Gift Shop

by Charlotte Armstrong

  “They did!” Harry flew an eyebrow. Oh, she was a liar, Dorinda was. He simply knew this. He had better pull his wits together.

  “They guessed?” she shrugged. “But we stumbled upon …” She leaned toward him, smiling and smiling. “In the Inn of the Black Dog, you asked about a hotel, here.”

  Harry thought, damn it, so I did.

  “After that, we just came along. What does it matter? Here we are. Harry, do you know where the child is?”

  “What child?” he said glumly.

  “Why, our little sister,” purred Dorinda. “Barbara is her name. Where is she, Harry, please?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But have you got hold of another pig?” Dorinda frowned.

  Harry began to rub his forehead. “That’s going to take about a week of hard labor.”

  She said, “That’s too long.” She said it hard and fast—too fast.

  Harry had sense enough to keep on rubbing his forehead. He didn’t look at her. But he thought, and what’s your hurry, Dorinda, darling? He said, as if he hadn’t noticed, “There’s not much point in it, anyway.”

  “What do you mean?” She had reestablished control. This was sweet inquiry.

  “No point, until I find Jean Cunliffe.”

  “But why? What has she …? I don’t see why that’s important.” Now she was plaintive.

  His wits were racing now. He lifted his head. “Do you think,” he said cuttingly, “that I would have dragged her along, if I hadn’t had to have her?”

  “But I don’t understand, Harry, darling.”

  “Then you don’t, Dorinda, darling,” growled Harry, “and I couldn’t care less, whether you do or not. But believe me, if Jean Cunliffe isn’t with me—pig or no pig—I cannot find the child. And neither can you, by the way.”

  “But surely she’s already told you whatever it is that she knows.”

  “Suppose it can’t be told? Suppose she has to see with her eyes and be there in person?”

  “Harry, I don’t …”

  “So, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better get on with finding her. Since it’s all so serious.” He got up. “By the way, Dorinda, do you happen to know a man named Varney?”

  Dorinda was looking at him as if to see right through him. She said quietly, in a moment, “I think Vance does.”

  “Or a man named Kootz?”

  “What a miserable name,” she said. “Vance?”

  The little man said, “Know who they are, sure.”

  “You know that Varney murdered Bernie Beckenhauer?”

  “Wasn’t our concern,” said Vance. He had a mild and colorless voice. “It’s what Beckenhauer did with the child.”

  “But, Harry,” burst Dorinda, “some terrible thugs did get after Marybelle. I called home last night. There are criminals. That’s exactly why I say that you and I …”

  “Who left a trail for these criminals?” said Harry. “Could they guess Ireland? Or did they just follow?”

  “Follow here?”

  “Where’s Jean Cunliffe?”

  “Follow me? Oh, Harry, is that what’s making you so antagonistic? But how could they have followed me? Wasn’t she gone, before I ever got here?”

  “I guess so,” said Harry slowly.

  “And mustn’t we work together, now? The child is my little stepsister. She’s your little half sister. Shouldn’t we work together against ‘them’—whoever ‘they’ are?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, then, tell me. Beckenhauer put a message in a pig, didn’t he? And the pig is here? In this village? Were there only two?”

  Harry swung around. “I told you,” he roared, “until I find Jean Cunliffe, I can’t be bothered with pigs.”

  “But I can’t see,” cried Dorinda, and for a flash her face was full of anger. “You don’t make sense, Harry.”

  Harry said, “Okay. While it’s been nice, Dorinda, darling, I mustn’t sit and chat. Especially senselessly.”

  He went out into the air. He looked up at the castle, at the green hills. He was thinking, so I goofed at the Black Dog. But she never stumbled in there. I was followed that far. So she’s a liar and in a hurry. And somebody’s got Jean, so I need a reason. Give me a reason for saying what I said. Give me a reason that she’ll believe. On the chance. On the chance that Dorinda has got Jean. Or knows who has. There’s a chance, isn’t there? Just as every little girl might not be seven years old?

