The Wycherly Woman

by Ross Macdonald

  “I represent her.”

  “In what capacity?”

  “I’m responsible for the security of these premises. We don’t like prowlers and snoopers around here.”

  “Where can I get in touch with Mrs. Wycherly?”

  “I’m not here to answer questions. I’m here to see that nobody vandalizes this property.” There was a nasty little whine in his voice. He reached into his back pocket and matched it with a nasty little gun. “Now get.”

  My gun was in the back seat of my car; which was just as well. I got.

  Crossing Bayshore on an overpass, I felt as if I was crossing a frontier between two countries. There were some white people on the streets of East Palo Alto, but most of the people were colored. The cheap tract houses laid out in rows between the salt flats and the highway had the faint peculiar atmosphere of a suburban ghetto.

  Sammy Green earned Sailors’ Union wages and lived in one of the better houses on one of the better streets, almost out of hearing of the highway and almost out of smelling of the Bay. His wife was a handsome young Negro woman wearing a party dress and a complicated hairdo, under which earrings sparkled.

  She told me that her husband was in Gilroy for the night; he always visited his folks the second night of his vacation, and took the children with him. No, his parents had no telephone, but she’d be glad to give me their address.

  I asked her instead how to get to Woodside, where Phoebe’s aunt and uncle lived.

  chapter 7

  IT WAS FIVE WINDING MILES across the hinterland of the Stanford campus. Eventually I found Carl Trevor’s mailbox on the road that climbed towards the coastal ridge. His place had a name: Leafy Acres. A horse whickered at me from somewhere as I turned up the drive. I didn’t whicker back.

  I rounded a wooded curve and saw the long low redwood and stone house, many windowed, full of light. A maid in a black and white uniform answered the door. She turned on outside floodlights before she unhooked the screen.

  “Is Mrs. Trevor at home?”

  “She isn’t back from Palo Alto yet.”

  “Mr. Trevor?”

  “If she isn’t back he isn’t back,” she said in an instructive tone. “She went to the station to meet his train. They ought to be here any time now, they’re later than usual.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  She looked me over, apparently trying to decide whether I belonged in the front part of the house or the kitchen. I assumed my most respectable expression and got bidden into the library, as she called it. It was a beautiful panelled room with actual books on its shelves. The Trevors went in heavily for history, particularly Western Americana.

  I leafed through a copy of American Heritage until I heard a car engine in the drive. I went to the window and saw them get out of their Cadillac convertible. She climbed out on the driver’s side, a thin woman of about fifty with a face like a silver hatchet. He was a heavy-shouldered man wearing a Homburg and carrying the inevitable brief case. He looked sick.

  She offered him her arm as they started up the front steps. He pushed her away, without touching her, in a gesture that combined irritation and pride. He ran up the steps two at a time. She watched him go with naked fear on her face.

  The fear was still in her eyes when she came into the library a few minutes later. She had on pearls and a simple dark gown which had probably cost a fortune. A wasted fortune. It accentuated the taut angularity of her body and left her frying-chicken shoulders bare.

  “What do you want?”

  “My name is Archer, I’m a private detective. Your brother Homer Wycherly hired me to look for your niece Phoebe. I don’t know whether you’ve heard from him—”

  “I’ve heard. My brother phoned me this afternoon. I don’t know what to make of it.” She wrung her hands so hard that they creaked. “What do you make of it? Is she a runaway?”

  “I have no theories, Mrs. Trevor. Not yet. I’ve just been over in Atherton, where I found out that Phoebe isn’t the only one on the missing list. Her mother’s house is up for sale, and apparently empty. I was hoping you could tell me where Mrs. Wycherly is.”

  “Catherine?” She sat down suddenly, and let me sit down. “What has Catherine to do with this?”

  “Phoebe was last seen in her mother’s company. They left the ship together the day your brother sailed. Shortly after that, Mrs. Wycherly seems to have moved out of her house. Do you know anything about the move, or where she’s gone?”

