by Frances
Dorian looked at Pam, her almost green eyes enigmatical. They had got a long way from the point, Pam thought. Only, of course, some of the people people called communists really were. And if Hilda Svenson really was—
“Didn’t you want to ask Mrs. Hickey about the typewriter, Pam?” Dorian said.
“Oh, of course,” Pam said, removing her mind from the tricky field of espionage into which it had wandered. “About the typewriter—”
She told Mrs. Hickey what Hilda had said about the typewriter—or had said Mrs. Logan had said about the typewriter. “Sally’s typewriter, I thought,” Pam said.
Mrs. Hickey proved as distractable from the subject of the communist threat as she had been from that of her daughter. But she was not helpful. She knew that Sally owned and used, and had for years owned and used, a portable typewriter, and that she wrote all her personal letters on it. She had, indeed, been able to recognize as from Sally Sandford envelopes addressed to Mrs. Logan because there was “something about them.” But Mrs. Logan had said nothing to her to indicate that there had been, lately, anything “wrong” about the typewriter. And she herself had seen no difference in the addresses on letters Mrs. Logan had recently received; they were still obviously from Sally Sandford.
“Your poor aunts,” Mrs. Hickey said, reverting from the typewriter, which she clearly considered exhausted as a topic. “It must be so dreadful for them. Such sweet old ladies. Surely they won’t actually arrest them?”
Pam could only say she hoped not. The aunts were, of course, very worried. They were, she thought, more or less confined to the hotel, in a polite but still firm manner.
Mrs. Hickey had been, she said, always so fond of Pamela’s dear aunts, in spite of seeing them so infrequently. She wondered whether it would be all right if she called on them at the hotel. Did Mrs. North think that would be appropriate?
Mrs. North did. She thought it would be very sweet of Mrs. Hickey. She also thought, but did not say, that Mrs. Hickey and Aunt Thelma would find common ground in the perils confronting those who owned stock, even if not very much. The aunts, as a matter of fact, owned a good deal. They could all talk about Mr. Taft.
Leaving, and as if by afterthought, Pam expressed regret that Lynn had not been home and was told that she never, of course, was home during the day. “She goes to business,” Mrs. Hickey explained. “She has a very excellent position. A buyer, you know.” Pam was interested. Mrs. Hickey gave them the name of the store in which her daughter worked.
“The poor thing,” Pam said, as they waved at taxicabs in the street. “I wonder if Mrs. Logan was right about her daughter?”
A cab stopped. Pamela North gave the driver the name of the store for which Miss Lynn Hickey, who might be hard, might be mercenary, might be a person who would do anything, bought misses’ sports wear. She wouldn’t have to much longer, Pam thought, and mentioned to Dorian. There was nothing now to stop her marriage to Paul Logan, who apparently was inheriting a pleasant sum of money.
“I know,” Dorian said. “We’ve got to, of course. Because of the aunts and—well, things have got to be found out. All the same—”
“Nobody likes it, Dorian,” Pam said. “Somebody has to, all the same. And if everything’s all right, then there’s nothing wrong, of course. I mean, we don’t hurt anybody. Do you know people at this store—Forsyte’s?”
Dorian did. She knew the advertising manager, for whom she had done fashion drawings. She also, she thought, knew the head buyer of misses’ sports wear—or had a month ago. Buyers, she noted, came and went.
7
Tuesday, 10:30 A.M. to 2:40 P.M.
It was all very well for dear Thelma to be superior; in almost all matters, and especially in those of real importance, she was superior, and Lucinda Whitsett had no thought of questioning a fact so immutable. I am the flighty one, Lucinda thought, and was at the same time aware that being the flighty one, the literary one, should embarrass her more than it did, or at least than it always did. It was all very well for Thelma to say “Lucinda!” in that special tone, because certainly such divagations as Lucinda was prone to would be inclined to annoy a no-nonsense person like dear Thelma. (Miss Lucinda Whitsett liked the word “divagations,” which she had read somewhere. She often thought it, although it was rather ungainly for speech.)
