The Wycherly Woman (25 page)

“Yes. I’ll call Dr. Wallace right away.”

There was silence on the line, which seemed to need filling. I said:

“I’m sorry about this, Mrs. Trevor.”

“You have reason to be, Mr. Archer.”

She hung up on me.

I
T WAS A ROUGH NIGHT
, and it got no smoother. About three o’clock I pulled into the north side of Boulder Beach, where motel neons hung their cold lures on the darkness. I turned off the highway towards the college area. The campus lay like a city of the dead under ectoplasmic fog rolling up from the sea. The moon had a halo.

On the second floor of the Oceano Palms, light filtered through the drapes of the apartment which Phoebe Wycherly had shared with Dolly Lang. I didn’t want to see Dolly just yet. I knocked on Mrs. Doncaster’s door.

She answered with surprising speed, almost as though she’d been waiting for my knock. Her voice came thinly through the panels:

“Bobby? Is it you, Bobby?”

I knocked again, more softly. The door opened a few inches on a chain. Mrs. Doncaster peeped out over the brass links.

“May I come in?” I said. “I have news for you.”

“Is it about Bobby?”

“Yes. It concerns your son.”

She unhooked the chain and stepped back, swallowed up by the darkness. “I’ll turn on a light. I’ve been sitting here in the dark.”

She switched on a standing lamp. In a worn flannelette robe, her hair down in braids which hung limp on her limp breast, she looked old and defenseless. She said in a hushed voice which tried magically to deny what it believed:

“Bobby has been in an accident?”

“You could call it an accident. Please sit down, Mrs. Doncaster. We have things to talk about.”

She backed into a chair under the pressure of my eyes. Her breath came out as she sat down:

“He’s been killed.”

“Bobby isn’t the one who’s been killed.”

“Tell me what happened. I have a right to know.”

I sat down near her on the piano bench. “You may know more than I do about what happened. Phoebe Wycherly’s body was found in the sea near Medicine Stone, north of here. We made the identification tonight. Her car had been pushed or driven over a forty-foot cliff with her body in it.”

Mrs. Doncaster looked up at her husband’s photograph. The moustached man in the black frame smiled at the edge of the lamplight. In the full glare of the light, she blinked as if I’d slapped her across the eyes.

“What has this to do with my son?”

“He was seen driving her car through Medicine Stone the night of November the second. You told me he spent that entire weekend at home in bed.”

“He did.”

“We both know he didn’t.”

She swallowed. “I may have been mistaken. It’s possible it was the weekend after that he had the flu.”

“Are you ready to change your story?”

She nodded dully. Her braids twitched like dying grey snakes on her breast. She fingered one of them as she spoke:

“He went off by himself that weekend. He never told me where. He phoned me in the morning from the bus station—
asked me to go down there and pick him up. Which I did. The poor boy looked like the wrath of—” She glanced up at her black-framed icon: “The wrath of gosh.”

“How long had he been gone?”

“Just the one night.”

“Did you ask him where he spent it?”

“Of course I asked him. I asked him over and over again, if he was with that girl—with Phoebe. Over and over again he denied it.” The enormity of the situation silenced her. She wrung her hands, and said in a breaking voice: “I did my best for him. I did my best to bring him up without a father’s guidance. What can you do when they lie to you?”

“You can give up lying yourself.”

“He’s my only son, I was only trying to protect him. Anyway, you’ve got no proof that Bobby had anything to do with her death. You can’t have. He wouldn’t hurt her. He was fond of her, over-fond.”

Her voice ran down. She sat hunched in her robe with the pinched face of a little old woman. Her gaze flickered here and there about the room.

“Where is Bobby tonight, Mrs. Doncaster?”

“I don’t know. If I did know I wouldn’t tell you.”

“That’s a queer line for you to take. You’re supposed to be a respectable woman.”

She looked down at her shapeless body. “He’s all I’ve got.”

Perhaps that was the trouble.

She lifted her head slowly. “It’s been such an effort, I’ve racked my brain, trying to serve as mother
and
father to him. I know he resents me, he always has. A woman can’t bring up a man. But I thought our life together was working out.” Tears glittered in the corners of her eyes. She drew her fingers across them. “What am I to do?”

