Vanish in an Instant (21 page)

22

The room
was
one Meecham had never been in be­fore, in the rear of the Barkeley house. It was small and square and almost empty. There were no books, no pic­tures, and the only furniture was a fluorescent lamp and a davenport with a matching chair that needed reupholstering. The window was a wall of glass that in the daytime looked out on the hills behind the town, but now at night reflected only the room itself, and the mother and daugh­ter sitting at opposite ends of the davenport, like strangers. They were both staring at Meecham as if they expected him to introduce them to each other. He wondered if he could, if he knew the right combination of words that would mean,
this is Virginia
and
this is Rachel Hamilton.

“I wanted to talk to you both privately,” Meecham said. “It's your right and privilege to consult -a lawyer before making any official statement.” Neither of the women seemed to be listening, but he continued anyway. “Mr. Hearst has already told me what he knows: that Loftus didn't leave his apartment on Saturday night, that he, Hearst, came to you with this information yesterday eve­ning, and you, Mrs. Hamilton, agreed to hire him as your chauffeur provided that he kept the information to him­self. Is that right?”

Mrs. Hamilton spoke through stiff dry lips. “You know it is.”

“Why did you agree?”

“I didn't want the case reopened.”

“Why were you certain that Hearst was telling you the truth?”

“I—well, I just believed him, that's all.”

“You had good reason to believe him,” Meecham said. “You've known almost from the beginning that Loftus was innocent.”

She didn't reply.

“Whose idea was it to leave for California?”

“Mine.”

“You thought you'd get away and stay away and that would be the end of the whole business?”

“I thought it was—possible.”

“Do you know who killed Margolis?”

She didn't look at Virginia, but her right hand half-rose in an unconscious gesture of defense. “I know nothing about it.”

“Go on,” Virginia said. “Tell him that I did.”

“Keep out of this, Virginia.”

“You've handled everything so far, now I have a right to . . .”

“Be quiet, you stupid girl.” She added in a softer tone, as if she regretted her words: “Don't you see, I'm trying to help you.”

“Paul said I was to tell the truth, to be honest.”

“
Honest.
Don't you think everybody would like to be honest? Most people—can't afford the price. They can just afford to be a little honest here and a little honest there, and in front of certain people.”

“I'm one of them,” Meecham said.

“I hardly think so, Mr. Meecham.”

“You can't lie about your age to someone who's holding a photostat of your birth certificate, Mrs. Hamilton.”

“You have a photostat?”

“Several. The equivalent of several, anyway.”

“I see.” In the fluorescent light of the lamp her face looked translucent yet solid, as if the skin had been turned into quartz and the eyes into agate. Even her voice had crystallized, sharp and hard. “I want you to understand one thing, Mr. Meecham. Throughout this whole affair I've acted in my daughter's best interests. From the very first minute that I heard she was in trouble I began to plan, as I've planned so many times before, in spite of her increas­ing hostility.”

She spoke without looking at Virginia or giving any in­dication that she knew Virginia was still in the room.

“All my life I've done everything possible for her. She's been hard to raise, terribly hard. It's been one crisis after another ever since the day she was born, and I've met each one with all the strength I had. Now I don't have enough left to go on with. I'm a weary old woman. Virginia's on her own now. When she makes a mistake she must correct it herself. I won't be here to help her.”

She lapsed into a restless silence. The only sounds in the room were muted and remote, the sounds of breathing, of wind pressing on the pane, and the faint humming of the lamp.

“I was in bed asleep when the telegram came from Paul that night. It seems so long ago now, but it was only Sat­urday, or rather early Sunday morning, about one o'clock by our time on the Coast. I sent two telegrams back imme­diately, one to Virginia and one to Paul, advising them to say and do nothing until my arrival. I had no definite plan of action in the back of my mind, not even a definite opin­ion about Virginia's innocence or guilt. I only knew she was in trouble and it was up to me to help. I didn't go back to bed that night. I made plane reservations, I packed, I checked my bank account, and then I called my son Wil­lett. The next morning Willett drove me to the bank, and I took out $10,000, a thousand of it in cash and the rest in traveler's checks. Willett thought I was crazy, but I real­ized my expenses were going to be heavy no matter what happened. So I came prepared. I arrived Sunday evening, and early the following morning I went to see Virginia. I was appalled.”

For the first time she looked directly at Virginia, and then she repeated the words. “I was appalled. I had ex­pected—well, at least an end to my uncertainty. But there was no end. She couldn't remember what had happened because she'd been drunk. She couldn't affirm or deny any­thing. I tried not to show my alarm but I felt desperate. The evidence against her seemed so overwhelming, and she was acting as she always does when she's scared to death, brassy and disdainful, deliberately making enemies of people who could be useful—the Sheriff and the ma­tron, and you, Mr. Meecham. Yes, and even me. No won­der I felt despair when I left her that first morning.

“I went out into the corridor. There was a young man sitting on a bench just outside the door of the Sheriff's of­fice. I had never seen him before and he had never seen me. I realize now that he must have been sitting there for some time, listening.”

“He was,” Meecham said. “I saw him there when I left.”

“You know, then, who he was.”

“Yes.”

“He spoke to me—something about the weather—and then he asked me if I was Virginia Barkeley's mother. When I said I was he told me he wanted to discuss a very important matter with me about Virginia.”

Meecham said, “It was Loftus who originated the plan?”

“Yes. Even if I'd had the idea myself, it would have been impossible for me to carry it out, to go around town look­ing for a man able and willing to do what Loftus did.”

