Miss Emaline had had a shot to calm her down, but she wasn’t asleep. Her room was quiet now; she was alone. The doctor wouldn’t let her leave. No matter. Where could she have gone? Not to Callie’s. Not today. Not yet. And she didn’t have the strength to go to some hotel. These guards would have followed her. Well, she couldn’t hide. She kept thinking of Mr. Beckenhauer. Who had left her a duty. Keep Bobby safe. Just do not tell, until the wicked man is dead. Then, and only then, the danger would be over. For the wicked shall be slain; the righteous shall remain. It was a question of enduring. Yes, Lord. Monday, Tuesday. Monday was wearing along.
Only one thing to worry about, on this day. Callie wasn’t coming. She wouldn’t come and bring the children. Not today. But Rex was supposed to be coming.
Well, Miss Emaline had fixed that. She had told the nurses, and begged the doctor to reinforce her request. No visitors. “Turn my visitors away.”
So Rex wouldn’t come up to this room, and be caught by those guards or that Dr. Fairchild—if that was really his name—and be pressed to tell.
Bobby was safe where she was. Miss Emaline would be firm in the right, faithful to the end. She would not speak. No, though they burned her at the stake! Until, on Wednesday, all those men would return—as Miss Emaline had powerfully decreed.
Chapter Twenty-Three
They came tearing in on the freeway. Jean had suggested her place, her telephone. It was just enough handier so that Harry agreed. The time was 4:28 P.M., when she used her key and they came into the airlessness, the shabby little abandoned cell where somebody named Jean Cunliffe had used to live.
Harry grabbed the phone and Jean grabbed clothing, from her drawers and closet, and nipped into the bathroom to wash and change and get out of the Irish suit, at last. She knew how to be very quick. She wouldn’t hold him up, never, not she!
When she came out, fresh and proudly smiling, Harry was looking wild. He had tried Bonzer with no luck, no answer. But he had just talked to his brother, the governor, who was about to leave his daddy’s house, to fly back to his post and his duty. There was news all right, but whether good or bad, Harry wasn’t sure.
Miss Hanks was in St. Bart’s Hospital, recovering from something like pneumonia. The Fairchilds had her under guard. The villains couldn’t get at her. But she was idiotically and stubbornly refusing to talk to the Fairchilds. Which was infuriating! Oh, she had a sister. This was known. But not the sister’s name or address. No record of it, either. Miss Hanks had signed herself in. Address given was in Honolulu. A staff doctor had taken care of her; he didn’t know the sister. The sister had children, but nobody knew a thing about a little girl, brought along from the Islands. No one had heard one breath of such a child.
Well, this was not to be borne. They were going to St. Bart’s, right now, and Harry would make this Hanks talk, all right. He was wild to get at her.
But Jean held back. “Harry, shouldn’t one of us try to find the sister’s husband? It could be, you know, our one and only advantage. You go to the hospital. I’d better stay here and see what I can find out on the phone.”
He didn’t like it. “How will we be in touch?” he said rather pathetically.
“Through Bonzer? I’ll call Bonzer? You call Bonzer?” Jean didn’t like this either. But she was right. And he knew it.
“How about money?” He was giving her money. “To bribe people, and all. Who knows? Take a cab to my place. Don’t walk around exposed.”
“I’m all right,” she said. “They’re not after me, anymore.” She sounded wistful.
“They better not be.” But he believed this. She was right. “Take care. If you find out, call Bonzer.”
“If you find out, call Bonzer.”
“If I find out, I may just go there.” (Without you? he thought.) He didn’t like it.
“I know,” she said. (Without me? she thought sadly.)
“Good luck, soldier.”
“Good luck.”
He kissed her goodbye, the most natural thing in the world, and then she had to listen to his car take off, strain to hear it slip away, that fine, fast, gay-sweet car, in which she had had her own place.
But Jean pulled herself sternly together and made plans. First, she phoned for a cab to be sent. It must wait. Her own ancient vehicle was, for heaven’s sakes, not reliable enough. She wanted transportation ready and waiting. Who knew where she might have to go? She had plenty of money. It was a strange feeling.
