Miss Rayner’s fat bay opened world-weary eyes and looked her over. She did not smell of sugar. The three end stalls were occupied by three dejected hacks. They watched her hopefully, like foundlings on visitors’ day, waiting to be chosen. There were no attendants in sight.
They know, she said to herself, they know they won’t have many customers today. Up in the loft, sleeping and playing pinochle. “Hey!” she shouted. A trapdoor opened in the ceiling and a red face looked down. “When do you expect Miss Sheffield and Mr. Kirby?”
“One o’clock, Miss.”
She was mollified. “All right. I don’t want anything.” She went outdoors and prudently stuck to the walls on her way to the garage. The wind was slowly increasing. There were no attendants in the garage either, and as far as she knew all the cars were there. On her way out she met a yard boy carrying a pail of water inefficiently.
“Are all the cars in?”
“Yes, Miss.” He actually touched his cap. “Did you want to rent one?”
“No. No thanks.” Twice she had been called Miss in a nice way. She felt better and walked straighter when she entered the lobby.
At one o’clock Mark sent Perley and Joey over to lunch, with instructions to sit with Beulah. He didn’t want food himself and said so, sharply, when Perley pressed him.
“We’ll send you something,” Joey insisted.
“Get along, both of you,” he said. He followed them to the porch and once more he tried hopelessly to change a situation that, for no definite reason, disturbed him. “Be a good kid, Joey,” he said, “and reconsider this afternoon. Look at that sky. You’ll never get there.”
“Yes I will. Mr. Wilcox is a good driver. Aren’t you, Mr. Wilcox?”
“It would be a pity,” agreed the flattered Wilcox, “if a big man like me couldn’t take care of one little girl.”
They walked off, hand in hand. Mark returned to his work.
Delaney, Murdoch, Kelso. Kelso, Murdoch, Delaney. Love and hate on the wrong tracks, running through signals, strewing human wreckage where they passed. Delaney. He sat slumped over the page that told the old man’s story. Not enough, not enough. What had happened to his daughter? . . . Sutton? He read on.
Joey and Perley returned at two o’clock with identical stories of fried chicken and peach ice cream. He was glad when Joey went in to dress. She was noisy.
Perley, temporarily lulled into a peaceful state by the kind of food and conversation he understood, made an effort to cheer Mark up. “She’d pin a veil on her hair if we’d let her,” he said. “She’s taking this thing very serious. It seems that nine years old is important because it’s next to the tenses. Tenses! You’re getting along when you’re next to the tenses. I wish I had a girl, too.”
Mark’s head snapped back. “What?”
“I say I wish I had a girl, too. Most men want boys and sometimes they act mean about it, but not me. I’d like a girl first-rate.”
Mark dropped his hand on the open page. “What do you want for Christmas, Perley?”
“It’s going without your meals that makes you talk like that,” Perley said.
“I’ll eat tomorrow. Roberta and Nick get back?”
“Yep. Sat at the table with Miss Sheffield and Mr. Kirby. They looked like they’d had a fight, Sheffield and Kirby.”
“He’ll call her up some rainy afternoon on beautiful writing paper. What about old Sutton?”
“Didn’t come to the dining room. Haskells neither. Miss Pond’s getting it all down for you. She’s putting it all in a little book like yours. She’s sitting by the elevator, and when people go up or come down she looks ’em over from head to foot and puts it in the little book. It don’t look good. They all know what she’s doing and first thing you know they’re going to hide in their rooms. I don’t blame them.”
“All the better if they do, and don’t discourage anything that keeps Beulah busy in one place. Here.” He pushed the tin of truffles across the table. “Leave these with the chef when you go out. Tell him I’ll see him later. . . . When do you think that storm will break?”
“I make it around five. Maybe before.” Perley was suddenly serious. “Does that make any difference?”
“Not to us. Not to you and me. But hurry back from town and come straight in here. I’ll want to talk to you. But not now. Do you mind waiting outside now? I’m in the middle of a maze and I think I see the right turn. Do you know what a maze is?”