“Did his plan seem reasonable to you?”

“At the time, yes.”

“You weren't frightened or suspicious? You didn't think he was crazy?”

“You knew him, Mr. Meecham. He wasn't crazy. He had nothing to lose excepting his life which was already lost, and I had nothing to lose except money which I could af­ford. Those were his very words. To me, the way I felt then, they seemed very logical. They don't anymore.” She pressed the back of her hand against her forehead as if to ease the pain of a memory. “We reached an agreement. I—I
bought
him, the way you'd go out and buy a dog. That he wanted it like that is no excuse for me.”

“Why did he need the money?”

“For someone else.”

“He didn't say who it was?”

“No. Just that the money would help someone else have a decent life. I wonder now, as I've wondered so often in the last two days, if it will.” Her hands were working ner­vously, clenching and unclenching. “Loftus said he would arrange all the details and I was to meet him, with the money, at 4:30 at the bus stop at Arbor and Pontiac.”

“That's just a block from here.”

“Yes.”

“Did he ask you for any information about the murder that he could use—about the hunting knives Margolis had, and the furnishings of the cottage and so on?”

“No. I couldn't have told him anyway because I didn't know.”

Meecham turned his gaze on Virginia. “You knew.”

“I'd been in the cottage before, yes,” she said. “If that's what you mean. But I didn't tell Loftus anything. How could I? The only time I ever saw him was yesterday morn­ing in that room with you and the Sheriff. Remember? The Sheriff asked me if I knew Loftus and I said I'd seen him somewhere before.”

“And Loftus said it was on Saturday night in a bar. Sam's bar.”

“Yes.”

“That wasn't the truth, was it?”

“I don't think so.”

“Yet Loftus knew that you were in that bar, and that you did talk casually to a man there. He even knew exactly what you said:
God, this place stinks
. How could he hear you say that and still be at home in his apartment with Hearst watching him?”

“I don't know.”

“Someone must have told him. Someone who was there in the bar, who saw you and heard you, who might even have been following you. Who would be interested in following you? Who would be interested in following you and Margolis, Virginia?”

“No one.”

“Can't you think of anyone?”

“No!”

“I can. Lily Margolis, for one; only she happened to be several thousand miles away. For another, Margolis' friend, Miss Falconer. Or Carney; Carney was very interested in your welfare. But there's still another possibility. Paul Barkeley.”

“If Paul had been there I'd have seen him,” Virginia said quietly. “You mustn't try to drag him into this mess. I've been the cause of everything and I'm willing to do the suffering—Momma and I. Aren't we, Momma?”

The two women looked at each other as if through the periscopes of enemy submarines across a fathomless and crawling sea. Then Mrs. Hamilton turned away with a sighing sound. “Yes. Yes, Virginia.”

“Paul didn't know anything about the murder or about the arrangement with Loftus. Did he, Momma?”

“No, dear. Nothing at all.” She held her hands together on her lap, as she would hold two small restless animals to force quiet upon them. “I met Loftus at 4:30 at the bus stop. I had the money with me. I'd cashed six travelers' checks, at three different banks to avoid unnecessary ques­tions or suspicions. I phoned Alice and told her I was going to a double feature and asked her to invite you for tea, Mr. Meecham. It was Loftus' idea to have you there when he—when he put on his act. I think he wanted to try it on you first before he talked to the Sheriff.”

“Like an out-of-town tryout,” Meecham said. “Well, it worked.”

“Yes, everything worked out very well. Until last night, when I heard from Hearst. He came here to the house and we talked. And I knew then that I had to get Virginia away from this town. Whether she was innocent or guilty, per­haps I would never know. Her memory might be sealed forever, or she might wake up from a dream some night and it would all be sharp and clear in her mind. Look at her, Mr. Meecham. Look at my pretty girl. Somewhere be­hind those soft eyes there's a record of everything she has ever seen or touched or heard or felt or done. It's all there, but out of context, out of time, out of range.”

Virginia stared at her mother with eyes that were not soft at all. “You talk about me as if I was a child or a psychopath.”

“You are
my
child.”

“Am I?”

Though the two women sat within touching distance of each other, Meecham felt that there was a great space be­tween them, an expanse of sea too violent to sail, of land too mountainous to cross, and of years too long to re­member.

Mrs. Hamilton reached out, across the expanse. “Virginia . . .”

“If I have a dream some night, I will never tell you about it,” Virginia said. “I promise.”

“My dear . . .”

“I'll never tell anyone.”

“I—yes. Yes, perhaps that's the best way.” She looked at Meecham. “What will happen now, Mr. Meecham?”

“You'll have to call the Sheriff.”

“I see. What then?”

“He'll decide what action to take. You've withheld evi­dence concerning a murder. That's a felony.”

“Is it? Fancy that, I've committed a felony. Willett will be very surprised,” she said, almost gaily. “Well then, I suppose the next step is to hire a lawyer.”

“Yes.”

“But not you, Mr. Meecham.”

“That's right,” Meecham said with a slight smile. “Not me.”

“I feel you're very tired of us all. You think we create difficulties where none exist, that our troubles aren't as real as broken legs or measles, or something you can see.” She rose and went to the door. “You'll take care of Alice?”

“I'll try.”

“Alice is a good girl,” she said, thoughtfully. “I wish I knew how . . . Well, I'll go and phone the Sheriff. You needn't wait, Mr. Meecham. Good night.”