  In a moment Dorinda came up behind him. “Harry,” she said softly, touching his tense shoulder. “Please, aren’t we friends? At least, aren’t we on the same side? Don’t be huffy, just because I tried to use you. Of course I did. But things begin … and then they turn out—differently.”

  “Oh, they surely do,” he said morosely. He turned and looked down and was able to smile. “I’m just upset,” he said gently.

  “About this Jean? Well, I know you’re fond of her.”

  “Sure. Sure,” he said. “But if they’ve got her and if, in their foolishness they’re trying to force Jean to tell them something, she can’t do that. And what if they go too far, and she can never …? Well, there goes the only chance I know of, to find our little sister.”

  “Why must she see? I don’t understand. Why must she be there?”

  “Because,” said Harry slowly, “and I may as well tell you, if we’re on the same side, Bernie Beckenhauer gave her a part of the message orally.”

  “Yes?”

  “Poor kid, she can’t remember it,” said Harry. “But she may. She thinks she’s bound to, when and if she sees the other part. But without her, pig or no pig, end of the line.”

  There was silence.

  “How do you know all this, Mr. Fairchild?” said Vance, who seemed to be there. His question was mild, but (alas) it was reasonable.

  “Know?” sneered Harry, his wits racing around in his skull.

  “But this is stupid,” cried Dorinda.

  “How so?” flared Harry. “You forget that Varney was on that plane. You think Bernie was stupid enough to write down a message in the clear? The whole clue? When, for all he knew at the time, Varney would be reading the message?”

  Harry thought, that’s good. He fell silent.

  “She can’t remember?” said Dorinda with a hint of sullenness. “That’s what’s ridiculous, Harry.”

  (So it is, he thought, but it must serve.)

  “The human mind?” he said. “Agreed.”

  “Why can’t she say what he told her?”

  “Chow-ee! If she could have said, I wouldn’t have had to bother with her. I could have written it down. Don’t argue, Dorinda. Half the clue is in Jean Cunliffe’s head, and if I don’t have her head along when I find the other half, I can’t get it out of her head. So where is Jean? That’s my problem, and if you don’t want it, leave it alone.” He turned his back and looked at the hills.

  Dorinda laughed.

  He tried not to wince. He thought, didn’t work, I guess.

  “Darling, you are just a wee bit … well … gullible? Why, the crafty little wretch! She wanted the free ride, don’t you suppose?”

  He clamped his jaws together.

  “Don’t you suppose?” purred Dorinda.

  “If so, the ride is over—the minute I put her in front of the message. But when will that be?” He was muttering.

  “She knows where all the pigs are,” said Dorinda musingly.

  “Nope,” said Harry, in a flash, “she does not. Neither do I, yet.”

  “But Harry …”

  “People are working on it. I will know where the other pig is, but Jean doesn’t know.” (Maybe he was talking too much.) “So where is she? Damn it, I’m paralyzed.” He shut himself up.

  In a moment Vance said, “Miss Bowie, shouldn’t I run over to the nearest big place and see what I can do to lay on a search for this … uh … Jean?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Dorinda. She began to run her hand along Harry’s shoulder as if to pet and c
omfort him. “Don’t you think so, Harry? And you and I can hunt for her, too. We can take your car. Maybe she is simply lost in the hills. Maybe nobody’s ‘got’ her. I can’t believe that, you know. How could they find their way here?”

  “Maybe I’m looking on the dark side, do you think?” he murmured.

  “Where was she last seen?” said Dorinda in an energetic way.

  But Harry watched the little man slip along to a car and he thought, she’s believing. So he took Dorinda’s arm and said, “You know, you seem to be cheering me up, Dorinda, darling.”

  “Well, you mustn’t fret,” she said. “Women are devious. But we can’t have you paralyzed.”

  Varney had returned, walking softly. He pulled the broken door as nearly closed as it would go. He listened. It seemed for a long time.

  Then he came, decisively, and ripped the gag away. When Jean stopped retching and had succeeded in bringing a little moisture back into her mouth his big cruel hand was poised to punish her face again, so she did not yell.

  “Okay,” he said briskly. “The yokels are going to be stirring any minute. So we’ll make this fast. What about pigs?”

