“Right, suh.” McGavock nodded.
Mrs. Kirkland’s dry, wrinkled face creased in a complacent smile. She said: “I’ve heard those rumors, too, but I’ve got horse sense. I’ve always said it was a cryin’ shame the way respectable folks scare themselves with crazy gossip.”
Cushman Mapes leaned slightly forward and the chair springs creaked rustily. “At this time particularly, I’d like these vaporings exposed. I’d like the blackguard who has been slandering me identified. Mrs. Kirkland finds herself in an embarrassing situation among her friends. Everyone warning her, everyone whispering stories to her. Fortunately, she’s a woman with a mind of her own! We’ll be glad to co-operate, suh!”
“Fine!” McGavock exclaimed. “We’ll start off by prying into your past. Where did these gals come from?”
“Miss Leggett, the first, came from Little Rock, no street address, and Mrs. Dalton from Corinth, Mississippi. That’s all I know, that’s all I had time to find out. Once, through, well, curiosity I tried to trace Mrs. Dalton. With no results.”
“They came and went, zippo, like that, eh?”
Cushman Mapes flushed. “Like that, suh. I’m not too hard to get along with. And I provide an excellent table.”
Mrs. Kirkland put in a genial word. “He takes it too much to himself. I think they just got homesick. Some girls away from home get homesick, they say.”
“I think they were scared of something,” Cushman Mapes said quietly. “Each of them, Miss Leggett and Mrs. Dalton, just packed a few things in their pocketbooks and pulled out during the night.”
“And left their furniture?”
“A few small things, yes.”
“How did you happen to bring in out-of-towners?”
Mr. Cushman Mapes cleared his throat. “It’s a long story, and I’m not sure it would interest you. However, about six or so years ago I had a painting of myself published in various newspapers. The news stories gave the idea that I was landed and very wealthy. I got a flood of letters, from women seeking marriage, and from women seeking employment. Foolishly, to while away the tedium of a bachelor, I answered some of these letters. Miss Leggett wrote me, rather ardently, from a general delivery address in Little Rock, and later, Mrs. Dalton likewise from Corinth. There was nothing unusual about this, many of my correspondents used general delivery addresses.”
“They didn’t take anything, when they left?”
“Of course not.”
Mrs. Kirkland walked to the desk and lifted its rolltop. The pigeonholes were literally jammed with yellowing letters. McGavock sauntered over and leafed casually through them. These were the real thing, all right. Good old nutty crackpot letters. From female admirers all over the country, to Mr. Cushman Mapes. Begging letters, letters of proposal, letters asking for employment. Mrs. Kirkland said primly: “I’m goin’ through ’em myself. I’m as far as that second pigeon-hole, yonder. It’s company for me when I ain’t busy. I swear an’ declare, I’m gettin’ to feel like I knowed all them sweet-natured ladies!”
Suddenly, McGavock asked: “What’s this thing?”
From under a batch of envelopes he drew forth what he first thought to be a fisherman’s float. An egg-shaped ball of balsa wood with a spindle running through it. The balsa center was about as large as a good sized hen egg, and the spindle, which struck out about three inches on each side, was a rod of tough hickory. He began to wonder. Attached to each end of the spindle was a rawhide bootlace. He raised his eyebrows.
“A fishing bobber,” Mrs. Kirkland explained. “I found it out in the woodshed the other day.”
“I can’t figure how it got here,” Cushman Mapes remarked. “Neither myself nor Mrs. Kirkland fish.”
McGavock thrust it in his breast pocket. He’d never seen anything like it, had no idea what it was, but something told him to hang on to it. The light in the room had for some time been growing dimmer and he realized that soft, velvety rain was beating against the windows. The walnut wainscotting melted into shadow, and the piano and chairs and desk. The figures before him, too, blended into the dusk, little more than white hands and faces. He picked up his hat and they showed him to the door.
On the front porch, Mr. Cushman Mapes said: “I’ll be deeply indebted to you, suh, if you can clear this business up.” He paused. “This means more to me than my friends and relatives know. I’m going to ask you to keep this confidential — Mrs. Kirkland has almost consented to be my wife!”
Mrs. Kirkland said coyly: “If I don’t take a trip to Floridy first! I got a little travel folder in the mail yestiddy and I’d sure relish a trip to the beautiful scenery it tells all about!”
McGavock said: “Well, let me know before you leave,” turned up his coat collar, and walked down the porchsteps, out into the drizzle.
He made a special effort not to look back over his shoulder.
McGavock made three visits to the auctioneer and photographer shop of Colonel Jimmy Mapes, and each time the proprietor was out. The Colonel, McGavock learned on inquiry in town, was an in-and-outer, a man of great activity but little business; There was a wooden washbench before the shop, under the tree by the curb, and McGavock at last settled down to wait. The rain had ceased but black clouds still hung heavy and curdled over the roof of the courthouse; the leaves of the magnolias on the square rattled and clattered in the breeze. About a quarter to four McGavock heard hoofbeats and glanced up the red clay road which was Elm Street.
A man and horse came down South Elm. The horse was moving in a sweet rhythm which had once been called, in days long gone, “a nodding fox trot” — now it was called a “running walk.” He knew he was watching the gentlest riding beast in the world, a Tennessee Walking Horse. It came up to the hitching rail, neck curved, keeping time to the rhythm of its hoofbeats by a clicking of its teeth. It was a moving and beautiful sight. The rider swung to the ground, tied his mount, and came forward.
He was a portly man, about forty, plump cheeked and black haired, dressed in fine blue gabardine. He wore a broad brimmed black hat and his eyes were squinted and bleary with a nearsighted vagueness about them. McGavock introduced himself. Colonel Jimmy stared at him noncommittally, said: “Oh, yes. I’ve been hearing about you. Come in and have a drink.”
There was an undertone of unfriendliness in the Colonel’s voice. McGavock realized that it was put there intentionally, and deliberately half displayed, half obscured. The shop door was unlocked and as they entered McGavock said, off hand: “Don’t you ever lock up?”
“Never. Night or day. Countryfolks like to duck in off of the street when they’re in town and use it as a sort of public waitingroom.”
They passed through a small parlor, with an imitation leather couch and several shabby chairs. McGavock said: “I was tailing a guy named Railroad Brantner down Elm last night, and he turned in here.”
Colonel Jimmy Mapes took it under advisement; after a moment he said: “I’ll have to speak to him about it. I can’t have Railroad sleeping in here at night, he’s disreputable.”
Colonel Mapes’ private office was little more than a cubbyhole. It contained a golden oak desk, a filing cabinet stacked with dog-eared ledgers, and a calendar on the wall depicting a moose in a forest. A fancy shotgun stood in the corner and bridles and riding crops hung from nails on the door. Cracks branched the old plaster and the floor was bare and dirty. McGavock seated himself on a broken-down corsetback chair and Colonel Jimmy produced a bottle of red whiskey and two glasses.