Beware the Young Stranger (3 page)

“I knew you would make inquiries about Keith. After all, she's your only child. I wanted you to hear the truth about Keith.”

He rose. She remained on the edge of her chair, looking up at him.

“I wish I could read your face, John,” she said quietly.

“I'm not given to snap judgments.”

“Will you take Nancy away?”

“And lend the enticement of forbidding the fruit?” he asked wryly. “I don't think that would be the answer.”

“John, if she finds her only satisfactory answer in Keith …”

“She's twenty-one years old, Dorcas.”

“Then you won't stand in their way?”

“Did you expect me to?”

“Frankly, yes.”

“I could think of no better way to defeat my own purposes.”

“You're not yielding so easily.” She moistened her lips. “Right now, you frighten me. You've always awed me a little. Many men born to wealth and an old name are plagued with uncertainty about their identities and personal worth. Not you. You've never needed ego-satisfactions; you've taken full advantage of your heritage. But if you were marooned naked in the world's worst jungle, you'd walk out alive—and probably bring a valuable assessment of the area with you.”

“I hope none of us has to yield, Dorcas.”

“What can I do, John? What must Keith do?”

“What all of us must do. Be patient. Take time to be sure about the answers, all the answers.”

“Thank you for coming, John.”

“Goodbye.”

He heard the faint sound of weeping from the living room as Mildred Morgan showed him out the front door.

Vallancourt had lunch at an inexpensive place on the south side of town where he was not likely to run into anyone he knew.

He needed some time to himself.

Rape-murder …

He ate without much notice of the food. The boy had defenders—Dorcas, Ralph Hibbs. Even Howard Conway had exhibited yesterday the tolerant friendliness of an older man unbending for a companion from the next generation. Howard's grouchy remark about Keith's driving habits had been on a plane of general prejudice, words Howard would have spoken about any male driver of Keith's age.

So far, Ivy was the boy's only detractor. But Vallancourt didn't believe she really sensed Keith's potential. Ivy would feel the same way if there was illness in the house requiring her to put a halt to a gay party.

Ivy, Vallancourt thought, resents the boy for personal reasons—for the care and attention Dorcas lavishes on him, care and attention of which Ivy had always been the beneficiary.

A brief recollection came to Vallancourt of the desperate time when there had been guerrilla warfare in Greece. In all Athens, it had seemed, only he, an American diplomat, had suspected the treachery of Koutsourais—until the night Koutsourais had arranged, impeccably, the details of a regrettable accident. Everything had gone beautifully for Koutsourais, up to the final detail when he had discovered that his intended prey, too, had shark's teeth.

Vallancourt left the restaurant and drove without haste past the country club where he had golfed with Keith the day before.

As the Continental swept into the privacy of Canterbury Boulevard, the uniformed guard in the gatehouse waved a brief greeting. The first of the meticulously landscaped estates flowed past. The greenery gave the air a heady freshness; it was cooler here, the giant shade trees throwing a mantel of shadows over the boulevard.

Vallancourt turned in between the ivy-grown stone columns that marked his own driveway.

When the Continental purred around the sweeping curve of the driveway, the house came in view. It was a multi-storied mansion of antique brick and leaded windows. The house reposed quietly in its bed of lawns and gardens.

Vallancourt entered the house, his steps quick and restless on the parquet. He rang for Charles, and when the lean, grave houseman appeared, Vallancourt left word that he wanted to see his daughter when she got home. Then he went into his study.

Vallancourt relaxed a little as he stood at the tall windows and lit a cigarette. He moved noiselessly to the mammoth desk that had been created for this large, wood-paneled room with its high arched ceiling and hand-rubbed beams. Beyond the desk was a solid wall of books, for each of which Vallancourt felt a particular regard. Not all the volumes personally inscribed to him, memoirs of world leaders and works of famous writers, were included here.

