retouched and was carefully arranged. Her face was heavily made up. In the pinkish light, Bobbie looked no more than in her ripe thirties. She reeked of perfume.
‘Oh, Mrs Cuneen,’ she gushed. ‘It’s so good of you to come. I’m not really seeing people. I’m in mourning.’
Peg said, ‘I’m very sorry about your daughter.’
‘Yes,’ Bobbie sighed, ‘yes, it isn’t easy. But I’m so sorry I worried you, and all. Can I fix you a cup of coffee? Or something stronger?’ Her brows were aching sweet.
Matt could feel his stomach turning. Poor daughters, he thought. Lilianne, driven into drivelling. Poor Alison, the other daughter …
Peg, graciously declining refreshment, sat down. He and Betty did so, too, and let Peg do the talking.
‘You had twin daughters, Mrs Hopkins?’ said Peg, who wasn’t wasting time.
Bobbie’s brows lost a little sweetness. ‘I don’t talk about my other daughter,’ she said, bridling. ‘I don’t see her any more. She’s a kind of recluse. She was always a little bit different. I had her to the psychiatrists. Well, it never seemed right to me, but they tell me it’s better for her to live by herself. So that’s that.’
Matt opened his mouth but his mother spoke.
‘Is their father dead, then?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Bobbie, martyred. ‘When the children were very small, he just went away. So I got the divorce. And that’s that, too.’
‘And you brought them up by yourself?’ Peg was willing to sympathise.
‘I did the best I could,’ said Bobbie. She took a clean handkerchief with a lace edge from her cuff and didn’t quite touch her painted eyes. ‘Maybe I’ll travel,’ she sighed. ‘I’ve always wanted to travel. I’m not getting any younger. But there was Alison, you see. It was her ambition to become a motion-picture actress. Well, you know, Mrs Cuneen, a mother ought to keep an eye on. That’s a tough racket for a young girl.’
‘I’m sure it is,’ said Peg.
‘Poor baby,’ said Bobbie, ‘poor poor baby.’ Her face twisted.
‘What a bad time you must have had,’ said Peg. ‘First, to think it was your daughter in the hospital …’
Bobbie had clasped her hands. ‘Honest to God, Mrs Cuneen, when I saw it was my own little girl and what they done to her, and her throat, and her five little fingers …’ Her mask had detached. A haggard tormented woman looked out from behind it.
‘Are you all alone here?’ Peg said, with compassionate alarm.
‘All alone. Oh, yes. Well, that is, I’m expecting a friend. Fact is’—Bobbie darted little sideways glances; she was pulling herself back together—‘I wouldn’t want you to feel I was putting you out, since you were so good as to come, but I have things to get ready.’
‘Well, of course,’ said Peg generously. She rose.
Matt rose and said, ‘We saw your daughter Lilianne.’
Bobbie who was standing, too, gave him a shocked glare. ‘You did! How did you find her?’
‘We found her,’ Matt said. ‘She doesn’t seem to think that her sister’s mark shows very much. Or at all.’
Bobbie’s glare was frozen into her eyes.
‘Have you changed your mind about that?’ Matt asked her. ‘Was there ever such a mark?’ In all innocence, he wanted a fact.
But Bobbie’s real colour came up under the cosmetics. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t want Lilianne to be bothered. She’s got to be let alone. It’s not good for her to be bothered. You sent any newspaper reporters to her, listen, I …’
‘No, no. We haven’t.’ Betty said quickly.
‘You had no right,’ cried Bobbie. ‘You had no right. And I think you’d better get out of my house. I’m sorry. I thought you came in a decent Christian spirit. I guess I was all wrong. Me and my girls are none of your business. You let us alone, you hear me? I’m surprised, Mrs Cuneen. I am surprised. This son of yours, he’s got no respect or his girl friend, either. So who expects them to have any? But you’re old enough to know better. I suppose you came around to see what kind of freak I am. Is that right? Well, you can take your … kindness and you know what you can do with it.’
Peg bent her head and went out the door that Matt was holding open. Betty said, ‘Excuse me,’ and walked past the furious woman to follow Peg and catch her arm.
