One of Ethel’s hands worked nervously at the arm of the loveseat, plucking out bits of nap from the rough red wool. For a moment she had an almost uncontrollable impulse to tell Greer everything, about herself and Willett and the old lady and the silly doll factory that she wished she’d never heard of.
Then she raised her head and met Greer’s eyes. They weren’t friendly at all. They were small, accusing eyes without sympathy or tolerance. He wouldn’t understand, she thought; he considers me a fool.
The impulse to reveal herself passed like a storm cloud in summer, bringing no rain or relief from the heat. She wished she had enough courage to walk out of the front door, like Murphy, and never come back.
She said, quietly, “Do you think Murphy is alive?”
“I have no reason for presuming that she’s dead,” Greer replied.
But when he departed a few minutes later, a cold, wet wind swept around the corner of the house and struck him like an unacknowledged fear. Shivering, he pulled up the collar of his coat and wondered where Murphy was, clad for a summer afternoon in her thin cotton dress.
It was ten o’clock.
In Mrs. Goodfield’s bedroom the night light was on, its green glow making the whole room look as if it was underwater — the pillows on the bed were stones, and the old lady half-hidden among them, a sea creature at rest.
But her rest was uneasy. Hearing the opening and closing of the front door, she got out of bed and moved noiselessly across the room in her bare feet.
I feel weak, she thought. They’ve kept me in bed too long. I must get out and walk around more. My legs are like matchsticks; they used to be quite pretty.
She lifted one of the slats of the Venetian blind and saw Greer crossing the driveway toward his car. The window was open and she wanted to call out to him, invite him up for a chat, to alleviate her loneliness and anxiety. But his car had already rolled down the driveway before the words formed in her throat.
Murphy was gone, and now Greer was gone. She was quite alone.
She put her hand on her heart to stop its wild pounding. “I’ve got to go away for awhile,” Murphy had said. “You behave yourself like a good girl and I’ll be back.”
That was the way Murphy talked to her when they were alone together, in a half-derisive, half-affectionate way which the old lady enjoyed. In front of Willett and Ethel, Murphy was always very respectful, though she frequently winked behind Willett’s back, or made a face, or rolled her eyes heavenward.
“I’ve got to go away for awhile.”
That had been at half-past one. Five minutes later she had walked down the driveway, looking very trim and brisk and impatient.
Breathing heavily, the old lady closed the window and locked it. Then, after a minute’s hesitation, she went to the door and locked that, too.
“Lock your door and windows,” Murphy had said.
The locks were flimsy, but they worked. She returned to bed and lay for a long time on her right side watching the second hand of the clock on the bureau. Its movement seemed to hypnotize her and she fell into a half-doze.
She wasn’t sure what awakened her — a troubled dream, the cry of a mockingbird, the flapping of awnings in the wind — but quite suddenly she was fully awake again.
Someone was outside her door. The knob turned, twice, three times.
“Are you there?” Willett said. “Are you sleeping?” A pause. “She’s got her door locked, Ethel.”
“Then we’ll just have to wait. She’s not going to run away.”
“I don’t trust her when she’s in one of her moods.”
“This is a fine time to think of that.”
“You don’t suppose—?”
“I’m too tired to suppose anything. I’m going to bed.”
Behind the door the old woman stared grimly at the clock wishing that morning and Murphy would arrive.
Morning came, but not Murphy.
16
Greer got up early, made his own breakfast, kissed his wife goodbye, and drove downtown to the white stucco building that housed the local newspaper. In the dusty file room at the rear of the editorial offices he found what he was looking for. The newspaper was dated exactly three weeks before, and Murphy’s ad was the first one listed under Situations Wanted, Female:
Refined, efficient, young woman, well-traveled and educated, wishes domestic service with adult family, preferably as companion to elderly, bedridden lady. Excellent references. Telephone Miss Murphy, 7475.
Greer wrote the number in his notebook and left the building by the rear exit to avoid meeting anyone he knew. He took a lot of kidding from the staff about wanting his picture in the paper, and he had become a little sensitive about it.
At his office he checked the telephone number Murphy had given. 7475 had a multiple listing: the Deluxe Paper Company, no address, Acorn Products, no address, Marshall Whitney, no address, Factory Sample Shoes, no address, and Personal Services, 103 East Puenta Street.
He picked up the phone on his desk and dialed 7475.
A woman answered on the second ring, in a clear, youthful voice with a professional lilt to it: “This is 7475.”
“Is Mr. Whitney in?”
“He’s out of town. I expect him back tonight. Will you leave a message?”
“No thanks. How about the Deluxe Paper Company?”
“What do you mean, how about it?”
“Acorn Products — I’m interested in raising acorns.”
“Listen, funny man, this is a business office and I don’t go for bum jokes so early in the morning.”
“It’s no joke. I’m trying to contact a Miss Ada Murphy who gave this number as her own.”
“I never heard of her,” the girl said sharply. “And even if I had, why should I tell you?”
“This is Captain Greer of the Police Department.”
“Isn’t that just dandy. This is Ingrid Bergman. It’s been nice knowing you.”
She broke the connection so violently that Greer’s ears throbbed. He felt a little angry, not at the girl, but at himself for setting the wrong tone for the conversation.
Puenta Street had been named for the small bridge spanning a creek that had been dry for twenty years. 103 was a two-storied frame house. A line of wet clothes in the rear yard indicated that it was still being used as a house, but the front part had been remodeled and converted into a small office with brick, plate glass and a sign in neon script, Personal Services.
The entire office was visible through the window: on the left side a switchboard, on the right an imposing oak desk. Between the two, facing the switchboard and wearing a pair of earphones, was a young woman with pumpkin-colored hair. She was talking into the receiver and simultaneously writing in pencil on a large yellow sheet of paper. Her face had the rapt expression of someone who is doing several things at once.
When Greer entered she raised her hand by way of greeting and went on talking: “Sorry, Mr. Siebold, I won’t have that done until tomorrow. My assistant is home with a cold. Tomorrow at ten, four carbons. Goodbye.”
“Miss Bergman?” Greer said.
The girl colored. “Raffin. Irene Raffin.”
“I’m Captain Greer.”
“I know that now. I checked with Frank Clyde.”
“Why Frank?”
“Well, he knows all the nuts in town and I thought that’s who it was, some nut impersonating a police captain.”
“What did Frank say?”
“He said it was probably you in person all right because you were trying to find Ada Murphy.”
“Frank seems to know more about other people’s business than they do themselves.”
“That is his business,” Miss Raffin said with a shrug. “Mine, too, in a way.”