Gift Shop

by Charlotte Armstrong

  “Where is the kid? Where is the Hanks woman?”

  “I don’t know. They don’t know. You’ve got to listen—”

  “Anything about a pig?”

  “A what?”

  “A pig?”

  “Well, they must know something. They told Uncle Paul something that’s made him lively as a cricket. The old fool! I—”

  “Get him to tell you.”

  “I can’t. He’s gone to bed.”

  “There’s no time. How did they find out what they told him? Where did they go for information?”

  “Oh, it was Bonzer, I think. He did something he was told to do. I’m only guessing.”

  “What did Bonzer do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Guards on that apartment, eh?”

  “Oh yes. You see it’s hopeless. The governor isn’t going to—”

  “They put guards on whoever told Bonzer what Bonzer found out?”

  “How do I know? Please, I’m going to need …”

  “We’ve had an eye on Bonzer. We’ll check back over his tracks. We’ll see …”

  “Oh, no, it’s all over. Not my fault. I can’t stay here and be treated.… So when can I get …”

  The phone was dead. So Elaine went weeping up to her room. They’d said it was the child’s own mother, after her. Well, if they’d lied, that wasn’t Elaine’s fault. Everybody misunderstood. She was much put upon, and maybe even cheated in the bargain. When she hadn’t meant … She had only … It was all just a fairy tale, anyhow. There was no daughter of this house, except herself, who had earned it. Uncle Paul was foolish. Old. He ought to have died soon after Aunt Beatrice, as would have been respectful and convenient. All these years! But now …

  Oh, that George, that Harry, and that new girl. She hoped they’d find out what it felt like to be lied to, and put upon, and cheated, and unappreciated, and all your plans, your whole vision of your future just whimsically spoiled and ruined, for nothing. For nothing! For somebody’s faceless child.

  Harry was nervous as a cat until they had made it safely to his apartment. Then he sagged physically, but in his mind he began to go around and around the possibilities. The truth was, anything could happen.

  He found himself going all the way back to the beginning, thinking of Bernie Beckenhauer, who ought not to have died in vain. And where was the murderer, Varney, now? And how, on top of everything else, were they going to get him and bring him to the hour of his execution? Harry felt that the human race could do without Varney, and was a little shocked by the violence of his own feelings.

  He looked at Jean, the victim of Varney’s violence.

  Well, look at her! She had gone to curl up on his couch, as if she had come home, and she was just sitting there in her very becoming Irish clothing, gazing at his view, smiling to herself, as relaxed and complacent and carefree … as a … as a cat!

  Bonzer had gone off, probably to make up beds, discreetly. Harry got up and mixed drinks, and sat down to brood some more. She didn’t want the drink; she only sipped. She didn’t need a drink, apparently, and she didn’t even have the decency to look worried.

  He said, “You’re safe. You’ll stay right here. A prisoner of fate, or something.”

  She smiled, but not as if she saw him. “I haven’t any clothes.”

  “You won’t need clothes.”

  She looked a little startled at that, and he was glad.

  “Bedtime? You’ll take my room. I’ll take the den.”

  She looked a little puzzled.

  “Some things I … uh … don’t ask Bonzer to put up with.”

  Her mouth dropped open. Ah ha, now she was paying attention, eh?

  Harry hid behind his worried-cherub look. “It’s only fair to tell you, isn’t it? I can’t very well take you to my other place, what with the retinue we have. No offense?”

  Then this unpredictable girl rocked and fell over on the couch. “That’s O.K.” She was choking? “I wouldn’t want to upset B-Bonzer, either.” She muffled herself in a pillow.

  “What’s the matter with you?” he growled.

  “Oh, I don’t know, Harry,” she gasped. “There’s a way you look, sometimes.” She took a good hold on herself. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m light-headed, or lighthearted, or something.” Her face, drawn serious, was ready to dive back into the pillow, in case this didn’t last. “Well, I enjoyed meeting your family,” she said defiantly. “I liked them. I’m afraid I had an awfully good time. I can’t always help it. Look”—she sat straight but her eyes were brimming—“I’ll sleep in the den. I’d just as soon. Well, I mean, I’ll sleep wherever Bonzer th-thinks I ought. But I’m not very sleepy. It doesn’t seem like night. Harry, may I please just sit here? There’s nothing we are going to do … I mean about the pig and all.” She threatened to giggle but controlled it. “So, please may I enjoy myself, if I do it very quietly?”

