“Is that why you invited me in?”
“No. I had a reason, though.”
“I’d like to know what it is.”
Shirley reached in her pocket for a cigarette and lit it before she answered. “Jack phoned from the factory and said you’d probably come here looking for him. He told me not to let you in and not to answer any questions. So—” she moved her shoulders in an eloquent shrug — “naturally, my curiosity was aroused.”
“Naturally it would be.”
“Are you going to ask me any questions?”
“Are you going to answer?”
“That depends,” Shirley said. “I might answer some and I might refuse to answer others. Jack said you were a detective. Are you?”
“No.”
“He’s got detectives on the brain. You’re the third this week.”
“Why?”
“Why are you the third? I don’t know. Maybe he has a guilty conscience. Or maybe the other two were real.”
“Did they come here?”
“No. Jack spotted them downtown and got away by mingling with the lunch crowd in the lobby of the St. Francis and then walking out through the kitchen. That’s his story. I think he went out through the kitchen all right. But as far as the two men are concerned, they were probably a couple of convention delegates looking for the lavatory. After all, why should detectives be following Jack? He hasn’t done anything — has he?”
“I wish I knew.”
“Well, if he has, you can bet your bottom dollar he’ll be caught.” Picking up the brass poker, she gave the log burning in the grate a vicious little prod. Sparks streamed up the chimney.
“Your brother lives here?”
“Yes. On the second floor.”
“Is he in?”
A slight hesitation. “I didn’t hear him come in. He never comes home at noon. Why?”
“I’m interested.”
“Why should you be, if you’re not a detective?”
“I met Willett Goodfield and his wife in La Mesa. I had to come north on business, so I thought I’d look up Jack and yourself while I was here.”
“You mean you took such a profound liking to Willett and Ethel that you wanted to enlarge your circle of Goodfields?”
“Ah... in a way.”
“Honestly.” Shirley was laughing. “I never heard a sillier explanation.”
“I can do better.”
“I hope so.”
“The fact is that a woman called Rose French was found dead on your brother’s property. You probably know about it.”
“Yes. I read it in the paper, and also Mother wrote to me about it, or at least dictated a letter to someone called Murphy. It was the first letter I’d had from her in months. Ethel is the one who usually writes.”
“What was your mother’s reaction?”
“She was thrilled to pieces. Contrary to Willett’s opinion, Mother thrives on excitement, especially if it brings disaster to someone like a loose woman. She was a loose woman, wasn’t she?”
“Not in my opinion.”
“Well anyway, Mother was thrilled. It seemed to pep her up.”
“I don’t suppose you still have that letter.”
“I don’t suppose I’d let you read it if I had.”
“I think you would.”
Shirley laughed again. “I guess I would. But as a matter of fact, I never keep letters. I chuck them out right away because I never have time to answer them and I hate them hanging around weighing on my conscience.”
“Did you know Rose French?”
“I knew of her. Everyone did.” A pause. “I think I’m beginning to see the light. You’re trying to connect us with her.”
“It would be an interesting connection.”
“Would it?” she said shortly. “Not to me. I have no concern with a woman dropping dead four hundred miles away. I’m just glad that it wasn’t Mother. I am not,” she added, “very fond of my mother, but I like the idea of her living to a ripe old age.”
“Why?”
“She keeps Jack and Willett in line. If it weren’t for Mother, neither of them would go near the factory. Even as it is, things are getting pretty run down. You must have seen that.”
“Yes, I did.”
“I’ve thought of taking it over myself. I’m a pretty good businesswoman, I think. Maybe when the children are a little older, I will. If it’s still there and if I care.”
She gave her head a sudden, almost violent shake, as if she felt herself sinking into a dream of despondency and had to wake herself up before she sank too far. The existence of the factory, though it was essential to their own existence, seemed to irritate and depress the Goodfields, like a gifted child that had failed to live up to expectations.
Shirley poked at the fire again. Her cheeks had taken on the deep flush of suppressed aggression, and Frank knew now that his first estimate of her as an essentially cheerful person had been too hasty. She had in her all the force and drive that should have been allotted to her brothers. Physically she was a very feminine woman devoted to her children; morally she was the head of the Goodfield clan. It was Shirley who should have been running the factory, keeping Willett and Jack in line, and ordering the new paint job for Sweetheart. As Charley had pointed out, Shirley was the only one with a head on her shoulders.
The head was still here, all right, but Frank had the impression that it wasn’t held as high as it used to be.
Shirley lit a second cigarette from the final half-inch of the first. “Well, have I answered all your questions, Mr. Clyde?”
“I have no complaint with your answers. Just the questions. Frankly, I didn’t know, and don’t know, what to ask.”
“In other words, you had no specific object in coming here at all?”
“No.”
“Afraid I don’t believe that. However—” She rose from the hassock, taking a long, deep pull on her cigarette. It was clear to Frank that she was disturbed, but she covered her nervousness well, keeping her hands active to conceal their trembling, and smiling with her mouth to distract attention from her worried eyes. “You must excuse me now, Mr. Clyde. I don’t very often have an afternoon free from the children. I think I’ll use it to — better advantage.”
She led Frank back through the long, damp hall to the front door. A dismal ending for such a promising beginning, Frank thought, certain that it was the mention of the factory that had changed Shirley’s attitude. When the Goodfield children were young, the place must have seemed to them an enchanted toyland, and the great wooden doll, Sweetheart, a symbol of magic and a figurehead of grandeur and privilege. He wondered how often Sweetheart turned up in Shirley’s dreams.
The door opened and a gauze curtain of mist blew delicately down the hall and disappeared.
Shirley rubbed her hands together, shivering. “Gloomy climate. It’s a wonder anyone stays here. I guess they stay for the same reason as I do, they have to. It’s all very well for Willett to travel around the country. But I have children, I can’t take them away from their school and their friends. I must give them some kind of continuity in their lives.” She seemed to be talking not to Frank but to herself, arguing over a point that she had argued over many times before. “They need security. How can you give anyone security when you have none yourself? But you wouldn’t know. You’re loaded with the stuff, aren’t you?”
The question was deliberately offensive. Frank walked out without answering.
This time it wasn’t Sweetheart who watched him leave, it was the little silver Buddha on the front door. His jeweled eyes twinkled. He looked more interested in the departure than Sweetheart.
Shirley waited in the hall until she heard the sound of a car starting. Then she walked briskly down to the end of the hall and called up the wide, marble staircase. “Jack?” Her voice echoed faintly and somberly against the high walls. “Jack.”