“I said that she had told me he was her third husband.
“Patient: ‘Phil went out in his sailboat one day and never came back. The sea got him. It’s going to get me if I let him.’
“Note: Patient shows no fear of water in general, only the sea, which she refers to when she is excited as a ‘him.’ The sea appears to be a God-symbol and a conscience-symbol.
“I asked her why she believed the sea would get her.
“Patient: ‘It got Phil. It got him to spite me.’
“I asked her to explain this.
“‘I bought him that sailboat for his birthday. Oh, I’m all mixed up, I can’t explain. I was crazy about Phil; he was always nice to me, never played me for a sucker like Hamman and I wasn’t afraid of him the way I was afraid of Dalloway.’”
Dalloway closed the report and put it on the nearest table with a decisive little slap. His face, which was normally ruddy, had taken on a purplish tinge around the cheekbones, as if blood vessels were breaking under the skin.
He spoke in a tight, controlled voice. “So she was afraid of Dalloway.”
“Oh, you mustn’t take that too seriously,” Miriam said.
He paid no attention to her, keeping his eyes fixed on Frank. “I’d like to read that report, all of it.”
“I’m sorry, you can’t.”
“Professional ethics?”
“Partly that. Mainly, though, because I think it might be harmful to you.”
“I’m not a vulnerable child, you know.”
“None of us knows how vulnerable we are until we’re tested.”
“I’ve been tested by experts.”
Frank didn’t reply. He simply replaced the report in the manila folder and tied the tapes.
Watching him, Dalloway realized that it was useless to continue the subject. Frank wasn’t merely stubborn, he was right, and the combination was like steel and concrete. Dalloway thought savagely, he’s used to handling mental patients. I must be a cinch.
He forced a smile on his face, hoping it made him look friendly and unconcerned. “You’re right, of course, Clyde. I may be more vulnerable than I think. Naturally, I was curious as to what Rose had to say about me. Funny, after all these years that I should be interested, isn’t it?”
“You’re still interested in her.”
“Yes. Yes, I suppose I am.”
“So is Frank,” Miriam said with a brief, mirthless laugh. “It’s all we’ve talked about for a week now. I’d like a good long discussion about the weather for a change.”
“The weather,” Dalloway said, “has been perfect. If we suddenly had twelve inches of rain or a tornado, we might work up a lively conversation. As it is”—he shrugged—“what can you say or do about anything perfect? It’s the squeaky wheel, like Rose, that gets the oil.”
Miriam went and sat on the piano bench, her hands folded on her lap in a limp and resigned way.
“There are,” Dalloway added, “other squeaky wheels besides Rose, but so far no one’s paid any attention to them except me.”
“The Goodfields,” Frank said.
“Of course. I talked to Captain Greer about them this morning. He claims that they’re more along your line than his. You’ve seen them?”
“Not the old lady. I’ve heard about her, though, from Greer.”
“You’ve seen Willett and his wife?”
“Yes. At the inquest and at the funeral.”
“What do you make of them?”
Frank smiled. “Well, that’s a pretty big question. I haven’t formed any conclusions.”
“I don’t agree. I think that a man like you forms a conclusion every time he even looks at a person. Of course he may change the conclusion later, but he forms one.”
“You’re half-right anyway. I can’t avoid recognizing types of people and of families.”
“What about the Goodfield family?”
“It’s fairly standard. Much too standard. Dominant mother, rebellious daughter, weak sons.”
“And the wife, Ethel?”
“Probably picked out by the mother.”
“Greer thinks she’s feeble-minded.”
“She may give that impression now—she’s still under Mrs. Goodfield’s thumb. When the old lady dies, Ethel will come into her own.”
“Willett won’t?”
“Afraid not, if he follows the usual pattern. Ethel will simply assume Mrs. Goodfield’s role.”
“An odd set-up.”
“Not nearly odd enough,” Frank said. “There are many families like the Goodfields.”
“Not many who have a dead woman found in their backyard.”
“No.”
“I’m thinking it, you’re thinking it, we may as well say it. Those Goodfields had better be investigated, from top to bottom.”
“By whom?”
“I’ve done what I could. The trouble is, I can’t go around trailing people and asking them questions. I’m too conspicuous for one thing.” He gave his artificial arm a contemptuous tap. “For another, I’ve had no experience in investigation work.” Dalloway paused. “You have.”
Miriam made a sound of protest though she formed no actual words.
“Why are you anxious to get something on the Goodfields?” Frank said.
“If you’ll re-phrase that, I might be able to answer.”
“All right. What’s your interest?”
“You might call it curiosity.”
“I might.”
“Or sentiment. Or boredom. Give it any name you choose. I’d just like to find out for certain if Rose was connected in any way with the Goodfields. If she was, maybe Lora was, too.”
“Was?”
“Was,” Dalloway repeated, grimly. “I have a feeling that my daughter is dead.”
“Have you any reason for thinking that?”
