I almost smiled. Tim knew me too well to expect me to sit back docilely. “This is my story,” I said. “Besides, maybe I can help some more.”
Tim took my arm savagely. He was no longer kidding like I had known him to be. He shook me a little. “It’s dangerous, Adeline.”
“What’s dangerous, Tim?”
He was glaring down at me. He looked strange, half angry and half frightened. I said, “Tim?” questioningly.
“Stay at the house,” he said roughly, and turned away. I could hear him crashing through the brush, following the others. I stood still, trying to understand this change in him. And then I realized I was alone, with only the dark, brooding trees around me. Terror reached for me and I ran.
My heels wobbled and once my ankle turned half way on the rough gravel. But I kept on running, holding my dress higher so I could go faster. I reached the warm, yellow light that spilled from the French doors of the living room onto the little garden that faced them. Gasping, I jerked the doors open and tumbled inside.
Frew was there, nursing a drink again, standing by the bar. Daisy was sitting in a big chair, looking dull and hopeless. She raised her head when I came in.
I answered the unspoken question in her eyes. “They’re hunting down the river,” I said. I gave Frew quick instructions to wait and, if necessary, guide the sheriff’s men down to the dam. I stumbled across the living room. Glory lay asleep, her mouth slack, on the couch. Mrs. Willow was not around.
I went into the den across the hall and half fell into a desk chair. I took up the phone and put a call through to the sheriff’s office at the county seat.
It was late enough so that all the officials should have gone home. But I got hold of one man I did not want to talk to. It was Godfrey Tiffin, the Assistant County Prosecuting Attorney. We despised each other, and it was my luck to have him answer the telephone. I nearly hung up when I heard him announce with his usual oratory, “Teneskium County Sheriff’s Office.”
I realized that this was too important to let my feelings push in. I said, “This is Adeline O’Hara. I’m calling from Carson Delhart’s residence in Teneskium. Mr. Delhart has been badly injured. We want you to station men downstream right away.”
“Downstream? Adeline, is this a joke?”
I was trying to be businesslike. So much so I realized that I had left out the necessary details. “He fell into the river,” I said. “He was bleeding badly. It’s no joke, Godfrey.” That was Tiffin’s way, to look on everything and anything with suspicion. Especially if I was connected with it.
He said briskly, “Give me the details.”
Details, now! “Post someone downstream,” I said, “and send some men out here to help us.” I slammed down the phone. Godfrey Tiffin and his officiousness! And he wasn’t even connected with the sheriff’s office.
I jumped up and ran down the hall toward the front door. Frew was standing in the entrance to the living room, looking curiously at me. I went right by, ignoring him. I was in too much of a hurry to do any explaining to him.
There was a hall closet near the front door and I opened it and peered hopefully inside. I found an old leather jacket and a battered man’s felt hat that smelled of old fishing flies. Nothing else in the welter of raincoats, mackinaws, and moth-eaten topcoats was of any use to me. I tucked the hat and jacket under my arm and half ran back to the study. Frew had disappeared from the doorway.
I remembered I had a job and so I sat by the telephone and asked to be connected with the Portland Press. Carson Delhart was big news in Portland. And this would be the biggest story of all about him. I poured out my story to a rewrite man, not forgetting the details this time, and then asked to be connected with the night editor, whom I knew slightly.
“I’m going to follow the search,” I panted at him.
“Good girl. Looks big, huh?”
In repeating my story I had crystallized the suspicions that neither Hilton nor I had mentioned by direct word down there in the creek bed. I don’t know why I gave them to the editor unless it was to justify my excitement. I said, in what I hoped was a matter-of-fact voice, “Looks like murder to me.”
Instantly I knew I had made a mistake. But the damage was done. I heard his thoughtful whistle. Then: “How about my sending a man out to help?”
“I can handle this story,” I said. “I can handle it alone.”
“Sure, O’Hara, sure,” he said, “But if all the papers come clattering down on you, a man will help.”