Seated at the desk, he forced himself to go through the morning mail. But his thoughts kept circling around to his forthcoming talk with Nancy. He thought of Keith Rollins embracing Nancy, kissing her, caressing her. And the hellish phrase wrote itself again in burning letters across his brain:
Rape-murder
…

He attacked the mail. He knew it had already been weeded out by Mrs. Ledbetter, Charles's wife. The couple had been in Vallancourt's employ for many years as secretary and houseman.

He sorted the mail quickly into two piles. The letters in franked envelopes he dropped on the further pile.

He attacked the nearer pile. In several minutes he had created a third pile, for which he would dictate on tape the earliest replies. Mrs. Ledbetter would transcribe from tape and clear the decks before nightfall.

The whispered sigh and click of the door caused him to raise his head.

Nancy had slipped in quietly. She gave him a smile, and it brought light to the room.

“Hi, daddy.”

She hasn't had time to step out of the sun yet, Vallancourt thought, his heart wrenched. She would soon enough find the ugliness lurking at the boundaries of her world.

He got up, went around his desk grinning at her. She was lovely—rather tall, well made, full of spring. So much like her mother. Just a trace of angularity about her, but no awkwardness. A wide, barely lopsided mouth that smiled even in sleep. A slightly pugged nose given to peeling from sunburn. Wide-spaced, clear eyes with an oriental slant. Hair to match the sunlight streaming through the windows.

He opened his cigarette case and offered it to her. She hesitated. He knew she had started smoking a very short time ago; she was still not completely at ease about it.

Nancy chose a cigarette almost carefully. Vallancourt struck a light for each of them, eased himself to a half-sitting position on the edge of the desk.

“Well, are you going to be a senior next fall?”

“You know me, dad. Lit, anthropology, ancient history, the art courses I have as an appetizer before breakfast. But get me in the realm of math and science …” She crossed her eyes as she looked at him and shuddered. Then she grinned. “Anyhow, I'm in there plugging away.”

“Fine. Then we can make plans for the summer.”

He watched the smile begin its death. “Is that why you wanted to see me, dad?”

“I usually like to know what you have in mind, Nancy.”

She stood in a hesitant attitude; then the tension went from her shoulders.

“I think,” she said, “the time has come for a powwow.”

He matched her effort to keep it light. “Big chief all ears.”

“I'm in love, dad.”

“With Keith Rollins?”

“Yes.”

He studied her through the smoke. “How does he feel?”

“The same way.”

“Are you sure, princess?”

“Completely. It's one of those once-in-a-lifetime things for both of us.”

“I've had a hunch about it,” he said lightly.

“I know, dad. Keith told me of your inspection yesterday.”

“Do you resent it? Or does Keith?”

“Don't be silly! Wouldn't it be goopy to have a father who wasn't interested in me? Only …” Her lips quivered.

He touched her chin with his forefinger. “What is this?”

She caught his hand and pressed the back of it to her cheek fiercely. “Growing up is just plain
hell
.”

“Not always, Nancy.”

“When you find that relationships change?”

And Vallancourt thought: She's trying to tell me she will always love me, but that I'm no longer the center of her universe.

“Change is the natural order of things, darling. All we can do is try to make sure it's chiefly for the better.”

She dropped his hand and half turned toward the window, no longer facing him directly. “I've wanted to talk to you, daddy.”

“Why haven't you?”

“I've been afraid. Not of you. Of my botching it. You see, Keith was in Port Palmetto, Florida this spring when a dreadful thing happened.”

“I know all about Port Palmetto, Nancy,” he said gently. When she flashed him a startled look, he added: “I haven't been keeping it from you. Dorcas Ferguson called me this morning and she's told me all about it.”

“I see,” she said slowly. “Then you know Keith is innocent.”

“I know the police released him.”

“He told me everything, dad, when we began to get serious. Told me—and offered to go away.”

He would, Vallancourt thought. He felt a tightening inside. The boy had played it cool and smart. His admission had actually increased his stock with Nancy. He had known what his self-sacrificial offer would do to her.

Vallancourt realized that Nancy was studying him in a covert way. She glanced aside when his eyes met hers.

“If he asks me,” she said, “I'm going to marry him.”