“Don’t tell me,” Perley said wearily. He took the tin of truffles and went over to find the chef. When he came back he sat in the swing and thought unhappily of the immediate future. Somebody was playing on his spine again.
Joey joined him a few minutes later. He heard her prattle before she appeared. She was brazenly asking for compliments and getting them. “I would like a girl,” he said aloud. “Come on, Joey. We’ll beat the rain and get you there in fine shape. Who cares what we look like coming back?”
Mark turned on the lamp. The sullen sky held no light. The curtains flapped at the windows and the air was pungent and unclean. It might have blown from a secret place, closed for a lifetime, now unobstructed and exposed. He turned to the page marked Murdoch and shut his eyes while he thought of Louise Murdoch as she would be today.
There was a light step on the porch. He was ashamed of his involuntary jump, but he crossed the room in one bound. George was reaching for the latch. His face was red and hot and his white jacket was stained. He said, “Could I talk to you a minute, Mr. East?”
Mark held the door open. “Come in.” George obeyed, flexing his fingers as if they pained. “What’s the trouble?” Mark asked. “Sit down.”
George pretended not to hear the last. He knew his place. Although he was sagging with fatigue, he wouldn’t sit in the presence of his betters. Not that he wasn’t as good as anybody. He was. But you couldn’t get around education.
Mark pushed him gently into a chair. “I’m glad you came over. I’ve been wanting to talk to you. But first, get what’s bothering you off your chest.”
“It’s the old gentleman.” The words rushed out. “He’s bad again, but this time it’s lasting too long. I was up with him all night. I want to call the doctor, but Nick says if I do the old gentleman’ll kill me when he gets better. I don’t know what to do.”
“Who’s with him now?”
“One of the maids. She’s a nice kid. And I gave him a sedative. I don’t like to do that but what else is there?”
Mark didn’t ask why Nick wasn’t on the job. He took a long breath. “Listen, George. Do you know anything about Miss Cassidy that you’re keeping to yourself?”
“No sir! I swear. No sir!” There was no mistaking his look. “I’d of told you if I did. I got respect for the law. My old man was a cop. He got his in a hold-up when we were kids. They buried him with full honors.” It was the best recommendation he could give himself and he gave it proudly. “I’d of told you,” he repeated. “My old man was a cop.”
“Good stuff.” Mark hesitated. “Are you willing to forget personal loyalty and answer another one? One that doesn’t concern you?”
“Ask it.”
“What about Mr. Sutton? Was he ever out of your sight on the night Miss Cassidy was killed?”
The red burned deeply in George’s face. “Yes sir,” he admitted. “But honest, I don’t think it meant a thing.” He went on, slowly, dragging the words out. That was the night the old gentleman got away. Went to bed right after dinner like a lamb, and said he was going to read. He was feeling fine, he said, and he told George to go out for some fresh air. And don’t hurry back, he said. It was about seven-thirty when George left. He stayed away until nine, talking to the boys in the kitchen, and when he went upstairs the old gentleman was gone.
George didn’t tell anybody. He was afraid he’d be blamed. He went hunting alone, and found the old gentleman in the garage. “Don’t ask me how he got there,” George said. “There I was in the kitchen, facing the door, an
d I didn’t see him pass. He was in a bad way, too. Hiding in a corner and he looked like he’d fallen down. Water and mud all over him. I got him up the back way and put him to bed. He’d dressed himself in his good clothes, too. Well, I wasn’t taking no chances, so I put a sleeping powder in his nightcap. And I stood by and watched him go off. Then I went down again to wait for Nick. He said he’d be home early, and I wanted to tell him what happened before the old gentleman got his in. When Nick came back with Miss Rayner, I told him. He didn’t blame me, and we went up to give the old feller a look. And there he was—gone again.”
“What time?”
“Between half past ten and eleven I guess. I wasn’t watching no clocks. You know where we ran him down? Up on the top floor where I sleep. Hiding in a hall closet. Crying fit to break his heart. That’s what he’s doing today, crying. That’s why I’m worried.”
“That night—did he ever tell you what was wrong?”
“No sir. He don’t think very clear when he’s like that. He gets childish. It gives you the kind of willies to watch him. He’s like he’s seeing things that ain’t there.”