I couldn’t do anything but agree. He would send a man anyway. I said, “All right,” and hung up. I wanted to bawl. Here I had a chance to show how good I was and I had spoiled it. I was too damned clever with my mouth. I kicked at the desk where the phone sat. I hurt my toe and that made me feel a little better.
A press reporter was the last thing I wanted. Some by-line hunter, I thought. A glory hound. I scooped up the leather jacket and old hat and stalked into the hall and up the stairs to the second floor.
This hallway was panelled in knotty pine too. Soft lights glowing from wall fixtures showed me a series of doors. For a moment I was stumped. I wanted Glory’s room. My idea was to find some old, serviceable clothing to wear while I helped search for Delhart. I could think of no one else whose clothing might fit me.
By concentrating on the outside layout of the house I deduced she would be near the far end of the hall so that the windows of her room would have a better view of the lake. I trotted down that way and opened the end door on the lake side of the house. A strong masculine odor beat out at me from the blackness. I shuddered and closed the door hurriedly. The last thing I wanted was Carson Delhart’s room. I tried the door across the hall. I had it right.
I reached my hand around the door and snapped on the lights. Like the rest of the house they were copper imitation kerosene lamps and were bracketed to the walls.
The room was large and airy with rustic furniture and Indian rugs on the floor. A completely equipped vanity looked incongruous in the surroundings. The bed was low, without a headboard or footboard, and I threw the jacket and hat onto it. I locked the door and tried the inner doors, looking for the closet.
French doors at the end of the room opened onto a little balcony. I knew that it gave Glory a view of the lake. Her windows overlooked the driveway that came in from the county road. There were two doors opposite the end. One was a complete and luxurious looking bath, the other the closet I sought. I began to probe shamelessly.
I couldn’t see why anyone would object to my borrowing a few of her things, considering the circumstances. I was careful, though, to choose the oldest things I could find. I located a pair of flannel slacks that were just a shade tight for my post-WAC figure, a flannel hunting shirt that I could not visualize Glory wearing, and finally heavy ski boots. They were the nearest things to hiking shoes she had to offer me. I took them gratefully.
When I had everything piled on the bed I dared look in the mirror. I was a mess. My legs were scratched, and bleeding in one place. My dress was torn and dirty and bulged grotesquely in the place where I had tucked my stockings. My hair was a hopeless tangle of red yarn.
I took off my clothes and wormed into the slacks and shirt. I found the ski boots a better fit than the clothing. I tucked my hair under the hat, crammed my cigarets into the pocket of the leather jacket and felt ready to go. And then the reaction hit me.
Activity had kept me going up to now. But with everything ready for me to begin my part of the search the enormity of the implications of things struck me. My knees gave way and when I brought my eyes back into focus they were staring at the clock on Glory’s vanity. The time was just twelve midnight.
It seemed incredible that only two and a half hours had passed since Glory had stumbled so wildly into Delhart’s living room. I took a deep breath and shook my head and tried to relax.
It was very still about. Even the normal creaks of a house seemed to have been silenced. I sat a full five minutes in that d
eadly quiet before I realized I was tense, straining to hear the slightest noise. I got up resolutely. This was only making me worse, not resting me.
I ran downstairs and into the living room. Glory was still sprawled on the couch. Daisy sat in the same chair, only now she was crying raggedly. Frew was not in sight. I wondered if the bar had gone dry on him.
Daisy looked tired and frightened and miserable. I said, “Any news while I was upstairs?” My voice broke in the room like brittle china shattering. I knew there would be no news, or I would have heard someone. But I had to say something.
“No,” Daisy said.
I went up to her, “Where’s Frew?”
She dabbed at her eyes with a soggy scrap of handkerchief. “He got mad at me and went off—down there.”
The army, I thought, would have taught him to follow orders. I forgot about him when Daisy said, “Mother’s gone to bed with a sedative and I’m stuck with that.” She pointed at Glory.
“Has she been awake?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Can’t you get her to bed when she wakes up?” I should have known better than to ask that. Daisy was hardly big enough to handle Glory, even if she had known how.
