Джон Макдональд - More Good Old Stuff

“And you will be nice to Pat.”

The smile went away. “Don’t push your luck, Susan. Your stately sister isn’t like us.”

Susan said with anger, “You shouldn’t say that!” But she knew that, deep down, she resented Patience and had never admitted it to her conscious mind.

Matthew Otis walked through the growing chill of dusk up the hill that led to the Furnivall home. He tried to analyze his interest in Bedford’s attempt to take over the Furnivall Company, because the real reason he had returned to Cranesbay was to rid himself of the ghost of Alicia Crane. Her dream image had grown stronger over the years, making the daylight hours into unreality, making night the only reality — night when he could hear the silver tones of her voice.

He had intended to rent a car. He hadn’t driven an automobile since that night. He had intended to drive to the Ocean Club each night until there was a rainy, misty night like the night when she had died.

He would then drive over that same road, possibly park and climb down over the rocks to where his smashed body had lain. A lonely vigil and then, in the gray of dawn, a visit to her grave. Her ghost would be appeased. Or he would find out why she returned in his dreams.

He had imagined that by reliving that night, memory might return. The doctors had said that in most concussion cases, the direct memory of the events immediately preceding the accident is wiped out, to return gradually over months, or even years. In his case, there had been no return of memory. Maybe if he could remember...

He was afraid to relive that night. He had seized on Evan’s difficulties as an excuse to keep from reliving that night. Even this visit to Patience Furnivall was an attempt to delay the moment when he would drive up that lonely mountain road toward the scene of death.

The Furnivall house was Victorian, its unlovely lines concealed by elms. Patience opened the door when he rang the bell. “Matt!” she said, warmth and greeting in her voice. “Evan told me you were in town. It’s so nice to see you again. Come in.”

She clicked on the lights in the small study. The room was warm and pleasant, and peopled with shadows of long ago when Matthew Otis and his younger brother had been brought to the big house by his parents. He had been twelve, full of scorn for six-year-old Patience, barely aware of the existence of Susan. The study held the same smell of furniture polish and leather bindings. The small pane in the breakfront was still cracked from the time that Pat had thrown the book at him.

They sat and looked at each other. There was no tension in their silence. Pat had turned into an interesting-looking woman. Rather severe, with her dark hair pulled back so tightly. She had dignity.

As she grew older she would retain her looks, her quiet eyes, her air of warmth.

“It’s good to see you, Pat,” he said quietly.

“You’ve changed a great deal, Matt. You’ve entirely lost that long-legged colty look you had. That Airedale puppy look.”

“You aren’t exactly in rompers, Pat. Let me see. When I left, you were sixteen. You wore dirty white shoes and ankle socks and your legs were too thin.”

She excused herself. He sat in the small comfortable room feeling at peace with the world. She came back with martinis and said, “One of the advantages of being famous, Matt. I read in a biographical sketch in a magazine that you like martinis.”

He lifted his drink, said, “To the Furnivall Company, Pat.”

She drank with him, said wryly, “That’s about all we can do to help it, Matt. Drink to it. Evan said he gave you the complete picture.”

He stared down into his drink. “The old order changeth, Pat. If your grandpop were alive, he’d know how to handle it. We’re too soft. Psychopaths like Roy Bedford are inheriting the earth. The age of industrial piracy has begun. It got its start in the black market, gained strength through war surplus and is fattening on shortages.”

“I want to fight him,” she said.

He was surprised at the deadly earnestness of her tone.

She smiled. “I guess I sounded pretty grim then. But it’s the way I feel. I could cheerfully shoot him. Oh, it isn’t that he’s an upstart. I’m not being a snob, Matt. It’s just that he’s a homegrown fascist. If he gained his ends through work, that would be fine. But he’s ruthless and clever and crooked.”

“I’d like to help, if you can think of a way,” he said.

She sighed. “There isn’t enough time. With time we might prove that he has interfered with our steel deliveries, that he is financing a nuisance suit against us. It might give us the basis for a damage suit.”

She tilted her head as the front door slammed. Then Susan walked in, her face flushed from the chill, her eyes bright.

She saw Matt and said, “Well! You do get around, Mr. Otis! What’s the subject of conversation? How to save the mighty Furnivall interests?”

“If you thought more of the mighty Furnivall interests, Susan, you might be able to help us,” Patience said quietly.

“Oh, wake up!” Susan said with annoyance. “You’ve got an industrialist complex. Why don’t you let Roy take over? Maybe he’d make some money for us. All you and Evan do is put us further and further in hock.”

“Susan!” Patience snapped.

“Well, it’s true. And brace yourself, sister mine. I’ve got another little shock for you. I’m going upstairs and pack. In half an hour Roy is picking me up. We’re going to fly down to Maryland and be married. He told me to tell you that the plant will get the steel and that some man has dropped some sort of a suit against the company.”

Matt was looking at Patience. She had been sitting very straight, her cheeks flushed with anger. The flush faded and her shoulders slumped. She buried her face in her hands and whispered, “Oh, Susan! How could you?”

Susan had the grace to blush. She said, “You’ll get over it.”

She left the room. Matt heard her running steps on the stairs, the slam of an upstairs door. There was no sound in the study except Patience crying.

He went over to her and put his hand on her shoulder. She lifted a tear-streaked face and said, “But the man is — ruthless! She’ll — never be happy. Never!”

Matthew realized that it was an indication of Pat’s character that she was weeping, not over a battle lost, but over the emotional mistake Susan was making.

He frowned. “Mind if I go up and talk to her, Pat?”

“It won’t do any good. You don’t know how stubborn she is. Her room is the second one on the left from the head of the stairs.”

Matt knocked on Susan’s door. “Who is it?” she called.

“Matt Otis, Sue.”

“Go away. I’m in a terrible rush.”

“I want to talk to you. It’s important.”

After a long silence she said, “Okay.” She opened the door. The pleasant bedroom was brightly lighted. Two open suitcases were on the bed, half packed.

He offered her a cigarette, lighted it for her. “Make it fast,” she said. “If Pat thinks you can talk me out of this, you’ve both got holes in the head.”

He smiled. “I wouldn’t think of talking you out of it, Sue. This is a great opportunity for you. Everything you want. Money, position. Everything.”

“Are you being sarcastic?” she asked, frowning.

“Not at all. You’re a beautiful girl. I don’t blame Roy for falling in love with you. He always did like nice things.”

He saw the shadow cross her face. She murmured, “Love is a dandy word.”

“Isn’t that what it is?”

She sat on the edge of the bed. “I wish I knew. I don’t think there’s room in his head for love. He’s an element. Like wind or fire or storm.”