Farrell got up and lit a cigarette. He was frowning. “Yes, but how about the front door? Supposing you hadn’t closed it after the Sims’ boy left? Couldn’t someone else have come along while you were on the phone? A delivery boy, or a salesman, maybe? If they saw the money and heard you talking on the phone, they could have taken it before Jimmy came down the stairs. Isn’t that possible?”
“John, I’m as eager as you are to prove that Jimmy is innocent. Will you please let me finish? This morning just after breakfast — well, you were still at the table, you must remember. The milkman stopped by with the weekly account and I paid him with a ten-dollar bill. The change came to three dollars and sixty cents and I put it on the table while I finished a cup of coffee. You do remember, don’t you?”
“How do you expect me to keep track of details like that?”
“Well, you and Angey left the table together. She wanted you to see her English exercise book. Afterward she kissed me good-by and ran out to meet Charlotte Fairman — you and she went to the front door together. Do you remember that?”
“Yes, that’s right,” Farrell said slowly.
“Jimmy was still moping around the dining room. He told me he couldn’t find his school books. I went upstairs to look for them, and when I came down he was waiting for me in the hallway. He took the books and ran. When I went in to clear the breakfast dishes — well, there was only a dollar and sixty cents on the table. Two dollars were gone, and no one but Jimmy could have taken them.”
“It seems like an airtight case,” Farrell said and he felt a quirk of illogical anger at her; she hadn’t left the boy a loophole. “How much do you figure he’s taken altogether?”
“I don’t know. Fifteen or twenty dollars anyway.”
“It’s still petty larceny, that’s something to be grateful for.” He shrugged helplessly. “Well, where do we go from here, honey?”
“First, I think you should have a talk with him,” Barbara said. “You’ve got to find out why he’s taken this money.”
“I’ll have a talk with him,” Farrell said.
“You’ll be careful, won’t you?”
He sighed and said, “Goddammit. Goddammit to hell.”
She put her fingers across his lips. “That doesn’t sound like you. Getting mad isn’t going to help things.”
“I don’t feel mad,” Farrell said. “I just feel a little bit sick.”
Ten minutes later Farrell went down to the study and made himself a drink. “Where’s your mother?” he said to Angey, who sat cross-legged on the floor sorting her records. Jimmy stood at the windows staring out at the dark street, his tousled hair shining in the lamplight.
“I don’t know,” Angey said absently; she was looking closely at a record. “Jimmy, were you playing ‘Plant Life’ today?” She spoke with an ominous sharpness, turning the question into an accusation.
“I didn’t touch your silly old records,” he said.
“Well, how did the peanut butter get on ‘Plant Life,’ that’s all I want to know. Look at me, Jimmy. I can tell if you’re telling the truth.”
Farrell said, “All right, knock it off. Miss District Attorney.”
She looked up at him and her eyes brightened under her neat blonde bangs. “You look wonderful,” she said. “Those clothes make you look so thin.”
“Well, thanks.” Barbara came in and he raised his glass to her. “One for the road, you know.”
“I know,” she said drily. She patted Angey’s head. “Sweetie, get my stole out of the closet, will you please? I’ll say good-by to Mrs. Simpson, John.” She nodded meaningfully at Jimmy who was still staring out into the street. “I won’t be long.” When Barbara and Angey had gone Farrell sat down in a chair beside Jimmy and squeezed his thin shoulder. “What’s so fascinating out there?”
“I don’t know. I was just looking, that’s all.”
“Well, come here and sit down. I want to talk to you.”
Jimmy turned and slumped down on the ottoman at Farrell’s feet. He stared down at his shoes, his expression withdrawn and cautious in the shadings of soft lamplight. “What do you want?” he said, in an anxious little voice. He sat dejectedly and helplessly, his face averted as if expecting a blow.
Farrell felt a wrench of compassion for him, but he said casually, “I know you’ve got a birthday coming up pretty soon, and it occurred to me you’re about old enough to start choosing some of your own presents. My father let me do that when I was your age. Of course there’d be surprises, too, but he let me pick out the big thing. Does that strike you as a good idea?”
