The Goodbye Look (8 page)

I paused to let the fact sink in. She handled it almost as if she’d been expecting it. “Who is the man?”

“Sidney Harrow is his name. He was involved in the theft of your Florentine box. So was Nick, apparently.”

“Nick was?”

“I’m afraid so. With all these things on his mind, I don’t think you should put him in any kind of clinic or hospital. Hospitals are always full of leaks, as Truttwell says. Couldn’t you keep him at home?”

“Who would watch him?”

“You and your husband.”

She glanced at her husband, appraisingly. “Maybe. I don’t know if Larry is up to it. It doesn’t show but he’s terribly emotional, especially where Nick is concerned.” She moved closer, letting me feel the influence of her body. “Would you, Mr. Archer?”

“Would I what?”

“Stand watch over Nick tonight?”

“No.” The word came out hard and definite.

“We’re paying your salary, you know.”

“And I’ve been earning it. But I’m not a psychiatric nurse.”

“I’m sorry I asked you.”

There was a sting in her words. She turned her back on me and moved away. I decided I’d better get out of town before she had me fired. I went and told John Truttwell where I was going and why.

Truttwell’s argument with the doctor had cooled down. He
introduced me to Smitheram, who gave me a soft handclasp and a hard look. There was a troubled intelligence in his eyes.

I said: “I’d like to ask you some questions about Nick.”

“This isn’t the time or the place.”

“I realize that, doctor. I’ll see you at your office tomorrow.”

“If you insist. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a patient to attend to.”

I followed him as far as the living-room gates, and glanced in. Betty and Nick were sitting on a rug, not together but near each other. Her body was turned toward him, supported by one straight arm. Nick’s face was pressed against his own raised knees.

Neither of them seemed to move, even to breathe. They looked like people lost in space, frozen forever in their separate poses, his of despair, hers of caring.

Dr. Smitheram went and sat down near them on the floor.

I drove inland by way of Anaheim. It was a bad time of day, and in places the traffic crawled like a wounded snake. It took me ninety minutes to get from Chalmers’s house to Rawlinson’s house in Pasadena.

I parked in front of the place and sat for a minute, letting the freeway tensions drip off my nerve ends. It was one of a
block of three-storied frame houses. They were ancient, as time went in California, ornamented with turn-of-the-century gables and cupolas.

Half a block further on, Locust Street came to an end at a black-and-white-striped barricade. Beyond it a deep wooded ravine opened. Twilight was overflowing the ravine, flooding the yards, soaking up into the thick yellow sky.

A light showed in Rawlinson’s house as the front door opened and closed. A woman crossed the veranda and came down the steps skipping a broken one.

I saw as she approached my car that she must have been close to sixty. She moved with the confidence of a much younger woman. Her eyes were bright black behind her glasses. Her skin was dark, perhaps with a tincture of Indian or Negro blood. She wore a staid gray dress and a multicolored Mexican apron.

“Are you the gentleman who wants to see Mr. Rawlinson?”

“Yes. I’m Archer.”

“I’m Mrs. Shepherd. He’s just sitting down to dinner and he won’t mind if you join him. He likes to have some company with his food. I only prepared enough for the two of us, but I’ll be glad to pour you a cup of tea.”

“I could use a cup of tea, Mrs. Shepherd.”

I followed her into the house. The entrance hall was impressive if you didn’t look too closely. But the parquetry floor was buckling and loose underfoot, and the walls were dark with mold.

The dining room was more cheerful. Under a yellowing crystal chandelier with one live bulb, a table had been set for one person, with polished silver on a clean white cloth. An old white-headed man in a rusty dinner coat was finishing off what looked like a bowl of beef stew.

The woman introduced me to him. He put his spoon down and struggled to his feet, offering me a gnarled hand. “Take it
easy with my arthritis, please. Sit down. Mrs. Shepherd will get you a cup of coffee.”

“Tea,” she corrected him. “We’re out of coffee.” But she lingered in the room, waiting to hear what was said.

Rawlinson’s eyes had a mica glint. He spoke with impatient directness. “This revolver you telephoned about—I gather it’s been used for some illegal purpose?”

“Possibly. I don’t know that it has.”

“But if it hasn’t you’ve come a long way for nothing.”

