While I Disappear

by Edward Wright

  What the hell? Before he had time to digest this, a light went on inside and the door opened. Horn could see a tall, stooped man with almost cadaverous features. He was wrapped in what appeared to be a bulky robe.

  “Cassie,” the man said in a deep baritone.

  “Hello, Alden,” she said in a voice that Horn would have called flirtatious in any other woman. “All right if we come in?”

  The man noticed Horn, and his look of pleasure at seeing Cassie left his face abruptly, replaced by apprehension. “Who is this?”

  “This is John Ray Horn,” she said. “A friend. I told you about him, remember?”

  The man’s eyes swept Horn up and down, and he clutched his robe at the neck. His other hand moved to close the door. “I’m not sure this is a good time,” he muttered.

  “Come on,” she said in a wheedling tone Horn had never heard her use before. “It’s raining. Besides, I brought you something.” She raised the paper bag so that he could see it.

  The man looked from Cassie to the bag, then questioningly at Horn. “I’ve known him for years,” she said. “You can trust him.”

  Before Horn could appreciate the incongruity of Cassie vouching for his character, the man opened the door wider. “I’m sorry to keep you out in the rain,” he said, gesturing in a courtly manner. “Please come in.”

  They stepped inside and, dripping slightly, found themselves in a large kitchen. “Alden Richwine,” the man said in a mellifluous voice, rolling the R just enough to add weight to the name. He extended a hand to Horn. “Excuse my, ah….” He indicated the bold plaid robe he was wearing. “I wasn’t expecting visitors.”

  “I hope we didn’t wake you up.”

  “Oh, no, no. I was reading.” He indicated a book on a nearby kitchen counter. “I’m very much the night owl.” Although Horn guessed his age at seventy or more, Alden Richwine had striking looks. He was tall and extremely lean, with craggy features crowned by a wide brow and a full head of wavy white hair, worn unfashionably long in the back and over the ears. As Madge had described, his face had an unhealthy pallor, as if he seldom went out in the sun.

  Cassie opened the bag and pulled out a bottle of Paul Jones whisky, which she handed to him. “For being a gentleman and inviting us in,” she said.

  “Dear girl.” He laid the bottle on the counter and began pulling glasses from an overhead cupboard. “Both of you must join me.”

  He showed them to a well-worn and oversize kitchen table. “Would you like it neat, as I do?” Hearing no dissent, he poured their drinks as they sat down.

  Horn looked uneasily at Cassie, who appeared to be enjoying a small, secret joke. She obviously knew more about this man and his connection to Rose than Horn did, and she was being of little help to him. He would have to find out as best he could.

  Richwine politely turned his attention to his new acquaintance. “Mr. Horn, the charming Cassie tells me you and I have something in common.” He spoke carefully, in a theatrical version of an old-school British accent.

  Horn gave him a questioning look.

  “I believe you’re an actor?”

  “Oh. Yes, sir. I was for a while. I’m not anymore.”

  “And your current occupation?”

  “I do whatever I need to get by.”

  “Admirable.” Richwine nodded soberly. “Myself, I’ve never left this gypsy profession of mine. From the moment when I was eight years old, standing in front of my classmates and reciting lines from Matthew Arnold, I knew I was condemned to the life of a performer, both the joys and the sorrows. First I appeared on the London stage, later in New York. Then I made the mistake of traveling to this desert, this artistic sinkhole, to help usher in something called the moving pictures. And I’ve been trapped here ever since, unable to—”

  “You were here in the twenties? You worked in the silents?”

  “Yes. As to the nature of that work…well, there were those who said I was a memorable actor, with a face made for the camera. But compared to the stage, it was all insubstantial. In London I had done Shakespeare—Gloucester, Claudius, Malvolio. Even, for one glittering engagement, Richard the Third. The drama critic for the Guardian said, and I quote, ‘He manages the difficult task of investing one of the Bard’s darkest villains with an unaccustomed and somewhat startling nobility.’ " Richwine closed his eyes briefly, savoring the critic’s long-ago words.