  “I don’t keep track of Catherine’s comings and goings. By her own choice, she’s no longer a member of the family.” Good riddance, was the unspoken implication. “As Homer may have told you, she divorced him last May. In Reno.”

  “Is that when she moved to Atherton?”

  She nodded her thin grey angry head. “Why she chose to come here and become our virtual neighbor!—Of course I know why she did it. She hoped to trade on our standing in the community. But my husband and I were not about to fall in with her plans. Catherine made her bed and she can lie in it.” Her mouth was thin and cruel. “I’m not surprised she gave up on Atherton and moved out.”

  “Do you have any idea where she moved to?”

  “I told you I do not. I’m sure in any case that you’re on the wrong track. Phoebe couldn’t conceivably be with her. They don’t get along.”

  “That may be so. I still have to talk to her.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you with that.” She cocked her head, as if a moral hearing-aid had switched on and let her hear the harshness in her voice. “You mustn’t think me unchristian, Mr. Archer. Where my former sister-in-law is concerned, we have had it, as the young people say. I really did my best for her over the years. I took her into my own house before she married my brother, and tried to teach her the things a lady should know. I’m afraid the indoctrination didn’t take. As a matter of fact, the last time I saw her—” She compressed her lips in a way that reminded me of her brother.

  “When did you last see her?”

  “That same day. The famous day when Homer embarked on his voyage of discovery. Or escape. Catherine must have read about it in the paper, and saw a chance to get her talons into him one more time. I’m surprised they let her aboard. I’ve seen her drunk before, but never as loud and violent as she was that afternoon.”

  “What was she after?”

  “Money, or so she said. There Homer was with his millions, sailing off to the South Seas, and there was poor Catherine destitute and starving on the meager pittance that he doled out to her. I felt like telling her that a starvation regime would be good for her figure. But of course her version of the facts was grossly exaggerated, as usual. I happen to know that Homer gave her a hundred-thousand-dollar settlement and pays her three thousand dollars a month alimony in addition. And she spends every penny of it.”

  “How?”

  “Don’t ask me how. She’s always had expensive tastes, which is doubtless why she married my brother in the first place. I heard she paid seventy-five-thousand dollars cash for the Mandeville house—a ridiculous outlay for a woman in her position.”

  “The Mandeville house?”

  “The one in Atherton—the one you tell me she’s selling. She bought it from a Captain Mandeville.”

  “I see. Getting back to that shipboard scene, did you notice your niece’s reaction?”

  “Not specifically. She was appalled, I’m sure. We all were. My husband and I left before it was over. Mr. Trevor has heart trouble, and the doctor wants him to avoid that sort of tension. If Catherine aimed to spoil our leave-taking, she succeeded very well.”

  “You didn’t see her leave the ship with Phoebe?”

  “No, we’d already left ourselves. Are you sure that information is correct? It doesn’t seem likely.”

  “I got it from one of the ship’s officers. They left the dock together in a taxi. I don’t know what happened after that.”

  She clasped her hands at her breast. “It’s a horribly upsetting sit
uation. My husband is almost prostrated by it. I should have waited to tell him until he’d had his rest—he comes home from the city so exhausted. But I had to go and blurt it out as soon as he stepped off the train.”

  “He’s fond of Phoebe, your brother tells me.”

  “Deeply fond. She’s been like a daughter to us, especially to Carl. I do hope you can get her back for him. For all of us, but especially for him.” Her hands had climbed to her throat and were picking at her pearls. “I’m deeply concerned about how this shock will affect my husband’s health. I’ve seldom known him to be so disturbed. And he blames me for what happened.”

  “Blames you?”

  “When Phoebe didn’t answer our Christmas invitation, he wanted to drive down to Boulder Beach and see that she was all right. I persuaded him not to—he’s not supposed to drive. Besides, I felt she had a right to be on her own if she chose. I naturally believed that it was her choice, that she wanted to be free of family for once in her young life. Perhaps I was a little impatient with her, too, when she failed to acknowledge my letter. In any case, we didn’t go. We should have. We should at least have phoned.”