Then she called a girl acquaintance, who followed folk singers, in a passionate way.
“Hey! Hi, Jeanie,” said Julie. “How’ve you been, dove?”
Jean couldn’t go into this. She asked questions.
“You mean you don’t know? You’re talking about Rex Julian.”
“I am?”
“Well, he’s one of the greatest! Everybody knows.”
“Where does he live?” Jean couldn’t wait out any ravings.
“Heck, I dunno,” said Julie. “How should I know where he lives? You mean when he’s home? Listen, what’s the scoop?”
But Jean hung up. As quickly and as easily as this, she had the name. Her spirits zoomed. But no such name was in the phone book. Oh well. She took a firm grip on the telephone.
There was a man, and he was neither Vance nor Varney, sitting in the lobby at St. Bart’s, behind a huge rubber plant through which he was able to see the indicators at the tops of the elevators.
When Harry Fairchild came swinging along the corridor from the parking lot, to inquire at the information table, and then to push an elevator button with ferocious impatience, the man watched carefully. Yah, Fairchild! Harry got into an elevator. Eighth floor. The man twitched.
Three minutes later, Rex Julian came along the same corridor, oddly attired, ambling, not seeming to know quite where he was. He finally drifted toward the information lady. The watching man twitched and stirred. And rose. And listened.
Rex accepted what he was told, looked around in his lazy hazy fashion, turned and ambled off again. The man skipped after, in a quick-step along the long corridor and said, “Excuse me, mister?” Rex looked at him. “You know Miss Hanks?”
“No visitors today,” Rex said. He had eyes of a very light brown color, strange eyes, that seemed to look with great attention, and yet not see.
Rex pushed outside and the man took advantage of the same wag of the door. Behind that wide back, the man made a signal to another man and then, himself, seeped backward into the building.
Rex, in the open air, looked around as if he had forgotten where he had left his car. At last, he started down one of the aisles. Varney went striding down another, in parallel. The parking lot was well filled during visiting hours. Rex made a turn toward his dusty station wagon, in a far lane. Varney made a turn toward Rex.
Varney was keyed up. And down, in alternation. In Los Angeles, he was a wanted man. He had felt uneasy, hanging around in the open air. He had been swinging from tense anxiety to spells of numbness, and back again. A signal to act was most welcome. Now, who was this bird, and what did he know?
“Just a minute, mister,” said Varney.
Harry stood at the foot of Miss Emaline’s bed, with one of the guards hanging onto his arm. He had proved to them that he was a Fairchild. He had, then, stormed in here. He didn’t realize how he looked—unshaven, with the plaster on his cheek, his hair on end, his clothing soiled, his hands so cut and torn, and his anger showing.
He said, “These people knifed Bernie Beckenhauer. Beat up his partner. Sent the child’s mother out of her mind. Kidnapped and tortured a girl who was helping us. Pulled guns on a man who had nothing to do with this. Shot at me. They don’t give much of a damn what they do, to anybody. So you had better tell me, Miss Hanks, before they get that little girl. Now, damn it, you have got to see that.”
Miss Hanks was like a board in the bed. No, no, the more reason not to tell. She didn’t recognize this angry young man, who looked so fierce and spoke profanely.
A
nurse said, “If you please,” in shocked tones.
“And if you think the minute Kootz is dead, that she’ll be safe,” shouted Harry, “you’re damn wrong.”
Miss Emaline braced herself against this wild tough person. Ah no, that wasn’t true. She knew better. The wicked shall be destroyed; then the innocent shall be saved. Miss Emaline had the Lord’s word for it.
Dick came in. All the nurses were in a terrible twit. Harry was breaking rules and Dick, after all, was a doctor. But Harry didn’t even look at his brother, the doctor. He was concentrated on this woman, this stubborn fool of a woman. Dick held his peace, to give Harry one minute more.
“Beckenhauer wrote you a note on the plane. He hid it in the gift shop. He phoned me and told me how to find it. Because I was his friend.”
She blinked. She didn’t believe it. Mr. Beckenhauer had been a kind and quiet gentleman.
“Do you know his handwriting?”
