He shrugged. "I don't know. I suppose there might be many reasons… perfectly innocent ones."
"Maybe. But you can take it a little further. May, you see, not only doesn't know the truth, she claims she doesn't want to — she's very clear about that. Even now — even though she's asked me to look into this for her — she'd rather I take what I find to the police without telling her about it. Don't you think that's a bit odd?"
He shook his head and smiled. "Nope. I'm really not following you, Mr. Thorne."
Actually, I was thinking aloud, and the more I did so, the clearer things seemed to become. "Brightman," I went on, "never told his daughter the truth even though the true story — on the face of it — would only bring them closer together. What's more — though I admit I'm guessing here — he somehow communicated to her the idea that she'd be better off not knowing what the true story was. You see? It implies that the 'true' story either may not be true or is incomplete. There has to be more."
His head tilted back as he thought, but then, with a shrug, "If there is anything more, Mr. Thorne, I don't think I know it."
His gaze met mine. Held it. In the end, it was my eyes that shifted away. It seemed pretty clear that he was telling the truth. Finally I said, "Can you tell me what Brightman was like at the time it all happened? Did he seem upset? How did you first meet him, for instance?"
"Oh, that was long before, in the late twenties or early thirties. He imported and exported furs, you know, and after Montreal closed down for the winter, he'd ship them through here. One of those times he fell ill and consulted me in the usual way. Did you know him at all?"
Did… but that was natural; he hadn't seen him in years.
I shook my head. "We've never met."
"He was a fascinating fellow, least he was then. He'd been to Russia early on and even claimed to know some of the big Russian leaders. In those days, I was a bit of a socialist, so that interested me. He played chess as well — one of my hobbies. When he came to town, I'd sometimes go to his hotel and have a few games. Beat him, mostly."
"You became friends, in fact?"
"I wouldn't say that. We knew each other. But I never saw him outside of Halifax."
"And what about the adoption itself? How did that come about?"
A moment's hesitation; then a shrug. "I suppose there's no harm telling you… In fact, there really isn't much to tell. He just appeared in my office one day and said he'd made a girl pregnant — a waitress, a girl in the hotel, something like that. He didn't want to marry her, but he wanted to see that the child was looked after. The question was, would I see the woman through her pregnancy and then arrange for the adoption? I agreed."
"Wasn't this a little unusual?"
"Of course. Let's say, Mr. Thorne, that I talked to Bright-man for a long time about it, then talked to the woman — also at length — and then I agreed."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything. But you did get to know the woman, Florence Raines?"
"Not really. She was a pretty blond thing, I remember. Healthy. Once the agreement was reached, I saw her in the usual way, then took the child after it was born. Beyond the medical necessities, I didn't get to know her at all." He leaned forward. "You understand, there was nothing improper about this. Even today, some girls prefer to give their babies up privately and have their doctors arrange it. Legally, it's perfectly normal… the only difficulty I can remember was that this woman disappeared without signing some papers, so some extra legal steps were necessary. I forget the details. In the end, it didn't make any difference."
"And you're sure that was the only difficulty? I'm trying to think of some problem then that might be coming back now."
Again, Grainger leaned back in his chair; then, leaning back even further, he reached into the side pocket of his medical gown, drawing out a package of cigarettes and a blue Bic lighter. He worked the lighter, then he rocked forward, his face turned down, in concentration, toward the orange flame. All of which was perfectly ordinary; yet, to my eyes, these gestures completely transformed him. For a second I wasn't sure why, but then it occurred to me that age is the greatest disguise of them all. Now, though he didn't look any younger than he had a moment ago, I realized that he hadn't always been old. I don't mean that the persona he'd presented up to this point had been false, but it had been a persona: a mask called "Dr. Charlie" which time, circumstance, and convenience had made him put on. The "real" person behind this mask was much more substantial; not merely a kindly old doctor, or a crackerbarrel philosopher, but a person — among other things — who'd once had a passionate relationship to all the books in this room.
Conceivably, he wasn't entirely unaware of the effect he'd created. As he exhaled, his eyes leveled with mine and he said, "Let's not mince words, Mr. Thorne. We both know that money changed hands. Naturally I had nothing to do with it, but Brightman was a wealthy man and I'm sure he made it worth her while. Why would Florence Raines have made difficulties? Remember, the world was very different then. Most girls in her position would have felt lucky to have a Harry Brightman looking after them."
I sat back. Dr. Charlie, indeed, was nobody's fool. And of course he was right. Besides, Florence Raines couldn't be making trouble today, since she was dead. Yet, more than ever, I sensed that trouble — of some sort, somewhere — existed. Brightman had never told May about the adoption. Why not — assuming the story was as straightforward as it seemed to be? And, also assuming that it was really that simple, why should Brightman have become so concerned about it today, and why would it make him panic and flee? Yet he had fled. And someone had been poking around in his house… even in mine — at the very moment when May had been trying to reach me. Outside, the rain kept driving down, and behind us, back in the clinic, a phone started ringing. I knew I should go: but I sat there in frustrated silence. And the frustration must have shown on my face, for the old doctor said, "I'm sorry, Mr. Thorne. I wish I could be more helpful but I don't really see how." Then, with a smile — the Dr. Charlie mask was back on — he added, "Of course, when you're as old as me, you sometimes don't know how much you've got in your head, so if you want to keep asking questions…"
The hint was perfectly reasonable. I smiled. "You've been very patient, Doctor. I shouldn't take any more of your time ¦. and despite what you say, you've been very helpful."
He nodded, and then, as I began to get up, he asked, "How do you go on from here?"
I shrugged. "Florence Raines married. She's dead herself but apparently her husband is still alive. And she had children. I can speak to them."
"You can hardly expect her children to know about this."
"No. But presumably the husband might."
His eyebrows lifted. "Even there you may be presuming too much. Most wives have a few secrets to keep from their husbands. Why would Florence Raines tell anyone what she had done? And you know — this is just something to think about— you might end up causing a great deal of pain for no reason."
I nodded; it was a valid point. "On the other hand," I said, "May Brightman is going through a great deal of pain for a very good reason — her father has vanished. And she's afraid he might have killed himself. At least Florence Raines is dead. No one can hurt her anymore."
"Perhaps. But why don't you think a bit, Mr. Thorne? I told you I didn't know Brightman well, and that's true. But I clearly knew him better than you do. If Harry Brightman didn't tell his daughter about the adoption, he probably had reasons, and good ones. And if Harry Brightman has chosen to disappear for a time, I suspect he knows what he's doing. I wouldn't tell you to mind your own business, Mr. Thorne… but you might give Harry a chance to mind his."