  Her fingers were active at her throat. Her pearls broke, cascading down her body, rolling in all directions on the floor.

  “Damn it!” she cried. “This is the day when everything happens to me.”

  Kicking pearls out from under her feet, she moved to the doorway and jabbed a bell push with her thumb. The maid came running, got down on her knees at once and began to pick up the pearls.

  A middle-aged man in a plaid smoking jacket leaned in the doorway and watched the scene with barely repressed amusement. His balding head was large for his body, and rested like a pale cannonball on his shoulders without much intervention from his neck. His voice was deep, and seemed to take a certain pleasure in its own depth:

  “What goes on, Helen?”

  “I’ve broken my pearls.” Her narrow look implied that in some obscure way he was responsible.

  “It isn’t the end of the world.”

  “No, but it’s exasperating. Everything seems to be happening at once.”

  The kneeling maid gave her a quick glance, sideways and upward. She said nothing. Mrs. Trevor moved on her husband with a kind of furious maternality:

  “You’re supposed to be lying down. We don’t want anything else to happen today.” It sounded like a move in a complex verbal game which nobody ever won.

  “Nothing will,” he said. “I’m feeling much better.” He looked inquiringly at me. His eyes were blue and intelligent.

  “I’d like to talk to you, Mr. Trevor.”

  I started to tell him who I was, but Helen Trevor intervened:

  “No, Mr. Archer. Please. I don’t want my husband troubled with these affairs. I’ll be glad to answer any other questions you—”

  “Nonsense, Helen, let me talk to him. I’m perfectly all right now. Come with me, Mr.—Archer, is it?”

  “Archer.”

  Trevor turned his back on his wife’s protests and led me into a small study off the library. He closed the door with a small sigh of relief.

  “Women,” he said under his breath. “Let me get you a drink, Mr. Archer. Scotch or Bourbon?”

  “Nothing, thanks. I’m driving, and Bayshore is murder.”

  “Is it not? I prefer to commute by Southern Pacific. Now sit down and tell me what all this is about Phoebe. The version I got came by way of my wife, and it’s probably garbled.”

  He placed me in a leather armchair facing his and listened to what I had to tell him. There was a silence when I’d finished. Trevor sat immobile. He gave the impression of mental or physical pain stoically endured.

  “I blame myself,” he said finally. “I should have looked out for her, if Homer wasn’t willing to. Why he had to choose this winter to forsake his responsibilities and become a white shadow in the South Seas—” He punctuated the unfinished sentence with his fist on his knee. “But the real question is, what are we going to do about it?”

  “Find her.”

  “If she’s alive.”

  “They usually are,” I said with more assurance than I felt. “They turn up counting change in Vegas, or waiting table in the Tenderloin, or setting up light housekeeping in a beat pad, or bucking the modelling racket in Hollywood.”

  Trevor’s thick eyebrows came together and tangled like hostile caterpillars. “Why would a well-nurtured girl like Phoebe do any of those things?”

  “The standard motives are drink or drugs or a man. They all add up to the same idea, rebellion. It’s the fourth R they learn in school these days. Or someplace.”

  “But Phoebe wasn’t particularly rebellious. Though Lord knows she had plenty of reason to be.”

  “I’m interested in the reasons. I couldn’t get much out of Wycherly directly. As far as his daughter is concerned, he seems to be living in a dream. And he doesn’t want to wake up.”

  “That’s natural enough, he’s one of the reasons.”

  I waited for him to go on. He didn’t. I tried another tack: “I did learn that your niece went to see a psychiatrist last spring. Do you know anything about that?”

  His eyebrows went up. “No. But I’m not surprised. She was an unhappy girl when she came back to Stanford after Easter. I know her studies were going downhill.”

  “What was she unhappy about?”

  “She didn’t confide in me. According to my wife, there was quite a family ruckus in Meadow Farms over the holiday. It had to do with some libellous letters.”

  “Did you ever see those letters?”