“Tell me the truth. Where is your son now?”

“I don’t know. I swear.” She shook her head, and the tears
ran down like mercury into the folds of her cheeks.

“If I can get to him and talk to him, we may be able to make some sense out of this business.”

She snatched at the forlorn hope: “You don’t believe he did it either, do you?”

“I don’t want to believe it. His going on the run doesn’t help me much.”

“Bobby isn’t on the run. He’s only been gone since suppertime. He said he had important business to attend to.”

“Where?”

“He refused to tell me. It isn’t like Bobby. He’s never had secrets from his mother. But when I tried to question him this evening he walked out of the flat and drove away without a backward look.”

“What kind of a car is he driving?”

“His same old jalopy. I believe it’s an A-model Ford.”

“Did he seem frightened?”

“He was more excited than frightened. It worried me.”

“Why, Mrs. Doncaster?”

“I suppose I’ve got into the habit of worrying—the way he’s been moping around these last months. Then all of a sudden he received this telephone call, and he started acting like a cat on a hot stove. He could hardly contain himself, it didn’t seem
healthy
. He wouldn’t even stay to eat his supper.”

“You didn’t mention a telephone call.”

“Didn’t I? I meant to. That was what set him off.”

“Who called him?”

“He wouldn’t say. He wouldn’t tell me anything about it.”

“Was it a local call, or long distance?”

“I have no way of knowing. Whoever it was made a mistake, you see. Or more likely they were trying to get to him behind my back. They called him on Dolly Lang’s telephone.”

“Dolly Lang took the call?”

“That’s right. Afterwards I tried to get it out of her who it
was on the phone. The little minx claims she doesn’t know.” Her eyes were bright and hostile. The tears in them had evaporated. After her moment of vulnerability, her nature was closing and hardening up like scar-tissue over wounds. “Maybe she’ll be willing to talk to you. You’re a man.”

I climbed the outside stairs, feeling as grey and vague as my late moon-shadow climbing the wall beside me. Dolly’s light was still on. She must have heard me coming. Before I could knock, she opened the door and looked out eagerly, her head thrust forward birdlike on her neck.

The eagerness wilted when she recognized me. “Oh. It’s you.”

“Who were you expecting?”

She answered with forced airiness. “Nobody. I don’t make a habit of entertaining at this hour of the night.”

She was still wearing the sweater and jeans in which I had last seen her. Her face had a grey and greasy pallor. She looked as though she hadn’t washed in the interval, or combed her hair.

“I didn’t pick the hour,” I said. “It picked me. You’re up late, Dolly.”

“I gave up sleeping for Lent. I know it isn’t Lent yet, but I’m anticipating.”

It was nervous chatter. Her eyes were flat as dimes. In the room behind her a sleepy girl’s voice said something loud and inarticulate, like “Grahh!”

Dolly stepped outside and closed the door quietly. “My roommate’s sleeping. She hasn’t broken the habit. What’s on your mind?” Her tone was brittle. She seemed older and more aggressive, at the same time less assured, than she had the day before.

“What’s on your mind, Dolly?”

“Nothing much. We could talk about the weather.”

She glanced around her pertly, like a slightly mechanical bird. The fog streamed up the slanting street from the ocean.
The substance of the night itself seemed to be moving and dissolving below and above and around us.

“Foggy, isn’t it?” she said.

“Let’s dispel a little fog.”

“That would be nice. I hate fog. It always reminds me of clammy shrouds and things.” A spasm of shivering took hold of her, and let go. “Don’t pay any attention to me. I’m on a coffee jag. For Lent.”

“Could we go somewhere and talk?”

“I don’t want to go somewhere and talk,” she said with a little-girl’s whine in her voice. “We can talk right here if we have to.”

“We have to, all right. You took a telephone call for Bobby this evening.”

“Did I?”

“We won’t play word games. That telephone call may be a matter of life or death. For him.”

Her grey little anxious face tilted up beside my shoulder. “That’s what
he
said. I promised him not to tell anyone about it.”

“I’m going to ask you to tell me.”

“Why is it so important? Is it about Phoebe?”

“What gave you that idea?”

“The way he reacted. I mean, his face lit up when he—” She drew in her breath sharply. “I promised not to
tell
anyone. I wouldn’t even tell his mother, and she got really nasty.”