  “Then, to come to this place and make empty gestures in front of a man grinding a camera…it seemed beneath me. And yet I did it happily, for the money. I played heroes and villains, all of them voiceless, and I prospered. And then, when the movies found their voice and I was ready to unlimber my own once again, my best years were gone. I was too far past my prime.”

  Noticing Horn’s questioning look, he went on. “You’re wondering if you’ve ever seen me. Of course you have, my boy. In the background. As the doting grandfather, the roguish uncle, the devious lawyer. I’m still up there on the screen, only now I’m just part of the scenery.”

  “I’m sure I’ve seen you, sir,” Horn said. Richwine was something of a windbag, he thought. Even his name had a showoff, actorish ring to it. But he seemed to be well-intentioned. And he might have valuable information. Horn wanted to focus the conversation where it belonged. “Do I understand you knew Rose Galen?”

  Richwine didn’t answer. He seemed to be giving Horn a fresh assessment. He turned to Cassie, an unspoken question in his eyes.

  “John Ray knew her, Alden,” Cassie said reassuringly. “They were friends too.”

  “You didn’t mention that, my dear,” he said reproachfully.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He looked at Horn again, and this time suspicion was written plainly on his features. “How well did you know her?” he asked.

  “Well enough,” Horn said. “But that was years ago, when the two of us did a movie together. And then I lost track of her for a long time, up until just a few days ago.”

  Richwine continued to stare, but some of the suspicion seemed to dissolve. “Rose.” He sighed deeply and drained his glass. He offered to freshen their drinks, but they declined, so he refilled his own glass. “Yes, I knew her. She was Rosemary Gale then. Did you know that?”

  “Yes.”

  “An exceptional woman. An enormous talent.”

  “And you know that she’s dead.”

  “Of course I know,” Richwine said patiently. “She died in my house. Can you wonder why I feel responsible in some way? But then I ask myself: What could I have done?”

  “Your house? I don’t understand.”

  “Alden owns the rooming house,” Cassie said.

  Horn took a moment to absorb this. “So you would come by every now and then,” he said almost to himself. “Both before and after she died.”

  “Of course. Once a month or so.”

  “Why didn’t the residents know who you were?”

  Richwine looked irritated. “I’m sorry, Mr. Horn. I didn’t realize I was going to be subjected to some kind of interrogation.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Horn saw Cassie give him a cautionary look. He realized he was moving too fast. “No, sir, I apologize for offending you,” he said. “It’s just that I’ve been looking for you, hoping you could tell me something I could use. Rose was important to me—”

  “She never mentioned you.”

  Horn sighed. “Like I said, I had lost touch with her for a long time. I found her again just before she died.” He felt a wordless accusation taking shape in Richwine’s attitude, and he glanced at Cassie, remembering her admission of guilt at having left Rose alone in an unlocked room. All right, he told the other man silently. Maybe I feel guilty too, for not being around when she could have used some help.

  “She was important to me,” Horn repeated stubbornly. “I want to know who killed her, even more than the police want to. If that makes me careless and rude sometimes, I apologize.”

  Richwine waved the matter away. “The go
od people at Rook House didn’t know I was the owner because I preferred it that way,” he said. He yawned elaborately, covering his mouth with an elegant, blue-veined hand. For the first time, Horn noticed the other whisky bottle by the kitchen sink. It bore the same label, and it appeared to be empty. “Only Rose and the manager knew.”

  “How did Rose know?”

  “We had known each other almost from the first day she began working in films,” Richwine said, his gaze lowered to the tabletop, his voice grown reflective. “I knew her, worked with her occasionally, admired her greatly. When, for reasons best known to her, she decided to leave, she was gone for years. Then she reappeared, and it was obvious she was in need. As the owner of a residence for those of limited incomes, I was in a position to help her. I told the manager to give her the first vacancy.”

  “Mr. Richwine, do you have any idea who killed Rose?”