“One. But it’s a good one. She hasn’t written to me asking for money. No, I’m not being humorous. Lora is incapable of supporting herself. She’s never had a job that lasted more than a day, and in spite of her fancy talk she’s as incompetent as a three-year-old.” Dalloway paused again and cleared his throat. “I’m willing to pay you liberally for your services.”
Frank and Miriam exchanged glances. Frank turned away and looked out of the window. The two boys were wrestling on the front lawn while the little black spaniel yipped furiously at the excitement, not sure whether the wrestling was playful or serious. Happy children, Frank thought. But even happy children needed new shoes and jeans and haircuts.
He knew Miriam was thinking the same thing: clothes for the children, maybe a bicycle for John or a rubber wading pool for Peter.
“You have,” Frank said at last, “touched us in a tender place.”
“I was hoping so.”
“It’s not tender enough, however, for me to accept any compromise with my conscience.”
“I’m not asking you to do anything wrong.”
“What are you asking me to do and for how much?”
“For a hundred and fifty dollars go up to San Francisco and find out everything you can about the Goodfield clan. The price I’m willing to pay doesn’t include any expense account, so you can go up any way you choose—train, plane, car, with or without Mrs. Clyde—depending how much of that hundred and fifty you want to save.”
“Frank’s always liked walking,” Miriam said. She meant the remark to be funny, but neither of the men seemed amused. Money was a serious business, to Dalloway who remembered the times when he hadn’t any, and to Frank who had no need to refresh his memory.
“I can’t get more than one day off,” Frank said.
Dalloway nodded. “One day should do it.”
“I’ll drive up tomorrow.”
“It’s Sunday, you won’t be
able to get much done.”
“Why not?”
“The factory will be closed.”
“Factory?”
“The Horace Goodfield Doll Corporation. I’d like you to take a look at it, see who’s running it and how.”
“I know nothing about factories, Dalloway. My business is people.”
“People make factories.”
“Well, I’ll do my best.” Frank sounded puzzled. “I wish my instructions were a little more specific.”
“If I knew how to make them more specific I wouldn’t have to ask you to go. I have a vague, general suspicion about that family. I want it confirmed.”
“Or denied?”
“Preferably confirmed.”
“Why preferably?”
“I hate to be wrong, that’s all.” Dalloway made it sound quite convincing. “Well, I must be leaving. I’ll hear from you Tuesday then?”
“Yes.”
Dalloway’s departure was carefully polite. He told Miriam it had been a pleasure to meet such a charming woman, he shook hands with the two little boys, patted the dog’s head, and drove off in his Packard with a smile and a friendly wave.
Frank and Miriam looked at each other in silence for a moment.
“Well?” Frank said.
“Well nothing.”
“You’re worried.”
“I’m not worried,” she said gayly. “I think he’s nice. And a hundred and fifty dollars is very nice.”
“You are worried.”
“Oh, don’t be so damned subtle about everything! What if I am worried, the world’s not going to fall apart, is it?”
“Mine might.”
She put both her hands on his shoulders and smiled up into his face. “I love you, too.”
The older of the two boys cocked his head sardonically. “Mush, mush, mush.”
11
The sign across the front of the grey concrete building said Horace M. Goodfield Doll Corporation, San Francisco, California. Standing stiff and flat-footed on top of this sign was a wooden doll twenty feet high. Years of sun had bleached away her smile and left her hair a dusty grey, and the fog that rolled in from the bay had blurred her eyes. They stared vacantly out at the passing ships, like the eyes of a heathen idol watching without interest or concern its foolish worshippers. The doll’s name was printed across her flat, faded chest: Sweetheart.
Frank knew from the noise of machines that the factory was operating, but he had the impression that it would stop at any moment, freeze into immobility like the wooden doll. The building itself bore the marks of neglect, as if no one cared enough about it to replace broken glass or repaint the sills or patch up the holes in the concrete.
The old man sitting in a chair at the entrance gate matched the building. No one cared about him either. His face was the same color as the concrete, and his eyes had the dinginess of unwashed windows. He looked at Frank, rubbing the arthritis-swollen knuckles of his hands.
Frank noticed that he was wearing a shoulder holster. “You work here?”
“Worked here for twenty-two years.” The old man spoke in a monotone. “First I was inside. I painted their faces for them. Delicate work, but I had good nerves. My hands got bad, though. So then they gave me this here chair and this here automatic and says, now you’re a guard, Charley. Charley’s my name.”
“Mine’s Clyde. Know how to use the gun?”
“Sure I do.”
“Ever used it?”
“Once. A fellow broke in and I shot at him. I missed. Turned out he was a maniac crazy about dolls. They put him away in some place, I heard. It was the first maniac I ever saw, didn’t froth at the mouth or nothing, looked as normal as you and me.”
“You’ve worked for the Goodfields a long time, eh?”
“Twenty-two years, like I said. Why, I gave Sweetheart up there her first coat of paint.”
“She looks as if she could use another.”