  She stalled. She kept working her mouth.

  “Come on.” He hit her face, hard. “Beckenhauer put something in a piggy bank, eh? I didn’t see him do it. But you saw him.”

  “No.”

  “Yes, you did. Quit with the lies.” He slapped her. “What did he put?”

  “We guess it’s a message.” (They knew this anyway.)

  “You’re not telling much, are you?” He hit her again. “And the pigs got sold, like to the kid in Amsterdam. And you know where.”

  “No.”

  “Come on. You missed in Amsterdam. There’s one here. Up in the castle, naturally. That’ll be taken care of. What I want from you is how many more pigs and where are they?”

  “We don’t know where.”

  “Yeah? You’re chasing around the whole damn world and you don’t know where? How many pigs? Where? And hurry up.” He hit her again. It hurt.

  Jean said with sudden spunk, “If you hit me once more, I won’t say anything.”

  “That so?” He put a cruel hand on her and it hurt terribly. When he let her go, she was sobbing. She struggled to stop it. It was degrading. It was shameful. He knew how to hurt and shame a woman. He chose to wait her struggle out. He knew what he had done to her. Finally he said, “Seeing the light?”

  She said, “Oh, I certainly do see the light. There’s no use in this. I tell you the truth. You just hit me again. So there’s nothing in this.”

  “Nuts to that stuff.” He hit her face angrily and then his hand was poised to hurt.

  “I can’t win,” she gasped. “But neither can you. So do what you’ll do. I can’t stop you. That’s what I see.”

  Oh, she had seen through to the whole truth about this torture business. There was no such thing as “instant safety.” There was no kind of safety. Only pain. Therefore there was no pressure whatsoever. So she waited for the inevitable pain, hearing her own frightened heart, remembering mercy, in the form of fainting, that would come and could be trusted.

  She seemed to hear a sound. A syllable? A voice?

  He had heard it, too, because his hand froze. His head turned. He shifted his legs, preparing the spring in his knees. Something rustled, very softly. Something clicked. A fingernail on stone?

  Jean wasn’t breathing. The man rose. He was powerful enough, the big body under the civilized blue suit was animal-strong enough, to do this slowly and silently. He went away from her, across the dirt floor to the broken door. He listened there. Then she heard the door protest as he widened its gap. He went outside.

  She turned her cheek to the packed dirt. Ought she to scream now? Would it be any use?

  But he was back swiftly. He was standing over her, still for a second of time. “Nuts,” he muttered. He crouched and she cringed and tried to brace for pain.

  But he began to work at the rope around her knees. He was taking it away. Well, then he would drag her off somewhere else and no difference to her.

  He put his arm under her torso and lifted her roughly and flipped her over. Her chin struck the hard ground and she yipped. “Oh, shut up,” he said. Then he was using a key on the handcuffs and then they were off. Her shoulders screamed with the pain of release, but she rolled to her side. He was standing high again and looking down. His face was in shadow.

  “So you lied to me, in Los Angeles,” he said savagely. “You little twerp!” And he lifted his foot and with his hard shoe he kicked her thigh. She screamed a reaction, but he didn’t touch her again. Swiftly he was gone.

  She didn’t believe it. She lay still, waiting for more pain. In a little while she began to cry. Very quietly her tears ran down her dirty, swollen face.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Dorinda and Harry coursed the roads in Harry’s rented car. She, keen as a hawk, analyzed and advised. Harry was running on a perverse kind of faith. In deviosity? He listened. His ears ached with taking every slightest hint she gave him. She was being very careful. Or else he was all wrong.

  Jean, very wobbly on her feet, staggered to the broken door and found it heavy. The sag of it was digging into the ground. She leaned; it groaned, and yielded at the top, and she skinned through the opening. One shoe came off.

  She was in a wood. Not far from the road. She could see where the road must run. But she dared not go there. She still couldn’t believe in freedom. But as long as it felt like freedom, she would choose.