  The other man stared at Horn for long moments, eyes almost hooded by the gray, overgrown hedge of his brows. Then he drained his glass a second time. A tiny tremor developed in his right hand, which sat curled around the glass. Horn noted his red-edged eyes and wondered how long he’d been drinking.

  “Suddenly I’m very tired,” the older man said softly. “The last few days have been…. I pray you’ll excuse me if I prepare for bed. And if it’s not too much trouble, please lock up when you leave.”

  Horn mumbled a polite response, berating himself for pushing too hard. Cassie got up quickly. “Will you let me help you?” she asked Richwine.

  “Of course,” he said, rising heavily as she put an arm lightly around his waist. “The day a comely young lady offers to help me to bed and I decline, I’ll know I’m ready for the last curtain.” He turned to Horn. “Good night.”

  “Good night, sir.”

  They left the kitchen by a door that opened onto a hallway. He remained at the table, listening to their banter.

  “Alden, you’re not King Richard anymore,” she said. “First, Second, or any other number. You should look after yourself better.”

  “I am now Lear,” he responded in a voice with a trace of old thunder. “And you…you are my kindly Indian medicine woman. My priestess.”

  When their voices had receded, Horn left the kitchen. After about twenty feet, the dimly lit hallway opened into something larger. He switched on a light and saw a high-ceilinged room with an imposing tiled fireplace, a wrought-iron chandelier, and a sweeping stone staircase that led upstairs. The furniture was bulky, overstuffed, and well-worn. The oriental carpet was almost threadbare in places.

  Turning on lights as he went, Horn visited the library, dining room and what appeared to be a parlor, whose French doors looked out on overgrown greenery. The library’s shelves held mostly poetry, plays, and books on the theater. Overhead, a brown water stain marred one corner of the ceiling. Back in the main room, he mounted the wide steps, passing by ten-foot windows that marched upward alongside the stairs, each window set back from the stairway and framed by heavy velvet curtains. One pane in each tall window was of stained glass, depicting scenes from a fanciful menagerie that included birds, bears, and unicorns.

  The upstairs held six doors, apparently to bedrooms. One was open, and he could hear Cassie and their host talking inside. “I’ll leave your water here, next to your medicine,” she said. Horn retreated quietly back down to the kitchen. A few minutes later, Cassie joined him.

  “All right, talk to me,” he said as she sat down at the table. “How long have you known this character?”

  “Not long,” she said, still seeming to enjoy her secret joke. “I waited a few days, to make sure he trusted me, before I invited you over. He’s a nice old guy, isn’t he?”

  “How did you meet him?”

  “Well, I knew you and Madge were looking for him. You should have a talk with her, by the way.”

  “I’ve talked to her.”

  “No, I mean about something new. I’ll tell you later. Anyway…one night, as I was leaving for my shift, I saw him get out of his car and come up the front steps. He went in to see the manager. From Madge’s description, I knew it was him. So I went out to where he was parked and looked over his car and thought up a quick plan. He has an old LaSalle, a ’39 with the Sunshine Roof. It’s nice, but he doesn’t take very good care of it. Anyway, I got an old rag from my cab and used it to plug up the tailpipe. Then, when he came out, I followed him.” Noting Horn’s expression, she stopped warily.

  “Nothing,” he said with a grin. “Just sounds like something your uncle would pull.”

  “After about a mile, his engine quit,” she went on. “I came up and offered to take a look. Told him he should have it checked by a mechanic and asked if he wanted to take my cab home. He said sure. On the way, we got to talking. He loves to talk.”

  “I can tell.”

  “Once I got him home, I could tell he didn’t have anybody to look after him. Cleaning woman comes in once a week; that’s about it. He used to be rich. Look at this house, huh? But he doesn’t make much money from acting anymore, so most of what he has comes from the rents at Rook House—”

  “From your conversation, sounds like the two of you are pretty cozy.”

  “What’s your point?” He saw a flash of the old Cassie in her look.

  “Just that I never saw you act motherly toward anybody, that’s all.”