  He said, “Sometimes, you know, I could sock you one.”

  “I know,” she said meekly, and snuffled.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re taking no offense.” He made a good recovery. “So you liked my family, eh?”

  “Oh, I sure did!” Her sigh was ecstatic.

  “Got on with Daddy?” For some reason, Harry resented all this.

  “Harry, why do you all call him Daddy, like very small boys?”

  “I don’t know. We always have.”

  “Well, he’s a doll. He’s a love,” she cried. “And he’s made me feel like a Princess in a Castle, with moats and everything.”

  “Oh, Daddy’s taking care,” said Harry glumly, “and hang the expense. He always spends a lot of money, when he’s not quite sure what else to do.”

  “So do you,” she said dreamily.

  Harry felt shock. “You don’t want to underestimate my daddy,” he said darkly. “He can be a charmer, but he’s nobody fool.”

  “Neither are you. Oh, Harry, your daddy’s awfully fond of you.”

  Harry was literally squirming now. These things were not said. “Oh, Daddy’s a bit of a corn-ball,” he began. “And so am I?” he thundered, before she could say a word.

  “Listen,” he said, when it became apparent that she wasn’t going to agree—aloud, anyway, “I’m going into the den, maybe to bed. I’ve got worrying to do, and I can see you’re not in the mood.”

  “Well, no,” she said seriously. “I’m not, really. All those guards and police and money and all. Well, then, for me, it’s just about all over. I can keep hoping, like everything, on your daddy’s side. But this is like Cinderella’s last dance. Well, did she worry?”

  “Wait ’til midnight,” he grumped.

  “Yes, I’m pretty close to a pumpkin,” Jean said. “Midnight comes on Wednesday.”

  Bonzer trotted through, and beamed on Jean, saying that all was in order and goodnight. Jean beamed on Bonzer. The adoration seemed mutual.

  So when Bonzer had gone, Harry bent, with every intention of kissing some sense of who was supposed to be adored around here, into this maddening girl, but Jean said, “Don’t do it.” Her blue eyes gave real warning.

  “You’re thinking of Bonzer? Honey, I …”

  “I’m thinking of me,” she said honestly. “I don’t know when I’ve felt so … just plain silly happy. I don’t want you to upset me. If you wouldn’t mind, Harry?”

  So he didn’t. How could he, after that?

  But … damn it!

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Somebody was shaking her by the shoulder. Somebody was barking out her name. She came wide-awake. She was in Harry Fairchild’s apartment, in Harry Fairchild’s bedroom, in Harry Fairchild’s bed, in Harry Fairchild’s pajamas.

  “Oh,” she said, “Harry?”

  “I’m going,” he said fiercely, with his dark hair on end. “After the yellow pig. Got to. Now.”

  “Then, I’m coming, too.” She rolled out of his bed and to her bare feet in one swift motion.

  “No, no. I’m taking B
onzer.”

  “You’re not dressed. I’ll be dressed as soon as you are. What’s the matter?”

  “Hell’s loose,” he said. “They called Bonzer from Bernie’s office. Somebody burglarized. In the night. Got his file.”

  “File?”

  “Bonzer”s. The thing they handled, as far as they knew, for him. Somebody’s got that name and address.”

  “Where the pig is!” Jean was horrified.

  “Right. They could have been there, already.”

  Bonzer was thrusting cups of coffee into their hands. Harry sipped and talked. “I phoned this Mizer. No answer. Maybe the pig’s alone in the place. Maybe it was broken, long ago. We’ve got to know. So we’re going. Driving. Plane won’t save time. Country place. Hurry up,” he said crossly because (no use) he couldn’t imagine going without her.

  Bonzer fielded the coffee cups. Jean flew into the bathroom, and she flew into her Irish clothes, and she flew to stand beside him, down in the elevator, into his car. Bonzer wasn’t going, after all.