“And you say he’s like that now?”
“Yes sir. He keeps bending over, like, and putting out his hand like he was resting it on a kid’s shoulder.” George illustrated, with a sober, distressed face and no self-consciousness. “Like he was easing some kid’s troubles.”
Mark nodded. George straightened up and went on, seriously. “You want to know what I think, Mr. East?”
“I’d like to know. Tell me.”
“It’s like this. I think when people get very old their childhood comes back to them. It comes back like another person and they don’t know it’s themselves. They think it’s a stranger. The old gent had a hard life when he was young and I think he’s seeing his childhood standing in front of him now, crying the way he used to cry. So he puts out his hand because he wants to help. I think it means he’s going to die soon. I think this child is himself, and it comes back and walks beside him because it’s getting time for them to leave together. . . . Right?”
“Right,” Mark said. He gave George a cigarette. “Don’t worry about the old gentleman,” he said. “I think we can straighten him out. You keep that medicine locked up, don’t you?”
“Yes sir. But what about the doctor?”
“We’ll wait a bit. If he isn’t better tonight we’ll get Cummings. . . . George, what about that concert yesterday? Do you know why Roberta suddenly wanted to go?”
“Fed up. Nerves. She’s young.” He was twenty-four. “They wanted to elope, but I pulled the old Dutch uncle. That stuff’s no good, I told ’em. If you got to sneak a thing, it’s out.”
“What this world needs,” Mark said, “is more sons of cops.” He gave George another cigarette.
George beamed, and immediately went into a detailed and, to him, engrossing account of the Parmelee ups and downs; the measles time, Ma’s leg when the ladder gave way and the kids had to do the wash for two weeks; the old man’s first promotion, with steak and French fries. At three-forty-five he looked at his watch. “Got to go,” he said. “That old baby of mine could get a notion to wake up and start screaming.” He was almost jaunty when he walked out.
Mabel Homesdale stood at the window of her room under the eaves and watched the scuttling clouds. Beneath her stretched five acres of park-like garden, walled in by a tall iron fence. A winding drive, bordered with arching elms, led to the high entrance gate. The gnarled old branches clung to each other and defied the wind. Mabel could hear them even though her window was closed, and they raised gooseflesh on her arms. She thought of the six widely spaced little bungalows at the back of the house, each enclosed in a hedge.
“Terrible weather for such people,” she said aloud. “Makes a person feel like giving up. Even healthy people.”
She put on a raincoat and went down the back stairs. It was her hour off, she reminded herself, and it was nobody’s business if she slept, or did her hair, or took a walk. She moved quietly along the clean, waxed floors, nagged on by the unbroken murmur of coughing that came from behind the lines of closed doors.
Outside, she walked aimlessly down the drive, under the writhing trees, and opened the tall iron gate. She was two miles north of Baldwin, and the nearest house was a mile away. She started down the road. Dark, she said to herself. Funny how it gets dark.
A few yards from the gate she was pleasantly surprised. Someone was coming toward her. She patted her hair and hoped for a soldier, but she was doubtful of her luck. Even in good weather you hardly ever saw anybody; too far out, and most people said the place was unhealthy. Full of germs, they said. Ignorance. She waited, speculatively. The figure drew near. It was Floyd Wilcox.
“Well I’ll be!” she cried happily. “A familiar face! What are you doing out here?” He was only a kid, but he could talk.
Floyd glumly announced that he was visiting his grandmother. His mother had made him. She was scared.
“Who wouldn’t be!” Mabel shivered all over.
“Not you,” Floyd said admiringly. He looked over her shoulder at the big, dark house behind her. The iron gate arched in a semicircle and bore a gilt inscription: “Bide-A-Wee.”
Floyd read this with fine sarcasm. “They don’t bide so long if you ask me. In one week and out the next, or so I hear.” He laughed. “In a pine box.”
“Then you heard wrong!” Mabel was indignant. “The Doctor has a fine treatment and he don’t lose anybody that comes in time. It’s the ones that keep putting it off, and that’s their own fault. Whoever told you different, told you wrong!”
