face, and saw the same false girlishness touch it with beauty for an instant. The beauty passed like the beam of a searchlight moving across time. It left her mouth curled in a cynical parody of mother-love.
The situation was too complicated for me to understand or try to deal with. I didn’t know whether the umbilical cord between Mrs. Singleton and her son had stretched and broken and snapped back in her face and knocked her silly. Or whether she knew he was dead and was talking against despair. Whichever it was, she was ready to believe almostanything and suspicious of nearly everybody. Reality had betrayed her.
“I’ve never met Charles,” I said. “Good night. Good luck.”
She didn’t answer.
CHAPTER 12 :
Sylvia went with me to the end
of the hall. “I’m sorry, Mr. Archer. The last two weeks have been terribly hard on her. She’s been under drugs for days. When things don’t fit in with her ideas, she simply doesn’t hear them, or she forgets them. It isn’t that her mind is affected, exactly. She’s suffered so much, she can’t bear to talk about the facts, or even think about them.”
“What facts?”
She said surprisingly: “Can we sit in your car? I think she really wants me to talk to you.”
“You’d have to be psychic to know it.”
“I am a bit psychic where Mrs. Singleton is concerned. When you’re under a person’s thumb, you know.”
“You get to know the thumbprint. How long have you worked for her?”
“Only since June. But our families have known each other for a great many years. Charles’s father and mine went to Harvard together.” She opened the door, leaning across me to reach the knob. “Excuse me, I need some fresh air.”
“Is she all right by herself?”
“There are servants on duty. They’ll put her to bed.” She started towards my car.
“Just a minute, Sylvia. Do you have a picture of Charles? A recent snapshot would be good.”
“Why, yes, I do.”
“Get it for me, will
you?”
“I have one here,” she said without embarrassment. She took a red leather wallet from the pocket of her suit and extracted a small snapshot that she handed me: “Is it big enough, clear enough?”
The picture showed a young man in tennis shorts and an open-necked short-sleeved shirt, smiling into the sun. The strength and leanness of his features were emphasized by a short service crew-cut. He was strongly built, with wide sloping shoulders and muscular forearms. But there was an unreal, actorish quality about him. His pose was self-conscious, chest pouting, stomach sucked in, as if he feared the cold eye of the Leica or the hot eye of the sun.
“It’s clear enough,” I said. “May I keep it?”
“For as long as you need it. It’s very like him.”
Climbing into my car, she showed a fine round leg. I noticed when I slid behind the wheel that she filled the interior with a clean springlike smell. I offered her a cigarette.
“Thanks, I never smoke.”
“How old are you, Sylvia?”
“Twenty-one.” She added with apparent irrelevance: “I just received the first quarterly check from Mother’s trust fund.”
“Good for you.”
“About the check, I mean, it’s nearly a thousand dollars. I can afford to employ you, if you’ll work for me instead of Mrs. Singleton.”
“I couldn’t promise anything definite. You want him found pretty badly, don’t you?
“Yes.” The word had the pressure of her life behind it. “How much money should I give you?”
“Don’t bother about it now.”
“Why should you trust me?”
“Anybody would. What’s more surprising is that you trust me.
“I know something about men,” she said. “My father is a good man. You’re not like that man Heiss.”
“You talked to him?”
“I was in the room. All he wanted was money. It was so—naked. I had to threaten him with the police before he’d leave. It’s really a pity. Mrs. Singleton might have opened out to you if he hadn’t spoilt
The situation was too complicated for me to understand or try to deal with. I didn’t know whether the umbilical cord between Mrs. Singleton and her son had stretched and broken and snapped back in her face and knocked her silly. Or whether she knew he was dead and was talking against despair. Whichever it was, she was ready to believe almostanything and suspicious of nearly everybody. Reality had betrayed her.
“I’ve never met Charles,” I said. “Good night. Good luck.”
She didn’t answer.
CHAPTER 12 :
Sylvia went with me to the end
of the hall. “I’m sorry, Mr. Archer. The last two weeks have been terribly hard on her. She’s been under drugs for days. When things don’t fit in with her ideas, she simply doesn’t hear them, or she forgets them. It isn’t that her mind is affected, exactly. She’s suffered so much, she can’t bear to talk about the facts, or even think about them.”
“What facts?”
She said surprisingly: “Can we sit in your car? I think she really wants me to talk to you.”
“You’d have to be psychic to know it.”
“I am a bit psychic where Mrs. Singleton is concerned. When you’re under a person’s thumb, you know.”
“You get to know the thumbprint. How long have you worked for her?”
“Only since June. But our families have known each other for a great many years. Charles’s father and mine went to Harvard together.” She opened the door, leaning across me to reach the knob. “Excuse me, I need some fresh air.”
“Is she all right by herself?”
“There are servants on duty. They’ll put her to bed.” She started towards my car.
“Just a minute, Sylvia. Do you have a picture of Charles? A recent snapshot would be good.”
“Why, yes, I do.”
“Get it for me, will
you?”
“I have one here,” she said without embarrassment. She took a red leather wallet from the pocket of her suit and extracted a small snapshot that she handed me: “Is it big enough, clear enough?”
The picture showed a young man in tennis shorts and an open-necked short-sleeved shirt, smiling into the sun. The strength and leanness of his features were emphasized by a short service crew-cut. He was strongly built, with wide sloping shoulders and muscular forearms. But there was an unreal, actorish quality about him. His pose was self-conscious, chest pouting, stomach sucked in, as if he feared the cold eye of the Leica or the hot eye of the sun.
“It’s clear enough,” I said. “May I keep it?”
“For as long as you need it. It’s very like him.”
Climbing into my car, she showed a fine round leg. I noticed when I slid behind the wheel that she filled the interior with a clean springlike smell. I offered her a cigarette.
“Thanks, I never smoke.”
“How old are you, Sylvia?”
“Twenty-one.” She added with apparent irrelevance: “I just received the first quarterly check from Mother’s trust fund.”
“Good for you.”
“About the check, I mean, it’s nearly a thousand dollars. I can afford to employ you, if you’ll work for me instead of Mrs. Singleton.”
“I couldn’t promise anything definite. You want him found pretty badly, don’t you?
“Yes.” The word had the pressure of her life behind it. “How much money should I give you?”
“Don’t bother about it now.”
“Why should you trust me?”
“Anybody would. What’s more surprising is that you trust me.
“I know something about men,” she said. “My father is a good man. You’re not like that man Heiss.”
“You talked to him?”
“I was in the room. All he wanted was money. It was so—naked. I had to threaten him with the police before he’d leave. It’s really a pity. Mrs. Singleton might have opened out to you if he hadn’t spoilt
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