“She won’t go to bed,” Daisy said. Her lips quivered and I patted her shoulder. She looked like a petulant child. “All she does is cry and drink and keep saying, ‘You killed him,’ to me. It’s perfectly awful!”
I felt sorry for the girl. I had handled enough drunks to know what she had faced. I said, “Let’s take her.”
“She won’t go,” Daisy said.
“Just come with me to the room.” I went over to Glory and slapped her face lightly. She had been asleep again and her mouth hung open. She wasn’t a pretty picture lying like that.
I took her by the shoulders and shook her. Her clothing was still damp. “It’s a wonder if she doesn’t catch cold,” I said. I shook her a little harder. Glory opened her eyes.
She began to cry. “No one thinks of me,” she wailed. “He’s gone and no one thinks of me.”
“Up you go,” I said to her. I put my arms under her and pulled. I got her on her feet. Her legs were rubbery. “Let’s go and have a drink,” I suggested persuasively.
I had surprisingly little trouble with her. She was evidently too weak from shock to resist. With Daisy’s vague help I got her to the second floor and into the room at the far end of the hall. Daisy turned on the light. I laid Glory on the low bed.
“Get some towels,” I told Daisy.
She trotted away like a little girl. I got Glory’s shoes and stockings off and then began to unbutton her blouse. She had had her eyes shut but now she opened them.
“You killed him,” she said.
“Not me,” I assured her. “I’m your pal from the Pioneer.”
“Thought you were a man,” she said. Because of the old felt hat I was wearing, I thought. Glory said, “What are you undressing me for?”
“You’re wet,” I told her.
“Oh,” she said. “I thought you were a man.” She closed her eyes again.
I finished undressing her. I was pleased to find that a lot of Glory’s physical perfection lay in her expensive brassiere and girdle. Undressed, she had a tendency to sag here and flare there. Daisy came in and I stopped feeling smug in my comparison and went to work.
The towels Daisy brought were the size of young rugs. They were rough and heavy and just the thing for this job. “You start at her feet,” I directed, “Rub hard.”
Glory turned softly pink under our efforts. Daisy worked in childish silence, but evidently too weary to object to being ordered around. When we were finished we rolled Glory under the covers. I towelled her head vigorously.
She opened her eyes again. “What are you doing.”
“Drying you,” I said.
“I fell in,” she announced in a distinct voice.
“How?” I asked, trying to sound casual. I could feel Daisy stiffen.
“Fell in the pond,” Glory said. “You killed him.”
I said patiently, “I’m not a man, Glory.”
She pointed at my hat. “On the water. And it wasn’t his! I saw it. I saw him!” She began to cry again, softly now, and, as if it were too much effort, fell asleep in the middle of a sob. I tucked the covers in closely about her and looked at Daisy.
“Get a dry towel,” I said. “We’ll make her a turban.”
Daisy trotted obediently after the towel and with it I fashioned a turban to cover Glory’s beautifully bleached hair.
“What did she mean?” Daisy whispered when I had finished.
“My hat,” I said cheerfully. “She evidently saw a man’s felt hat floating on the pond tonight. The one I’m wearing reminded her of it.”
Daisy didn’t say anything. She turned very pale and gave a little moan. I caught her just as she crumpled.
“Bad news,” I murmured, and wondered which was her room.
VII
I PUT DAISY across the foot of the bed and began a hunt for her room. I had to try three before I located hers.
I tried the door next to Delhart’s. It was very neat and masculine. So probably it belonged to Hilton. I crossed the hall. The room was dark and I reached around the casing for the light switch. The squeak of bedsprings didn’t come quite soon enough to stop my hand. The light flared up and then I shut it off. I had caught a quick glimpse of Mrs. Willow asleep on her back.
Next to her room was Daisy’s. Dainty and pink feminine garments were strewn about. The room was at the rear of the house and through an open window I could hear feet crunching the gravelled path. I went to the window to close it. I heard a low murmur of voices. The men were returning.