Matt stood holding the door, looking at Bobbie Hopkins. He felt detached. He thought, She doesn’t know what it’s all about any more. She goes the way the wind blows. Her brain is pickled. Her mind’s a ragbag. Her heart’s scar tissue. Her children would have to run away. What would she want now? What could she get?
‘How much,’ he said quite calmly, feeling no malice, ‘were you paid to identify the body?’
‘How much!’ she yelled. ‘How much! Now, that does it! Get out! Get out!’ she howled. She picked up a magazine and hurled it at him in a futile flutter.
Matt got out.
When they were on their way down out of the hills Peg said, ‘She was right, you know. We did come to see what kind of freak she was.’
‘Granted,’ her son said. ‘We are miserable sinners.’ His tone was not as saucy as it might have been. ‘So,’ he coaxed, ‘what kind of freak do you think she is?’
Peg had her hands to her heart. ‘I can’t imagine,’ she said in a moment, ‘how I would behave, if I were to see a child of mine, mutilated in a morgue.’
‘She saw a child of hers?’ Matt was listening hard.
‘Of course she did. She suffers. We shouldn’t have come. We didn’t come to help her, and we can’t help her.’
Peg had spoken.
They drove home in chastened silence. When they came into the house, the phone was ringing. Peg took the call. Matt and Betty heard her say … ‘Yes, I do agree, Jon.… Yes … I think it must be so.… All right.… Good night.’
She hung up and said to them, ‘Dr Jon wants the girl released to Leon Daw. The police are leaving it up to the hospital. The hospital’s lawyer so advised. Jon thinks she’s Dorothy. And I agree.’
She then bade their stunned faces a sad good night.
Matt came out of shock and said to Betty, ‘Don’t worry. I’ll talk them out of it in the morning.’
‘Will you?’ Betty was feeling sad and far away.
‘Megan Royce was ready to poison our girl. It doesn’t matter whether they think she’s Dorothy—’
‘Oh, Matt. If Peg is willing to let her go—’
‘You, too?’ he said stiffly.
‘Oh, I’m willing.’ She’d been willing, for a long time.
‘How odd of me, then, to prefer that she doesn’t get murdered.’
‘Oh, Matt.’
‘Oh, Matt, what?’ He was, in frustration, asking for war.
‘It just isn’t your responsibility, all alone.’
‘What difference does that make,’ he said tensely, ‘whether I’m alone or not?’
‘I’m only trying to say that you can’t—’
‘Can’t stop Leon Daw and Megan Royce from taking her away? The funny part of it is, I’ll bet I can.’
‘No.’
‘I signed her into the hospital. My name is on the papers. I can refuse to relinquish my responsibility. I can say I’m not convinced of her identity. Which is the truth. I can tell the newspapers about the poison and stir them up. Oh, I can get into the headlines. “Budding biologist refused to give up tenth-richest girl. Suspects plot against her life”.’
‘You can ruin yourself,’ she said grimly.
‘Sure. Lawsuits. Sensational publicity, unbecoming to a serious scientist. I�
�ll say she’s Alison.’
‘Matt, you have no proof.’
‘Tigers?’ he challenged.
‘Don’t be so damned silly!’ she shouted at him.
‘There’s the point about the vaccination,’ he said steadily. ‘That’s reasonable.’
‘Maybe Dorothy’s immune.’
‘Then show me some certification of that. How do we know Alison isn’t immune?’
‘Why won’t you admit she could be Dorothy? And if she is, where’s the motive? There wasn’t any hanky-panky with the Daw money.’
‘You don’t know that. You can’t be sure.’
‘I don’t have to know it or not know it. The police should know it. It’s none of my business. Why is it yours? You’ll have to let her go.’
‘I may be the only one who doesn’t have to.’
Betty got up and started for the hall. She felt stiff and cold. She turned to face him. ‘Shall I tell you why you’ve never wanted her to be Dorothy?’
‘Go ahead.’ He gave her a smouldering look.
‘Because Leon Daw has the money and the power to take her away, where you can’t find her. Then you couldn’t go and moon over her any more.’
Matt said icily, ‘Thanks a lot.’