Jimmy raised his head to look at him, and Farrell saw the relief in his face. “Yes, it sounds fine,” Jimmy said.
“Okay then, we’ll try it on your next birthday. Think it over carefully. Is there anything you’ve really got your heart set on? I mean, something so exciting that you might be afraid to mention it for fear — well, that we might think it’s too expensive or too dangerous?” Farrell saw that Jimmy’s expression had become cautious again and he said quickly, “I mean a rifle or a printing press, or one of those fancy English bikes — something you might think we wouldn’t even consider getting for you?” He smiled and patted his son on the shoulder. “Well? Am I getting closer?”
“I don’t want anything in particular, Dad.” He stared away as if the discussion embarrassed him. “But I’ll think about it, okay?”
“Sure. That’s all I want you to do.”
Barbara came in with a fur stole over her arm and Farrell got to his feet. She kissed Jimmy and gave him a tight hug. “Your supper is ready and you get one-half hour of television, repeat ‘one-half hour,’ before your bath. Okay? We won’t be too late.”
In the car Farrell said, “Well, I didn’t accomplish very much.” He turned from his driveway into the quiet, familiar street and headed for the club. The Wards’ car was gone, but the Detweillers’ convertible was still in front of their house. They wouldn’t be the last arrivals at any rate. “This isn’t going to be easy,” he said, “unless we can get Jimmy to talk to us, to trust us...” He let the sentence trail off; he knew he was merely stating the obvious.
Barbara reached over and touched his hand. “We’ll work it out some way. But let’s make an effort to enjoy the party tonight. It’s a big evening for Sam and Grace. You know how tense they are about entertaining.”
“They’re goddamn bores about it, is what you mean,” Farrell said.
“Come on, come on,” Barbara said. “Do your best to have fun.”
“Okay,” Farrell said. “I’ll give it a grim, muscular try.”
Chapter Two
The country club was owned by the company which had financed Faircrest Hills, and membership was restricted to families living in the development. When John and Barbara Farrell entered the lounge they saw Sam Ward talking to the club’s secretary, a man named Silvers. Ward hurried to meet them, shook hands with Farrell, congratulated Barbara on her dress and then said explosively, “Christ! What a mess! Grace is down with some damn virus infection and I’m trying to get the table rearranged with Silvers.”
“But I saw Grace at the station,” Farrell said.
“Yes, like an idiot she got out of bed to meet me,” Ward said.
“It’s a shame,” Barbara said. “Is there anything I could do for her? You’ve called Dr. Webber, haven’t you?”
“Yes, he gave her some pills and so forth. These things just have to run their course. But I’m damned if I know how to seat everybody with the hostess missing.”
“Could I help?” Barbara asked him.
“Thanks,” Ward said, without much enthusiasm. “I don’t know.” Then he had the grace to add, “You’re supposed to be here to enjoy yourself, Barbara.”
“I will, don’t you worry about that.”
“All right then,” Ward said. “I’ll leave it to you. And thanks a lot. I appreciate this.”
Farrell and Ward turned into the men’s bar, while Barbara and
Mr. Silvers hurried into the dining room chattering together like conspirators. Farrell caught the bartender’s eye and said, “Two Scotches, please, Mac. With water.”
“Coming right up,” Mac said, without raising his eyes from his paper. “Just as soon as I dope tin’s race.” Mac was the closest thing the club had to an institution; a stout and breezy man in his middle forties, he treated members with a brusque and sardonic tolerance, as if they were supplicants at a free-lunch counter. He was occasionally a bore, with off-color stories and long-winded interruptions, but on the credit side he mixed excellent drinks, stocked the bar with efficient economy, and turned in a profit to the club at the end of every month. In addition to tending bar, Mac drove a cab mornings in Rosedale, because he had five small children (whose pictures adorned the bar mirror) and he needed all the cash he could lay his hands on to keep his and their heads above water.
“Grace isn’t sick,” Ward said unexpectedly. “You saw her at the station, so you know. The thing is, Andy got in a fight at school today and came home pretty banged-up. It wasn’t anything serious so far as I could judge, but Grace got herself all worked up over it. She refused to leave him with a sitter.” Ward shook his head. “So we had a nice row about that just to get the evening off to a perfect start.”