  “We’ll call, if we need the troops,” Harry explained. “But we won’t. If the worst is true, then Bonzer and my brothers and the troops will have to see what they can do, right in this town.”

  He was a Fairchild. He brushed off the guards.

  “We’re shaking off any and all followers,” he explained, as they popped into the street. “If, by chance, it wasn’t Vance and Varney and Dorinda and company, I’m not leading them, with a parade. I’m getting us there, as fast as I can go, which is going to be pretty damned fast and devious, so hold onto your head.”

  Jean did. It was nine-thirty in the morning, past the peak of early traffic. Harry, a modern centaur, half-man-half-automobile, turned and twisted. He nipped down side streets, he made U-turns where he shouldn’t, he whisked up freeway ramps and down the next ones, while Jean watched on all sides.

  Then they were out of the maze and running (as far as they could tell) free to the east.

  “Enjoying yourself?” He grinned at her. His own skill had cheered him up.

  “No,” said Jean, “I am not. This is my fault.”

  “Can’t be.”

  “Yes, it can be, and it is.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I told your daddy last night … not where, but that we knew where. And that Bonzer found out for us. So somehow … somehow … that’s how.”

  Harry whistled. He said nothing. He didn’t reproach her. He didn’t comfort her, either, saying “maybe not.” He just drove swiftly on. (He’d learned things about her, this ordinary girl.)

  Jean sat, and let the tears pour down her face, but made no sound. True was true. Done was done. That was that.

  And this was this. Now, and only now, was she absolutely sure that she had up and gone and fallen in love with Harry Fairchild. Fine thing! Oh, a fine thing! Her heart was breaking.

  Miss Emaline had turned her head as far as she could, the other way, and she kept her eyes closed and tried to breathe without any slightest commotion, but it was no use.

  The woman gasped. “Miss … Hanks!”

  So Miss Emaline tried to look coldly at her face, the snub nose, the high cheekbones, the bright brown eyes.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “But, Miss Hanks! But, Miss Hanks!” Mei put the trash basket down on the bed itself and clasped her hands. “Everybody is looking for you. Even the police … Where is the little girl, oh please?”

  “I don’t know what you mean. I don’t know you.” Miss Emaline equivocated, adding to herself, “Know you very well.”

  “Yes, you do. Yes. You remember me. Miss Hanks! Miss Hanks! Please tell me where? Mr. Fairchild will send people … Oh, he will be so happy.”

  No, no, thought Miss Emaline. No, I mustn’t believe her. And a nurse came in.

  “Nurse,” said Miss Emaline, “tell this woman to go away, please. She’s bothering me.”

  “Oh?” The nurse picked up Miss Emaline’s wrist, and looked with stern disapproval at the position of the waste-basket.

  Mei snatched it up and babbled, “But it’s very important. She has to tell me …”

  The nurse frowned. She said, “Just out of the room, please.”

  Miss Emaline’s pulse was very fast.

  “I would like to leave here,” said Miss Emaline, thinking, but where shall I go?

  The nurse said, “We’ll ask the doctor, shall we? Now, you just rest. You won’t be bothered.”

  If so, I must endure, thought Miss Emaline. It is my penance and my glory.

  The nurse went swiftly out into the corridor, looking for the woman Mei to question her and tell her off. But Mei was scooting along toward a phone booth, giving thanks in all simplicity.

  She dialed. She said to the answerer, “Miss Elaine! Oh, Miss Elaine!”

  Mike Mizer had brought his visitor into the one room that retained intact the personality of the woman who had decorated his whole house, while she was alive. He and Tony tended not to come in here, very much. But it seemed only right that this lady be ushered to the most formal of his many rooms, the one at (what he thought of as) the back of the house, Edna’s parlor.

  He didn’t know a thing about her, this visitor, except that she was damned good-looking. When she had turned up at his gate, in that cool blue Continental, driven by a man who seemed to be a chauffeur, although he wore an ordinary felt hat, Mike hadn’t needed a lot of persuasion to jump into the jeep with Tony (because she had asked for Tony, too) and lead the way into his little kingdom, and the low-lying, long and narrow house.