Floyd winked. “Is he kind of cracked, the Doc?”
“Certainly not! I never heard such talk! He was educated in Europe and he’s got ideas ahead of his time. One of these days you’ll see his picture in the paper on account of what he’s done! You wait!”
“I’ll wait all right. Say, I notice you don’t ask George to take his treatments.”
“George don’t need them. He’s a light case. And I don’t want to hear any more of that cracked talk, either!”
Floyd shrugged. “Aw Mabel, you can’t blame people for talking like that. This is a terrible place.”
“It is not! It’s wonderful! The Doctor has a new kind of stuff that he puts in veins, and it works like nothing on earth!”
Floyd closed one eye and lowered his voice. “How does it work in number four bungalow?”
Mabel’s face flamed. “Who told you about that? The Doctor don’t like that talked about! The poor soul is practically dying and would have died in that bughouse if the Doctor hadn’t agreed to take the case. Out of pure pity! And it’s all legal too! Remember that! And if number four don’t get cured it won’t be the Doctor’s fault. But there’s some improvement. I hear the orderlies talking. And I think it’s a great work to salvage a human soul. That’s what the Doctor calls it.” She hesitated. “Still, I don’t think he’s going to salvage number four. Appetite good, fever down, some lucid moments.” She rattled it off. “But we have to be careful.”
“Yeah,” scoffed Floyd. “Yeah, doctor, yeah.”
A low rumble of thunder shook the air. Mabel frowned at the sky. “That’s not so good,” she said fearfully. “Storms always upset sick people. I ought to go back. What are you going to do?”
“Stay out,” Floyd said. “I ain’t afraid. I’m sick and tired of my grandmother’s kitchen.” He turned and started back toward Baldwin. “See you.”
“See you,” Mabel repeated. She turned in at the gate and walked briskly up the drive. Halfway to the house she took a cross path that led to the bungalows in the rear.
Joey was basking in public acclaim. She carried more sail in the form of ribbon than any other little girl, and her pennies were brighter than those of the boy called Bubber, the one who had sworn to get Baby Moses. Baby Moses and the sextet of Guardian Angels stood in a neat row on the platform, at Mr. Walters’s feet.
Pansy watche
d Joey with understanding. All through the lesson Joey’s eyes had feasted on her choice. In her youth, Pansy herself had battled for just such a picture, only hers had been Daniel in the Lions’ Den. It had haunted her dreams, and she had loved it with all her heart. But, she admitted, they did have nicer ones now. Not so fierce and frightening.
Mr. Walters stood on his platform, looking, Pansy thought, more dead than alive: the weather was telling on him, and all that terrible business at his own Covered Dish. He ought to be in bed with a good, nourishing soup. Men who lived alone didn’t know how to take care of themselves. When the time for the birthday recognition drew near, she made her way to his side.
“You don’t look well,” she whispered. “Why don’t you leave right after the pictures? I can take charge. I’ve done it before.”
He gave her a grateful look. “Thank you,” he said. “I believe I will.”
“Slip out the back way,” she counseled, “and go straight home. You’ll be all the better for a nice lie-down.”
She returned to her class, pleased with her foresight. The dim little organist struck a wavering chord on the small organ and Mr. Walters stepped to the front of the platform.
“Josephine Beacham and Bubber Mitchell,” he said, “please come forward.”
They did, from opposite sides of the room, eying each other warily. Mr. Walters continued. “Many happy returns of the day,” he said. He shook their hands and nodded to the goldfish bowl.
One by one the pennies dropped, and fifty voices rose and fell with each one. Nine for Joey and ten for Bubber. Suddenly Bubber saw what his additional penny was going to do for Joey, and he blanched. It was going to give her an extra second, and he wondered if she knew what that meant. She did. By the time his tenth year had rattled to the bottom of the bowl, it was all over. He picked up a Guardian Angel and tried to smile.
Mr. Walters was watching them both, so they turned and walked quietly to their seats. It was a lonesome walk for the Guardian Angel but Baby Moses had his face patted all the way.
Time to Die Page 26