‘You never caught yourself rationalising?’ she cried. ‘You never, never did? You think that isn’t possible? You think you know—you always know—exactly what your own motives are?’
He was infuriated by such condescension. ‘Why do you want me to let her go, for instance?’
Betty turned and walked stiffly into the hall. She stood there, looking up the stairs. Then she said to him, ‘I don’t want you to ruin yourself. I am, also, just as jealous as hell. What’s the difference? You’re going to protect your lady fair—with the whole rest of your life.’
‘I don’t have to be madly in love with her to prefer that she doesn’t get murdered,’ he shouted.
‘I know,’ she said, forlornly. ‘But you absolutely have to dream, don’t you?’ She went stiffly up the stairs.
Matt stood there. Well! If Betty Prentiss had been dreaming—and he knew what—she had better dream again. On the other hand, he could oblige. He could fix her girlish dreams with a little coming-true in bed that would show her what … His brain began to take note of his body’s state, and his wish to punish, and the way he raged to do it. Betty Prentiss! Oh, for the love of … what? What was the matter with him?
He waited it out. Guessing he’d have to … he had better … let the girl go. Forget it. Forget what? Just—forget it.
Bobbie Hopkins had smoothed down her feathers as best she could. No harm done. Not really. Damn kids. That Cuneen kid … Skip it. Skip it.
She hesitated over the glasses in her cupboard and chose two of the smallest ones. She put them on a tray and got down the liqueur. It was awfully sweet, but she felt it would be elegant. While she was at it, she had a good slug of straight whisky from the bottle. Not too much. She must have her wits at the ready.
She couldn’t sit still. She stood at the edge of the window from which she could see the road and peered along the edge of the blind. ‘He won’t be late,’ she said aloud. ‘He knows better than that.’
But he surprised her. She was watching the road, where she could just see bare pavement. The walking shadow slipped almost up to her front door before she knew it.
‘Mr Daw? Do come in.’ She was flustered.
‘Mrs Hopkins?’ He was polite. He stepped in and looked all around, quickly. Then his gaze returned to her face.
Bobbie had composed it into what she intended to be a poised and sophisticated, but slightly menacing smile. ‘Won’t you … sit down?’
‘Thank you.’
‘May I pour you a little sip?’ She spoke too fast. Her bangles jangled.
Leon sat down on the couch in the spot where the spring was busted. Bobbie, who was less sure of herself than she wanted to be, drank down her portion of the fiery sweetness much too fast. Leon Daw held the little glass in his fingers daintily and somehow distastefully. Finally he said, ‘I am at a loss, Mrs Hopkins. What did you wish to see me about?’
Bobbie took her heart in her mouth and said, ‘About money.’
‘You wanted to talk to me about money?’ he purred. ‘Does that mean you want me to give you some?’
‘As a matter of fact,’ said Bobbie, with a jerk, ‘I wanted to talk about my daughter Alison, who may be, you know, in a position to do you …’ she became arch … ‘another favour?’ She tilted the empty glass to her lips. Her tongue licked at the sweetness left on the rim.
The man said, ‘Are you sure you want to talk to me about money, with a witness to overhear you?’
‘What?’ Bobbie was badly startled. ‘Where?’
‘Do you mind if I make sure?’
Bobbie had no chance to say whether she minded. He got up and went swiftly into the next room. She sat there, stunned, realising that he was searching the house for an eavesdropper. She didn’t follow him. She leaned over and poured herself some more of the liqueur. She needed it. She felt shaky. Because this had got to mean that she did have some purchase on him. Which had got to mean that what had been, in her mind, a not quite solid dream, an excitement, a stab of obscurity, an ‘if and a ‘maybe,’ was acquiring substance.
He had gone through the dark middle room. He must be in the bedrooms, looking in the bathroom, probably into the closets. He’d come around by the kitchen, where the dishes hadn’t been washed. Oh well, the hell with his impression of her housekeeping. Bobbie drank and put down the sticky glass.