  He had been right there, at the gate, because this was the day that they had decided to repair his gateposts, rehang his gate, and while they were at it, rebuild the small bridge over the ditch. They’d been there since dawn.

  The sleek car had pussyfooted over the temporary planks successfully, and it was now parked in the shade of the eucalyptus hedge, out at the back, with the manservant-chauffeur waiting in it.

  So here they sat, he and seven-year-old Tony, and this Miss Bowie, in Edna’s parlor, and Mike was trying to figure out what to offer her. Trouble was, the time of day. Just about noon. And Jim and Mabel, the couple who took care of the house and the meals for him, were out at the gate now, serving the noon meal from what would have been called the chuckwagon in olden days.

  Mike couldn’t very well ask her to lunch here. And he couldn’t figure how to get her to wait, while he changed out of his working clothes, so that he could take her to lunch in town. And there again, the nearest town with a halfway decent restaurant was forty miles, and “halfway decent” might not be the thing, either. Mike was a man of substance and didn’t mind the expense, but where could he take this bird of paradise?

  So, with his mind racing around among all these considerations, he was listening with less than perfect concentration to her words.

  “I’ve had such a time finding you, Mr. Mizer,” Dorinda was saying. “Do you remember buying a little pig, a child’s bank, at the airport in Los Angeles? For this little man, I suppose.” Dorinda smiled at Tony. But (as a part of his father’s mind, which was constantly father, noted) Tony wasn’t having any.

  Oh well … kids resent … Mike let the thought float through and disappear. “Say,” he said, “I guess that’s right. We’d been on a little trip. We got kinda pushed into that store. Somebody got hurt, as I remember. So I told Tony he could have a present if he’d grab it quick, while I nipped into the bar. Guess it was a pig, at that. Huh, Tony?”

  “And he still has it?” said Dorinda.

  “How about it, Tony?”

  The little boy said, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad,” she sighed. “I did such a silly thing. You see, I bought a little pig, too, that very same evening.”

  “I didn’t see you there.” Mike thought that if he had, he sure wouldn’t have forgotten, but he didn’t think he ought to say this out loud. It was a little soon.

  “I saw her,” said Tony. He was s
itting on a footstool, behaving himself well enough, his father thought, and yet not being … something … what? As hospitable as he ought to be?

  “You did?” said Dorinda, in a purring way that some people use on kids, as if to admire them for seeing at all.

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Tony. (Oh, he remembered her ’cause she’d been mean. Wasn’t his fault. She’d bumped into him.)

  “You see,” Dorinda turned her lovely face to the man, “I bought a little piggy bank for my niece, for her birthday. And I had the impulse to put something in it, for her. So I dropped a thin little old locket, that used to be my mother’s, into the slot, you know? Thinking that she should have it, someday. And one day, when the little bank was broken … But”—Dorinda straightened her back—“the stupid girl in the gift shop wrapped the wrong pig.”

  “Hah! Now I get it, ma’am. So you think the whatchamacallit is in Tony’s pig? That it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “’Tisn’t,” said Tony.

  “Hold on,” said his father. “How do you know?”

  “’Cause nothing rattled,” said the boy.

  “Oh, but I … Oh, but it must be,” said Dorinda.

  “No harm in making sure,” said the father, genially. “Say—uh—Miss Bowie, maybe you’d like a cup of coffee?”

  “That’s very kind of you,” said Dorinda. She was slipping the string from a cardboard cube and opening the box. “But do you think I could have the little pig, please? I’ve brought another one. I hope it’s an even better one. See?” She acted as if Tony were about three years old.

  Now she took out of tissue paper a piggy bank that Mike looked at with a leery eye. It was pretty fancy. All gussied up. Sequins?

  “Or,” she said, quickly sensing this, “if there’s anything else your … Tony, is it, dear? … anything else you would rather have?” She was purring again. There was a phony sound to it that Edna had never used to their sturdy little son.

  “That’s O.K.,” said Tony gruffly, and his father said quickly, “Say, Tony’s glad to do a lady a favor. Eh, Tony?”

  “Sure, Pa.”

  “Well, aren’t you a darling!” said Dorinda, who just didn’t seem to know any better. Tony looked disgusted and his father thought, well, she’s good-looking, anyhow.