  “I didn’t, but Helen did. They were pretty vile, I gather. They set off the last of a long series of family explosions.” He leaned towards me earnestly. “I try to avoid gossip, but I’ll tell you this much. It wasn’t a happy marriage the Wycherlys had. They should have divorced twenty years ago, or never married in the first place. I used to spend a good deal of time at their house, when Helen and I were still living in Meadow Farms, and I can tell you it wasn’t a good place to raise a child. They fought continually.”

  “What about?”

  “Anything. Catherine detested the place, Homer wouldn’t leave it. They simply weren’t meant to live together. He was well on in his thirties when they married, and she was still in her teens. It wasn’t only a matter of age. They were as far apart as night and day, and Phoebe was caught in the middle until she finally got away to school. I don’t mean that Homer isn’t a gentle enough soul, but he has those generations of money behind him. It makes a man soft in some ways, hard in others.” He smiled slightly. “I should know. He’s been my titular boss for twenty-five years.”

  “What sort of a woman is Catherine? I’ve gotten some pretty fierce reports on her.”

  “No doubt.” His half-smile changed to a half-grimace. “She’s gone to pieces since her divorce, as women often do. She used to be quite a forceful woman, and quite a handsome one, if you like the big blatant blonde type. I used to get along with Catherine fairly well. We understood each other to some extent. She came up the hard way, as I did. If marrying money at eighteen is coming up the hard way.”

  “What did she do before that?”

  “I really don’t know. Homer met her in the South and brought her to Meadow Farms to marry her. We put her up for a while before the wedding. She knew nothing about running a house; which is Helen’s métier. I think the girl was originally some sort of a secretary.”

  “How old is she now?”

  “She must be nearly forty.” Trevor paused, and gave me a long look from under his eyebrows. “You seem to be excessively interested in Catherine Wycherly. Why?”

  “Phoebe was last seen in her mother’s company.”

  “She was? When?”

  “The day Wycherly sailed. They left the ship together, drove away in a taxi. I’m doing my best to trace the taxi.”

  “Wouldn’t it be simpler to take it up with Catherine?”

  “I’d like to,
but I don’t know where she is. That’s one reason I came to you.”

  “I haven’t seen her since November second. She put on an act that day aboard the ship which I’d just as soon forget. I presume she’s in the house she bought in Atherton.”

  “She isn’t, though, and I don’t think she’s been there for the last two months. The house is up for sale.”

  “I didn’t know that. Are you sure?”

  “I was over there an hour or so ago. A sleazy character caught me trying to climb the wall and pulled a gun on me.” I described the man in the bow tie. “Do you know who he is? He claimed to be in charge of the property.”

  Trevor shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t know the man. And I haven’t the slightest idea where Catherine’s gone to.”

  “Do you know people she knows?”

  “Not on the Peninsula. I’ll be frank with you, Mr. Archer. We didn’t and don’t move in the same circles as Catherine Wycherly. It was a matter of choice, on our part.”

  “What circles does she move in?”

  “A downward spiral, I’m afraid. But I won’t repeat gossip.”

  “I wish you would.”

  “No. I owe that much to Catherine. Or to myself.” His broad cheeks colored faintly, and the brightness of his eyes intensified. He said with the irresistible smoothness of a steam roller: “We’re getting rather far afield from the subject of my niece, and it’s not getting any earlier. Tell me, what can I do to help?”

  “You might talk to the local police. If I go to them cold I’ll get no action. Also, there’s the danger of publicity. Wycherly is dead set against publicity. But you could probably make a confidential inquiry, and get them rolling in a quiet way.”

  “By all means. Tomorrow morning.”

  “Tonight would be better.”

  “All right.” Sick or not, Trevor showed the serviceability of a powerful man who didn’t have to prove anything to himself. “What precise form should this inquiry take?”

  “I’ll leave that to you. The authorities in the entire San Francisco area should be on the lookout for her. Also they should check their backlog of unidentified bodies going back to early November.”