It took Rona a full ten minutes before Barbara’s smiles returned and her face cleared up as sweetly as a sky in April. But even then, Rona was given no time to think at all about herself, Barbara saw to that.
24
Peggy ’phoned at nine o’clock.
“Rona,” she began breathlessly, speaking in the way she did when she felt she had a hundred things to mention, “Rona, how’s Barbara? Did she eat enough breakfast? You’ll find her play clothes on the left of the bedroom closet...and it’s chilly this morning, so you’d better put a cardigan on top of—”
“Yes, Peggy,” Rona said with a smile. The cardigan was already covering the plump short arm that was struggling to take the receiver from Rona. “Just a minute, honey,” she said to Barbara, “you can talk to Mummy afterward. If you keep still!” Barbara nodded, and put her head close to Rona’s so that she could listen anyway.
“The cardigans are in the bottom drawer of the bureau.”
“Fine,” said Rona. “And what about Bobby?”
“He’s half-asleep, half-awake. I’ve left Jon sitting by his door. Perhaps, later this afternoon, we’ll get into the room. Rona—are you taking cold?”
“No. I have a strained throat. But Bobby—then he is getting better?”
“I keep telling myself that. The doctors won’t say anything definite. Oh, Rona!—”
“Now, cheer up, Peggy. The worst is over.”
Peggy blew her nose.
“What’s that?” Barbara asked, starting back.
Peggy said, not too distinctly, “I hope so.”
Rona decided this was the moment for Barbara to do her share. And as she held the ’phone at the right distance from Barbara’s mouth while Barbara shouted her answers (the louder, the clearer, was Barbara’s idea of telephoning), Rona had time to realise that Peggy had been told nothing about last night’s incident in the Park. And for that she was thankful. If Peggy had known, she would have come back here and stayed while she worried about Bobby in the hospital. And then, Rona told herself, I would have time to think...and I don’t want to think at all. I’m afraid to think about Scott. I’m more afraid to think about him than even to remember last night... Stop that, Rona, stop!
“Barbara, it’s my turn,” she said almost desperately, and took back the receiver. “Yes, Peggy,” she said quickly, “now what do you want me to do? No, don’t leave the hospital for a moment until you are sure about Bobby.” For a few more minutes Peggy talked about Barbara’s routine and meals. The matter-of-fact conversation did them both good. The small details of living absorbed the shock of its cruel moments.
It’s odd, Rona was thinking as she went back to the problems of housekeeping and of coping with Barbara, it’s odd how you can feel so isolated by some hideous experience, and then find you still are only a very small part of the giant world that goes on and on. And so you have to go on too. You may lose your lover but you have to eat breakfast, if not today, then tomorrow. Your nephew may be dying, but you’ve got to cook a rice pudding in a double boiler and add the egg and sugar afterwards for your niece. You may think yourself a tragic figure, but you’ve got to go out shopping to the A&P, and deal with a dozen oranges, and half a pound of butter, and a bunch of celery.
“Aunt Rona,” asked Barbara, “why you crying?”
* * *
Just after ten o’clock, the Tysons’ doctor arrived—a kindly, elderly man who examined Rona’s throat, and then Barbara’s as a tactful gesture to keep her happy. He prescribed what he could. “It will take time,” he said, smiling cheerfully. “Don’t worry. It’s an ugly-looking bruise, and your throat must be painful, but it isn’t serious. You may not think it, but you’ve been a lucky young lady, a very lucky young lady. Now, don’t talk very much, and keep your voice low if you have to talk. And don’t worry.” Probably the reassurance in his voice was as much help as anything. And certainly the way in which he ’phoned the drugstore, and got them to promise to send round lotions and gargles and lozenges, was an extra touch of kindness. He needs sleep, Rona thought as she looked at the heavy shadows under the tired eyes. He’s been awake all night, he’s been with Bobby, and yet he calls a drugstore to save me the trouble. There are good people, kind people, too. I’ve got to keep thinking of them. I’ve got to remember them. There are people who help. Not only people who destroy.
