Gallantyne raised his brows. “And what was going on, Mrs. Oakley?”
“Plenty.”
“Who was involved?”
“I must caution you, Kate,” Mac said, “not to make any statements you’re not able and willing to substantiate.”
“In other words, I’m to shut up?”
“Until you’ve consulted your attorney.”
“All my attorney ever does for me is tell me to shut up.”
“Rumors and gossip are not going to solve this case.”
“No, but they might help,” Gallantyne said mildly. “Now, you were going to give me some new information about Jessie’s father.”
Kate looked from Gallantyne to Mac, then back to Gallantyne, as if she were trying to decide which one of them was the lesser evil. “It can hardly be called new. It goes back to Adam. Brant’s a man and he’s been availing himself of the privilege, deceiving his wife, cheating his children out of their birthright. Oh, he puts on a good front, almost as good as Sheridan when he’s protesting his great love for Mary Martha.”
“You’re implying that Brant is having an affair with another woman?”
“Yes.”
“Who is she?”
“Virginia Arlington.”
Both men were watching her, Mac painfully, Gallantyne with cool suspicion.
“It’s true,” she added, clenching her fists. “I can’t prove it, I don’t have pictures of them in bed together. But I know it’s a fact.”
“Facts, Mrs. Oakley, are often what we choose to believe.”
“I have nothing against Mrs. Arlington, I have no reason for wanting to believe bad things about her. She’s probably just a victim like me, hoodwinked by a man, taken in by his promises. Oh, you should have heard Sheridan in the heyday of his promises... But then you very likely know all about promises, Lieutenant. I bet you’ve made lots of them.”
“A few.”
“And they weren’t kept?”
“Some weren’t.”
“That makes you a liar, doesn’t it, Lieutenant? No better than the rest of them—”
“Please be quiet, Kate,” Mac said. “You’re not doing yourself any good or Jessie any good.”
He touched Gallantyne lightly on the arm and the two men walked over to the far corner of the room and began talking in whispers. Though she couldn’t distinguish any words, she was sure they were talking about her until Gallantyne finally raised his voice and said, “I must ask you not to mention Charlie Gowen to anyone, Mrs. Oakley.”
“Charlie Gowen? I don’t even know who—”
“The man in the green coupé. Don’t tell anyone about him, not your friends or relatives or reporters or any other policeman. As far as you’re concerned, Charlie Gowen doesn’t even exist.”
(21)
When Charlie arrived home at 5:30, he was so tired he could hardly get out of his car and cross the patch of lawn that separated the driveway from the house. He had worked very hard all day in the hope that his boss, Mr. Warner, would notice, and approve of him. He especially needed Mr. Warner’s approval because Ben was angry with him for staying out too late the previous night. Although he knew Mr. Warner and Ben were entirely different people, and pleasing one didn’t necessarily mean placating the other, he couldn’t keep from trying. In his thoughts they weighed the same, and in his dreams they often showed up wearing each other’s faces.
At the bottom of the porch steps he stooped to pick up the evening Journal. It lay under the hibiscus bush, fastened with an elastic band and folded so he could see only the middle third of the oversized headline: u seen the
Usually, Charlie waited for the Journal until after Ben had finished with it because Ben liked to be the first to discover interesting bits of news and pass them along. But tonight he didn’t hesitate. He tore off the elastic band and unfolded the paper. Jessie’s face was smiling up at him. It didn’t look the way it had the last time he’d seen her, shocked and frightened, but she was wearing the same clothes, a white bathrobe over pajamas.
The headline said have you seen this girl? — and underneath the picture was an explanation of it: “This is a composite picture made from a snapshot of Jessie Brant’s face superimposed on one of a child of similar height and build wearing clothes similar to those missing from Jessie’s wardrobe. The Journal is offering $1,000 reward for information leading to the discovery of Jessie Brant’s whereabouts.”
For a long time Charlie stood looking at the girl who was half-Jessie, half-stranger. Then he turned and stumbled up the porch steps and into the house, clutching the newspaper against his chest as though to hide from the neighbors an old wound that had reopened and started to bleed again. In his room, with the door locked and the blinds drawn, he read the account of Jessie’s disappearance. It began with a description of Jessie herself; of her father, a technician with an electronics firm; her brother, Michael, who hadn’t learned the news until he’d been picked off a fishing boat by the Coast Guard cutter; her mother, the last member of her family to see Jessie alive at ten o’clock.
The official police announcement was issued by Lieutenant D. W. Gallantyne: “The evidence now in our possession indicates that Jessie departed from her house voluntarily, using the back door and leaving it unlocked so she would be able to return. What person, or set of circumstances, prevented her return? We are asking the public to help us answer that question. There is a strong possibility that someone noticed her leaving the house or walking along the street, and that that person can give us further information, such as what direction she was going and whether she was alone. Anyone who saw her is urged to contact us immediately. Jessie’s grief-stricken parents join us in this appeal.”
The light in the room was very dim. Narrowing his eyes to keep them in focus, Charlie reread the statement by Gallantyne. It was wrong, he knew it was wrong. It hadn’t happened like that. Somebody should tell the lieutenant and set him straight.
He lay down on the bed, still holding the newspaper against his chest. The ticking of his alarm clock sounded extraordinarily loud and clear. He’d had the clock since his college days. It was like an old friend, the last voice he heard at night, the first voice in the morning: tick it, tick it, tick it. But now the voice began to sound different, not friendly, not comforting.
Wicked wicked, wicked sicked, wicked sicked.
“I’m not,” he whispered. “I’m not. I didn’t touch her.”
Wicked sicked, pick a ticket, try and kick it, wicked wicked, buy a ticket, buy a ticket, buy a ticket.
Ben called out, “Charlie? You in there?” When he didn’t get an answer he tried the door and found it locked. “Listen, Charlie, I’m not mad at you anymore. I realize you’re a grown man now and if you want to stay out late, well, what the heck, that’s your business. Right?”
“Yes, Ben.”
“I’ve got to stop treating you like a kid brother who’s still wet behind the ears. That’s what Louise says and by golly, it makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“I guess so.”
“She’ll be over pretty soon. You don’t want her to catch you sulk — unprepared.”
“I’m preparing, Ben.”
“Good. I couldn’t find the Journal, by the way. Have you got it in there?”
“No.”
“The delivery boy must have missed us. Well, I hate to report him so I think I’ll go pick one up over at the drug store. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”