Conway took her arm. The glaze hit her eyes. She pulled away from him.
“Don’t touch me, Howard!”
He straightened, standing heavy and miserable, not looking at either Vallancourt or Hibbs. “Ivy, John has more than his share of trouble without you...”
“The devil with John! What do I care about John?” She clutched the arms of the chair. When her eyes refocussed, it was on Hibbs.
“Poor old Ralph. Good old Ralph. Here, boy.” She puckered her lips in a whistle, producing a dry, gusty sound. “And what are you, Ralphie? With your heart lying in a funeral home? Big man of the auto business! Big front to everybody—”
“Ivy,” Howard said distinctly. “We are going home.”
Blearily she swiveled her head, looked at him. Then she crumpled and began to cry as he helped her to her feet.
“John...” Conway began.
“It’s all right, Howard,” Vallencourt said.
“Thanks. If you need me, call.”
“Of course.”
“Well. Good night.”
Watching them leave, Vallancourt remained the self-possessed image in silver and tan. But Ivy’s words stuck in his mind like knives. She turns out to be just another female with the usual streak of bitch.
Ivy’s drunkenly candid assessment of Nancy, my daughter. How close to the truth?
His belief of a short time ago, that he understood his daughter better than most fathers, now seemed fatuous. He had also guessed wrong in at least one other respect. She had not postponed the seriousness of the relationship.
He pushed aside the temptation to dwell on the error. The truth went deeper. She was a healthy young female, designed by nature to desire and arouse desire. But physical need alone would not have caused her to take the plunge with Keith Rollins. Vallancourt knew beyond any shadow of doubt that she was not that variety of bitch.
She had gone to the lake cottage before the murder of Dorcas Ferguson, since she had not reported for any classes. Keith had homed in on the same spot. The meeting was therefore prearranged.
The nature of their dialogue was obvious, Vallancourt thought. Thinking of what he had said, Nancy had wanted to stall him, to wait. He had reacted in the only way possible for a father, taking it as a rebuff. And so she was in the dilemma of either pleasing her father or doing what her love for Keith Rollins demanded. Not an easy decision. And not the kind of marriage she would have wanted. A load on her conscience because of dear old dad. But, up to that point, a spunky rightness in her actions.
Then, he thought, comes the crucial moment when they meet at the cottage. Keith would have to tell her that he is in trouble. It had to have been that way. Otherwise there was no sensible explanation for their actions, running, hiding, switching cars, not heading for the nearest justice of the peace.
It was Nancy’s last opportunity to turn back, and she had let it pass. Either Keith had made it physically impossible for her to return, or she had been convinced of his innocence and the decision had been hers.
And Keith. Guilty and doomed, he was dangerous. Innocent and doomed, he might well turn deadly.
The sound of a running car invaded the room. That was Conway, taking Ivy away.
Vallancourt lit a cigarette and turned to Ralph Hibbs. “Will you stay to dinner?”
Later, Hibbs rode with Vallancourt toward the apartment building where Keith had been staying with his father. When they were near the place, Hibbs stirred. “Terrifying, isn’t it, the way the world can turn upside down? Like a ship breaking up under your feet. I’m trying to recall the steadiness of the deck, John. Am I being a coward?”
“I think not.”
“Just a matter of hours... I spend the morning showing a car, a big expensive one. I go back to my office with a big fat sale in my pocket. And all the time... Ivy wasn’t the only one who leaned heavily on Dorcas, John. Maybe Ivy was right. I’m not sure how I’ll get along without Dorcas’s business brain.”
Vallancourt glanced at him. “Are you sure you’re not underrating yourself, Ralph? You built up the agency.”
“Not alone.”
“True, but maybe Dorcas didn’t make as many of the decisions as you thought.”
Hibbs subsided into silence.
Vallancourt pulled up at the curb.
“Will you need me?” Hibbs asked.
“I think not.”
“Then I’ll wait. I have no particular yen just now to look at a man whose son has a murder rap hanging over his head.”
“It’s you.” Sam Rollins’s sharp face caught light on its ridges. He was carrying a beer can. “What do you want?”
“May I come in?” said Vallancourt.
“Sure the place is good enough for you?” Rollins kicked the door closed. The living room of the flat was a mess. “Make yourself comfortable. You ought to feel right at home here. We’re in the same boat, aren’t we? My son. Your daughter.”
“Have you heard from Keith?”
“You out of your mind? That young punk call on me? Not that it’d do him a damn bit of good.”
“I was hoping...”
Rollins flopped into a chair. He grinned evilly. “Hoping. You would. You live in such a nice, hoping sort of world. Where everything is set up for you.”
“Shouldn’t we stick to the subject of Keith and Nancy?”
Rollins gulped the rest of the beer and sat with his arm dangling, the empty can touching the floor. “The fine home, the comforts, the whole bit. And she runs off with the first crummy thing in pants!”
“You think so little of him? Or of anyone who would have anything to do with him?”
“Let’s face it, Vallancourt. He’s scum.”
“He’s your son.”
“I wouldn’t claim the bastard if he had the key to Fort Knox.”
“You know,” Vallancourt said, “twice I’ve heard that epithet tacked on him. By Ivy Conway, the first time we discussed Keith, now by you. Maybe it isn’t an epithet at all, but the literal truth.”
Rollins turned wary. “You’re nuts.”
“It would explain a few things. Ivy’s aversion to him. Your attitude. Afraid of losing your link to his inheritance if he were proved guilty of that rape-murder in Florida.”
“You’ve conducted too much business in foreign capitals, Mr. Ambassador,” Rollins said, heaving out of the chair. “You should have brought along your cloak and dagger.”
“I’m giving you a chance to level with me.”
“Level? What the hell have I got to hide?” Rollins pitched the beer can toward a wastebasket and went into a small kitchen. Vallancourt followed him as far as the doorway. He stood watching as the man opened the refrigerator and took out a quart bottle of beer. “You wouldn’t know how it’s been with me, Vallancourt. All my life... nothing ever going right. And that damn kid hating me through it all.”
“And Maggie?” Vallancourt said. “The lost middle sister of the Ferguson girls? She finally lay down and died to get out of it?”
“Listen, you can’t accuse me...”
“I’m not accusing you of anything, Rollins. I’m merely saying that you’d never let go of Maggie and her bastard son.”
“If what you think is true,” Rollins said, fumbling with a bottle-opener, “I’d have given her the boot years before she died.”
“Maggie had a wealthy sister who loved her, and who loved her illegitimate child as well. After all, there was Ferguson blood in the boy’s veins. Your wife and Keith — they were your ticket to an easy life.”
Rollins returned to the living room, Vallancourt following. “He won’t see no light from the bottom of this hole he’s in. This is one time he’ll get the stubborn streak kicked out of him.”
“What have you told the police?”