  “What do you know about me? And what do you care, anyway? He likes me. I enjoy listening to him talk, and the polite way he treats me. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I don’t mind doing him favors, stopping for a bottle of Paul Jones or getting him a loaf of bread when he forgets to go out for groceries.”

  He regretted what he’d said. “All right, Cassie. That’s good. I bet he appreciates you.”

  “So now you’ve found him, like you wanted.” She looked at her watch. “I need to go try to scare up some fares.” She got up, then looked at him expectantly. “You coming?”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not sure. All I know is, I need to talk to him more. Ever since Rose died, I feel like I’ve done nothing. I’ve wasted time. This Alden, he’s somebody I thought I needed to find, and now that I have, I’ve got questions that can’t wait. While you were upstairs, I walked around down here, and…. Something tells me I shouldn’t leave this house until I either have some answers or else I decide that he doesn’t have any.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I’m staying here. I’ll sleep on his couch. I’m used to couches. And when he wakes up, I’ll be here, and we’ll finish talking.”

  She looked dubious. “Don’t scare him,” she said.

  “I won’t. Hell, I’ll fix him some breakfast if it helps any.”

  She stared at him, visibly distrustful. “Be sure to lock up before you turn in,” she said finally.

  “I will. Go make some money.”

  “He likes his coffee with just cream.” She was almost out the door when his voice stopped her. “What?” She turned, hand on the knob.

  “I was just saying…you did real good. Finding him like that.”

  Her eyebrows rose in exaggerated response. “Gee, a compliment from a cowboy. I’m all twittery.”

  “Make fun if you want to. But I mean it. You did good.”

  She grinned delightedly. “You’re right, I did. Must be my Indian side.” Then she was gone.

  Horn walked around the house again, checking doors and windows. Although neglected, the house was solidly made. Noticing that the latch on one of the kitchen windows was loose, he rummaged through the adjoining pantry and found a drawer with an assortment of tools, including a screwdriver. He tightened the screws securing the latch.

  He took one last turn around the house. What had just been a feeling an hour earlier now swelled into something more. It was almost as if the house were talking to him. No words at first, just a drone, like the animated muttering of p
arty guests in an adjoining room. He started up the great, curved staircase, and his eyes came to rest on one of the panes of stained glass in the first window. Glowing faintly from the light of a nearby street lamp, it showed foxes at play in an emerald forest.

  The words from Rose’s last letter came to him. At the party where Tess died, amorous couples had hidden themselves behind curtained alcoves by the windows on the staircase, where only animals could see. The ending of the sentence had puzzled him, but he had dismissed it as the alcohol taking hold of an already feverish mind. Now he knew. The animals lived in the glowing glass of the windows.

  As he stood on the stairs, listening, the house spoke to him in full voice. He could hear frantic laughter, the strains of a fast-paced Charleston, the heavy breathing behind the velvet curtains.

  Somewhere upstairs, Rose was making her plans. A young girl’s life was about to end.

  He poured another glass of Alden Richwine’s whisky, took off his shoes, and settled onto a sofa in front of the fireplace, covering himself with a dusty afghan that had been draped over one arm of the sofa. It was almost two in the morning before he slept.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Horn awoke to the clinking sound of the milkman depositing bottles on the steps outside the kitchen door. He got up and splashed his face in the kitchen sink, then went out to pick up the milk, which he deposited in the noisy old Servel. He noted a small puddle of water collecting underneath the fridge. Like its owner, Alden Richwine’s house was showing its age.

  He took a minute to look around the kitchen, locating the things he needed. He found the coffee pot and a jar of coffee and started a pot brewing. Muffled clanking sounds from somewhere deep in the plumbing told him his unwitting host was up and about. He broke some eggs into a bowl, added a little milk and some salt and pepper, and sliced up part of an onion. After about twenty minutes, he heard a door close upstairs. He was beginning to melt butter in the skillet when he heard Richwine’s voice.

  “What are you doing here?” A simple question, but delivered with enough theatricality to require an immediate and satisfactory answer.