Kate. "Each one of them has one or two of Howell's identifying features. If I didn't know Miss Moselle better, I'd say she'd done it on purpose."
"I guess that's the problem," Kate said, "when you start comparing people to a pathological model. We all end up looking a little mad."
"Fine words, coming from you."
"Don't be critical, Harry," she said tartly.
"All right," I said. "What about your six girls?"
"I've already been through the list with Jessie. Of course, that was before you'd talked to Mr. Aamons. What do you think I should be looking for?"
I shook my head wearily. "I'm not sure. According to Benson Howell it could have been a purely physical thing. The Ripper's version of lust. Or Twyla may have resembled someone in the Ripper's family or one of his friends."
"Then I'll need a photograph of her."
"On the other hand, it could have been something about her manner. Some characteristic gesture or look or something about her voice. Our Twyla was a romantic girl, we know that much. And she was lonely. And she did not think of herself as attractive. The murder at the Overlook could have been the upshot of a rendezvous she'd made with our friend."
"That would be pretty unsophisticated, wouldn't it?" Kate said. "Going off to the park with a sullen boy with a serpent on his arm whom she'd probably met in a bar?"
"Unsophisticated and pretty daring," I said. "Her drawings suggest that she was attracted to wild animals. Maybe she was intrigued with this fellow. Or maybe she felt sorry for him. Or it could be that she was just a very lonely girl looking for a little excitement."
"I sincerely hope that I'm never that lonely," Kate said.
"I'll see to it," I told her.
"I have the feeling that there's an unpleasant chauvinistic stereotype lurking in your version of Twyla Belton's psychology. This beauty-and-the-beast business smacks a little too familiarly of the old rape fantasy that all of us penis-envying girls are supposed to take to bed with us each night."
"The beauty-and-the-beast business wasn't my idea," I said. "It was Twyla's. If you'd seen her drawings, you'd understand."
"Yes, but how can you be sure?" she said. "You could be projecting again, Harry. You know your X-rays came back and I think we know what your problem is."
I got up from the desk and said, "My problem is you."
"You can't leave your problems behind you," she called out as I headed for the door. "Where are you going anyway? It's nearly five o'clock?"
"I'm tired of speculation," I called back to her. "I'm going to do a little field research. Pay a couple of quick supper-time visits to the first two men on our list. I'll be back by seventhirty. Then we can pick up the question of my fantasies where we left it."
"Oh, goodie," she said.
12
GERALD ARNOLD, he of the fine old English name and denim escutcheon, lived in a rambling frame apartment house on Ogden Avenue, about two miles west of the library. It had been quite a nice house at one time. Three-story, vaguely colonial. With maid's quarters and a second kitchen and an upstairs ballroom with French doors looking out on the street. But like just about everything else in this country, it had fallen on hard times. The veranda needed a coat of paint. The guttering looked like a sleeve full of cigarette holes. And if that weren't enough to discourage any self-respecting apartment hunter, what I could see through the two bay windows would have made his heart sink. Woodwork that looked as if paint had been poured over it out of a bucket. Cracked ceilings. Floral wallpapering that was peeling away in jagged strips, the way wrapping gets torn off a cardboard box. Even the elm tree in the front yard was sick. Someone had cut back the leafless branches like they were pruning a shrub and marked the trunk with a yellow X for the tree surgeons. It was a burnt-out, discouraged-looking spot; and as I sat looking at it from the front seat of the Pinto, I thought through what I was going to say to
"I guess that's the problem," Kate said, "when you start comparing people to a pathological model. We all end up looking a little mad."
"Fine words, coming from you."
"Don't be critical, Harry," she said tartly.
"All right," I said. "What about your six girls?"
"I've already been through the list with Jessie. Of course, that was before you'd talked to Mr. Aamons. What do you think I should be looking for?"
I shook my head wearily. "I'm not sure. According to Benson Howell it could have been a purely physical thing. The Ripper's version of lust. Or Twyla may have resembled someone in the Ripper's family or one of his friends."
"Then I'll need a photograph of her."
"On the other hand, it could have been something about her manner. Some characteristic gesture or look or something about her voice. Our Twyla was a romantic girl, we know that much. And she was lonely. And she did not think of herself as attractive. The murder at the Overlook could have been the upshot of a rendezvous she'd made with our friend."
"That would be pretty unsophisticated, wouldn't it?" Kate said. "Going off to the park with a sullen boy with a serpent on his arm whom she'd probably met in a bar?"
"Unsophisticated and pretty daring," I said. "Her drawings suggest that she was attracted to wild animals. Maybe she was intrigued with this fellow. Or maybe she felt sorry for him. Or it could be that she was just a very lonely girl looking for a little excitement."
"I sincerely hope that I'm never that lonely," Kate said.
"I'll see to it," I told her.
"I have the feeling that there's an unpleasant chauvinistic stereotype lurking in your version of Twyla Belton's psychology. This beauty-and-the-beast business smacks a little too familiarly of the old rape fantasy that all of us penis-envying girls are supposed to take to bed with us each night."
"The beauty-and-the-beast business wasn't my idea," I said. "It was Twyla's. If you'd seen her drawings, you'd understand."
"Yes, but how can you be sure?" she said. "You could be projecting again, Harry. You know your X-rays came back and I think we know what your problem is."
I got up from the desk and said, "My problem is you."
"You can't leave your problems behind you," she called out as I headed for the door. "Where are you going anyway? It's nearly five o'clock?"
"I'm tired of speculation," I called back to her. "I'm going to do a little field research. Pay a couple of quick supper-time visits to the first two men on our list. I'll be back by seventhirty. Then we can pick up the question of my fantasies where we left it."
"Oh, goodie," she said.
12
GERALD ARNOLD, he of the fine old English name and denim escutcheon, lived in a rambling frame apartment house on Ogden Avenue, about two miles west of the library. It had been quite a nice house at one time. Three-story, vaguely colonial. With maid's quarters and a second kitchen and an upstairs ballroom with French doors looking out on the street. But like just about everything else in this country, it had fallen on hard times. The veranda needed a coat of paint. The guttering looked like a sleeve full of cigarette holes. And if that weren't enough to discourage any self-respecting apartment hunter, what I could see through the two bay windows would have made his heart sink. Woodwork that looked as if paint had been poured over it out of a bucket. Cracked ceilings. Floral wallpapering that was peeling away in jagged strips, the way wrapping gets torn off a cardboard box. Even the elm tree in the front yard was sick. Someone had cut back the leafless branches like they were pruning a shrub and marked the trunk with a yellow X for the tree surgeons. It was a burnt-out, discouraged-looking spot; and as I sat looking at it from the front seat of the Pinto, I thought through what I was going to say to
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