But all the same, Miss Lucinda thought as she hung up the telephone which had not been answered, it is worth looking into, whatever Thelma would think. Even if there is no use in taking it up with Thelma, since she’s already snorted at it, and even if dear Pamela isn’t home, and dear Gerald not at his office, one can’t just sit by and do nothing. That was what had happened in the story she’d read, the story which was really the key to all of this, and the delay which resulted was almost fatal. This time, the delay had already been fatal, if she was right, and might be gain, because poor dear Thelma—
If she had only been able to get hold of Pamela, Pamela would have known what to do. Pamela would see at once how probable the whole thing was, once you remembered the story which was a key to everything, and would then be able to take, or at any rate to advise, the proper practical steps. Thelma wouldn’t listen, already hadn’t listened; and Penny—well, Penny just wouldn’t bestir herself. Particularly as it might mean a trip out of town. It had to have happened out of town because, however ingeniously it had been done, it would by this time have revealed itself if it were a question of the city.
Of course, Miss Lucinda thought at this point, there is concrete—or am I thinking of cement?—but that would be so difficult without the proper facilities, whereas in the country it shouldn’t really be difficult at all. Once, that is, somebody nerved himself to it, which was in itself incomprehensible. Yet there were more things, as someone had told someone—Horatio?—than are easy to dream of in the everyday philosophy. One can smile and smile and be a villain still, as is vouched for by the same distinguished source. When one came down to it, there really were persons like that awful man in Dickens who always kicked his dog, and ended by killing someone. One had to face it.
It did not occur to Miss Lucinda that she might be called upon to face it in person until some time after she had telephoned Pamela North and got no answer. Then the idea was sudden and unnerving, and at the same time rather fascinating. Of course I am flighty, Miss Lucinda thought—and all that. But all the same, Thelma is very, very—well, bossy! Suppose I do read books and remember things in them, is that any reason—?
It wasn’t any reason at all, Miss Lucinda decided. Anyway, there was no reason why she should not at least find out whether there was a place in the country where it could have happened, and the way to do that was obviously to look in telephone books. The library, of course, thought Miss Lucinda Whitsett, and at the very thought of a library she brightened. It had been months, it had been last spring, that she had last been in the New York Public Library, where merely being surrounded by so many books made one tingle exquisitely. If nothing else came of it, she would feel all those books around her. Why, one could almost taste them!
There was, of course, the fact that they were not supposed to leave the hotel but, on thinking about it, Miss Lucinda wondered if that really was a fact. Nobody, certainly, had told her, in so many words, that she was not to leave the hotel. Someone might have told Thelma, or even Penny. But no one had told her. One never knew until one tried. “He either fears his fate too much or his deserts are small who fears to put it to the touch, to win or lose it all,” Miss Lucinda quoted to herself. With this quotation finished—was it quite right, or wasn’t it?—Miss Lucinda acted upon it. She opened the door of her room at the Hotel Welby and stepped out into the corridor. Then she thought of something and went back in. She sat at the writing table provided by the hotel and used one of the pens provided by the hotel, this last with difficulty. She read what she had written and was satisfied.
“Gone to the library to find the place. Cripland not Gribland,” she had written. If she were delayed�
�there was always a chance she would be delayed in a library—and either Thelma or Penny came to find her, the one who came would find the note instead, and not be worried.
Miss Lucinda again opened the door of her room and stepped into the corridor. She stepped, briskly for a small, rather frail lady, toward the elevators.
When she reached the elevators, she was joined by a plump, comfortable woman who apparently had come from the other end of the corridor, also, it first appeared, to get on the elevator. But while they waited, the plump comfortable woman spoke, saying “Going out, Miss Whitsett?” and at once Miss Lucinda knew who she was. A policewoman; perhaps even a matron.
“Oh dear no,” Miss Lucinda said quickly. “Just down to the lobby for stamps.”
The matron, or policewoman, looked pointedly at Miss Lucinda’s head, which had a hat on it—a pink hat. At least, the policewoman supposed it was meant to be a hat.