And then he was gone, and Rona tried to finish the next round of household chores, while Barbara began examining all the throats of her dolls and asked for bandages to tie around their necks. “Poor Rona,” she kept saying, as she attended to the dolls. “Poor Rona.” But the dolls were abandoned as soon as the package from the drugstore arrived. That had to be opened and critically examined, and Barbara had to taste a lozenge to make sure they were good. They were too good, seemingly, for Rona was trying to find somewhere to hide the box when the telephone bell rang.
Eleven o’clock almost, Rona noted. She hurried to the telephone, still carrying the box of lozenges in her hand, as the safest place possible. She was beginning to re-form her ideas of Peggy’s capabilities. When did Peggy ever find time to do anything at all?
It was a strange voice speaking on the telephone, a woman’s voice. “This is Moira Burleigh,” she said. “I’m calling from upstairs.” There was a pause. “Is that Peggy’s sister?”
“Yes,” Rona said, still puzzled.
“We met you one Friday at Peggy’s; remember?”
Rona remembered. Moira Burleigh who hated Orpen, Moira Burleigh who had known Scott when he was a boy at Staunton. “Yes,” she said.
“I’ve just heard the news. How terrible! I’ve been calling the hospital but you don’t get much change out of them, do you? Poor Peggy! What a dreadful thing to happen! And it’s so dangerous, isn’t it? But why didn’t you come upstairs and get hold of us? We’d have rallied round. You don’t need help? You are sure? Well, in case you do, just call me. I’m going to be here all morning and most of this afternoon. Why don’t you send Barbara up here for lunch? My brats have to eat anyway. It might take Barbara’s mind off things. You know. And you could have time to read a book in peace, or put your feet up, or something. I know what it’s like with children. You sound all worn out already.”
Rona, glancing down at Barbara who was waiting with an angelic smile for another lozenge, replied that things seemed under control for the moment. “There’s the doorbell,” she added quickly, and truthfully. “Sorry.” And she put down the receiver thankfully, and yet with a touch of embarrassment for feeling grateful that the doorbell had chosen this moment to ring.
It was strange how quickly news, especially bad news, travelled. How had Mrs. Burleigh heard about Bobby? From the superintendent? Had she also heard how Rona had arrived last night? Then she was suddenly angry with herself for such suspicion: Moira Burleigh had only ’phoned out of kindness, not curiosity. Yes, she told herself angrily, you had better start learning to trust people again. There are plenty of people to be trusted.
She opened the door. On the landing outside were two strange men.
She tightened her grip on the door, half-closing it, looking over her shoulder despairingly as if Jon might appear to help her—or Paul. But there was only Barbara, backing away, suddenly very small and helpless.
“Miss Metford?” one of the men asked. He had light hair, blue eyes. Like Scott. He was about Scott’s age, Scott’s height. Even his quiet clothes were like Scott’s.
“Yes,” she said, trying to close the door still more and yet feeling she had scarcely the strength to do that.
“I’m sorry to trouble you, Miss Metford. But this is an emergency.”
“Bobby?” she asked, fearfully, hesitating.
“No.” The stranger pulled an identification card from his pocket. “May we talk to you for a few minutes?”
She looked at the card. “But how do I know that you are—” She stared down at the card. She couldn’t finish the sentence.
The two men exchanged glances. The
fair-haired one said, “Well, that’s a reasonable doubt. Why don’t you call headquarters and check on our visit to you? We’ll wait here until you’ve found out.”
She closed the door, leaning against it. Then she opened it again.
The two men were lighting cigarettes. The fair-haired one was pacing slowly around, his hat pushed back on his head. The other was saying, “Well, you can’t blame her. She had a bit of a—” He stopped in embarrassment and turned to face Rona. “That was a quick call,” he said, trying to make a joke of it.
Rona said, “If you were thieves you could easily have pushed your way in here, in the first place.” She tried to smile, too. But she was thinking, they know about me. They know. Her hand fumbled with the scarf at her throat. “Come in,” she said.
