“No, not really. Murphy had mentioned something to me about having a garbage disposal unit installed, and I told her I didn’t think Willett would agree to it since it isn’t our house, after all. She certainly wasn’t angry, if that’s what you mean. Ortega says she has a temper, but I’ve never seen any evidence of it. Even when Willett’s mother spoke roughly to her, she just smiled in that superior way of hers, as if nothing that anybody else said or did made the slightest impression on her.”
“Murphy’s the kind of woman who can look after herself,” Greer said. “Isn’t she?”
“She seems to be. She acts that way. But now — I’m not sure. No one can be sure. You’re not,” she added, “or you wouldn’t be here.”
Greer made no attempt to deny it. He was not at all sure what kind of woman Murphy was, and even less sure that he’d ever find out. Which was Murphy, the crisp and controlled young woman in the immaculate black and white uniform, or the undisciplined child who tossed her belongings helter-skelter into a closet and closed the door; the ingenuous and romantic lover who planned trysts in the garden, or the hard-headed realist who had explained to Greer at their first meeting that she’d become a domestic because the job gave her an opportunity to marry the boss?
And now there was still another Murphy, a young woman in a turquoise cotton dress who had walked away and not come back.
Greer’s gaze fell on Ethel, who was folded up on the loveseat taking quick, nervous bites at her right thumbnail.
“Everything possible is being done,” he assured her. “I have men checking the depots, hospitals, cab stands and so on. My own feeling is that Murphy will turn up some time tonight, wondering what all the fuss is about.”
“That’s what Willett thinks, too. I don’t. I think,” she added slowly, “that instead of checking bus depots and cab stands, you’d better check Mr. Dalloway.”
“Why?”
“Whenever he’s around things seem to happen, don’t they? Dalloway comes to town and his first wife is mur — dies. Dalloway comes creeping around our yard and my maid disappears.” Ethel’s voice was rising like a siren. “Maybe she’s dead, too. Maybe while you’re standing there thinking what a charming fellow Dalloway is, he’s out somewhere slitting her throat! And you, you just stand there!”
“Calm down, Mrs. Goodfield. I don’t believe Murphy’s having her throat slit, certainly not by Dalloway. I happen to know where Dalloway is, right at the moment.”
Ethel glared at him, mute and obstinate, as if nothing in the world would convince her that Dalloway was not in some dark alley or grove of trees finishing Murphy off.
“He’s over at Frank Clyde’s house,” Greer continued. “He phoned me before he left.”
“Really? Does every Tom, Dick and Harry in town keep you informed where he’s going and why and when?”
“Dalloway didn’t have to tell me why. I already knew. He hired Clyde to go to San Francisco and check up on the Goodfield family.”
“Why, that old goat. The nerve of that old—”
“I told you just so you’d know that Dalloway is as suspicious of you as you are of him.”
“We didn’t hire anybody to check up on him.”
“You don’t have to. I’m doing it.”
“You? Why?”
“Oh, let’s just say that suspicion is contagious and I’ve been exposed.” Ethel looked a little mollified, and Greer thought it was a good time to change the subject before she asked any more questions. “Tell me, how did you happen to hire Ada Murphy?”
“Through a want ad in the local paper.”
“Her ad?”
“Yes.”
“Did you go to her hotel, or wherever she was staying, to interview her?”
“No, she came here. She’d given a phone number in the ad. I called her and she wasn’t in. But later she called back and I was... well, impressed by her voice, and her references.”
“When she came to see you, did she bring the references along?”
“Yes.”
“How many were there?”
“Three.”
“Did you keep them or give them back to her?”
Ethel frowned. “Now let me think. We were talking in the dining room — oh yes, I remember. I laid them on the table, and later when I was straightening up a bit, I put them away in the desk drawer, intending to give them back to her when she returned with her luggage. I’m afraid I forgot to, so I guess they’re still in the drawer.”
“I’d like to take a look at them.”
“Why?”
“Oh, curiosity,” Greer said lightly.
The references were in three envelopes, two of them large, white, business envelopes, unsealed, and the third a small, square, blue one with a darker blue monogram on the back. The third envelope bore a canceled three-cent stamp and an address: Miss Ada Murphy, c/o The Pines Motel, 343 Lasalle Street, Los Angeles.
The words on the matching blue notepaper inside were written in purple ink in a script so tiny and delicate it was almost illegible:
Miss Ada Murphy was in my employ as a personal maid for two weeks and is thoroughly efficient and trustful in all respects and I certainly recommend her highly. She is of an even disposition.
Yours very truly,
Luellen di Santi
(Mrs. E. Charles di Santi)
3516 Lakeridge Terrace
North Hollywood
The other two notes were typewritten:
To whom it may concern:
The bearer of this letter, Ada Murphy, is a young woman of fine character and excellent reputation. During her period of employment here, she exhibited close attention to her duties and always conducted herself on the highest possible level. Loyalty and integrity are her most outstanding characteristics. I recommend her especially as a nurse and companion to elderly people.
It was signed, in a heavy masculine hand, Richard Robertson, III.
The final note was even more glowing:
Dear Sir or Madame:
My former employee, Miss Ada Murphy, has requested a recommendation. Nothing gives me greater pleasure than to comply with this request, inasmuch as Miss Murphy proved herself an ideal servant in every way, industrious, courteous and responsible. She was particularly helpful in assisting with the care of my aged mother who is an invalid and not easy to please. Miss Murphy showed both patience and skill in dealing with her. She is a young woman who can be trusted to cope with any situation in a highly competent manner.
Mr. Macomber’s signature bore a striking resemblance to Mr. Robertson’s. So did his literary style, his inexpert typing, his choice of notepaper, and his unqualified approval of Murphy.
Greer returned Mrs. di Santi’s letter to its envelope. It was as obviously genuine as the other two were phony.
He looked at Ethel, who was watching him uncertainly, still biting at her thumbnail. “Did you check these two references, Mrs. Goodfield?”
“Why... why, no. I mean, they were so good I didn’t bother.”
“They should be good. She wrote them herself.”
“Oh dear,” Ethel said, and again, “Oh dear. I hope Willett doesn’t find out.”
“What’s more, I believe they were written especially for you. Notice that both the letters praise her skill and patience with elderly invalids, like your mother-in-law. Tell me, in the advertisement she put in the paper, did she mention this so-called skill of hers?”
“Yes, but how could Murphy be sure that I was going to answer that ad?”
“If I knew how,” Greer said, “I might know where she is now, why she went away and if she’s coming back.”