the people in his paintings look like?”
“Tall and skinny, is about all.”
“He was in Walker’s Inn twice last month, and at this other one, what is it—”
“The Ends.”
“At The Ends at least once. They know him, I assume. They cashed his checks.”
“I’ll talk to them right away,” English said.
“Fine. But before you call anyone, find out if by any chance he has a telephone number in Marshfield. It’s possible you might be able to call Gerald Twinbrook himself.”
“I’m amazed.” English was telling the truth. It was something to see this detective indicate the blank space named Gerald Twinbrook by surrounding it with facts—like the pumpkin the school kid had surrounded with his arms, a while ago, on Commercial Street. “I could get to like this job,” English told his boss.
“Names and numbers.” But Sands didn’t look as triumphant as he might have. He waved English away from his sickbed. “Go. Go,” he said softly.
“I’ll be right back.” English was glad to leave.
Downstairs he turned on the overhead light in Sands’s office-studio, drew the curtains, and sat down in the swivel chair to play with the tennis ball that had been lying on it while he called the two taverns in Marshfield.
Both bartenders knew Jerry Twinbrook but hadn’t seen him in at least a couple of weeks. Evidently he was missing.
English put the tennis ball back where he’d found it and travelled up the stairs to report this news to Sands. But the detective was asleep, with his hands folded over his groin in an attitude that made English feel sorry for him, and English left him alone.
Grace Sands, however, was awake and active. He found her just inside the front door with a feather duster, stroking the two umbrellas that jutted from the ceramic umbrella stand. “I got a million things to do,” she was whispering, “a million things. A million.” In a worn grey dress with a white scarf tied around her head, she looked like a charwoman.
“Hi again, Grace,” English said.
“Bud is sick upstairs,” she told him. She’d said these very words on admitting him half an hour ago.
“Yeah, I just got done talking to him. He’s looking better.”
“I—is he gonna be all right?” Worry crumbled her soft old face. “What am I gonna do?”
“He’ll be fine.”
In English’s perception the lines of power in this household suddenly reversed themselves. He felt the presence of Sands, sick and asleep in his upper chamber, held aloft by the concern of this woman.
And then a curious impulse struck him, an idea he realized he’d been having all along. “Maybe you should go upstairs and see if he needs anything,” he suggested to Grace.
“Oh …”
He wished he hadn’t said it.
“Oh, all right.” She looked around like a person hopeless of finding one small item in a huge storehouse.
He wanted to take it all back. “I suppose he’s all right,” he told her. “Really.” But it was the wrong way to put it. Grace was preparing herself for the ascent, growing visibly heavier with the weight of determination. “Maybe,” he said, “I can find out if there’s something—I could bring it to him, tea or whatever.” English was desperate for her not to go now. He’d only wanted to have a look in Sands’s desk.
But she didn’t seem to hear him and hefted herself upward, one step at a time.
English moved into the office while she was still only halfway up the stairs. He slipped open the desk’s center drawer and found pens and pencils, a screwdriver, loose paper clips, a small kitchen knife, two worn gum erasers. In the two file drawers on the right there was nothing to catch his eye—they were just files, what had he expected? There was no file called “Truth Infantry,” nothing about “Agent Orange.” Everything seemed to be labeled “Correspondence.” “Correspondence—Harold & Fine,” “Correspondence—State Street Bank.” “Correspondence —BPA” turned out to be
“Tall and skinny, is about all.”
“He was in Walker’s Inn twice last month, and at this other one, what is it—”
“The Ends.”
“At The Ends at least once. They know him, I assume. They cashed his checks.”
“I’ll talk to them right away,” English said.
“Fine. But before you call anyone, find out if by any chance he has a telephone number in Marshfield. It’s possible you might be able to call Gerald Twinbrook himself.”
“I’m amazed.” English was telling the truth. It was something to see this detective indicate the blank space named Gerald Twinbrook by surrounding it with facts—like the pumpkin the school kid had surrounded with his arms, a while ago, on Commercial Street. “I could get to like this job,” English told his boss.
“Names and numbers.” But Sands didn’t look as triumphant as he might have. He waved English away from his sickbed. “Go. Go,” he said softly.
“I’ll be right back.” English was glad to leave.
Downstairs he turned on the overhead light in Sands’s office-studio, drew the curtains, and sat down in the swivel chair to play with the tennis ball that had been lying on it while he called the two taverns in Marshfield.
Both bartenders knew Jerry Twinbrook but hadn’t seen him in at least a couple of weeks. Evidently he was missing.
English put the tennis ball back where he’d found it and travelled up the stairs to report this news to Sands. But the detective was asleep, with his hands folded over his groin in an attitude that made English feel sorry for him, and English left him alone.
Grace Sands, however, was awake and active. He found her just inside the front door with a feather duster, stroking the two umbrellas that jutted from the ceramic umbrella stand. “I got a million things to do,” she was whispering, “a million things. A million.” In a worn grey dress with a white scarf tied around her head, she looked like a charwoman.
“Hi again, Grace,” English said.
“Bud is sick upstairs,” she told him. She’d said these very words on admitting him half an hour ago.
“Yeah, I just got done talking to him. He’s looking better.”
“I—is he gonna be all right?” Worry crumbled her soft old face. “What am I gonna do?”
“He’ll be fine.”
In English’s perception the lines of power in this household suddenly reversed themselves. He felt the presence of Sands, sick and asleep in his upper chamber, held aloft by the concern of this woman.
And then a curious impulse struck him, an idea he realized he’d been having all along. “Maybe you should go upstairs and see if he needs anything,” he suggested to Grace.
“Oh …”
He wished he hadn’t said it.
“Oh, all right.” She looked around like a person hopeless of finding one small item in a huge storehouse.
He wanted to take it all back. “I suppose he’s all right,” he told her. “Really.” But it was the wrong way to put it. Grace was preparing herself for the ascent, growing visibly heavier with the weight of determination. “Maybe,” he said, “I can find out if there’s something—I could bring it to him, tea or whatever.” English was desperate for her not to go now. He’d only wanted to have a look in Sands’s desk.
But she didn’t seem to hear him and hefted herself upward, one step at a time.
English moved into the office while she was still only halfway up the stairs. He slipped open the desk’s center drawer and found pens and pencils, a screwdriver, loose paper clips, a small kitchen knife, two worn gum erasers. In the two file drawers on the right there was nothing to catch his eye—they were just files, what had he expected? There was no file called “Truth Infantry,” nothing about “Agent Orange.” Everything seemed to be labeled “Correspondence.” “Correspondence—Harold & Fine,” “Correspondence—State Street Bank.” “Correspondence —BPA” turned out to be
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