“This is urgent, or we wouldn’t trouble you,” the fair-haired agent said. “It won’t take long.”
Something in his voice disturbed Rona. But she said nothing and led them to the living-room.
“Quite a hospital you’ve got here,” the man said with a smile, as he noticed the bandaged dolls each occupying an armchair. He looked round and then laid his hat on the coffee table. The other hesitated, too. They were both so obviously ill at ease, so obviously trying to be tactful, that again Rona was warned. What else can hurt me now? What else?
“Who’s that?” asked Barbara, beginning to regain her composure.
“I’m Fred,” the other agent said to Barbara, speaking for the first time. “I’m Barbara,” she answered. The two men exchanged a quick glance, and then Fred walked slowly over to the desk. He put his hat down and lifted a battered doll. “What’s her name?” And he drew Barbara away from the couch where Rona sat.
“She’ll be all right,” the fair-haired man said to Rona reassuringly as he pulled a chair nearer the couch. “Fred’s got a couple of kids of his own.” Rona glanced worriedly across the room but Barbara, now perched on top of a telephone book and a couple of cushions, was being installed at the desk chair while Fred found a large pad of paper and sharpened a blue pencil obligingly.
The man beside Rona lowered his voice. “We are sorry we have to trouble you this morning. But we thought you might be able to help us. Do you feel fit enough to answer some questions?”
Rona stared at him. She nodded. But wasn’t it the police who usually took charge of robberies and assaults? Yet these men were supposed to be from the FBI. She looked down at her hands and found she was still holding the box of lozenges. She studied its trademark.
He was saying, “You were accompanied last night by a man called Scott Ettley? That was what you told the police?”
She nodded again.
“You’ve known him a long time?”
“Three years, almost.”
“You are engaged to him?”
“I was.” She looked up. He was watching her.
“Did you know anything of Ettley’s politics?”
“No,” she said hesitatingly. Not until last night, she thought, and I may have been crazy. That moment of suspicion in the dark shadows of Central Park—that moment of fear when she had faced Scott and asked “Is Orpen the traitor?... A traitor to what?”—No, that was a moment to forget if she could.
“You knew his friends.”
“Most of them.”
“What were they like?”
She shook her head helplessly. “Just people like me.”
“Did you know of any friends he had in the Communist Party?”
“Not definitely. Except...” Orpen, of course. Orpen was a Communist. A traitor to what? Yes, Scott had been identifying himself with Orpen’s politics. She stared down again at the box in her hand. “Is Scott Ettley a Communist?” she asked.
“You don’t sound too surprised at the idea, Miss Metford,” he suggested, and waited patiently. If we knew the definite answer to that question, he was thinking, we wouldn’t have needed to come here this morning. “You didn’t know of any Communist friends except—?” Again he waited.
She flushed. “There was one, Nicholas Orpen. But that was only an old friendship from college days.”
“Are you sure of that, Miss Metford? He was merely an old college friend?”
She put her hand to her throat. “I don’t know,” she said.
“When did you first begin to suspect Scott Ettley?”
The flush mounted in her cheeks. “I didn’t say I suspected him.”
“I’m sorry. I had the feeling that you did.” He still watched her face. Then he said quietly, “The Communists cause a lot of real trouble for a lot of people, but it’s strange how people don’t want to cause trouble for Communists.”
There was a pause. Rona said, “I’m not shielding anyone. I just don’t know. I don’t know.”
“That’s fair enough,” he agreed. “We don’t want vague ideas. We want facts. Last night Scott Ettley came to see you just after ten o’clock. He stayed about three-quarters of an hour.”
She looked at him in surprise. “Yes,” she said.
“Did he tell you anything that might be of importance to us?”
“No. There was nothing definite.”
“He mentioned no names?”
“No. He was—he was arguing with himself. He talked wildly. I couldn’t understand.” I was the one who mentioned names, she thought. Orpen...is Orpen the traitor?
“Why did you go out with him and walk into Central Park?”
“I was trying to help him.”
“He was in trouble?”