“Maybe she had a point,” Farrell said. “Was Andy hurt pretty badly?”
“Christ no!” He rapped on the bar and glanced at Mac. “Two Scotches, remember?”
Mac put his paper aside. “You guys are kind of impatient, eh?”
“Who did he have a fight with?” Farrell asked.
“I don’t know. Some kid at school apparently.”
“What was it about?” There was no connection between Jimmy’s stealing and the fact that Andy Ward had got into a fight at school, but Farrell felt an odd, premonitory stir of anxiety; for he realized that Ward, despite his almost belligerent indifference, was more worried than he was letting on.
“It was just one of those things, I guess,” Ward said. “To be truthful I don’t know, but kids are always getting into scrapes. I explained that to Grace. I told her it didn’t amount to anything, but she wouldn’t listen to me.” Ward swore and drummed his fingers on the bar.
“And you say Andy wasn’t hurt badly?”
“Well, he was bloodied up a little, and naturally with Grace carrying on he had to get into the act, too. If she’d treated it casually he probably would have, too.”
Mac put the drinks before them with a careless flourish. “Here you are, gents. Enjoy them because you’re paying for them.”
“Thanks.” Farrell picked up his drink and said to Ward, “That doesn’t sound like Grace. She’s pretty calm, as a rule.”
Ward twisted on the bar stool to face Farrell and the exertion caused his stiff shirt to belly out like a sail. “As a rule, yes,” he said. “That’s what gets me. Of all nights to behave like a nervous schoolgirl, she has to pick this one.”
“Hell, cheer up!” Mac said, smiling affably. “Try a little of that Scotch on for size. No need glooming up the place when you’ve got some good booze in front of you.” He was grinning at Ward as he spoke, his eyes and cheeks shining with a pointless well-being and humor; there was no more malice in his expression than one would find in that of a well-cared-for baby, which was what he reminded Farrell of at that instant — a large, cheerful baby who, to judge from Ward’s growing anger, was about to be turned upside down and given a thorough and unexpected spanking. But there was something else in Ward’s expression, Farrell realized, a deliberateness which suggested that his anger was as much a matter of policy as it was a glandular reflex.
“Mac, I want to tell you something,” Ward said evenly. “Get it through your thick head that you’re a bartender here and not a TV comedian. Do you understand me?”
“Why, hell,” Mac said, smiling uncertainly at the anger in Ward’s face. “There’s nothing to get mad about, is there? Go on, drink up, pal. We’re all buddies here.”
“You don’t understand me. So I’m going to spell it out to you like I would to a child. First of all, don’t ever interrupt me when I’m talking to a member or guest of this club. Got that? Second, my name is Mr. Ward. I’m not ‘pal’ or ‘Jack’ or ’buddy’ or any damn thing else. I’m Mr. Ward to you and make damn sure you remember that. Do you understand?”
Mac’s expression had been changing slowly during this coldly administered rebuke; at first his Hushed features had registered surprise, then embarrassment, and finally a sullenness which was slowly hardening into stubborn anger. “Look, if you’ve got complaints...” He hesitated deliberately before adding, “Mr. Ward. If you got any complaints I’m willing to listen. But I don’t expect to be talked to like some five-year-old kid.”
“Do you want this job?” Ward said sharply. “Well? Speak up.”
“Sure, I want it — Mr. Ward.” This time the pause was not defiant; it was only a thoughtless lapse.
“Okay, if you want the job remember what I’ve just told you. When I come in here for a drink I don’t want it spoiled with a lot of bad jokes and loud interruptions. Got that?”
“Yes sir, Mr. Ward.” Mac was staring stonily over Ward’s head, his big hands hanging straight at his sides.
“Fine. I’m glad you do. Now let me hear you say you’re sorry and that it won’t happen again.”
“I think you’ve made your point,” Farrell said.
“Confession is good for the soul,” Ward said. “All right, Mac. I want an apology, and I want your assurance that this sort of thing won’t happen again.”