Miss Emaline took the bit of paper. Her hand was trembling but her will was steady on its righteous course.
“He says that he will send,” said Harry. “Do you see that? All right, I’m the one he sent.”
“Mr. Beckenhauer was a good man,” she quavered. “The Lord receive his soul.”
“He told me that he didn’t think so much about getting himself dead—for nothing.”
Her mouth tightened to a hard line. She thought, that’s why. That’s exactly why.
“You had our little sister dressed like a boy,” Harry pressed on. “You took her to your sister’s. I want to know your sister’s name and where she lives.”
“I don’t know you,” said Miss Emaline. “My sister is a good woman.”
“Good people can get killed. Like Bernie Beckenhauer. What’s the matter with you?”
But Miss Emaline thought, this is torture. I must endure.
“For God’s sake!” Harry felt wild.
No, she thought, I must not now weakly give over my proper burden to strange men who curse me, and persecute me, and seek to play upon my human fears.
Dick said, “Harry, get out of here. You can’t do a thing and I can’t let you stay.”
In the corridor, Dick said, “Vain as hell. Only one that God will speak to.”
Harry said, “Well, I blew that.”
“You look,” said his brother, kindly, “like the devil.”
“So the Hanks woman is your wife’s sister, eh?” said Varney. “O.K. So where is the kid? Come on.”
This man was driving Varney nuts. He had funny eyes and he didn’t seem to hear words very well.
“The kid? The kid this Hanks had with her? Now come on, big fat buddy. You better give.”
Rex had not yet glanced down at the gun in Varney’s hand. He kept looking into Varney’s little shifting eyes, with an air of listening, listening to his look, which was nutty.
“Come on. What’s Wrong with you? Are you stupid or something? Where is the little girl?”
Rex had full lips and, in the midst of his beard, they began to shape into a tender smile. For some reason, this sent Varney berserk. He hit the man.
Rex staggered against the side of a car, recovered balance, and looked down curiously at his own hands.
Varney hit him again, a hard swipe against the bald head with the gun. Rex slithered down the metal and became a heap on the ground.
Varney looked all around. Nothing. He crouched over the big flaccid body and began to tug and tear at the very tight hip pockets. He’d have got the name and address from the car, but he didn’t know which car. Never mind. This bird would have a wallet. Had to have. Did have. Ah.
“Thank you so much,” Jean cried into the telephone, and hung up. It had taken a lot of telephoning but she had finally reached the right agent. In her head, engraved forever, was the address where the little girl, Harry’s little sister, must now be. Here in Los Angeles. Not awfully far, either.
Her cab was waiting, out there. But she held on to herself and called Harry’s number. Bonzer didn’t answer.
Shall I call the hospital? She wondered. No, it would take a year to find Harry. And he may have the address. He may even be there. So shall I call Harry’s daddy? No, I’d get that Elaine. I can always try Bonzer, again, from somewhere else.
So she ran out to the cab and got in and gave the driver the precious address. Or was it?
Nobody had paid any attention to her, here. Nobody had been hanging around. Nobody was following. She sat in the cab very tensely, hugging herself. She was exultant. And she was not. She let her doubts appear and looked them over.
It was possible that she had figured it out all wrong. Maybe the big bald guitarist had nothing to do with any of it. And it was his address that she had. Maybe she had read things into the events at the airport, so long ago, so long ago, only last Thursday. Maybe she had wanted too desperately to be clever, to use her head for what it was cracked up to be, to earn her salary—oh well, to earn Harry Fairchild’s esteem. She might have strained—womped the facts around, just to figure it out somehow.
She could be on a false trail entirely. She thought she’d have to go and see. Oh, she’d be careful.
Dick, in the eighth-floor corridor, had his brother by the arm, again. “All right. All right, Harry. But they can’t get at her, don’t forget. It’s a hell of a lot better that we’ve got her under guard, don’t forget that. You say she came in on Bernie’s plane? Then we’ll send somebody to the terminal, see who met her.”
“Way ahead of you,” said Harry. “I’d better call Bonzer. Maybe Jean’s got something.”
