things.”
“Are there things she could have told me, that she didn’t?”
“Charlie’s whole life,” she said obscurely. “What did this Negro woman look like?”
I gave her a thumbnail description of Lucy Champion.
She interrupted me before I finished: “It’s the same one.” She opened the door on her side and began to get out. Everything she did was done gently, almost regretfully, as if an action was a dangerous gamble.
“Do you know her?”
“Yes. I want to show you something.” And she was gone.
I lit a cigarette. Before I had smoked a half inch of it, Sylvia came out of the house and climbed in beside me again. “I believe this is hers.”
She handed me a soft dark object. I turned on the overhead light to examine it. It was a woman’s turban, knitted of black wool and gold thread. Inside, there was a maker’s label: Denise.
“Where did you get this?”
“She was here, the day before yesterday.”
“To see Mrs. Singleton?”
“I think now that must have been it. She drove up herein a taxicab in the middle of the afternoon. I was cutting flowers in the garden, and I saw her sitting in the back of the cab as if she couldn’t make up her mind. Finally she got out, and the cab-driver started away. She stood in the drive and looked at the house for a moment. Then I think she lost her nerve.”
“I can understand that.”
“It is imposing, isn’t it? I called out to her, to ask her what she wanted, and when she saw me coming towards her she literally ran. I felt like some sort of an ogress. I called to her not to be frightened, but she only ran faster down the drive. Her hat fell off, and she didn’t even stop to pick it up. Which is how I happen to have it.”
“You didn’t follow her?”
“How could I? I had an enormous bunch of ’mums in my arms. The driver saw her running after him, and backed up for her. I had no right to stop her, in any case.”
“You’d never seen her before?”
“Never. I thought perhaps she was a sightseer. She was quite smartly dressed, and this is a good hat. The fact that she didn’t come back for it made me wonder, though.”
“Did you go to the police?”
“Mrs. Singleton disapproved. I thought of asking Denise, but Mrs. Singleton was opposed to that, too.”
“You know the woman who made this?”
“I know of her. She has a shop on the ocean boulevard, near the hotel.”
“Here in Arroyo Beach?”
“Of course. Isn’t it possible, if you questioned her, that she might know something more about Miss Champion?”
“It’s very likely. Why didn’t you see Denise yourself? You’re not that much afraid of Mrs. Singleton.”
“No.” She was silent for a time. “Perhaps I was afraid ofwhat I might find out. I’m not any more. Charles ran away with a woman, you see.” She spoke with reluctance, but she got it out: “I think I was afraid that the Negro girl was—another of his women.”
“His mother seems to have shared that idea. Any particular reason for it?”
“I don’t know. She knows so much about him, more than she’s ever admitted to herself.”
“That’s a hard saying.”
“It’s true. These pre-Freudian women know it all, but they never say it, even in their thoughts. Their whole lives are dressing for dinner in the jungle. That’s my father’s phrase. He teaches philosophy at Brown.”
“Who was this woman, the one Charles ran away with?”
“A tall woman with yellow hair, and very beautiful. That’s all I know about her. They were seen together in the bar at the hotel, the night he left. The parking lot attendant saw them drive away in his car.”
“It doesn’t necessarily mean he ran away with her. It sounds more like a pickup.”
“No. They had been living together all summer. Charles has a mountain cabin on the Sky Route, and the woman was seen there with him nearly every weekend.”
“How do you know?”
“I talked to a friend of Charles’s who lives in the same canyon. Horace Wilding,
“Are there things she could have told me, that she didn’t?”
“Charlie’s whole life,” she said obscurely. “What did this Negro woman look like?”
I gave her a thumbnail description of Lucy Champion.
She interrupted me before I finished: “It’s the same one.” She opened the door on her side and began to get out. Everything she did was done gently, almost regretfully, as if an action was a dangerous gamble.
“Do you know her?”
“Yes. I want to show you something.” And she was gone.
I lit a cigarette. Before I had smoked a half inch of it, Sylvia came out of the house and climbed in beside me again. “I believe this is hers.”
She handed me a soft dark object. I turned on the overhead light to examine it. It was a woman’s turban, knitted of black wool and gold thread. Inside, there was a maker’s label: Denise.
“Where did you get this?”
“She was here, the day before yesterday.”
“To see Mrs. Singleton?”
“I think now that must have been it. She drove up herein a taxicab in the middle of the afternoon. I was cutting flowers in the garden, and I saw her sitting in the back of the cab as if she couldn’t make up her mind. Finally she got out, and the cab-driver started away. She stood in the drive and looked at the house for a moment. Then I think she lost her nerve.”
“I can understand that.”
“It is imposing, isn’t it? I called out to her, to ask her what she wanted, and when she saw me coming towards her she literally ran. I felt like some sort of an ogress. I called to her not to be frightened, but she only ran faster down the drive. Her hat fell off, and she didn’t even stop to pick it up. Which is how I happen to have it.”
“You didn’t follow her?”
“How could I? I had an enormous bunch of ’mums in my arms. The driver saw her running after him, and backed up for her. I had no right to stop her, in any case.”
“You’d never seen her before?”
“Never. I thought perhaps she was a sightseer. She was quite smartly dressed, and this is a good hat. The fact that she didn’t come back for it made me wonder, though.”
“Did you go to the police?”
“Mrs. Singleton disapproved. I thought of asking Denise, but Mrs. Singleton was opposed to that, too.”
“You know the woman who made this?”
“I know of her. She has a shop on the ocean boulevard, near the hotel.”
“Here in Arroyo Beach?”
“Of course. Isn’t it possible, if you questioned her, that she might know something more about Miss Champion?”
“It’s very likely. Why didn’t you see Denise yourself? You’re not that much afraid of Mrs. Singleton.”
“No.” She was silent for a time. “Perhaps I was afraid ofwhat I might find out. I’m not any more. Charles ran away with a woman, you see.” She spoke with reluctance, but she got it out: “I think I was afraid that the Negro girl was—another of his women.”
“His mother seems to have shared that idea. Any particular reason for it?”
“I don’t know. She knows so much about him, more than she’s ever admitted to herself.”
“That’s a hard saying.”
“It’s true. These pre-Freudian women know it all, but they never say it, even in their thoughts. Their whole lives are dressing for dinner in the jungle. That’s my father’s phrase. He teaches philosophy at Brown.”
“Who was this woman, the one Charles ran away with?”
“A tall woman with yellow hair, and very beautiful. That’s all I know about her. They were seen together in the bar at the hotel, the night he left. The parking lot attendant saw them drive away in his car.”
“It doesn’t necessarily mean he ran away with her. It sounds more like a pickup.”
“No. They had been living together all summer. Charles has a mountain cabin on the Sky Route, and the woman was seen there with him nearly every weekend.”
“How do you know?”
“I talked to a friend of Charles’s who lives in the same canyon. Horace Wilding,
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