“When is her hearing coming up?”
“Next month,” Ronda said. “I reminded George of it when he came in with his usual ad a couple of weeks ago. He wasn’t interested enough even to discuss it.”
“You seem very interested.”
“It’s news. Where the news is, the Beacon shines. That’s what it says on the masthead. One of these days I’ll think of something better, or at least more accurate. Now, if you don’t mind, Quinn, I’ll have to let you go. I have work to do.”
“What about squaring me with Martha O’Gorman?”
“That won’t be easy. You didn’t exactly impress her.”
“I’ll do better if I have a second chance.”
“All right,” Ronda said. “I’ll get in touch with her at the hospital lab. Call me around eleven.”
Six
Quinn called George Haywood’s office from a pay phone in a drug store. A man who identified himself as Earl Perkins said Mr. Haywood was at home with a cold.
“Is Mrs. King there?” Quinn said.
“No, she won’t be back until after lunch. She’s out of town showing a piece of property Mr. Haywood was supposed to handle. If it’s anything urgent, you can call Mr. Haywood’s home, 5-0936.”
“Thanks.”
Quinn dialed 5-0936 and asked for George Haywood.
“He’s sick.” The woman’s voice was cracked with age but it was still forceful. “He’s in bed with a cold.”
“I wonder if I may talk to him for a minute.”
“You may nor.”
“Is that Mrs. Haywood?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not going to be in the city very long and I’d like to see Mr. Haywood about an urgent matter. My name is Joe Quinn. If you’ll tell him I called—”
“I’ll tell him at the proper time.” She hung up, leaving Quinn wondering whether the proper time might be noon or next Christmas.
He bought a copy of the Chicote Beacon and ordered a cup of coffee at the lunch counter. The Beacon printed a minimum of world news interspersed with long dull accounts of local doings and long dull lists of names of the people who did them. It was no wonder that John Ronda had expressed gratitude to O’Gorman and Alberta Haywood: at least they’d given him something interesting to write about. Ronda would undoubtedly welcome a chance to reopen either case. Maybe that’s why he’s putting himself out for me, Quinn thought. The Beacon needs another boost and a new clue to O’Gorman’s murderer would knock the Women’s Club canasta parties and the YMCA wienie roasts right off the front page.
At eleven o’clock he called Ronda at his office.
“Well, I did it,” Ronda said, sounding pleased with himself. “Martha was reluctant, naturally, but I talked her around. She’ll meet you at noon in the cafeteria at the hospital. It’s on C Street near Third Avenue. The cafeteria’s in the basement.”
“Thanks very much.”
“Did you get in touch with Haywood?”
“No. He’s in bed with a cold and his mother refused to let me talk to him.”
Ronda laughed as if at some private joke he didn’t want to explain. “What about Willie King?”
“She’s out of town.”
“Bad timing all around, eh?”
“For me,” Quinn said. “For Willie and George Haywood it’s very convenient timing.”
“You have a suspicious mind, Quinn. If the incident in the café last night happened as you said it did, Willie will certainly have some legitimate explanation for her actions. She’s a respectable businesswoman.”
“Everyone in Chicote seems respectable,” Quinn said. “Maybe if I hang around long enough some of the respectability will rub off on me.”
The hospital was new and the cafeteria in the basement was light and airy with wide windows looking out on a plaza with a fountain. Beside one of the windows Martha O’Gorman was waiting at a small table. She looked neat and attractive in her white uniform. Her face, which Quinn had last seen twisted with anger, was now composed.
She spoke first. “Sit down, Mr. Quinn.”
“Thank you.”
“What’s your pitch this time?”
“No pitch,” Quinn said. “The umpire hasn’t thrown the ball in yet.”
She raised her eyebrows. “So you expect umpires in this dirty game? You are naïve. Umpires are to make sure of fair play, to protect both sides equally. That isn’t how it’s worked out for me and my children, let alone for my husband.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. O’Gorman. I wish I could—well, help.”
“I’ve suffered more at the hands of people who tried to help me than I have at those of indifferent strangers.”
“Then allow me to be an indifferent stranger.”
She sat stiff and uncompromising, her hands folded on the table. “Let’s not beat around the bush, Mr. Quinn. Why did some woman hire you to locate my husband?”
“That information was given to John Ronda in strict confidence,” Quinn said, flushing. “I didn’t expect him to repeat it.”
“Then you’re a poor judge of people. He’s the town blabbermouth.”
“Oh.”
“Not that he intends any harm—blabbermouths never do, do they?—but he dearly loves to talk. And print. What about the woman, Mr. Quinn? What’s her motive?”
“I really don’t know. Ronda probably told you that, too, didn’t he?”
“Oh, yes.”
“I took the job because I needed it,” Quinn said. “She didn’t ask me for references, I didn’t ask her. I assumed that Mr. O’Gorman was a relative or an old friend with whom she’d lost contact. Naturally, if I had known I was going to run into this kind of situation I’d have asked her more questions.”
“How long has she been living with this cult, or whatever it is?”
“She claims that her son sends her a twenty-dollar bill every Christmas. She gave me a hundred and twenty dollars.”
“Six years then,” Martha O’Gorman said thoughtfully. “If she’s been living apart from the world that long, it’s possible she never found out Patrick is dead.”
“Quite possible.”
“What does she look like?”
Quinn described Sister Blessing as well as he could.
“I don’t remember Patrick knowing anyone like that,” Mrs. O’Gorman said. “We were married sixteen years ago, and his friends were my friends.”
“My description of her isn’t very good, I’m afraid. When a group of people all wear the same shapeless gray robes it’s hard to differentiate them. That’s probably the purpose of the robes, to suppress style and individuality. It works, anyway.”
He realized, even as he spoke, that it was an exaggeration. Sister Blessing had managed to retain her individuality, and so, to a certain extent, had the others: Brother Light of the Infinite with his anxious concern for the livestock that were his responsibility, Sister Contrition trying to save her children from the evil ways of the world they would learn in school, Brother Tongue, mute, with only a little bird for his voice, Sister Glory of the Ascension thriftily constructing a mattress from the Brothers’ hair, Brother of the Steady Heart wielding his razor with myopic zeal—they were, and always would be, individuals, not ants in an ant hill or bees in a beehive.
“She was once a nurse?” Martha O’Gorman said.