“I thought he was.”
“Did he say he was intending to leave the Communist Party? Did he express any fears for his own safety?”
“No. He was—he was just arguing with himself.”
“Was he upset by the broken engagement?”
“He—he had been,” she admitted. “He didn’t speak of it last night.” Only indirectly, only for a moment. He seemed to have forgotten all the wild threats he had made earlier in the week. As if he had come to accept the idea that she was no longer his... Or had he ever accepted it?
“Did he know about the documents which you had received earlier this week?”
“From Charles?” She was startled. “No,” she said. I was the one who spoke about Charles, she remembered. And immediately after I mentioned him, Scott started to leave. He left, and asked me to go with him...
She shivered. That couldn’t be true. Scott had acted on impulse when he went for that walk. I was still safe then. And yet, from that time, the pressure had mounted. Until then, Scott had been arguing with himself, as if he had been trying to persuade himself. Afterward, he had become afraid of what he might have said. And when I spoke of Orpen, he was doubly afraid. We went into the Park...
“Did Ettley ever talk about killing—” the detective began.
“Oh!” she cried out, hurting her throat.
The man waited, watching, saying nothing, his face expressionless.
“So that’s why you are here,” Rona said. “Orpen has been killed.” She spoke as if she had expected it.
“Nicholas Orpen?” Then that is something we have found out, the agent thought. He rose to his feet, and gave Fred a nod.
Rona looked at him in sudden panic. “Scott had nothing to do with that,” she said. “I know.” As far as I can know, she thought unhappily. She was remembering Scott’s face—at the end—when she spoke to him so bitterly. She saw again the look in Scott’s eyes, watching her contempt. And into his eyes had come contempt, too, and hatred. But not for her. “Rona,” he had said pitifully, as if asking her help for the last time, as if seeing himself as clearly as she was seeing him.
The agent picked up his hat. “Orpen is still alive,” he said. He hesitated, and then he decided not to break the news. It would be broadcast over every radio this evening. Scott Ettley was the son of William Ettley, after all. Yes, that would be the simplest way for her to learn. The easiest way for himself, certainly. Yet he still hesitated. It would be a cruel way to learn, too.
He frowned down at the hat in his hand. With an effort, he said, “I’m afraid we have bad news for you.” He looked up at her, but she didn’t help him. He had to say it. “Scott Ettley was found dead, early this morning. He was killed by a subway train. I’m sorry, Miss Metford, but the news will be published in the evening papers, perhaps even in the early afternoon editions. So...” He looked at her and waited.
“Yes,” she said, “it was better that you should tell me.” She didn’t rise. She sat so still that she seemed scarcely to breathe.
“Goodbye, Miss Metford. Goodbye, Barbara.”
Barbara waved a starfish hand.
The front door closed, firmly. The hall was silent again. Rona looked up to see Barbara’s face watching her, half-puzzled, half-frightened. She took a deep breath and got up from the couch. Her movements were stiff, unnatural. “It’s all right,” she heard herself saying, “it’s all right, Barbara.” And as proof of that, she opened the box of lozenges which she still clutched tightly in her hand. “It’s all right,” she repeated, trying to put aside her thoughts of Scott and his father. But it wasn’t all right. Her emotions were suddenly blotted out by a blinding anger: Orpen, she was thinking, Orpen...
* * *
The two agents went downstairs in silence. As Fred unlocked the door of their parked car, he said, “That was a tough half hour, Tom.”
“Yeah. But she took it well.”
“Did she tell the whole truth?”
“As far as she could, I think,” said Tom. “Pity we had to see her, though.”
Fred nodded. They both got into the car. In its privacy, he added, “And we still don’t know whether it was suicide or a political murder. All that trouble for nothing.” He glanced up at the windows of the apartment which they had just left.
“Not altogether,” Tom said. “Orpen’s in danger; we found that out. And there’s only one reason why a man like Orpen should be in danger: he’s breaking with the Party and he’s ready to talk. Better stop at the first drugstore you see, Fred. I’d like to put in a call.”
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