“I didn’t say that. I didn’t say anything, and I’m not going to. Nanette, look at me.”
She looked at him.
“I’m desperate. I mean it.”
Whatever she saw in his eyes, it made her stop rocking. She looked out over the porch rail at the hills, seeing something he could not. “I guess I always knew Goldie would wind up bad. When I was a little girl I used to look up to her because she was so much prettier and smarter than me and the boys were all ape over her. And because she wasn’t scared of my parents. She’d sass papa back to his face something awful and he’d smack her hard and she’d never even cry, I thought she was so brave… What do you want, Mr. Malone?”
He let out his breath. “When is the last time you saw her?”
“Years ago.”
“You didn’t see her, say, this past summer?”
“This year? No.”
“Does she ever write to you?”
“Once in a while. Not often, but regular, if you know what I mean. From all kinds of places. My father always goes to work before the mailman comes, but I get to the mailbox in the morning before my mother in case there’s a letter from Goldie. Mom would tear it up on the spot if she got there first. My parents are still very Old Country, they never changed. Since Goldie ran away they won’t even let me mention her name. Not that she uses it any more, the Vorshek, I mean. She calls herself Goldie Vanderbilt, I don’t know why.”
Malone heard her out. When she stopped he said casually, “Ever save any of her letters?”
Jesus let this be it.
“Oh, all of them,” Nanette said. “I keep them hid in my old toy chest in the attic that mama hasn’t touched for years.”
“Could I please see her last letter?”
Nanette got up without a word and went into the house. Malone sat on the Vorshek porch looking out at the half-naked willows stooped over the river and the fading hump of hill beyond, seeing nothing but his predicament.
Even if my hunch proves out I’m a long way from home.
One step at a time is how you have to do it.
Then you figure out where you go from there.
Till one o’clock.
At this point Malone’s mind got stuck again.
When Nanette came back she was in a hurry. Her red hands were clasped about an envelope, trying to hide it. Malone had never noticed before that her fingernails were bitten all the way down.
“Mama’s getting restless,” she whispered. “You better go, Mr. Malone, before she wakes up. I don’t want to have to explain what you’re doing here.” She shoved the letter into his hand. “Put it away.”
He put it into his pocket without looking at it.
“It isn’t typewritten?”
“Goldie don’t know how to type.”
“Nanette, if I just knew how to thank you.”
“Go on, Mr. Malone!”
A hundred yards shy of the turnoff from the Hollow road to The Pike, Malone pulled the Saab over and killed his engine.
The envelope was cheap supermarket stuff but the note-paper was heavy and had a gold GV monogram on it and a powerful perfume. The envelope was postmarked jersey city n.j. 23 oct, the return address at the upper left said “G. Vanderbilt, care P.O. General Delivery, Boston, Mass. 02100.” The letter was less than a month old, just what the doctor ordered, a recent specimen, God knows I’m no expert, but this ought to do it.
From bitter compulsion he read the letter. It was full of news that couldn’t be pinned down: her “job” (without specification-and what sort of job would it be that spanned Jersey City and Boston?-that wasn’t very smart, Miss Vanderbilt), her “loaded boy friend” (no name), the glamorous nightspots, the marvelous clothes, the great times, and so on and on, no mention of a Furia or a Hinch or the grimy life the threesome must lead… all of it a fairy tale to impress the yokel kid sister (like the elegant stationery) and maybe get her to follow Goldie Vanderbilt’s example and split from the old family homestead out of some vicious need to corrupt Nanette and break what was left of the Vorsheks’ hearts.
The bitch.
The only good thing was that she wasn’t fooling anybody but herself. Maybe Nanette once felt envious, swallowing the fairy tales, but not any more; she knew it was all made up. She probably looked forward to the perfumed letters the way she did to a rerun of Snow White or a costume movie in bigger-than-life Panavision.
Malone put the letter carefully away, started the Saab, and drove on into town.
He waited on the three-seater leatherette bench outside the steel railing while Wally Bagshott turned down a nervous young couple for a personal loan. Wallace L. Bagshott was president of The Taugus County National Bank, founded by his great-grandfather in the days of the granite quarry and the hitching post. A Bagshott had settled New Bradford; the old Bagshott house, dated 1694, still overlooked the Green, a historic showplace opened to the public one day a year. The double statue on the Green of Zebediah and Zipporah Bagshott, known to the town as the Zizzes, was the favorite privy of the starlings.
“Wes, boy.” Bagshott had ushered the young couple out and was smiling over at Malone. “You want to see me?”
Malone jumped up. The banker was tanned halfway up his scalp, a result of spending all his free time hacking divots out of the New Bradford golf course. His employees called him “Smiley” behind his back and his customers “Wally the Knife,” on explosive occasions to his face.
“Hey, you look like you’re in line for a couple of Purple Hearts. What happened to you?”
“Believe it or not, I fell down the stairs. Wally-”
“What you doing out of uniform? John fire you I hope I hope? You know my standing offer-”
“I’m off duty,” Malone said, going through the gate. “Wally, I have to talk to you.”
“Squattee voo.” The banker sat down, still smiling. “Though if it’s about a personal loan, Wes, I’ve got to tell you right off-”
“It’s not about a loan.”
“That’s a load off. The way things are we’re having to tighten up. Well! Sit down, Wes.” Malone sat down. “How’s the better half? That’s one damn fine piece you grabbed off. Every time Ellen comes in my tellers get all worked up. And not just my tellers if you know what I mean. Haha.”
“Look, Wally,” Malone said.
“No offense, Wes, no offense. Share the wealth is my motto. Talking about that, terrible thing about Tom Howland, isn’t it? They say he was in on it.”
“I wouldn’t know. Wally, I need a favor.”
“Oh?” Bagshott immediately stopped smiling.
“I’d like to inspect your safe deposit records.”
“What for?”
“I can’t tell you anything about it. Except that it’s important.”
“Well, I don’t know. You’re out of uniform-”
“Let’s say it’s undercover work.”
“No kid?” The banker leaned forward eagerly. “It’s about this stickup, isn’t it?”
Malone was quiet.
“Well, if you can’t. Okay, Wes, I don’t see why not, seeing you’re an officer of the law.”
“One thing, Wally. I’ve got to ask you to keep this absolutely to yourself.”
“You knew me, pal.” Bagshott winked. “Tightest snatch in town.”
He waved his Masonic ring and led the way to the rear of the bank. He dismissed the woman on duty in the Safe Deposit Department and unlocked a drawer.
“Here’s the check-in card.”
“The one they sign when they want to get into their box?”
“Isn’t that what you want to see?”
“Yes. But I’m also interested in your latest applications for box rentals.”
“How far back you want to go?”
“Yesterday.”
The banker looked startled. “Yesterday?”
Malone nodded.
“You mean to say-?”
“I’m not meaning to say anything. Just let me have them, would you mind?”