Mrs. Flaherty returned carrying a sheet of paper. “The computer indicates that Miss Jasper made some purchases two days ago.”
“What were they?”
“We don’t know yet. When a purchase is made, the slip contains the name of the credit card holder and the number of the associate. When we check that number we’ll have the name of the associate and thus the department in which she or he works.”
“By ‘associate’ you mean sales clerk?”
“If you insist. Drawford’s believes that associate sounds better and improves morale. Now then, we’ll find out whether that associate is working today and after that you can do — well, whatever it is that people like you do.”
“They work,” Aragon said, “...and when do I get the names of the associates?”
“My secretary’s checking that now.”
The secretary turned out to be not a clone of Mrs. Flaherty but a close copy. She had the same hairdo and wore an almost identical expression and dress. She said that one of the numbers belonged to Mrs. deForrest of the shoe salon and the other to Miss Horowitz of the better jewelry department. Miss Horowitz had sold Miss Jasper a set of rings and Mrs. deForrest had sold her two pairs of shoes.
This was Miss Horowitz’s day off but Mrs. deForrest was on duty in the shoe salon, having clocked in at 9:07 that morning.
Mrs. deForrest was not a product of Drawford’s catalogues or training manual. She looked like a grandmother who’d had to go back to work in order to pay her bills.
“Cleo Jasper,” she said, frowning. “Let me think a minute. I’m pretty good at names.”
While Mrs. deForrest thought, Aragon watched the other customers: a middle-aged woman surrounded by piles of boxes which indicated she was either hard to please or hard to fit, two teenagers pooling their finances to pay for a pair of sandals, an elegantly dressed woman in a wheelchair examining a display of matching shoes and handbags.
“Yes,” Mrs. deForrest said. “Yes, I recall now. A young woman, who had trouble signing her name. In fact she didn’t sign her first name. She used only the initial.”
Aragon showed her one of the pictures Mrs. Jasper had given him of Cleo.
“Of course this is the girl,” Mrs. deForrest said. “Why didn’t you show it to me in the first place?”
“I thought she might have changed her appearance and seeing the picture would only put you off.”
“Well, she did not change it. The picture’s exactly her. Cute little thing. Bought a pair of Italian sandals with very high heels. She could hardly walk in them. She looked comical, like a little girl dressed up in her mother’s clothes. I urged her to buy a more sensible pair of shoes for walking, with a special non-slip sole. We sell a lot of them to people who want to be sure of their footing on slippery surfaces. And that’s especially important for someone in Mrs. Jasper’s condition.”
“Miss Jasper.”
“Miss? Dear me, that’s getting so common these days but I still can’t help being shocked.”
“What is common?”
“Going right ahead and having children without bothering to get married. Why, she looked barely out of high school and she had that eight-month waddle if I ever saw one. That’s why the non-slip shoes were so important, to avoid a fall that might cause a premature birth.”
“Would you take another look at this picture, Mrs. deForrest?”
“Sure.” She studied the picture again, more carefully. “I certainly think it’s the same girl. I wouldn’t want to swear on a stack of Bibles. If I had to do that, swear to it in court or anything, I really couldn’t. I’d hate to get involved in anything messy.”
“So would I,” Aragon said. But he knew he had.
Contacted by phone at her apartment, Miss Horowitz confirmed the sale of a pair of rings to Cleo Jasper. Sales were never brisk in the better jewelry department, Miss Horowitz explained, except when there was a special sale on such things as diamonds and jade, so individual customers were easy to recall. The girl had bought a set of wedding bands. The girl’s band was too big for her but she said she would grow into it. She didn’t want to wait for a special order... “I don’t wonder she was in a hurry. She was conspicuously pregnant.”
“Was she happy about it?”
“Quite. In fact, very. I honestly can’t understand the present generation. Can you?”
“No.”
He understood even less Cleo’s apparently imminent contribution to the next generation.
When Aragon reached the parking lot of his apartment building he could hear a phone ringing from one of the open windows. He didn’t hurry. If the ringing came from his apartment he couldn’t reach the phone in time anyway. He locked his car, counting the rings of the phone automatically at first, then, as they continued, deliberately: ten... twelve... sixteen... They stopped for about half a minute, then began again. When he went up the steps to the second floor he realized the ringing was coming from his own apartment.
He let himself in, breathing deeply to expel the sense of impending disaster he felt. The call must be very urgent or the ringing would have stopped at the usual six or seven.
He said, “Hello?”
“Mr. Aragon?”
“Yes.”
“This is Rachel Holbrook. I’m in a café across the street. I saw your car drive up. I’ve been waiting for you.”
“How did you know where to wait?”
“A girl in your office gave me your address and told me you usually came home at noon to pick up your mail in case there was a letter from your wife.”
“They’re a chatty group.”
“A bit unprofessional, yes. Would you come over and have a cup of coffee with me? It’s very important.”
“About Cleo?”
“It’s a related matter. Can you come?”
He didn’t want to and she must have sensed it. Her voice hardened.
“You owe me one, Mr. Aragon. Don’t you pay your debts?”
“When I know what they are.”
“Come on over and I’ll tell you about this one, such as how to pay it.”
“All right.”
She sat in the front booth, looking out of place in the dingy blue-collar café with its cigarette-scarred tables and splitting vinyl seats. She wore a white-brimmed hat and a dark-red suit with white collar and cuffs. He didn’t like the color, which reminded him not of burgundy or plums but of raw liver or yesterday’s blood.
There was a glass of water in front of her, untouched. The water looked murky and the table was marked with the rings of other glasses from other meals.
“This isn’t a nice place,” she said abruptly.
“I didn’t pick it.”
“I’ve become spoiled. All through college I worked in joints like this and it didn’t bother me. Now I feel — well, frightened, uneasy. Those men eating lunch at the counter, I’m sure they have no evil intentions toward me. And yet... and yet, perhaps they do.”
“Their only intention is to eat their food.” And keep it down, he added silently. “What’s happened, Mrs. Holbrook?”
“Donny Whitfield has been missing since yesterday morning. That’s the one you owe me, Mr. Aragon.”
“I see.”
“You don’t appear surprised.”
“No.”
“He escaped in your car.”
“I believe so.”
“The evidence I have doesn’t indicate any actual complicity on your part, Mr. Aragon. Just stupid negligence, leaving your car keys in the ignition. Nothing goes unnoticed around Holbrook Hall. One of our students saw the whole thing but she didn’t report it until the search for Donny began last night. She had the make and model of your car, even the license number.” Mrs. Holbrook took a sip of water. “Although the search was as quiet and unobtrusive as possible, I knew I’d have to make up some plausible story about Donny to stop the speculations. I told two of the key students of the school grapevine — key for keyhole — that Donny’s father had decided to send him to a fat camp for the summer. So far, my version has been accepted.”