P.S. Jessie is my fiend.
Mac read it again, wondering who “they” were; the brother, probably, and the woman Mr. Forster the druggist had mentioned, Gowen’s fiancée.
Gallantyne was watching him with eyes as hard and bright as mica.
“Interesting document, wouldn’t you say? Notice the capitalizations, Bad and True. And the postscript.”
“I suppose he intended to write ‘friend’ and omitted the ‘r.’”
“I think so.”
“And by ‘Bad’ I gather he means wrong.”
“Yes. The house next door on the west side belongs to the Arlingtons.” Gallantyne leaned forward and moved the lamp to one side, twisting the shade. The black moon slid down the white sky and disappeared. “As soon as the letter came, I sent Corcoran over to Gowen’s house. The brother was there, Ben, and Gowen’s girlfriend, Louise Lang. Gowen was missing. The brother and girlfriend claimed they didn’t know where he’d gone, but according to Corocoran, they were extremely nervous and what they weren’t saying, they were thinking. Anyway, I gave the word for Gowen to be picked up for questioning.”
“Do you believe what he said in his letter about Jessie coming out of the Arlingtons’ house?”
“Well, it seems to fit in with Mrs. Oakley’s story that Mrs. Arlington and Brant were something more than neighbors.”
“I’ve told you before, you can’t afford to take Kate too seriously. She frequently thinks the worst of people, especially if they have any connection in her mind with Sheridan.”
“The letter tends to support her statement.”
“I don’t see it.”
“Then you’re not looking. And the reason you’re not looking is obvious — Kate Oakley. You’re doing your best, in a quiet way, to keep her out of this case.”
“That’s a false conclusion,” Mac said. “When a statement in a letter showing certain signs of disturbance is supported by the word of a woman who shows similar signs, it doesn’t mean both are right because they agree. It could mean that neither is right.”
“You want more evidence? O.K., let’s gather some.” Gallantyne got up, the swivel chair squawking in protest at the sudden, violent movement. “I’m going to talk to Brant. Coming with me?”
“No. I prefer to get some sleep.”
“Sleep is for babies.”
“Look, I don’t want to be dragged into this thing any further.”
“You dragged yourself in, Mac. You didn’t come here tonight out of idle curiosity or because anyone forced you. You’re here on the chance that you might be able to help Kate Oakley. Why don’t you admit it? Every time you mention her name, I see it in your face and hear it in your voice, that anxious, protective—”
“It’s none of your business.”
“Maybe not, but when I’m working with somebody I want to be sure he’s working with me and not against me on behalf of a woman he’s in love with.”
“Now you’re telling me I’m in love with her.”
“I figure somebody should. You’re a little slow about some things, Mac. No hard feelings, I hope?”
“Oh no, nothing like that.”
“Then let’s go.”
The Brant house was all dark except for a light above the front door and a lamp burning behind the heavily draped windows of the living room.
Gallantyne pressed the door chime and waited. For the first time since Mac had known him, he looked doubtful, as if he’d just realized that he was about to do something he wouldn’t approve of anyone else doing, dealing another blow to a man already reeling.
“Sure, it’s a dirty business,” he said, as much to himself as to Mac. “But it’s got to be done. It’s my job to save the kid, not spare the feelings of the family and the neighbors. And by God, I think the whole damn bunch of them have been holding out on me.”
“If the only way you can handle this situation is to get mad,” Mac said, “all right, get mad. But watch your step. The fact that Brant’s daughter is missing doesn’t deprive him of his rights, both legal and human.”
“How I feel now is nobody has any rights until that kid is found alive and kicking.”
“That’s dangerous talk coming from a policeman. If you ignore Brant’s rights, or Gowen’s, you’re giving people an invitation to ignore yours.”
Gallantyne pressed the door chime again, harder and longer this time, although the answering tinkle was no louder and no faster. “I’m sick of a little lie here and a little lie there. Gowen’s in the picture all right, but he’s only part of it. I want the rest, the whole works in living color. Why did Mrs. Arlington claim the kid didn’t go to her house?”
“Gowen might be the one who’s lying, or mistaken.”
“I repeat, his statement jibes with Kate Oakley’s.”
“It’s not necessary to drag Kate into—”
“Mrs. Oakley dragged herself in, the same way you did. She volunteered that information about Brant. Nobody asked her, nobody had to pump it out of her. She’s in, Mac, and she’s in because she wanted to be in.”
“Why?”
“Who knows? Maybe she needs a little excitement in her life — though that should be your department, shouldn’t it?”
“That’s a crude remark.”
“So I’m having a crude night. It happens in my line of work, you get a lot of crude nights.”
A light went on in the hall and a few seconds later Dave Brant opened the door. He was still wearing the clothes he’d had on the previous night, jeans and a sweatshirt, dirty and covered with bloodstains now dried to the color of chocolate. The hand he’d injured in a fall was covered with a bandage that looked as though he’d put it on himself.
He was gray-faced, gray-voiced. “Is there any news?”
Gallantyne shook his head. “Sorry. May we come in?”
“I guess so.”
“You remember Mr. MacPherson, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes, Mr. Brant.”
“I’ve told you everything.”
“There may be one or two little items you forgot.” Gallantyne closed the door. “Or overlooked. Are you alone in the house?”
“I sent my son Michael to spend the night with a friend. My wife is asleep. The doctor was here half an hour ago and gave her a shot.”
“Did he give you anything?”
“Some pills. I didn’t take any of them. I want to be alert in case — in case they find Jessie and she needs me. I may have to drive somewhere and pick her up, perhaps several hundred miles away.”
“I suggest you take the pills. Any picking up can be done by the police—”
“No. I’m her father.”
“—in fact, must be done by the police. If Jessie turns up now, at this stage, it won’t simply be a matter of putting her to bed and telling her to forget the whole thing.”
“You mean she will be questioned?”
“She will be questioned if she’s physically and mentally able to answer.”
“Don’t say that, don’t—”
“You asked.”
Gallantyne hesitated, glancing uneasily at Mac. The hesitation, and the doubt in his eyes, made it clear to Mac why he’d been invited to come along. Gallantyne needed his support; he was getting older, more civilized; he’d learned to see both sides of a situation and the knowledge was destroying his appetite for a fight.
“Perhaps we’d all better go in the living room and sit down,” Mac said. “You must be tired, Mr. Brant.”
“No. No, I’m alert, I’m very alert.”
“Come on.”
The single lamp burning in the living room was behind an imitation leather chair. On the table beside the chair, pictures of Jessie were spread out: a christening photograph taken when she was a baby, classroom pictures, snaps of Jessie with Michael, with her parents, with the Arlingtons’ dog; Mary Martha and Jessie, arms self-consciously entwined, standing on a bridge; Jessie on the beach, on her bicycle, in a hammock reading a book.