“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.”
“I was hoping you might know the inside,” Rollins said. “You’ve got connections. You’ve made inquiries. You may know more about Keith in one respect than I do.”
“In respect to what?”