“O.K. But stay out of that room, Harry. If her so-called mind changes, the guards are there, don’t forget.”
“Dr. Richard Fairchild,” said the speaker. “Dr. Richard Fairchild, please. Emergency room.”
Dick darted off. Harry went down to the lobby and found a phone booth. He called his own number. Bonzer didn’t answer. He called Jean’s number. He let it ring a long time. Nobody answered there, either.
So he came out of the booth and stood still. At a standstill. Stopped. Cold. Nowhere. And alone.
An aide, a young girl, came up to him breathlessly. “Are you Harry Fairchild? Please, your brother wants you. Right away. In the emergency room. This way.”
Dick met him in a kind of anteroom. “Spot of violence in the parking lot,” he said grimly. “Called me, because somebody said this chap was asking for Emaline Hanks.”
“Let’s see him.”
The big bearded man, with the wound on his bare scalp, was unconscious and breathing in a poor rhythm. He was wearing tight black trousers, and an orange knitted shirt, and no jacket. Harry said, “Jean saw this man. This is the one.”
“Rex Julian” said Dick. “That’s the name on his watch-band. But look here.” The man’s hip pockets had been turned inside out. “Robbery?” said Dick, skeptically.
“They’ve got the address!” Harry was as nervous as a racehorse at the starting gate. But where would he run?
“Hold on.” His brother held on to Harry’s arm, gave some swift instructions, then turned, and the two of them went racing to the elevators, shoulder to shoulder, and on the eighth floor they went racing to the room. Dick silenced the twittering nurses, brushed aside the guards. Harry was at her, first.
“Rex Julian,” he said, to the woman on the bed. “Found unconscious. Knocked out. Wallet gone. So they’ve got his address. Is he your sister’s husband? Is the little girl there? Where?”
“Rex?” she croaked. (Papa? she thought.)
Dr. Fairchild said sharply, “We’ll do all we can for him, but I don’t guarantee a thing. Will you give me permission to operate? Where is his wife?”
Harry said, “How much do you want on your precious soul? Your sister, too?”
She said, “Callie?” (A terrible truth came to Miss Emaline. She didn’t really care for children, never had. Not since her little sister, Callie, had been born. Because a god named Daniel Hanks had tumbled in a bed … O
h god! Oh, God!)
“Pigeon Street,” she burst. “Can’t think … number … tore it up. Old house, looks like falling down. Big, used to be white. The children … Bobby’s there. A grocery store, on the corner, where we turned to the right. The house sits under a hill … backyard …”
“From what street did you turn to the right?” asked Harry quietly, and his brother glanced at him with respect.
“Beachwood Drive,” said Miss Emaline. “I know I thought of chewing gum, but it wasn’t quite …”
Dick put his hand on her trembling shoulder. “Better not take these guards off,” he said to Harry. “I’ll call up Daddy’s army.”
“I’ll go,” said Harry.
Chapter Twenty-Four
It was an old house, with many gables. It seemed to sit peacefully, there. The cab driver didn’t seem to think that Jean, in her own blue cotton, could afford to have him wait, while she went into this broken-down old house. So she gave him money. He settled. Nobody was around. Jean, feeling the cab driver’s gaze upon her as a comfort and a backstop, went up on the narrow old-fashioned low porch. She couldn’t find a doorbell, so she knocked. Waiting, she looked around the neighborhood.
This block was the flat entrance to a side road that went on to curl up over the hills, where the “view sites” were. Just along here, there seemed to be a blight. There was a vacant lot, behind the small grocery store on the pinched corner; then came this house, which must once have been somebody’s fine country estate, before there were any roads Over the hills. On the other side of this house, there was an abandoned cottage and a lot-for-sale sign. Across the street, there were no dwellings at all, just a narrow strip of weeds at the base of the weed-grown slope. Behind this house, there must be a yard that ran all the way back to the other beetling hill.
Jean thought, what isolation. Nobody near to be annoyed by music. Or children.
She knocked again.
The door seemed to open itself. She had to look down to discover that two short children were tugging at it. One was a little boy who might be an Indian, and the other was the redheaded lass whom Jean remembered.
The Gift Shop Page 21