“I’m not his mother.”

“I didn’t think you were. But you are a detective, and all. I wouldn’t want to get Bobby into trouble.”

“You can’t get him in any deeper than he is. I simply want to reach him before the police do.”

“The police? Are they after him?”

“They will be by tomorrow.”

“What did he do?”

“I’m afraid I can’t answer that. You wouldn’t like the answer,
anyway. If you really want to help him, and help me, you can do it by giving me all the details of that call.”

“I don’t
know
any details. He asked me to leave the room when he was talking.”

“Who was he talking to?”

“I tell you I don’t
know.”

“I thought you answered the phone.”

“I did, but it was just the operator. She said she had a person-to-person call for Mr. Robert Doncaster, so I went down and got him.”

“What time was this?”

She hesitated. “About a quarter to six.”

“Did the operator say where the call was from?”

“Palo Alto. That’s where Stanford is, where Phoebe used to go, and I got the wild idea that it was Phoebe calling. I guess I’m not over it yet—I couldn’t sleep tonight for thinking about her. You know, like maybe she lost her memory and all she remembered was Bobby’s name and her own telephone number—”

I cut in harshly, speaking to myself as well as her: “Lay it to rest, Dolly. It wasn’t Phoebe.”

“I know that, really. Bobby said it wasn’t, and he wouldn’t lie to me, not about that.”

“Did he give you any hint as to who it was?”

“No. He said it was his private business.”

“What else did he say?”

“He thanked me, quite effusively. That’s all. About five minutes after that I saw him drive away in the direction of the highway. He took off like jets.”

“And you say he seemed pleased or excited?”

“Very excited.”

“In a good sense? Or was he high?”

She pondered. “I don’t really know. Bobby’s been so low all winter, it’s hard to say what’s natural for him. He was pretty tense tonight. But happy, too—out of this world, sort
of. As if he was off to seek the Holy Grail.” She looked up at the moon, which had become hardly more than a dimness in the darkness. She shivered, and hugged herself. “I’m cold, Mr. Archer. And I don’t even know what this is all about.”

“Neither do I, Dolly. Give me another minute or two, though, will you?”

“Certainly, if it’s any help.”

“You’re being a great help. Tell me—you’re a sociologist—has Bobby ever shown signs of neurotic or emotional trouble?”

“Of course, he’s very neurotic. Who isn’t? Phoebe and I used to talk about his mother-fixation. He’s got a bad one, but he’s been fighting it.”

“How?”

“By growing up. You know, untentacling the tentacles, living his own life. He’s had some terrific fights with his mother this year. They come up through the floor.”

“Physical fights?”

“I don’t mean that. Just words.”

“Does he threaten her?”

“Not that I know of. It’s mostly about quitting school and going off on his own.”

“Is that what he’s done, do you think?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Did he ever threaten anyone with physical harm? You or Phoebe, for instance?”

Dolly giggled cheerlessly. “Of course not. Bobby’s always been fantastically meek and mild. That was one of Phoebe’s objections to him. She used to call him Christian Slave, from ‘When I was a king in Babylon you were a Christian slave.’ ”

“Would you consider him capable of violence?”

“Violence to Phoebe?” she said with her hands at her breast. “Is that what you’re getting at?”

“Yes.”

She shook her head in a narrow jerky movement. “He would
never hurt Phoebe, you can be sure of that. I never saw a fellow so gone on a girl. Honestly.” But she touched my arm for reassurance. “Has something happened to Phoebe?”

“I’m afraid so, Dolly.”

“Is she dead?”

“I’m afraid so.”

She pulled back her hand as if she had burned it on me. At the same time she fell towards me, literally fell. I found myself holding her up, stroking her tousled head. It was not a sexual occasion.

“God damn it,” she said in a very young voice. “I gave up praying when I was a kid. For Lent. I took it up again last November. I prayed every night for two months. And Phoebe is dead anyway. There is no God.”

I said she could be right, she could be wrong. If there was a God, He worked in mysterious ways. Like people. She turned away from me and my platitudes and leaned on the door, her forehead against the wood. Her hand was on the doorknob. She seemed to lack the will or strength to turn it.