“One always wears a hat,” Miss Lucinda said, quickly. “In Cleveland.”
The other woman said, “Oh.” She said, “They’d rather you didn’t leave the hotel, you know.”
“Of course,” Miss Lucinda said. An elevator stopped then, and she got into it. The other woman did not, although for a moment she hesitated. She was not supposed to do more than, by her presence, by words if necessary, remind the Misses Whitsett of their tacit detention. (If necessary, she might go further with Miss Thelma Whitsett.) The ladies were not expected to lam out; if they did they could quickly be retrieved. In any case, the one who had just gone for stamps was the littlest, and most fluttery. She would not go far. Of course, if she tried to, steps might be taken.
Miss Lucinda, who liked to be as truthful as circumstances permitted, did stop at the hotel desk and did buy stamps, although she did not really need them. But then, with the air of an elderly lady going out for a breath of air, Miss Lucinda went out of the hotel and walked toward Fifth Avenue. She walked sedately, but this was not a manner assumed. She was always sedate, even if a little flighty. She looked about her with great interest in everything, and this, also, she always did.
At Fifth, which was only a little over a block from the hotel, she took a Fifth Avenue bus northward, although the library was then only a few blocks away. She took the bus because she had always enjoyed Fifth Avenue buses when she was in New York—and because, although she had learned better a year before, she still kept thinking that Fifth Avenue buses, unlike other buses, had to provide enough seats to go around. The one she got onto did not.
She got off at Fortieth Street, waited for the lights to change, and crossed the street to the library. She went between the lions and up the broad stairs.
At the desk inside, she enquired the whereabouts of out-of-town telephone directories and was instructed. She started with areas in New York State, although realizing that she might have, in the end, to go on to Connecticut or even New Jersey. But, as it happened, she did not. She found what she wanted very quickly and made a memorandum, since what she wrote down she always remembered.
It was so easy, indeed, that Miss Lucinda could only believe she was being guided. It was with that in mind that she decided on her next step.
Miss Lynn Hickey was not at Forsyte’s; an assistant buyer, she was out assistant buying. She was, however, expected back in an hour or so. Pam and Dorian, being in misses’ sports wear, decided to pass the time, assisted by Dorian’s acquaintance, the senior buyer, who was still there but God knew for how long. There was a delightful sweater-skirt ensemble in a kind of dusty brown which was perfect for Dorian—ideal, as Pam pointed out, for a long walk in the country, if Dorian ever wanted one. Pam herself found almost nothing, except one or two things in the going-to-Florida-line which would be perfect for next summer; things much better than would be available for next summer next spring. “Because,” Pam pointed out, saying charge and send, “it’s always the winter summer people who get the best of everything.” (It turned out subsequently that Pam had no charge account at Forsyte’s, but Forsyte’s happily opened one for her and sent the one or two things—a slacks and shirt outfit and a play suit which would, Dorian remarked, make almost any man want to play.)
The interlude, almost pastoral in its gay-hearted simplicity, was ended by the return of Miss Lynn Hickey, who was five feet and perhaps ninety-five pounds of directed vigor; who was extremely pretty in a somewhat businesslike manner and who was, beyond any doubt, brisk. One would have thought her older than she probably was until, when she remembered Pam North, she said, “Oh” and for an instant appeared younger than she probably was. The manner might be office-hours deep, Pam thought, and explained about her aunts and their predicament, and asked help.
“I’m so sorry,” she said to Pamela, her office-hours manner back again, and, to the senior buyer, “The Frankleberg line stinks, for my money. There might be one or two things.”
“I don’t see how I can help,” she said to Pamela, when her demolition of the Frankleberg line had been acknowledged.
“I am terribly sorry about your aunts, and about Paul’s poor mother, but—”
She shrugged her shoulders, which were as trim as the rest of her.
Pamela realized all that. She was clutching at straws. “Leaving no stone unturned,” she added.
“You see,” Dorian Weigand, who was still Dorian Hunt for the day, said gravely, “Pam feels that there’s always a needle in every haystack.”