The evidence of an eternal and hopeless conflict was evident on Mac’s painfully flushed face; he was (Farrell felt certain) weighing the advisability of telling Ward to go to hell against the cost of flu shots and vitamin tablets, of clothes and food for five children, and his own occasional two-dollar bets and rounds of beer with the boys in his local saloon. The struggle was unequal, and defeat was inevitable. In a tired voice he said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Ward. I didn’t mean to get out of line. It won’t happen again.”
“Fine,” Ward said. “Now how about freshening up these drinks?”
“Right away, Mr. Ward.”
“Well, what did that prove?” Farrell said, as Mac picked up their glasses and went to the end of the bar.
“It proves to him I’m not going to be pushed around,” Ward said.
“It may also prove to him you’re a first-class son of a bitch,” Farrell said.
“So what?” Ward poked a blunt finger against Farrell’s shirt front. “Listen to me. How many characters called Eisenhower a son of a bitch during the war? Three or four million maybe. And right now those guys would get down on their knees and crawl to Washington for the chance to play a round of golf with him. What the hell do I care what Mac thinks about me? That isn’t important. But what I think about him is. Do you get the distinction?”
“Yes, but through a glass darkly,” Farrell said, after taking a sip from his drink. He was irritated with Ward but he couldn’t discover the source of his rancor. In a way Ward had been justified in ticking off Mac, but witnessing it had made Farrell disgusted with himself. So what does that make me, he wondered. A nice guy or a hypocrite? You couldn’t say Ward was right, and then flatter yourself with a lot of noble thoughts about poor old Mac’s feelings. You couldn’t have it both ways.
Wayne Norton drifted into the bar then and to Farrell’s relief the conversation became general. “Looking for the library, eh?” Ward called to him. “Next door to the right, my friend.”
Norton smiled easily. “I might have known where to find you guys. Hi, John, how’re tilings?”
“Fine,” Farrell said. They shook hands and Ward ordered Norton a drink.
“How’s Janey?” Farrell asked Norton. Jane Norton was five months pregnant and Wayne did not take her condition lightly; he discussed her impending travail with an old-fashioned and rather touching gravity, as if he felt the baby was to be delivered by a midwife
in a snow-bound chicken coop. “She was a little upset this morning. A little gas, I imagine,” he said with a clinical frown. “I got Junior off to school and let her get a little more shut-eye. I called her at eleven, eleven-thirty actually...” He smiled as Ward gave him a drink. “And she was feeling better. And she felt fine all afternoon.”
“That’s great,” Farrell said, somewhat too heartily.
“She’s been a damn good sport about it, I must say,” Norton said. Wayne Norton was a devoted husband and energetic father; he shopped with Janey on Saturdays, and spent his spare time assisting his son at various healthful projects, or else repairing or building something for the house in his basement workshop. In addition to all this, he was slender and handsome, with thick dark hair, an athlete’s sure grace of movement and the well-sculptured, carefully undistinguished features of a photographer’s model. But in spite of his good looks and the rather sensual curve of his mouth, his eyes never strayed very far away from his wife, Janey, and he usually managed to sit beside her at parties, holding one of her hands in a casually affectionate manner.
Ward finished his drink and glanced at his watch. “Well, we’d better get going. I hope Barbara’s got the table figured out.”
“Don’t worry, everything will be fine,” Farrell said.
“If the Detweillers behave,” Ward said. He sighed as he signed for the drinks. “Damn it, I’ve got a sense of humor like anyone else, but a lot of things just aren’t amusing.”
The dinner was successful. There were no incidents and the Farrells were home by eleven-thirty.
The following morning Farrell was knotting his tie at the mirror in his bedroom when Jimmy came to the doorway and said, “Dad, I was thinking about what you said yesterday — you know, about my birthday. Can I show you something?”
“Of course.” He smiled at his son’s reflection in the mirror. Jimmy was dressed for school in jeans, a sweater and leather jacket, and he was obviously excited; there were spots of color in his cheeks and his eyes were bright and expressive. “Well, what is it?” he said.
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