He might be going to go for it! Then Bobbie Hopkins would get to see Paris, and Rome, too, and all those places. For real! Imagine that! Her ignorant jumble of impressions of foreign cities was whirling in her mind when his thumbs came up under her jaws and she felt a terrible throbbing and her hands went up, her hands trying for his face, her nails for his eyes, but she couldn’t …
The hill roads were poorly lighted. He was a shadow along the verge. His car was parked a little way into the next road down, under a bank of ivy and geraniums. He had taken care to point it downhill. Leon got in, let off the brake. It coasted without sound. He went softly softly winding down.
Megan was reading a book. She had on purple velvet hostess trousers and a flowered silk blouse. She unhooked the earpieces of her harlequin glasses with the rhinestone rims and watched him cross quickly to the bar.
He didn’t speak but drank thirstily, not bothering with ice.
In a moment she said lightly, ‘Letters all written, darling?’
‘I’m caught up now,’ he said shortly and filled his glass again, taking ice cubes out of the little ice maker this time. He took it over to his chair and sat down.
Watching his face, she said, ‘I heard your typewriter going like mad upstairs. Didn’t I?’
Leon’s smallish mouth was wet. He opened it and closed it. Finally he said, ‘I’ve ordered the ambulance for nine o’clock tomorrow morning. It’s a ten-mile ride. I wonder if you’d like to ride with Dorothy?’
‘Of course,’ said Megan. ‘I’d be glad to, darling. After all, supposing the moving were to wake her up. She knows me. She wouldn’t be frightened and cry out, if I were there.’
Something in her drawl annoyed him. ‘I don’t like the new rules,’ he said sulkily. ‘Why do we have to live as if this place were bugged?’
‘This place.’ Megan sighed. ‘I prefer modern. We should build. There is a lot in Bel Aire. Fifty thousand for the land alone, but a fabulous view—’
‘For God’s sake,’ he burst, ‘don’t go shopping, yet.’
She closed her eyes. ‘Darling,’ she said wearily, ‘don’t try to be smarter than I am, do you mind? After all, you have a cleaning woman. Best we don’t have to remember what day she’s around. I would rather—if you don’t mind—talk as if this, and every other place, were always bugged.’
He said, in a moment, ‘When we get Dorothy into the private suite it w
ill be possible to be with her a great deal of the time.’
‘I know. In case she should wake. Oh, I do think one of us ought to be with her most of the time. But not quite every moment, of course.’
His eyes seemed to bulge. ‘She may not live, you realise?’
‘She may,’ said Megan, ‘just slip away, very quietly, in her sleep. Poor child.’
She got up and went to the bar. With her back to him, Megan said, ‘And what will Mrs Hopkins say then, I wonder?’
‘Nothing,’ said Leon.
Megan did not turn. She mixed herself a drink. She made it strong.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Before it was light, a figure slipped along Bobbie Hopkins’ path. It tapped on her door. It slithered around the quiet house. It tapped on windows. It sniffed, stiffened, peered, panicked, let out a small moaning sound, ran.
An hour later, and it was beginning to be light, the same figure slouched beside the frame house on the front lot on Opal Street and tapped on the door of 438½, at the rear.
‘Who is it?’
‘Larry. Larry Wimberholtz. Let me in, would you, Lilianne? I got to tell you something. You got to let me in.’
The door wagged finally. The girl was wearing the old print wrapper. The early light fell on her bare face. Her eyes glistened. ‘Why, Larry,’ she said in that childish voice, ‘I haven’t seen you for such a long time. How are you?’
‘Oh, Lilianne,’ he said, ‘listen. Close the door.’ He slunk within and she closed the door. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ he said. ‘I got to tell you. Something’s happened to your mom. Something bad, Lilianne. There’s a terrible stink of gas and she’s lying on the kitchen floor and I think she’s passed away. Maybe you’ll want to call somebody. I can’t call anybody. I never thought she’d do a thing like that. I guess Alison … I guess your mom just couldn’t take it, the way Alison went and all—’
The girl said, ‘Balls!’
He was so startled that both of his feet left the floor for an instance. ‘Alison?’ he said incredulously.
‘What are you talking about?’ the girl said fiercely. The childish voice was gone. The whole face had turned shrewish with the voice. ‘What happened to Mom? Come on. Spit it out.’
Dream of Fair Woman Page 17