“In my job everything has to be checked out.”

“I understand you’re a private detective,” he said.

“That’s correct.”

“Employed by whom?”

“A lawyer named Truttwell in Pacific Point.”

“John Truttwell?”

“Yes. Do you know him?”

“I met John two or three times through one of his clients. That was a long time ago, when he was young and I was middle-aged. It must be close to thirty years—Estelle’s been dead for nearly twenty-four.”

“Estelle?”

“Estelle Chalmers—Judge Chalmers’s widow. She was a hell of a woman.” The old man smacked his lips like a wine-taster.

The woman still lingering by the door was showing signs of distress. “All that is ancient history, Mr. Rawlinson. The gentleman isn’t interested in ancient history.”

Rawlinson laughed. “It’s the only kind of history I know. Where’s that tea you were so freely offering, Mrs. Shepherd?” She went out, closing the door with emphasis. He turned to me. “She thinks she owns me. She doesn’t, though. If I don’t have a right to my memories, there isn’t a great deal left at my time of life.”

“I’m interested in your memories,” I said, “specifically in
the Colt revolver you bought in September 1941. It was probably used to shoot a man last night.”

“What man?”

“Sidney Harrow was his name.”

“I never heard of him,” Rawlinson said, as if this cast some doubt on Harrow’s reality. “Is he dead?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re trying to connect my gun with his death?”

“Not exactly. It either is connected or it isn’t. I want to know which.”

“Wouldn’t ballistics show?”

“Possibly. The tests haven’t been made yet.”

“Then I think I should wait, don’t you?”

“You certainly should if you’re guilty, Mr. Rawlinson.”

He laughed so hard his upper teeth slipped. He pushed them back into place with thumb and forefinger. Mrs. Shepherd appeared in the doorway with a tea tray.

“What’s so funny?” she asked him.

“You wouldn’t consider it funny, Mrs. Shepherd. Your sense of humor is deficient.”

“Your sense of fittingness is. For an eighty-year-old man who used to be the president of a bank—” She set the tea tray down with a slight clash that completed her thought. “Milk or lemon, Mr. Archer?”

“I’ll take it black.”

She poured our tea in two bone china cups that didn’t match. The rundown elegance of the household made me wonder if Rawlinson was a poor man or a miser; and what in hell had happened to his bank.

“Mr. Archer suspects me of committing a murder,” he said to the woman in a slightly bragging tone.

She didn’t think it was funny at all. Her dark face got darker, grim around the mouth and in the eyes. She turned on Rawlinson fiercely.

“Why don’t you tell him the truth then? You know you
gave that revolver to your daughter, and you know the exact date.”

“Be quiet.”

“I will not. You’re playing tricks with yourself and I won’t let you. You’re a smart man but you don’t have enough to occupy your mind.”

Rawlinson showed no anger. He seemed to be pleased by her almost wifely concern. And his holding back about the gun had been just a game, apparently.

Mrs. Shepherd was the worried one. “Who got shot?”

“A part-time detective named Sidney Harrow.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know who that would be. Drink up your tea while it’s hot. Can I get you a piece of fruitcake, Mr. Archer? There’s some left over from Christmas.”

“No thanks.”

“I’ll have some,” Rawlinson said. “With a scoop of ice cream.”

“We’re out of ice cream.”

“We seem to be out of everything.”

“No, there’s enough to eat. But money only stretches so far.”

She left the room again. With her warmth and energy subtracted, the room changed. Rawlinson looked around it a little uneasily, as if he was feeling the cold weight of his bones.

“I’m sorry she saw fit to sic you onto my daughter. And I hope you won’t go dashing off in her direction now. There’d be no point in it.”

“Why?”

“It’s true I gave Louise the gun in 1945. But it was stolen from her house some years later, in 1954, to be exact.” He recited the dates as if he was proud of his memory. “This is not an
ad hoc
story.”

“Who stole the gun?”

“How should we know? My daughter’s house was burglarized.”

“Why did you give her the gun in the first place?”

“It’s an old story and a sad one,” he said. “My daughter’s husband abandoned her and left her stranded with Jean.”

“Jean?”

“My granddaughter Jean. The two helpless females were left alone in the house. Louise wanted the gun for protection.” He grinned suddenly. “I think Louise may have been hoping that he would come back.”