Vallancourt knew the importance of the next moment, his words, every inflection and nuance.

“When a woman prepares an answer,” he said with a smile, “she's usually pretty sure of the question. But don't be disappointed, Nancy, if he doesn't ask you right away. I'll hazard the guess that Keith will withhold the question until the Port Palmetto thing is settled. Feeling about you as he must, he wouldn't want to begin with an ugly thing like that hanging over him.”

She turned to him then, and he gave her the shelter of his arms.

A subtle change had taken place in his position, Vallancourt knew. He felt no qualms. Let the boy show the depth—or shallowness—of his feeling for Nancy. After all, if he measured up, he
would
want to wait until the Port Palmetto police had announced a solution to the rape-murder of the Pemberton girl.

Nancy slipped away from him, moving with her angular grace. “Pardon, please,” she said in a slightly damp voice, “while a lady seeks privacy to blow her nose.”

She hurried from the room, leaving her father to stand very still for a long time.

4.

Sam Rollins, Keith's father, called at four o'clock that afternoon. Charles showed him into the library and carried news of the caller to the study, where Vallancourt was working with Mrs. Ledbetter.

Entering the library, Vallancourt saw a tall, thin, intense man whose clothing, while of good cut, was rumpled as if from chronic lack of attention. Rollins's lips were thin, his nose a high-bridged blade of bone, his eyes small and restless under salty brows that matched his hair. The aroma of alcohol surrounded him.

“Good afternoon,” Vallancourt said. Rollins's feverish eyes were going over him in a quick, envious appraisal. “Won't you sit down, Mr. Rollins?”

“Call me Sam. The mister is too damn formal for me.” Rollins dropped into a chair, gripping the arms with his long, predatory fingers. “So you are John Vallancourt.” The shifty eyes darted about the library. “Nice place you got here. But I don't guess you have time, with all you have to do, to really read all these books.”

“There's time for everything, if you make it,” said Vallancourt. “Incidentally, I'm glad you dropped in, Mr. Rollins. I've wanted us to get acquainted. As a matter of fact, I'd intended to phone you this evening.”

“I figured as much,” Rollins said. Vallancourt wondered if the man realized his own insolence. Apparently it had been many years in cultivation, becoming an automatic response. Briefly, he felt compassion for Rollins, and for the son who had been exposed to this seething belligerence during his formative years.

“I played a round of golf with your son yesterday.”

“I heard. He tried to win, too, didn't he?”

“Is there any reason why he shouldn't?”

“Hell, no.” Rollins's bony shoulders twitched. “It's just that it's so pathetic. He failed. Naturally. Keith always does, you know.”

“Did he tell you about the game?”

“Keith? Confide in me?” Rollins uttered a thin sour laugh. “He didn't have to tell me. I guess I know my own son.”

“I see.”

“But I don't blame you.” A hint of obsequiousness crept into Rollins's manner. “If I had a knock-out daughter, I'd want to know something about the stud, too.”

“I'm glad you understand,” Vallancourt said dryly.

“Does Port Palmetto mean anything to you?”

He sat down in a chair only partially facing Rollins's. The man had to turn his head to look at him.

“Yes, it does, Mr. Rollins.”

“Keith tell you about it?”

“No, someone else.”

“I didn't think he'd have the guts.” Rollins waited; and when Vallancourt remained silent, Keith's father said, “Okay, okay, I guess you claim diplomatic immunity in protecting your source of information. The only thing is, not all stories are the same.”

“Would you care to give me your version, Mr. Rollins?”

“The girl was raped, killed. They picked Keith up, then let him go. He says he's innocent.”

Vallancourt began to feel as if the room needed airing. “You've nothing to add?”

“Maybe you think I should get sentimental?”

“A young girl has been killed—and Keith is your son.”

“A son should be a comfort to his father, Mr. Vallancourt. You haven't had to worry about that boy for twenty-odd years, or you'd know what I'm talking about.”

“I'm sure there are a great many things about Keith that I don't know.”