“That’s what I keep saying, but nobody takes mind of me. Nothing gets done around here anymore at all since old Horace died. Not that Horace was any great shakes as a businessman, but he cared. He was an artist. Why, single-handed, him and me designed Sweetheart, clothes and everything. Horace,” he repeated, “was a real artist.”
“What happened after he died?”
“They buried him.”
“You have quite a sense of humor, Charley.”
“I could always look on the funny side of things.”
“Now try looking on the other side. What happened to the factory after Horace died?”
“Nothing happened except one day a guy shows up with a lot of begonia bulbs. Planted a dozen of them in this here very spot where I’m sitting.”
“Why begonias?”
“Because Horace left the whole factory, lock, stock and barrel, to his wife, and she thought it’d be kind of pretty to have some flowers growing around.”
“Did she take over the factory?”
“Well, for a while she came in bright and early every morning and said hello to everyone. Inside of a week she knew more about the people who worked here than they knew about themselves. Like a mother to them, Mrs. Goodfield was. Only they didn’t need a mother, they needed some new machinery and better washrooms and a heating plant that didn’t go on the fritz twice a week.”
He spat on the ground where the begonias had once been planted. Then he looked up at the wooden doll again, squinting, though there was no sun.
“No sir, poor old Sweetheart don’t have much of a future. One of these days the termites will find her and then, phhhtt.”
Frank wondered whether the termites hadn’t already found her. He said, “Have you seen Mrs. Goodfield recently?”
“She don’t come around no more. Lost interest, I guess, when she found out nobody needed an extry mother. Also she got sick, had to rest a lot. That’s when she divided all the stock up and gave it to the children.”
“Who runs the business now?”
“Who runs it? Everybody runs it. Willett runs it. Jack runs it. I run it. Hell, if you stick around long enough, you’ll be running it, too. This pie has got so many pinkies in it that there ain’t going to be any pie left.”
“Is the place losing money?”
“No sir, we get the same volume of business year after year. Same customers wanting the same thing, a good cheap doll.”
“What’s the beef then?”
Charley peered at him out of his unwashed eyes. “You a businessman?”
“No.”
“I thought not or you wouldn’t ask silly questions. A business can’t stand still. If it don’t move forward it moves back like the tail of a clock. And with a small business like this, it don’t take much to ruin it. A few extra taxes here and a few wage increases there, and where are you? Flat on your butt, wondering what hit you. That’s where I landed back in twenty-nine. Horace gave me a job. He used to be one of my customers when the wife and me still had the laundry.”
The old man lapsed into silence, a puzzled expression on his face, as if he was wondering how it had all happened; where had the years and the laundry and Horace gone, and how did he come to be here, in this chair, with a gun, guarding a senile giant of a doll?
The fog was beginning to blow in from the bay, like dirty grey sheets on a moving clothesline. Somewhere close by, a fog horn bellowed. Charley shivered, and turned up the collar of his leather jacket.
“I saw Willett Goodfield and his wife last week,” Frank said. “They’re in La Mesa, down south.”
“So I heard.”
“They seem to be living very comfortably.”
“That’s the only way they know how to live. Yet. Yet,” he repeated. “They’ll be pulling in their horns one of these days. Wait’ll the old lady dies and they got inheritance taxe
s to pay.”
“If she’s already given them the stock, there won’t be any inheritance taxes.”
Charley stared at him with reluctant approval. “By George, you’re right. Never thought of that myself. But there’ll be other things, make no mistake about that. When the old lady dies, there’ll be a good old-fashioned bust-up. Want to bet on it?”
“Not particularly.”
“I’m not a betting man either but I can read the handwriting on the wall. Do you know Shirley?”
“No.”
“Shirley’s the Goodfield girl. Woman she is now but she was a girl when I first saw her. She’s the only one of the family with a head on her shoulders. Takes after Horace, even in looks. But Shirley couldn’t stand the old lady. Left home when she was seventeen and got married. She don’t come around here no more.”
“Why not?”
“No time. She’s a widow with four kids.”
“Where does she live now?”
“Home.”
“Whose home?”
“Horace’s place up on Nob Hill. It’s a good big place with plenty of valuables and antiques in it. When Mrs. Goodfield left to go traveling around, she didn’t want the house to be empty, so Shirley and her kids, they have the first floor, and Jack, he has the second. That way it saves rent, and the valuables and antiques get looked after.”
“What’s left of them after the four kids get through.”
Charley grinned. “My oh my oh my. Wait till the old lady comes back and finds something missing like she did last time. That woman has a tongue that would cut concrete, yes sir, concrete.”
The fog horn blew again, its enraged bellow shook the air and frightened the ships at sea.
Following the bellow came the quick slam of a door. A tall, young man in a dark business suit walked briskly down the steps toward the gate where Charley was sitting. The man had curly straw-colored hair carefully parted to disguise the thinning circle on top. He walked as though he took pride in his body and kept it in the best of physical condition, as Mrs. Goodfield kept her valuables and antiques.
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