“That who would come back?”

“Her husband. My egregious son-in-law Eldon Swain. If Eldon had come back, I have no doubt she’d have shot him. With my blessing.”

“What did you have against your son-in-law?”

He laughed abruptly. “That’s an excellent question. But with your permission I don’t think I’ll answer it.”

Mrs. Shepherd brought us two narrow wedges of cake. She noticed that I wolfed mine.

“You’re hungry. I’ll make you a sandwich.”

“Don’t bother. I’m on my way to dinner.”

“It wouldn’t be any bother.”

Her divided attention made Rawlinson uncomfortable. He said with the air of a comedian: “Mr. Archer wants to know what Eldon Swain did to me. Shall I tell him?”

“No. You’re talking too much, Mr. Rawlinson.”

“Eldon’s defalcations are common knowledge.”

“Not any more they’re not. I say let it lie. We could all be a lot worse off than we are. I told Shepherd the same thing. When you talk about old trouble sometimes you can talk it back to life.”

He reacted with jealous irritation. “I thought your husband was living in San Diego.”

“Randy Shepherd isn’t my husband. He’s my ex.”

“Have you been seeing
him?
”

She shrugged. “I can’t help it when he comes back for a visit. I do my best to discourage him.”

“So that’s where the ice cream and coffee have been going!”

“It isn’t so. I never give Shepherd a morsel of your food or a cent of your money.”

“You’re a liar.”

“Don’t call me that, Mr. Rawlinson. There are things I won’t put up with, even from you.”

Rawlinson looked quite happy again. He had the woman’s attention, and all her heat, focused on him.

I stood up. “I’ve got to be going.”

Neither of them offered any argument. Mrs. Shepherd accompanied me to the front door. “I hope you got what you came for.”

“Part of it, anyway. Do you know where his daughter lives?”

“Yessir.” She gave me another address in Pasadena. “Just don’t tell her I told you. Mrs. Eldon Swain doesn’t approve of me.”

“You seem to be bearing up under it,” I said. “Is Jean Trask Mrs. Swain’s daughter?”

“Yes. Don’t tell me Jean’s mixed up in all this.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“That’s too bad. I can remember when Jean was an innocent little angel. Jean and my own little girl were best friends for years. Then everything went sour.” She heard herself, and sucked her lips inward. “I’m talking too much myself, bringing the past back to life.”

Louise Swain lived on a poor street off Fair Oaks, between Old Town and the ghetto. A few children of various shades were playing under the light at the corner, islanded in the surrounding darkness.

There was a smaller light on the front porch of Mrs. Swain’s stucco cottage, and a Ford sedan standing at the curb in front of it. The Ford was locked. I shone my flashlight into it. It was registered to George Trask, 4545 Bayview Avenue, San Diego.

I made a note of the address, got out my contact mike, and went around to the side of the stucco cottage, following two strips of concrete which made an exigent driveway. An old black Volkswagen with a crumpled fender stood under a rusty carport. I moved into its shadow and leaned on the wall beside a blinded window.

I didn’t need my microphone. Inside the house, Jean’s voice was raised in anger: “I’m not going back to George—”

An older woman spoke in a more controlled voice: “You better take my advice and go back to him. George still cares about you and he was asking for you early this morning—but it won’t last forever.”

“Who cares?”

“You ought to care. If you lose him you won’t have anybody,
and you don’t know how that feels until you’ve tried it. Don’t think you’re coming back to live with me.”

“I wouldn’t stay if you begged me on your knees.”

“That won’t happen,” the older woman said dryly. “I’ve got just enough room and enough money and enough energy left for myself.”

“You’re a cold woman, Mother.”

“Am I? I wasn’t always. You and your father made me that way.”

“You’re jealous!” Jean’s voice had changed. A hiss of pleasure underlay her anger and distress. “Jealous of your own daughter and your own husband. It all comes clear. No wonder you gave him Rita Shepherd.”

“I didn’t give him Rita. She threw herself at his head.”

“With a good strong assist from you, Mother. You probably planned the whole thing.”

The older woman said: “I suggest you leave here before you say any more. You’re nearly forty years old and you’re not my responsibility. You’re lucky to have a husband willing and able to look after you.”