Going back to Glory’s room, I found Daisy stirring. It took only one glance for me to know she was going to be sick. I rushed her to the bath.
“Better?” I asked when she finished.
She nodded miserably. I took her arm. “Let’s go to your room. You could stand to go to bed.”
She let me lead her. Just as we entered her door I heard the whine of a police siren. From the steady sound it made I decided it was Jocko Bedford, the sheriff himself. Jocko dearly loved his siren.
“Cops,” I said cheerfully, and helped Daisy inside. She sat down on the bed and bent to work on her shoes. I took them off for her, and then swung her legs onto the bed and propped her against the headboard with pillows.
“I’m so tired,” she whimpered.
I lit a cigaret and offered her one. She shook her head. I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at her. The siren was coming closer. If I got anything out of Daisy Willow it would have to be now. Not even an old friend like Jocko would permit me to question people privately. And I doubted if the usual rough and ready methods of questioning used by the Teneskium sheriff’s office would get anything but hysterics out of this child.
“Do you know anyone with a felt hat like this one?”
Some of the weariness left her and wariness crept in. Her little chin went stubborn. “Most men wear felt hats,” she said.
“Do you faint every time you see one?”
She had enough energy to flush. “I don’t see what business that is of yours,” she said. She was trying the icy attitude on me. But I remembered just how little-girlish she had looked.
I stood up. “My business or the police’s business,” I said disinterestedly. The flush was draining fast from her now. She looked scared again. “Don’t make of a fool of yourself.” I started for the door.
I had my hand on the knob when she said, “Please, Miss O’Hara …”
I went back. “I was a sergeant,” I said. “The company mother confessor. Maybe because I radiate sympathy and kindness. Maybe because I look like someone’s grandma.”
She had to smile at that, feebly though. “I like you,” she said childishly. Her dark eyes were big and a little wet. “I’m awfully scared.”
“Because of yesterday? Or the felt hat?”
H
er lips trembled. “People are beastly,” she whimpered. She put her hands out appealingly. “I—I’d rather not talk now. I’m so sleepy. I just didn’t want you to go away mad at me.”
I patted her hand and felt ancient. “Okay,” I said. “Sleep on it.” The sirens were right outside now, dying out in a long, mournful wail. “By the way, what kind of hats does Arthur Frew wear?”
She might be childish but she was sharp enough. “Arthur doesn’t wear a hat. Now, please …”
I could hear people tramping about downstairs. “Your father does, though.” I was watching her carefully.
Daisy fooled me. She said quickly, too quickly, “Daddy wouldn’t wear an old hat.” Reaction was nil. Whatever it was that made her faint, the child had it under control. She was standing up to me. That was all I was going to get. I had interviewed enough people to know when to say goodbye.
“Get some sleep,” I told her, and left.
I went downstairs quietly. Not that it would have made any difference. The rumble of voices in the living room was loud enough to drown out any sound I might have made short of falling down the stairs. They opened into the hallway by the kitchen door. I saw a light in there now, and the door was propped open. It looked warm and inviting. Instead of going into the living room I turned into the kitchen.
Mrs. Larson was there, working at the stove. “Hi, Ma,” I said. She turned her broad red Irish face to me. She was usually as happy looking as her husband, Big Swede. Now, though, I could see she had been crying. She was alone in the room.
“You’re a sight, Adeline.” She reached for the coffee cup and the pot. I took the coffee, thanking her.
“Did they …?” I began. Someone came in. It was Hilton.
He looked pale and tired and upset. His hair was awry and his neat clothing wet and muddy with fir and pine needles clinging to his trouser legs. He dropped into a kitchen chair with a brief, “May I?”
He gave me the answer. “We found him,” he said. I sat down, too. The tone of his voice sent little shivers up my backbone. It was so dull and dead and yet so descriptive to me. I could see them wandering through those woods, searching in that awful blackness, having the endless sound of the river beating at their ears and then, finally, coming across what they sought—and dreaded to find. In quick sympathy I touched his hand.
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