Ghost Town by Patrick McGrath Page B

Gulls screamed and horseshoes clanged on cobblestones, there was salt in the wind and great pungent drafts of beery odor issued from the South Street taverns. Pennants flapped from yards and masts and bare-chested Irishmen rose up from cargo holds like heroes from the underworld,while in the upper stories of warehouses shouting clerks winched up barrels by means of hoisting wheels, and merchants with aprons round their waists and cigars between their teeth added their own voices to the din. But in all this hectic humanity no sign of Annie Kelly.
    He reached Bowling Green and there at the very foot of Broadway he turned north. It was as good a place as any to search for her, and besides, a simple plan had begun to take shape amid the wild lunges of his disordered mind. He would go back to Tenth Street and talk to Brook Franklin, ask the man’s help. Discover why she had said nothing to him of these private sessions.
    Jerome Brook Franklin was still with the others when Julius reached the studio. He stood panting in the doorway as the painter, frowning, straightened up from a student’s easel and asked Julius with some irritation what he wanted.
    —She has not been home to her mother, sir!
    —Who has not? Oh. Then I expect she has gone off on some business of her own.
    —Without telling her mother?
    Brook Franklin knew the ways of artists’models. He laid a meaty hand on Julius’ trembling shoulder.
    —I shall be twenty minutes more here, he said, and told Julius he could wait for him, if he wished to.
    Julius wasted no time, when twenty minutes later he had the painter’s undivided attention.
    —Did she say nothing to you, sir?
    —Of what?
    —Of any scheme, or plan?
    They were sitting in the empty studio. The dust danced in the autumn sunshine streaming down through the skylights overhead. The stuck window was now open. Brook Franklin was filling a pipe with tobacco. Shreds of black shag hung from the edge of the bowl. He shook his head, his eyes on the bowl.
    —I fear the worst, said Julius darkly.
    The painter gave out a short choke of laughter as he set a taper to the tobacco. Julius turned on him.
    —You think it’s funny? he cried.
    —My dear man, said Brook Franklin, girls are like young horses, did nobody tell you that? Skittish. She has gone off on a whim. Perhaps she has a friend.
    He stopped here. He was bored now, andcareless. He understood that Julius was her friend. He did not want to inflame the boy further. He wanted to get rid of him. But Julius had become suspicious.
    —Why didn’t she tell me about her private sessions with you?
    At this Brook Franklin colored beneath his beard. Again he busied himself with his pipe, which had at once gone out.
    —How on earth should I know?
    —What happened?
    —What are you getting at, sir? I am a painter. I
painted
her. I cannot help you further. I am sorry she hasn’t told you where she’s gone but I can shed no light on the matter.
    —She didn’t tell her mother either.
    Brook Franklin threw his hands in the air.
    —I know nothing of the mother!
    At this Julius leaned close to him and lifting his hand, stabbed a finger at him.
    —But you do. You were there. She told me.
    —Weeks ago, when I wished to employ the girl. What do you accuse me of?
    He was on his feet now, and growing angry. He was a stout man who reddened easily, and he stood now with his arms braced at his sides and his fists clenched. His true relationship toAnnie Kelly he was not going to disclose to Julius, and he was certainly not going to sit in his own studio and be accused of some vague malfeasance toward her—!
    Julius also rose to his feet and stared at the man for several seconds, his eyes hot with tears. Then all at once he fled from the studio, banging the door behind him.
    —Damn! cried the painter, and flung his pipe on the floor, where it clattered against the wall, throwing off sparks like a locomotive in the night.
    I do not know where Julius went when he left