Маргарет Миллар - Vanish in an Instant

The books were oddly assorted: a few novels, two anthologies of poetry, How to Win at Canasta , a biography of Pasteur and a Bible — but most of them concerned psychology and medicine. Cecil’s Textbook of Medicine, Cancer and Its Causes, The Neurotic Personality of Our Time, Peace of Mind, Release from Fear, Alcoholism and Its Causes, The Alcoholic and Allergy, A New View of Alcoholism, How to Treat the Alcoholic, Drinking Problems, Glandular Deficiency in Alcoholism.

Cordwink, too, was staring at the books. “He doesn’t look like a lush,” he said finally.

“No.”

“You can’t always tell, though. One of the worst lushes I ever knew used to take up collection in the Methodist church. No one even knew he took a drink until one night he started hopping around the house trying to get out of the way of the fish. He thought there were little fish flopping all over the floor. Bats and snakes and beetles I’d heard of, but never little fish. It was creepy, made the bottom of my feet kind of ticklish. Funny, eh?”

“What happened to him?”

“He hit the real skids after that. Landed in jail four or five times that year for non-support, disturbing, petty theft. He always had a whale of an excuse. Drunks are the wildest liars in the world.”

“Loftus isn’t a drunk.”

“Maybe not.”

There was no closet in the room, but between the studio couch and the screen that hid the gas plate, a seven-foot walnut wardrobe stood against the wall. It was a massive piece of furniture, with a big old-fashioned plain lock. There was no key to fit it on the key-ring Loftus had given him, so Cordwink forced the lock with the small blade of his jacknife. When the door opened, the pungent smell of moth crystals filled the room. Cordwink sneezed, and sneezed again.

There was hardly enough clothing inside the wardrobe to justify the lavish use of moth crystals: two suits, well-worn but cleaned and pressed, a sweater, shoes, a pair of galoshes, a khaki baseball cap, some pajamas; and on the floor, three suitcases. Two of them were empty. The third Cordwink took out and placed on the studio couch.

Pasted across the top of the suitcase was a faded Railway Express consignment slip: From Mrs. Charles E. Loftus, 231 Oak Street, Kincaid, Michigan, to Mr. Earl Duane Loftus, 611 Division Street, Arbana, Michigan. Value of contents, $50.00

“His mother,” Cordwink said. “Or maybe his sister-in- law. Or maybe it doesn’t even matter.”

The value of the original contents might have been fifty dollars. The present contents had little monetary value: an old trench coat, a blue serge suit, and a pair of brown oxfords, all of them stained with blood.

Cordwink pressed down the lid of the suitcase. “I’d like to talk to the woman who runs this place. Loftus said she’s a Mrs. Hearst. Go and get her, will you?”

“Why don’t you? You have the authority.”

“This stuff is evidence. I wouldn’t trust you alone with it.”

Meecham colored. “What the hell do you think I’d do, grab it and take off for South America?”

“I don’t know and I’m not going to find out. Be a good boy now, Meecham, and co-operate, and some day you may be District Attorney, then you can kick me in the teeth if I’ve got any teeth left by that time.”

“Who are you kidding? You haven’t got any left now.”

Cordwink’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t make any reply. He crossed the room to the door that led into the hallway of the house, unlocked it, and motioned Meecham out with a curt nod.

Meecham went out, quite meekly. He felt a little ashamed of himself for making the crack about Cordwink’s teeth. Nearly everyone in town knew that Cordwink had had his front teeth knocked out in a fight with two berserk sailors who were equipped with brass knuckles. The sailors went to a military prison, Cordwink went to the dentist, and the brass knuckles went into his pile of impounded weapons that included everything from sawed-off shotguns to paring knives.

Meecham followed the hall past an immense high-ceilinged dining room into the kitchen. It was a big old-fashioned kitchen, designed not merely for cooking and eating, but for all kinds of family living. There was a card table with a plastic canasta set, a rocking chair, a record player, a bookcase and a couch with a blanket neatly folded at the foot. A woman stood at the sink, wiping dishes and humming to herself.

Her voice and figure were youthful, and her light hair was cut girlishly short and curled close to her head. But when she turned, hearing Meecham approach, he saw that she was about forty. Her hair was gray, not blonde as it appeared at first, and the skin around her sharp blue eyes was creased and dry, like crepe paper.

She smiled at Meecham as she rolled down the sleeves of her dress and buttoned them at the wrists. Her smile was not artificial exactly, but facile, as if she was accustomed to smiling in all kinds of situations and at all kinds of people. “Were you looking for someone?”

“Yes, the owner of the house.”

“The bank owns it,” she said crisply. “Arbana Trust and Savings. I rent it.”

“You’re Mrs. Hearst?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Eric Meecham. I’m a friend of Mr. Loftus.”

“A friend of Earl’s? Isn’t that nice , it really is .” Out of habit, she spoke with a little too much emphasis. It made her enthusiasm, which was real, sound forced. “For a minute there I thought you were going to try and sell me something. Not that I wouldn’t like to buy something, but nobody ever got rich on college boys. They’re nice boys, all of them, boys from good homes. But what with taxes the way...” She paused, suddenly frowning. “You’re from out of town?”

“No, I live here.”

“I just wondered. Earl’s never mentioned you. He hasn’t many friends and he usually tells me things. I... is anything the matter? Where is Earl? Where is he?”

“I can’t say, definitely.”

“I knew something was up. He always has supper with me Monday nights. Tonight he didn’t come, didn’t phone. I waited an hour. Everything was ruined. Where is he?”

“In jail.”

“In jail ? Why, that’s crazy. Why, Earl is one of the quietest, most refined ...”

“The Sheriff is in his room now. He wants to talk to you.”

“To me? A sheriff? Why I... I don’t know what to say. This isn’t some kind of trick one of my boys put you up to? They play tricks on me sometimes, not meaning to be cruel.”

“There’s no trick,” Meecham said. “I’m a long way from college.”

“A sheriff,” she repeated, in a strained voice. “I’ll talk to him, if I must. But I’ve nothing to say. Nothing. Earl is a perfect gentleman. And more than that, too. You only see him now, when he’s sick.” She hesitated, as if she would have liked to say more about Loftus, but decided this was not the time or place. “All right, I’ll talk to him. Some mistake has been made somewhere, of that I’m sure.”

She preceded Meecham down the hall, wiping her hands nervously on her apron and casting uneasy glances up the staircase to her left, obviously afraid that one of the “boys from good homes” would come down and see her talking to a policeman.

Meecham followed her into Loftus’ room and closed the door. “Mrs. Hearst, this is the Sheriff, Mr. Cordwink.”

Cordwink acknowledged the introduction with a brief nod. “Sit down, Mrs. Hearst. I just want to check up on a few things about Earl Loftus.”

The woman didn’t sit down. She didn’t even advance into the room, but stood rigidly with her back against the wall, her hands clenched in the pockets of her apron. “I don’t understand why you’re here. Earl hasn’t — done anything?”