Miss Hickey was crisply amused and the others laughed pleasantly with her.
“So often,” Pam said, “people really don’t remember what they do remember. I thought you—couldn’t you have lunch with us?”
Lynn looked doubtful. “Of couse she can,” her senior said. “Well—” Lynn said. “Some place that won’t take too long. There’s a Schrafft’s across the street.”
There was and it was not yet crowded. The hostess was as serene as a ship in a light breeze; the waitress, when she arrived, was panting like a tugboat in her haste or, perhaps, in anticipation of labors to come. Lynn refused a cocktail at first, then relented. They sipped, ladylike in ladylike surroundings, two of them looking for a murderer.
“We hoped—” Pam began, and then Lynn Hickey leaned toward her, her eyes bright, her face serious.
“I may as well tell you,” she said, “mother telephone me after you talked to her. The poor dear.”
Pam North said, “Oh.”
“She wasn’t very clear,” Lynn said. “She often isn’t. Older people so often aren’t, are they?” She looked intently at Pam, who realized that she was, after all, older than Lynn. As, she told herself, most people were. It was nevertheless startling to be, even by the implication of a glance, associated with Lynn’s mother.
“I’m afraid,” Lynn said, “she may have given you a false impression. I did not kill Paul’s mother.” She smiled, superficially. “But of course I’d say that, wouldn’t I?”
“Yes,” Pam said. “You would, wouldn’t you?”
“And Paul didn’t,” Lynn said. She was decisive. It occurred to Pamela that she was, on the whole, too decisive.
“Then,” Pam said, “there isn’t any reason to be so afraid, is there? So keyed up?”
The girl suddenly finished the rest of her drink. She looked into the glass; she put in slim fingers and extracted the olive, and looked at it and then ate it. Little Jill Horner, Pam thought. Or am I just supposed to think that?
“All right,” Lynn said, looking again at Pam, looking then at Dorian. “I’m keyed up. My mother quarrels with somebody, because the somebody says—well, makes accusations against me. Paul and I want to get married and his mother doesn’t want us to. Wants to keep dear little Paul under her dear, god-damned little thumb. And she gets killed. Now we can get married; Paul gets a lot of money; I quit my job. We live happily ever after. Where—in Sing Sing?”
She lifted the empty glass as if to drink from it; put it down again, too hard.
“Or we have nice electric easy chairs side by side,” she sa
id. “In front of the fire. On the fire. We—”
She looked up suddenly.
“They said you’d probably be here,” Paul Logan said. “You’re all keyed up, kid.”
“Damn,” Lynn Hickey said. “Oh—damn!”
“Anyway,” Paul Logan said, “what business is it of yours, Mrs. North? Or of this lady’s?” He indicated Dorian.
“Dorian Hunt,” Pamela said. “This is Mr. Logan. Won’t you sit down, Mr. Logan? We haven’t accused your—Miss Hickey, of anything. IGm trying to help my Aunt Thelma.” But then she looked from one to the other. “And,” she said, “I will.”
She wasn’t doing it now, Paul Logan said, but he sat down.
“Won’t you have a drink?” Pamela North said, polite in fury. Not, she thought, that they didn’t have a right to be furious too, if you came to that. Or, on the other hand, frightened.
Nothing, she realized, ever stayed at a pitch. Now there was the business of trying to attract the waitress, who was doing nothing in particular with a kind of furious intentness; who, finally attracted, panted anxiously to them; who panted away again and was then, for minutes, always so much an impending event that nothing which she might interrupt could be begun. Pamela heard herself remarking on the remarkable lingering of summer in the lap of fall. This was politely noticed by the others. The waitress panted back in triumph, put down a cocktail and spilled part of it.
“All I’m—” Pam began.
“Would you care to order?” the waitress enquired, with intense good will.
“We—” Paul Logan began, his delicately handsome face reddening. But then he smiled suddenly and spread his hands in surrender. They ordered. The waitress panted off.
“Since we’ve all got the chips off,” Pam said, “Dorian and I are just trying to find out what people remember. So—”