  So she went reeling off the other way, deeper among the trees, into the green gloom. Her arms ached; her breast ached; her face was still stinging. Her head hurt. The spot on her thigh, where he had kicked her, was painful, and she limped on one shoe, but went reeling and staggering as fast as she could, just away.

  After a while, she looked behind and could no longer see the hut or any suggestion of a road. She did not seem to have broken any trail. She sank down on the ground. There was moss. She stared at its dainty beauty, its tiny perfection, for a long time.

  It was very quiet in the wood. She heard him coming. She couldn’t run. It would only be degrading, if she tried. So Jean simply toppled over and put her cheek on the moss and breathed in the emerald delicious smell—as long as she could choose at all.

  Harry, tugging at the broken door to open it wider, heard Dorinda, calling out behind him, “Is she there?”

  When he could see inside, he breathed deeply a moment before he called, “You were right.”

  “Oh? What? Oh! She is there!” Dorinda came, in a pretty female tripping on her high heels, down the remainder of the slope from the road. She leaned upon his shoulder to look in.

  “Rope,” said Harry. “See. Cut.” He stooped to pick up something. “Shoe.”

  He stuck to monosyllables. He felt like falling down. It was relief from doubt. He had been right. Dorinda had guided him here. He’d taken great pains to let her do it. So now he knew, didn’t he?

  “She must have been here,” said Dorinda. “Oh, wonderful! But where is she now? Perhaps she’s frightened.” Dorinda was looking into the woods. “Call to her, Harry, why don’t you?”

  “They’ve only taken her somewhere else,” said Harry, gruffly. “That’s all this means.”

  “Oh, but maybe not,” said Dorinda hopefully. “Call her name, why don’t you, Harry?”

  Harry pretended to be peering off into the woods, but he was seeing the lift of Dorinda’s chin and her look of haughty displeasure.

  He knew, now. Dorinda was on the other side.

  She said impatiently, “She has to be around. She can’t be far. Find her.” She looked as if the trees must bow, the hills must shift.

  So he knew that somebody did not have Jean, anymore. Dorinda knew that Jean was free.

  “What shall I do now, Dorinda, darling?” he said pathetically, succeeding in keeping any faintest note of joyous sarcasm out of his voice.

  But
after a moment, when he began, in earnest, to range and shout among the trees, no one answered.

  If it was a kitchen, it was the largest kitchen Jean had ever seen in her life. She didn’t care what it was, except that it was warm, and she had been so chilly; clean, and she had felt so grubby; inhabited, and she had felt so lonely.

  She hadn’t said much yet. No quickly plausible explanation of her plight had occurred to her. Furthermore the strange, strong, man had not asked her any questions. He had simply picked her up from her bed of moss and carried her, crooning comforts, all the way here.

  And now she was comforted. They had put her in the easiest chair, a wickerish affair, worn to a pleasant hollow, and there was a round table, wearing a long cloth, drawn to her right side and on it a sewing basket, only recently abandoned, and her cup of tea.

  They had stripped her feet bare and put them into a basin of clean water, her cold hands were around the warm cup, and while the man still marveled (as far as Jean could understand his jabbering) at how he had found her in the wood, the woman, with many exclamations, was very gently, and with blessed warm water, washing the traces of tears and the dirt from Jean’s face.

  The woman stood back finally and spoke more slowly. “How pretty she is—hurt and all. Miss Deirdre, love, come look! She’ll do very well.”

  Jean popped her eyes wide and peered and saw that there was a little girl, sitting silently over there in a wooden chair, her child’s legs dangling, her small face drawn long and full of woe.

  I am in the castle! Jean thought. Harry may even be here, too!

  “I am so grateful,” she burst to her benefactors, “to you for finding me.” And while the man and the woman began the rapid jabber (that was English of a sort but hard to hear), Jean smiled radiantly at the child.

  But now came a high, quite intelligible, but very demanding voice. “Who is she? Why was she trespassing?”

  The man was abruptly still. “Ah, Miss Beale,” said the Irish woman, changing her manner to a kind of subservience that was also curiously contemptuous, “Fogarty found her in the wood and in such a state, poor soul, she hasn’t told us a bit of it.”